proofreading team sophocles the seven plays in english verse by lewis campbell, m.a. hon. ll.d., hon. d.litt. emeritus professor of greek in the university of st. andrews hon. fellow of balliol college, oxford [illustration: the world's classics] new edition, revised henry frowde oxford university press london, new york and toronto sophocles born at colonos probably b.c. died b.c. _the present translation was first published in 'the world's classics' in ._ sie hören nicht die folgenden gesänge, die seelen, denen ich die ersten sang. contents preface prefatory note to the edition of antigone aias king oedipus electra the trachinian maidens philoctetes oedipus at colonos notes * * * * * preface in , having read the antigone with a pupil who at the time had a passion for the stage, i was led to attempt a metrical version of the _antigone_, and, by and by, of the electra and trachiniae.[ ] i had the satisfaction of seeing this last very beautifully produced by an amateur company in scotland in ; when mrs. fleeming jenkin may be said to have 'created' the part of dêanira. thus encouraged, i completed the translation of the seven plays, which was published by kegan paul in and again by murray in . i have now to thank mr. murray for consenting to this cheaper issue. the seven extant plays of sophocles have been variously arranged. in the order most frequently adopted by english editors, the three plays of the theban cycle, oedipus tyrannus, oedipus coloneus, and antigone, have been placed foremost. in one respect this is obviously convenient, as appearing to present continuously a connected story. but on a closer view, it is in two ways illusory. . the antigone is generally admitted to be, comparatively speaking, an early play, while the oedipus coloneus belongs to the dramatist's latest manner; the first oedipus coming in somewhere between the two. the effect is therefore analogous to that produced on readers of shakespeare by the habit of placing henry vi after henry iv and v. but tragedies and 'histories' or chronicle plays are not _in pari materia_. . the error has been aggravated by a loose way of speaking of 'the theban trilogy', a term which could only be properly applicable if the three dramas had been produced in the same year. i have therefore now arranged the seven plays in an order corresponding to the most probable dates of their production, viz. antigone, aias, king oedipus, electra, trachiniae, philoctetes, and oedipus at colonos. a credible tradition refers the antigone to b.c. the aias appears to be not much later--it may even be earlier--than the antigone. the philoctetes was produced in b.c., when the poet was considerably over eighty. the oedipus at colonos has always been believed to be a composition of sophocles' old age. it is said to have been produced after his death, though it may have been composed some years earlier. the tragedy of king oedipus, in which the poet's art attained its maturity, is plausibly assigned to an early year of the peloponnesian war (say b.c.), the trachiniae to about b.c. the time of the electra is doubtful; but professor jebb has shown that, on metrical grounds, it should be placed after, rather than before, king oedipus. even the english reader, taking the plays as they are grouped in this volume, may be aware of a gradual change of manner, not unlike what is perceptible in passing from richard ii to macbeth, and from macbeth to the winter's tale or cymbeline. for although the supposed date of the antigone was long subsequent to the poet's first tragic victory, the forty years over which the seven plays are spread saw many changes of taste in art and literature. footnote: _three plays of sophocles:_ blackwood, . * * * * * prefatory note to the edition of i. the hellenic spirit has been repeatedly characterized as simple nature-worship. even the higher paganism has been described as 'in other words the purified worship of natural forms.'[ ] one might suppose, in reading some modern writers, that the nymphs and fauns, the river-gods and pan, were at least as prominent in all greek poetry as zeus, apollo, and athena, or that apollo was only the sweet singer and not also the prophet of retribution. the fresh and unimpaired enjoyment of the beautiful is certainly the aspect of ancient life and literature which most attracted the humanists of the sixteenth century, and still most impresses those amongst ourselves who for various reasons desire to point the contrast between paganism and judaism. the two great groups of forces vaguely known as the renaissance and the revolution have both contributed to this result. men who were weary of conventionality and of the weight of custom 'heavy as frost and deep almost as life,' have longed for the vision of 'oread or dryad glancing through the shade,' or to 'hear old triton blow his wreathèd horn.' meanwhile, that in which the greeks most resembled us, 'the human heart by which we live,' for the very reason that it lies so near to us, is too apt to be lost from our conception of them. another cause of this one-sided view is the illusion produced by the contemplation of statuary, together with the unapproachable perfection of form which every relic of greek antiquity indisputably possesses. but on turning from the forms of greek art to the substance of greek literature, we find that beauty, although everywhere an important element, is by no means the sole or even the chief attribute of the greatest writings, nor is the hellenic consciousness confined within the life of nature, unless this term is allowed to comprehend man with all his thoughts and aspirations. it was in this latter sense that hegel recognized the union of depth with brightness in greek culture: 'if the first paradise was the paradise of nature, this is the second, the higher paradise of the human spirit, which in its fair naturalness, freedom, depth and brightness here comes forth like a bride out of her chamber. the first wild majesty of the rise of spiritual life in the east is here circumscribed by the dignity of form, and softened into beauty. its depth shows itself no longer in confusion, obscurity, and inflation, but lies open before us in simple clearness. its brightness (heiterkeit) is not a childish play, but covers a sadness which knows the baldness of fate but is not by that knowledge driven out of freedom and measure.' hegel's werke, vol. xvi. p. (translated by prof. caird). the simplicity of herodotus, for example, does not exclude far reaching thoughts on the political advantages of liberty, nor such reflections on experience as are implied in the saying of artabanus, that the transitoriness of human life is the least of its evils. and in what modern writing is more of the wisdom of life condensed than in the history of thucydides? it is surely more true to say of greek literature that it contains types of all things human, stamped with the freshness, simplicity, and directness which belong to first impressions, and to the first impressions of genius. now the 'thoughts and aspirations,' which are nowhere absent from greek literature, and make a centre of growing warmth and light in its periclean period--when the conception of human nature for the first time takes definite shape--have no less of religion in them than underlay the 'creed outworn'. to think otherwise would be an error of the same kind as that 'abuse of the word atheism' against which the author of the work above alluded to protests so forcibly. religion, in the sense here indicated, is the mainspring and vital principle of tragedy. the efforts of aeschylus and sophocles were sustained by it, and its inevitable decay through the scepticism which preceded socrates was the chief hindrance to the tragic genius of euripides. yet the inequality of which we have consequently to complain in him is redeemed by pregnant hints of something yet 'more deeply interfused,' which in him, as in his two great predecessors, is sometimes felt as 'modern,' because it is not of an age but for all time. the most valuable part of every literature is something which transcends the period and nation out of which it springs. on the other hand, much that at first sight seems primitive in greek tragedy belongs more to the subject than to the mode of handling. the age of pericles was in advance of that in which the legends were first hellenized and humanized, just as this must have been already far removed from the earliest stages of mythopoeic imagination. the reader of aeschylus or sophocles should therefore be warned against attributing to the poet's invention that which is given in the fable. an educated student of italian painting knows how to discriminate--say in an assumption by botticelli--between the traditional conventions, the contemporary ideas, and the refinements of the artist's own fancy. the same indulgence must be extended to dramatic art. the tragedy of king lear is not rude or primitive, although the subject belongs to prehistoric times in britain. nor is goethe's faust mediaeval in spirit as in theme. so neither is the oedipus rex the product of 'lawless and uncertain thoughts,' notwithstanding the unspeakable horror of the story, but is penetrated by the most profound estimate of all in human life that is saddest, and all that is most precious. far from being naive naturalists after the keats fashion, the greek tragic poets had succeeded to a pessimistic reaction from simple pagan enjoyment; they were surrounded with gloomy questionings about human destiny and divine justice, and they replied by looking steadily at the facts of life and asserting the supreme worth of innocence, equity, and mercy. they were not philosophers, for they spoke the language of feeling; but the civilization of which they were the strongest outcome was already tinged with influences derived from early philosophy-- especially from the gnomic wisdom of the sixth century and from the spirit of theosophic speculation, which in aeschylus goes far even to recast mythology. the latter influence was probably reinforced, through channels no longer traceable, by the eleusinian worship, in which the mystery of life and death and of human sorrow had replaced the primitive wonder at the phenomena of the year. and whatever elements of philosophic theory or mystic exaltation the drama may have reflected, it was still more emphatically the repository of some of the most precious traditions of civilized humanity--traditions which philosophy has sometimes tended to extenuate, if not to destroy. plato's gorgias contains one of the most eloquent vindications of the transcendent value of righteousness and faithfulness as such. but when we ask, 'righteousness in what relation?'--'faithfulness to whom?'-- the gorgias is silent; and when the vacant outline is filled up in the republic, we are presented with an ideal of man's social relations, which, although it may be regarded as the ultimate development of existing tendencies, yet has no immediate bearing on any actual condition of the world. the ideal of the tragic poet may be less perfect; or rather he does not attempt to set before us abstractedly any single ideal. but the grand types of character which he presents to the world are not merely imaginary. they are creatures of flesh and blood, men and women, to whom the unsullied purity of their homes, the freedom and power of their country, the respect and love of their fellow-citizens, are inestimably dear. from a platonic, and still more from a christian point of view, the best morality of the age of pericles is no doubt defective. such counsels of perfection as 'love your enemies', or 'a good man can harm no one, not even an enemy',--are beyond the horizon of tragedy, unless dimly seen in the person of antigone. the coexistence of savage vindictiveness with the most affectionate tenderness is characteristic of heroes and heroines alike, and produces some of the most moving contrasts. but the tenderness is no less deep and real for this, and while the chief persons are thus passionate, the greek lesson of moderation and reasonableness is taught by the event, whether expressed or not by the mouth of sage or prophet or of the 'ideal bystander'. greek tragedy, then, is a religious art, not merely because associated with the festival of dionysus, nor because the life which it represented was that of men who believed, with all the hellenes, in zeus, apollo, and athena, or in the power of moira and the erinyes,-- not merely because it represented 'the dread strife of poor humanity's afflicted will struggling in vain with ruthless destiny,' but much more because it awakened in the athenian spectator emotions of wonder concerning human life, and of admiration for nobleness in the unfortunate--a sense of the infinite value of personal uprightness and of domestic purity--which in the most universal sense of the word were truly religious,--because it expressed a consciousness of depths which plato never fathomed, and an ideal of character which, if less complete than shakespeare's, is not less noble. it is indeed a 'rough' generalization that ranks the agamemnon with the adoniazusae as a religious composition. ii. this spiritual side of tragic poetry deserves to be emphasized both as the most essential aspect of it, and as giving it the most permanent claim to lasting recognition. and yet, apart from this, merely as dramas, the works of aeschylus, sophocles, and euripides will never cease to be admired. these poets are teachers, but they teach through art. to ask simply, as carlyle once did, 'what did they think?' is not the way to understand or learn from them. considered simply as works of art, the plays of sophocles stand alone amongst dramatic writings in their degree of concentration and complex unity. . the interest of a sophoclean drama is always intensely personal, and is almost always centred in an individual destiny. in other words, it is not historical or mythical, but ethical. single persons stand out magnificently in aeschylus. but the action is always larger than any single life. each tragedy or trilogy resembles the fragment of a sublime epic poem. mighty issues revolve about the scene, whether this is laid on earth or amongst the gods, issues far transcending the fate of orestes or even of prometheus. in the perspective painting of sophocles, these vast surroundings fall into the background, and the feelings of the spectator are absorbed in sympathy with the chief figure on the stage, round whom the other characters--the members of the chorus being included--are grouped with the minutest care. . in this grouping of the persons, as well as in the conduct of the action, sophocles is masterly in his use of pathetic contrast. this motive must of course enter into all tragedy--nothing can be finer than the contrast of cassandra to clytemnestra in the agamemnon,--but in sophocles it is all-pervading, and some of the minor effects of it are so subtle that although inevitably felt by the spectator they are often lost upon the mere reader or student. and every touch, however transient, is made to contribute to the main effect. to recur once more to the much-abused analogy of statuary:--the work of aeschylus may be compared to a colossal frieze, while that of sophocles resembles the pediment of a smaller temple. or if, as in considering the orestean trilogy, the arrangement of the pediment affords the more fitting parallel even for aeschylus, yet the forms are so gigantic that minute touches of characterization and of contrast are omitted as superfluous. whereas in sophocles, it is at once the finish of the chief figure and the studied harmony of the whole, which have led his work to be compared with that of his contemporary phidias. such comparison, however, is useful by way of illustration merely. it must never be forgotten that, as lessing pointed out to some who thought the philoctetes too sensational, analogies between the arts are limited by essential differences of material and of scope. all poetry represents successive moments. its figures are never in repose. and although the action of tragedy is concentrated and revolves around a single point, yet it is a dull vision that confounds rapidity of motion with rest. . sophocles found the subjects of his dramas already embodied not only in previous tragedies but in epic and lyric poetry. and there were some fables, such as that of the death of oedipus at colonos, which seem to have been known to him only through oral tradition. for some reason which is not clearly apparent, both he and aeschylus drew more largely from the cyclic poets than from 'our homer'. the inferior and more recent epics, which are now lost, were probably more episodical, and thus presented a more inviting repertory of legends than the iliad and odyssey. arctinus of lesbos had treated at great length the story of the house of thebes. the legend of orestes, to which there are several allusions, not always consistent with each other, in the homeric poems, had been a favourite and fruitful subject of tradition and of poetical treatment in the intervening period. passages of the tale of troy, in which other heroes than achilles had the pre-eminence, had been elaborated by lesches and other epic writers of the post-homeric time. the voyage of the argonauts, another favourite heroic theme, supplied the subjects of many dramas which have disappeared. lastly, the taking of oechalia by heracles, and the events which followed it, had been narrated in a long poem, in which one version of that hero's multiform legend was fully set forth. the subjects of the king oedipus, oedipus at colonos, and antigone, are taken from the tale of thebes, the aias and the philoctetes are founded on incidents between the end of the iliad and the taking of troy, the electra represents the vengeance of orestes, the crowning event in the tale of 'pelops' line', the trachiniae recounts the last crisis in the life of heracles. . of the three theban plays, the antigone was first composed, although its subject is the latest. aeschylus in the seven against thebes had already represented the young heroine as defying the victorious citizens who forbade the burial of her brother, the rebel polynices. he allowed her to be supported in her action by a band of sympathizing friends. but in the play of sophocles she stands alone, and the power which she defies is not that of the citizens generally, but of creon, whose will is absolute in the state. thus the struggle is intensified, and both her strength and her desolation become more impressive, while the opposing claims of civic authority and domestic piety are more vividly realized, because either is separately embodied in an individual will. by the same means the situation is humanized to the last degree, and the heart of the spectator, although strained to the uttermost with pity for the heroic maiden whose life when full of brightest hopes was sacrificed to affection and piety, has still some feeling left for the living desolation of the man, whose patriotic zeal, degenerating into tyranny, brought his city to the brink of ruin, and cost him the lives of his two sons and of his wife, whose dying curse, as well as that of haemon, is denounced upon him. in the oedipus tyrannus, sophocles goes back to the central crisis of the theban story. and again he fixes our attention, not so much on the fortunes of the city, or of the reigning house, as on the man oedipus, his glory and his fall.-- 'o mirror of our fickle state since man on earth unparalleled! the rarer thy example stands, by how much from the top of wondrous glory, strongest of mortal men, to lowest pitch of abject fortune thou art fallen[ ]. the horror and the pity of it are both enhanced by the character of oedipus--his essential innocence, his affectionateness, his uncalculating benevolence and public spirit;--while his impetuosity and passionateness make the sequel less incredible. the essential innocence of oedipus, which survives the ruin of his hopes in this world, supplies the chief motive of the oedipus at colonos. this drama, which sophocles is said to have written late in life, is in many ways contrasted with the former oedipus. it begins with pity and horror, and ends with peace. it is only in part founded on epic tradition, the main incident belonging apparently to the local mythology of the poet's birthplace. it also implies a later stage of ethical reflection, and in this respect resembles the philoctetes; it depends more on lyrical and melodramatic effects, and allows more room for collateral and subsidiary motives than any other of the seven. yet in its principal theme, the vindication or redemption of an essentially noble spirit from the consequences of error, it repeats a note which had been struck much earlier in the aias with great force, although with some crudities of treatment which are absent from the later drama. . in one of the epic poems which narrated the fall of troy, the figure of aias was more prominent than in the iliad. he alone and unassisted was there said to have repulsed hector from the ships, and he had the chief share, although in this he was aided by odysseus, in rescuing the dead body of achilles. yet achilles' arms were awarded by the votes of the chieftains, as the prize of valour, not to aias, but to odysseus. this, no doubt, meant that wisdom is better than strength. but the wisdom of odysseus in these later epics was often less nobly esteemed than in the iliad and odyssey, and was represented as alloyed with cunning. aias has withdrawn with his salaminians, in a rage, from the fight, and after long brooding by the ships his wrath has broken forth into a blaze which would have endangered the lives of odysseus and the atridae, had not athena in her care for them changed his anger into madness. hence, instead of slaying the generals, he makes havoc amongst the flocks and herds, which as the result of various forays were the common property of the whole army. the truth is discovered by odysseus with the help of athena, and from being next to achilles in renown, aias becomes the object of universal scorn and hatred. the sequel of this hour of his downfall is the subject of the aias of sophocles. after lamenting his fate, the hero eludes the vigilance of his captive bride tecmessa, and of his salaminian mariners, and, in complete solitude, falls upon his sword. he is found by tecmessa and by his half-brother teucer, who has returned too late from a raid in the mysian highlands. the atridae would prohibit aias' funeral; but odysseus, who has been specially enlightened by athena, advises generous forbearance, and his counsel prevails. the part representing the disgrace and death of aias is more affecting to modern readers than the remainder of the drama. but we should bear in mind that the vindication of aias after death, and his burial with undiminished honours, had an absorbing interest for the athenian and salaminian spectator. philoctetes also is rejected by man and accepted by destiny. the argives in his case, as the thebans in the case of oedipus, are blind to the real intentions of the gods. the philoctetes, like the oedipus at colonos, was a work of sophocles' old age; and while it can hardly be said that the fire of tragic feeling is abated in either of these plays, dramatic effect is modified in both of them by the influence of the poet's contemplative mood. the interest of the action in the philoctetes is more inward and psychological than in any other ancient drama. the change of mind in neoptolemus, the stubborn fixity of will in philoctetes, contrasted with the confiding tenderness of his nature, form the elements of a dramatic movement at once extremely simple and wonderfully sustained. no purer ideal of virtuous youth has been imagined than the son of achilles, who in this play, though sorely tempted, sets faithfulness before ambition. . in the electra, which, though much earlier than the philoctetes, is still a work of his mature genius, our poet appears at first sight to be in unequal competition with aeschylus. if the theban trilogy of the elder poet had remained entire, a similar impression might have been produced by the oedipus tyrannus. it is best to lay such comparisons aside, and to consider the work of sophocles simply on its own merits. the subject, as he has chosen to treat it, is the heroic endurance of a woman who devotes her life to the vindication of intolerable wrongs done to her father, and the restoration of her young brother to his hereditary rights. hers is the human agency which for this purpose works together with apollo. but the divine intention is concealed from her. she suffers countless indignities from her father's enemies, of whom her own mother is the chief. and, at length, all her hopes are shattered by the false tidings that orestes is no more. even then she does not relinquish her resolve. and the revulsion from her deep sorrow to extremity of joy, when she finds orestes at her side and ready to perform the act of vengeance in his own person, is irresistably affecting, even when the play is only read. sophocles is especially great in the delineation of ideal female characters. the heroic ardour of antigone, and the no less heroic persistence and endurance of electra, are both founded on the strength of their affection. and the affection in both cases is what some moderns too have called the purest of human feelings, the love of a sister for a brother. another aspect of that world-old marvel, 'the love of women,' was presented in aias' captive bride, tecmessa. this softer type also attains to heroic grandeur in dêanira, the wronged wife of heracles, whose fatal error is caused by the innocent working of her wounded love. it is strange that so acute a critic as a.w. schlegel should have doubted the sophoclean authorship of the trachiniae. if its religious and moral lessons are even less obtrusive than those of either oedipus and of the antigone, there is no play which more directly pierces to the very heart of humanity. and it is a superficial judgement which complains that here at all events our sympathies are distracted between the two chief persons, dêanira and heracles. to one passion of his, to one fond mistake of hers, the ruin of them both is due. her love has made their fates inseparable. and the spectator, in sharing hyllus' grief, is afflicted for them both at once. we may well recognize in this treatment of the death of heracles the hand of him who wrote-- [greek: su kai dikaiôn adikous phrenas paraspas epi lôba, ..., ... amachos gar empaizei theos aphrodita[ ].] . it is unnecessary to expatiate here on the merits of construction in which these seven plays are generally acknowledged to be unrivalled; the natural way in which the main situation is explained, the suddenness and inevitableness of the complications, the steadily sustained climax of emotion until the action culminates, the preservation of the fitting mood until the end, the subtlety and effectiveness of the minor contrasts of situation and character[ ]. but it may not be irrelevant to observe that the 'acting qualities' of sophocles, as of shakespeare, are best known to those who have seen him acted, whether in greek, as by the students at harvard[ ] and toronto[ ], and more recently at cambridge[ ], or in english long ago by miss helen faucit (since lady martin[ ]), or still earlier and repeatedly in germany, or in the french version of the antigone by mm. maurice and vacquerie ( ) or of king oedipus by m. lacroix, in which the part of oedipe roi was finely sustained by m. geoffroy in , and by m. mounet sully in [ ]. with reference to the latter performance, which was continued throughout the autumn season, m. francisque sarcey wrote an article for the _temps_ newspaper of august , , which is full of just and vivid appreciation. at the risk of seeming absurdly 'modern', i will quote from this article some of the more striking passages. 'ce troisième et ce quatrième actes, les plus émouvants qui se soient jamais produits sur aucune scène, se composent d'une suite de narrations, qui viennent l'une après l'autre frapper au coeur d'oedipe, et qui ont leur contrecoup dans l'âme des spectateurs. je ne sais qu'une pièce au monde qui soit construite de la sorte, c'est l'_École des femmes_. ce rapprochement vous paraîtra singulier, sans doute.... mais ... c'est dans le vieux drame grec comme dans la comédie du maître français une trouvaille de génie.... 'sophocle a voulu, après des émotions si terribles, après des angoisses si sèches, ouvrir la source des larmes: il a écrit un cinquième acte.... 'les yeux crevés d'oedipe ne sont qu'un accident, ou, si vous aimez mieux, un accessoire, le poète, sans s'arrêter à ce détail, a mis sur les lèvres de son héros toute la gamme des sentiments douloureux qu'excite une si prodigieuse infortune.... 'À la lecture, elle est un pen longue cette scène de lamentations. au théâtre, on n'a pas le temps de la trouver telle: on pleure de toute son âme et de tous ses yeux. c'est qu'après avoir eu le coeur si longtemps serré comme dans un étau, on épreuve comme un soulagement à sentir en soi jaillir la source des larmes. sophocle, qui semble avoir été le plus malin des dramaturges, comme il est le plus parfait des écrivains dramatiques, a cherché là un effet de contraste dont l'effet est immanquant sur le public.' these and other like remarks of one of the best-known critics of the parisian stage show that the dramatic art of sophocles is still a living power. i am well aware how feeble and inadequate the present attempted reproduction must appear to any reader who knows the greek original. there is much to be said for the view of an eminent scholar who once declared that he would never think of translating a greek poet. but the end of translating is not to satisfy fastidious scholars, but to make the classics partially accessible to those whose acquaintance with them would otherwise be still more defective. part of this version of sophocles was printed several years ago in an imperfect form. the present volume contains the seven extant plays entire. as the object has been to give the effect of each drama as a whole, rather than to dwell on particular 'beauties' (which only a poet can render), the fragments have not been included. but the reader should bear in mind that the seven plays are less than a tithe of the work produced by the poet in his lifetime. it may very possibly be asked why verse has been employed at all. why not have listened to carlyle's rough demand, 'tell us what they thought; none of your silly poetry'? the present translator can only reply that he began with prose, but soon found that, for tragic dialogue in english, blank verse appeared a more natural and effective vehicle than any prose style which he could hope to frame. and with the dialogue in verse, it was impossible to have the lyric parts in any sort of prose, simply because the reader would then have felt an intolerable incongruity. these parts have therefore been turned into such familiar lyric measures as seemed at once possible and not unsuitable. and where this method was found impracticable, as sometimes in the _commoi_, blank metres have again been used,--with such liberties as seemed appropriate to the special purpose. the writer's hope throughout has been, not indeed fully to transfuse the poetry of sophocles into another tongue, but to make the poet's dramatic intention to be understood and felt by english readers. one more such endeavour may possibly find acceptance at a time when many causes have combined to awaken a fresh interest at once in dramatic literature and in hellenic studies. the reader who is hitherto unacquainted with the greek drama, should be warned that the parts assigned to the 'chorus' were often distributed among its several members, who spoke or chanted, singly or in groups, alternately or in succession. in some cases, but not in all, _ch. _, _ch. _, &c., have been prefixed, to indicate such an arrangement. footnotes: [sir john seeley's] _natural religion_, p. . milton, _samson agonistes_, - . 'thou drawest awry just minds to wrong and ruin ... ... with resistless charm great aphrodite mocks the might of men.' _antigone._ cf. _sophocles_ in green's 'classical writers.' macmillan & co. oed. tyr., . antigone, . ajax, nov. . antigone, . the performance of greek plays (as of the agamemnon at oxford in ) is not altogether a new thing in england. the author of ion, mr. serjeant talfourd, in his notice prefixed to that drama in , mentions, amongst other reasons for having intended to dedicate it to dr. valpy, 'the exquisite representations of greek tragedy, which he superintended,' and which 'made his images vital.' at a still earlier time, 'the great dr. parr' had encouraged his pupils at stanmore to recite the dialogue of greek tragedies before an audience and in costume. it would be ungrateful to omit all reference here to some performances of the trachiniae in english in edinburgh and st. andrews in , which, though not of a public nature, are still remembered with delight by those who were present at them, and were really the first of a series. * * * * * antigone the persons antigone,} _daughters of oedipus and sisters of polynices_ ismene, } _and eteocles._ chorus _of theban elders._ creon, _king of thebes._ _a watchman._ haemon, _son of creon, betrothed to antigone._ tiresias, _the blind prophet._ _a messenger._ eurydice, _the wife of creon._ _another messenger._ scene. before the cadmean palace at thebes. _note._ the town of thebes is often personified as thebè. polynices, son and heir to the unfortunate oedipus, having been supplanted by his younger brother eteocles, brought an army of argives against his native city, thebes. the army was defeated, and the two brothers slew each other in single combat. on this creon, the brother- in-law of oedipus, succeeding to the chief power, forbade the burial of polynices. but antigone, sister of the dead, placing the dues of affection and piety before her obligation to the magistrate, disobeyed the edict at the sacrifice of her life. creon carried out his will, but lost his son haemon and his wife eurydice, and received their curses on his head. his other son, megareus, had previously been devoted as a victim to the good of the state. antigone antigone. ismene. antigone. own sister of my blood, one life with me, ismenè, have the tidings caught thine ear? say, hath not heaven decreed to execute on thee and me, while yet we are alive, all the evil oedipus bequeathed? all horror, all pain, all outrage, falls on us! and now the general's proclamation of to-day-- hast thou not heard?--art thou so slow to hear when harm from foes threatens the souls we love? ismene. no word of those we love, antigone, painful or glad, hath reached me, since we two were utterly deprived of our two brothers, cut off with mutual stroke, both in one day. and since the argive host this now-past night is vanished, i know nought beside to make me nearer to happiness or more in woe. ant. i knew it well, and therefore led thee forth the palace gate, that thou alone mightst hear. ism. speak on! thy troubled look bodes some dark news. ant. why, hath not creon, in the burial-rite, of our two brethren honoured one, and wrought on one foul wrong? eteocles, they tell, with lawful consecration he lays out, and after covers him in earth, adorned with amplest honours in the world below. but polynices, miserably slain, they say 'tis publicly proclaimed that none must cover in a grave, nor mourn for him; but leave him tombless and unwept, a store of sweet provision for the carrion fowl that eye him greedily. such righteous law good creon hath pronounced for thy behoof-- ay, and for mine! i am not left out!--and now he moves this way to promulgate his will to such as have not heard, nor lightly holds the thing he bids, but, whoso disobeys, the citizens shall stone him to the death. this is the matter, and thou wilt quickly show if thou art noble, or fallen below thy birth. ism. unhappy one! but what can i herein avail to do or undo? ant. wilt thou share the danger and the labour? make thy choice. ism. of what wild enterprise? what canst thou mean? ant. wilt thou join hand with mine to lift the dead? ism. to bury him, when all have been forbidden? is that thy thought? ant. to bury my own brother and thine, even though thou wilt not do thy part. i will not be a traitress to my kin. ism. fool-hardy girl! against the word of creon? ant. he hath no right to bar me from mine own. ism. ah, sister, think but how our father fell, hated of all and lost to fair renown, through self-detected crimes--with his own hand, self-wreaking, how he dashed out both his eyes: then how the mother-wife, sad two-fold name! with twisted halter bruised her life away, last, how in one dire moment our two brothers with internecine conflict at a blow wrought out by fratricide their mutual doom. now, left alone, o think how beyond all most piteously we twain shall be destroyed, if in defiance of authority we traverse the commandment of the king! we needs must bear in mind we are but women, never created to contend with men; nay more, made victims of resistless power, to obey behests more harsh than this to-day. i, then, imploring those beneath to grant indulgence, seeing i am enforced in this, will yield submission to the powers that rule, small wisdom were it to overpass the bound. ant. i will not urge you! no! nor if now you list to help me, will your help afford me joy. be what you choose to be! this single hand shall bury our lost brother. glorious for me to take this labour and to die! dear to him will my soul be as we rest in death, when i have dared this holy crime. my time for pleasing men will soon be over; not so my duty toward the dead! my home yonder will have no end. you, if you will, may pour contempt on laws revered on high. ism. not from irreverence. but i have no strength to strive against the citizens' resolve. ant. thou, make excuses! i will go my way to raise a burial-mound to my dear brother. ism. oh, hapless maiden, how i fear for thee! ant. waste not your fears on me! guide your own fortune. ism. ah! yet divulge thine enterprise to none, but keep the secret close, and so will i. ant. o heavens! nay, tell! i hate your silence worse; i had rather you proclaimed it to the world. ism. you are ardent in a chilling enterprise. ant. i know that i please those whom i would please. ism. yes, if you thrive; but your desire is bootless. ant. well, when i fail i shall be stopt, i trow! ism. one should not start upon a hopeless quest. ant. speak in that vein if you would earn my hate and aye be hated of our lost one. peace! leave my unwisdom to endure this peril; fate cannot rob me of a noble death. ism. go, if you must--not to be checked in folly, but sure unparalleled in faithful love! [_exeunt_ chorus (_entering_). beam of the mounting sun! i o brightest, fairest ray seven-gated thebè yet hath seen! over the vale where dircè's fountains run at length thou appearedst, eye of golden day, and with incitement of thy radiance keen spurredst to faster flight the man of argos hurrying from the fight. armed at all points the warrior came, but driven before thy rising flame he rode, reverting his pale shield, headlong from yonder battlefield. in snow-white panoply, on eagle wing, [_half-chorus_ he rose, dire ruin on our land to bring, roused by the fierce debate of polynices' hate, shrilling sharp menace from his breast, sheathed all in steel from crown to heel, with many a plumèd crest. then stooped above the domes, i with lust of carnage fired, and opening teeth of serried spears yawned wide around the gates that guard our homes; but went, or e'er his hungry jaws had tired on theban flesh,--or e'er the fire-god fierce seizing our sacred town besmirched and rent her battlemented crown. such noise of battle as he fled about his back the war-god spread; so writhed to hard-fought victory the serpent[ ] struggling to be free. high zeus beheld their stream that proudly rolled [_half-chorus_ idly caparisoned[ ] with clanking gold: zeus hates the boastful tongue: he with hurled fire down flung one who in haste had mounted high, and that same hour from topmost tower upraised the exulting cry. swung rudely to the hard repellent earth ii amidst his furious mirth he fell, who then with flaring brand held in his fiery hand came breathing madness at the gate in eager blasts of hate. and doubtful swayed the varying fight through the turmoil of the night, as turning now on these and now on those ares hurtled 'midst our foes, self-harnessed helper[ ] on our right. seven matched with seven, at each gate one, [_half-chorus_ their captains, when the day was done, left for our zeus who turned the scale, the brazen tribute in full tale:-- all save the horror-burdened pair, dire children of despair, who from one sire, one mother, drawing breath, each with conquering lance in rest against a true born brother's breast, found equal lots in death. but with blithe greeting to glad thebe came ii she of the glorious name, victory,--smiling on our chariot throng with eyes that waken song then let those battle memories cease, silenced by thoughts of peace. with holy dances of delight lasting through the livelong night visit we every shrine, in solemn round, led by him who shakes the ground, our bacchus, thebe's child of light. leader of chorus. but look! where creon in his new-made power, moved by the fortune of the recent hour, comes with fresh counsel. what intelligence intends he for our private conference, that he hath sent his herald to us all, gathering the elders with a general call? _enter_ creon. creon. my friends, the noble vessel of our state, after sore shaking her, the gods have sped on a smooth course once more. i have called you hither, by special messengers selecting you from all the city, first, because i knew you aye loyal to the throne of laïus; then, both while oedipus gave prosperous days, and since his fall, i still beheld you firm in sound allegiance to the royal issue. now since the pair have perished in an hour, twinned in misfortune, by a mutual stroke staining our land with fratricidal blood, all rule and potency of sovereign sway, in virtue of next kin to the deceased, devolves on me. but hard it is to learn the mind of any mortal or the heart, till he be tried in chief authority. power shows the man. for he who when supreme withholds his hand or voice from the best cause, being thwarted by some fear, that man to me appears, and ever hath appeared, most vile. he too hath no high place in mine esteem, who sets his friend before his fatherland. let zeus whose eye sees all eternally be here my witness. i will ne'er keep silence when danger lours upon my citizens who looked for safety, nor make him my friend who doth not love my country. for i know our country carries us, and whilst her helm is held aright we gain good friends and true. following such courses 'tis my steadfast will to foster thebè's greatness, and therewith in brotherly accord is my decree touching the sons of oedipus. the man-- eteocles i mean--who died for thebes fighting with eminent prowess on her side, shall be entombed with every sacred rite that follows to the grave the lordliest dead. but for his brother, who, a banished man, returned to devastate and burn with fire the land of his nativity, the shrines of his ancestral gods, to feed him fat with theban carnage, and make captive all that should escape the sword--for polynices, this law hath been proclaimed concerning him: he shall have no lament, no funeral, but he unburied, for the carrion fowl and dogs to eat his corse, a sight of shame. such are the motions of this mind and will. never from me shall villains reap renown before the just. but whoso loves the state, i will exalt him both in life and death. ch. son of menoeceus, we have heard thy mind toward him who loves, and him who hates our city. and sure, 'tis thine to enforce what law thou wilt both on the dead and all of us who live. cr. then be ye watchful to maintain my word. ch. young strength for such a burden were more meet. cr. already there be watchers of the dead. ch. what charge then wouldst thou further lay on us? cr. not to give place to those that disobey. ch. who is so fond, to be in love with death? cr. such, truly, is the meed. but hope of gain full oft ere now hath been the ruin of men. watchman (_entering_). my lord, i am out of breath, but not with speed. i will not say my foot was fleet. my thoughts cried halt unto me ever as i came and wheeled me to return. my mind discoursed most volubly within my breast, and said-- fond wretch! why go where thou wilt find thy bane? unhappy wight! say, wilt thou bide aloof? then if the king shall hear this from another, how shalt thou 'scape for 't? winding thus about i hasted, but i could not speed, and so made a long journey of a little way. at last 'yes' carried it, that i should come to thee; and tell thee i must needs; and shall, though it be nothing that i have to tell. for i came hither, holding fast by this-- nought that is not my fate can happen to me. cr. speak forth thy cause of fear. what is the matter? watch. first of mine own part in the business. for i did it not, nor saw the man who did, and 'twere not right that i should come to harm. cr. you fence your ground, and keep well out of danger; i see you have some strange thing to declare. watch. a man will shrink who carries words of fear. cb. let us have done with you. tell your tale, and go. watch. well, here it is. the corse hath burial from some one who is stolen away and gone, but first hath strown dry dust upon the skin, and added what religious rites require. cr. ha! what man hath been so daring in revolt? watch. i cannot tell. there was no mark to show-- no dint of spade, or mattock-loosened sod,-- only the hard bare ground, untilled and trackless. whoe'er he was, the doer left no trace. and, when the scout of our first daylight watch showed us the thing, we marvelled in dismay. the prince was out of sight; not in a grave, but a thin dust was o'er him, as if thrown by one who shunned the dead man's curse. no sign appeared of any hound or beast o' the field having come near, or pulled at the dead body. then rose high words among us sentinels with bickering noise accusing each his mate, and it seemed like to come to blows, with none to hinder. for the hand that thus had wrought was any of ours, and none; the guilty man escaped all knowledge. and we were prepared to lift hot iron with our bare palms; to walk through fire, and swear by all the gods at once that we were guiltless, ay, and ignorant of who had plotted or performed this thing. when further search seemed bootless, at the last one spake, whose words bowed all our heads to the earth with fear. we knew not what to answer him, nor how to do it and prosper. he advised so grave a matter must not be concealed, but instantly reported to the king. well, this prevailed, and the lot fell on me, unlucky man! to be the ministrant of this fair service. so i am present here, against my will and yours, i am sure of that. none love the bringer of unwelcome news. ch. my lord, a thought keeps whispering in my breast, some power divine hath interposed in this. cr. cease, ere thou quite enrage me, and appear foolish as thou art old. talk not to me of gods who have taken thought for this dead man! say, was it for his benefits to them they hid his corse, and honoured him so highly, who came to set on fire their pillared shrines, with all the riches of their offerings, and to make nothing of their land and laws? or, hast thou seen them honouring villany? that cannot be. long time the cause of this hath come to me in secret murmurings from malcontents of thebes, who under yoke turned restive, and would not accept my sway. well know i, these have bribed the watchmen here to do this for some fee. for nought hath grown current among mankind so mischievous as money. this brings cities to their fall: this drives men homeless, and moves honest minds to base contrivings. this hath taught mankind the use of wickedness, and how to give an impious turn to every kind of act. but whosoe'er hath done this for reward hath found his way at length to punishment. if zeus have still my worship, be assured of that which here on oath i say to thee-- unless ye find the man who made this grave and bring him bodily before mine eye, death shall not be enough, till ye have hung alive for an example of your guilt, that henceforth in your rapine ye may know whence gain is to be gotten, and may learn pelf from all quarters is not to be loved. for in base getting, 'tis a common proof, more find disaster than deliverance. watch. am i to speak? or must i turn and go? cr. what? know you not your speech offends even now? watch. doth the mind smart withal, or only the ear? cr. art thou to probe the seat of mine annoy? watch. if i offend, 'tis in your ear alone, the malefactor wounds ye to the soul. cr. out on thee! thou art nothing but a tongue. watch. then was i ne'er the doer of this deed. cr. yea, verily: self-hired to crime for gold. watch. pity so clear a mind should clearly err! cr. gloze now on clearness! but unless ye bring the burier, without glozing ye shall tell, craven advantage clearly worketh bane. watch. by all means let the man be found; one thing i know right well:--caught or not caught, howe'er fate rules his fortune, me you ne'er will see standing in presence here. even now i owe deep thanks to heaven for mine escape, so far beyond my hope and highest expectancy. [_exeunt severally_ chorus. many a wonder lives and moves, but the wonder of all is man, i that courseth over the grey ocean, carried of southern gale, faring amidst high-swelling seas that rudely surge around, and earth, supreme of mighty gods, eldest, imperishable, eternal, he with patient furrow wears and wears away as year by year the plough-shares turn and turn,-- subduing her unwearied strength with children of the steed[ ]. and wound in woven coils of nets he seizeth for his prey i the aëry tribe of birds and wilding armies of the chase, and sea-born millions of the deep--man is so crafty-wise. and now with engine of his wit he tameth to his will the mountain-ranging beast whose lair is in the country wild; and now his yoke hath passed upon the mane of horse with proudly crested neck and tireless mountain bull. wise utterance and wind-swift thought, and city-moulding mind, ii and shelter from the clear-eyed power of biting frost, he hath taught him, and to shun the sharp, roof-penetrating rain,-- full of resource, without device he meets no coming time; from death alone he shall not find reprieve; no league may gain him that relief; but even for fell disease, that long hath baffled wisest leech, he hath contrived a cure. inventive beyond wildest hope, endowed with boundless skill, ii one while he moves toward evil, and one while toward good, according as he loves his land and fears the gods above. weaving the laws into his life and steadfast oath of heaven, high in the state he moves but outcast he, who hugs dishonour to his heart and follows paths of crime ne'er may he come beneath my roof, nor think like thoughts with me. leader of chorus what portent from the gods is here? my mind is mazed with doubt and fear. how can i gainsay what i see? i know the girl antigone, o hapless child of hapless sire! didst thou, then, recklessly aspire to brave kings' laws, and now art brought in madness of transgression caught? _enter_ watchman, _bringing in_ antigone watch. here is the doer of the deed--this maid we found her burying him. where is the king? ch. look, he comes forth again to meet thy call. _enter_ creon. cr. what call so nearly times with mine approach? watch. my lord, no mortal should deny on oath, judgement is still belied by after thought when quailing 'neath the tempest of your threats, methought no force would drive me to this place but joy unlook'd for and surpassing hope is out of bound the best of all delight, and so i am here again,--though i had sworn i ne'er would come,--and in my charge this maid, caught in the act of caring for the dead here was no lot throwing, this hap was mine without dispute. and now, my sovereign lord, according to thy pleasure, thine own self examine and convict her. for my part i have good right to be away and free from the bad business i am come upon. cr. this maiden! how came she in thy charge? where didst thou find her? watch. burying the prince. one word hath told thee all. cr. hast thou thy wits, and knowest thou what thou sayest? watch. i saw her burying him whom you forbade to bury. is that, now, clearly spoken, or no? cr. and how was she detected, caught, and taken? watch. it fell in this wise. we were come to the spot, bearing the dreadful burden of thy threats; and first with care we swept the dust away from round the corse, and laid the dank limbs bare: then sate below the hill-top, out o' the wind, where no bad odour from the dead might strike us, stirring each other on with interchange of loud revilings on the negligent in 'tendance on this duty. so we stayed till in mid heaven the sun's resplendent orb stood high, and the heat strengthened. suddenly, the storm-god raised a whirlwind from the ground, vexing heaven's concave, and filled all the plain, rending the locks of all the orchard groves, till the great sky was choked withal. we closed our lips and eyes, and bore the god-sent evil. when after a long while this ceased, the maid was seen, and wailed in high and bitter key, like some despairing bird that hath espied her nest all desolate, the nestlings gone. so, when she saw the body bare, she mourned loudly, and cursed the authors of this deed. then nimbly with her hands she brought dry dust, and holding high a shapely brazen cruse, poured three libations, honouring the dead. we, when we saw, ran in, and straightway seized our quarry, nought dismayed, and charged her with the former crime and this. and she denied nothing;--to my delight, and to my grief. one's self to escape disaster is great joy; yet to have drawn a friend into distress is painful. but mine own security to me is of more value than aught else. cr. thou, with thine eyes down-fastened to the earth! dost thou confess to have done this, or deny it? ant. i deny nothing. i avow the deed. cr. (_to_ watchman). thou may'st betake thyself whither thou wilt, acquitted of the grievous charge, and free. (_to_ antigone) and thou,--no prating talk, but briefly tell, knew'st thou our edict that forbade this thing? ant. i could not fail to know. you made it plain. cr. how durst thou then transgress the published law? ant. i heard it not from heaven, nor came it forth from justice, where she reigns with gods below. they too have published to mankind a law. nor thought i thy commandment of such might that one who is mortal thus could overbear the infallible, unwritten laws of heaven. not now or yesterday they have their being, but everlastingly, and none can tell the hour that saw their birth. i would not, i, for any terror of a man's resolve, incur the god-inflicted penalty of doing them wrong. that death would come, i knew without thine edict;--if before the time, i count it gain. who does not gain by death, that lives, as i do, amid boundless woe? slight is the sorrow of such doom to me. but had i suffered my own mother's child, fallen in blood, to be without a grave, that were indeed a sorrow. this is none. and if thou deem'st me foolish for my deed, i am foolish in the judgement of a fool. ch. fierce shows the maiden's vein from her fierce sire; calamity doth not subdue her will. cr. ay, but the stubborn spirit first doth fall. oft ye shall see the strongest bar of steel, that fire hath hardened to extremity, shattered to pieces. a small bit controls the fiery steed. pride may not be endured in one whose life is subject to command. this maiden hath been conversant with crime since first she trampled on the public law; and now she adds to crime this insolence, to laugh at her offence, and glory in it. truly, if she that hath usurped this power shall rest unpunished, she then is a man, and i am none. be she my sister's child, or of yet nearer blood to me than all that take protection from my hearth, the pair shall not escape the worst of deaths. for know, i count the younger of the twain no less copartner in this plotted funeral: and now i bid you call her. late i saw her within the house, beyond herself, and frantic. --full oft when one is darkly scheming wrong, the disturbed spirit hath betrayed itself before the act it hides.--but not less hateful seems it to me, when one that hath been caught in wickedness would give it a brave show. ant. wouldst thou aught more of me than merely death? cr. no more. 'tis all i claim. death closes all. ant. why then delay? no talk of thine can charm me, forbid it heaven! and my discourse no less must evermore sound noisome to thine ear. yet where could i have found a fairer fame than giving burial to my own true brother? all here would tell thee they approve my deed, were they not tongue-tied to authority. but kingship hath much profit; this in chief, that it may do and say whate'er it will. cr. no theban sees the matter with thine eye. ant. they see, but curb their voices to thy sway cr. and art thou not ashamed, acting alone? ant. a sister's piety hath no touch of shame. cr. was not eteocles thy brother too? ant. my own true brother from both parents' blood. cr. this duty was impiety to him. ant. he that is dead will not confirm that word. cr. if you impart his honours to the vile. ant. it was his brother, not a slave, who fell. cr. but laying waste the land for which he fought. ant. death knows no difference, but demands his due. cr. yet not equality 'twixt good and bad. ant. both may be equal yonder; who can tell? cr. an enemy is hated even in death. ant. love, and not hatred, is the part for me. cr. down then to death! and, if you must, there love the dead. no woman rules me while i live. ch. now comes ismenè forth. ah, see, from clouds above her brow the sister-loving tear is falling wet on her fair cheek, distaining all her passion-crimson'd face! _enter_ ismene. cr. and thou, that like a serpent coiled i' the house hast secretly been draining my life-blood,-- little aware that i was cherishing two curses and subverters of my throne,-- tell us, wilt thou avouch thy share in this entombment, or forswear all knowledge of it? ism. if her voice go therewith, i did the deed, and bear my part and burden of the blame. ant. nay, justice will not suffer that. you would not, and i refused to make you mine ally. ism. but now in thy misfortune i would fain embark with thee in thy calamity. ant. who did the deed, the powers beneath can tell. i care not for lip-kindness from my kin. ism. ah! scorn me not so far as to forbid me to die with thee, and honour our lost brother. ant. die not with me, nor make your own a deed you never touched! my dying is enough. ism. what joy have i in life when thou art gone? ant. ask creon there. he hath your care and duty. ism. what can it profit thee to vex me so? ant. my heart is pained, though my lip laughs at thee. ism. what can i do for thee now, even now? ant. save your own life. i grudge not your escape. ism. alas! and must i be debarred thy fate? ant. life was the choice you made. mine was to die. ism. i warned thee---- ant. yes, your prudence is admired on earth. my wisdom is approved below. ism. yet truly we are both alike in fault. ant. fear not; you live. my life hath long been given to death, to be of service to the dead. cr. of these two girls, the one hath lost her wits: the other hath had none since she was born. ism. my lord, in misery, the mind one hath is wont to be dislodged, and will not stay. cr. you have ta'en leave of yours at any rate, when you cast in your portion with the vile. ism. what can life profit me without my sister? cr. say not 'my sister'; she is nothing now. ism. what? wilt thou kill thy son's espousal too? cr. he may find other fields to plough upon. ism. not so as love was plighted 'twixt them twain. cr. i hate a wicked consort for my son. ant. o dearest haemon! how thy father wrongs thee! cr. thou and thy marriage are a torment to me. ch. and wilt thou sever her from thine own son? cr. 'tis death must come between him and his joy, ch. all doubt is then resolved: the maid must die, cr. i am resolved; and so, 'twould seem, are you. in with her, slaves! no more delay! henceforth these maids must have but woman's liberty and be mewed up; for even the bold will fly when they see death nearing the house of life. [antigone _and_ ismene _are led into the palace._ chorus. blest is the life that never tasted woe. i when once the blow hath fallen upon a house with heaven-sent doom, trouble descends in ever-widening gloom through all the number of the tribe to flow; as when the briny surge that thrace-born tempests urge (the big wave ever gathering more and more) runs o'er the darkness of the deep, and with far-searching sweep uprolls the storm-heap'd tangle on the shore, while cliff to beaten cliff resounds with sullen roar. the stock of cadmus from old time, i know, i hath woe on woe, age following age, the living on the dead, fresh sorrow falling on each new-ris'n head, none freed by god from ruthless overthrow. e'en now a smiling light was spreading to our sight o'er one last fibre of a blasted tree,-- when, lo! the dust of cruel death, tribute of gods beneath, and wildering thoughts, and fate-born ecstasy, quench the brief gleam in dark nonentity. what froward will of man, o zeus! can check thy might? ii not all-enfeebling sleep, nor tireless months divine, can touch thee, who through ageless time rulest mightily olympus' dazzling height. this was in the beginning, and shall be now and eternally, not here or there, but everywhere, a law of misery that shall not spare. for hope, that wandereth wide, comforting many a head, ii entangleth many more with glamour of desire: unknowing they have trode the fire. wise was the famous word of one who said, 'evil oft seemeth goodness to the mind an angry god doth blind.' few are the days that such as he may live untroubled of calamity. leader of chorus. lo, haemon, thy last offspring, now is come, lamenting haply for the maiden's doom, say, is he mourning o'er her young life lost, fiercely indignant for his bridal crossed? _enter_ haemon. cr. we shall know soon, better than seers could teach us. can it be so, my son, that thou art brought by mad distemperature against thy sire, on hearing of the irrevocable doom passed on thy promised bride? or is thy love thy father's, be his actions what they may? haemon. i am thine, father, and will follow still thy good directions; nor would i prefer the fairest bride to thy wise government. cr. that, o my son! should be thy constant mind, in all to bend thee to thy father's will. therefore men pray to have around their hearths obedient offspring, to requite their foes with harm, and honour whom their father loves; but he whose issue proves unprofitable, begets what else but sorrow to himself and store of laughter to his enemies? make not, my son, a shipwreck of thy wit for a woman. thine own heart may teach thee this;-- there's but cold comfort in a wicked wife yoked to the home inseparably. what wound can be more deadly than a harmful friend? then spurn her like an enemy, and send her to wed some shadow in the world below! for since of all the city i have found her only recusant, caught in the act, i will not break my word before the state. i will take her life. at this let her invoke the god of kindred blood! for if at home i foster rebels, how much more abroad? whoso is just in ruling his own house, lives rightly in the commonwealth no less: but he that wantonly defies the law, or thinks to dictate to authority, shall have no praise from me. what power soe'er the city hath ordained, must be obeyed in little things and great things, right or wrong. the man who so obeys, i have good hope will govern and be governed as he ought, and in the storm of battle at my side will stand a faithful and a trusty comrade. but what more fatal than the lapse of rule? this ruins cities, this lays houses waste, this joins with the assault of war to break full numbered armies into hopeless rout; and in the unbroken host 'tis nought but rule that keeps those many bodies from defeat, i must be zealous to defend the law, and not go down before a woman's will. else, if i fall, 'twere best a man should strike me; lest one should say, 'a woman worsted him.' ch. unless our sense is weakened by long time, thou speakest not unwisely. haem. o my sire, sound wisdom is a god implanted seed, of all possessions highest in regard. i cannot, and i would not learn to say that thou art wrong in this; though in another, it may be such a word were not unmeet. but as thy son, 'tis surely mine to scan men's deeds, and words, and muttered thoughts toward thee. fear of thy frown restrains the citizen in talk that would fall harshly on thine ear. i under shadow may o'erhear, how all thy people mourn this maiden, and complain that of all women least deservedly she perishes for a most glorious deed. 'who, when her own true brother on the earth lay weltering after combat in his gore, left him not graveless, for the carrion few and raw devouring field dogs to consume-- hath she not merited a golden praise?' such the dark rumour spreading silently. now, in my valuing, with thy prosperous life, my father, no possession can compare. where can be found a richer ornament for children, than their father's high renown? or where for fathers, than their children's fame? nurse not one changeless humour in thy breast, that nothing can be right but as thou sayest. whoe'er presumes that he alone hath sense, or peerless eloquence, or reach of soul, unwrap him, and you'll find but emptiness. 'tis no disgrace even to the wise to learn and lend an ear to reason. you may see the plant that yields where torrent waters flow saves every little twig, when the stout tree is torn away and dies. the mariner who will not ever slack the sheet that sways the vessel, but still tightens, oversets, and so, keel upward, ends his voyaging. relent, i pray thee, and give place to change. if any judgement hath informed my youth, i grant it noblest to be always wise, but,--for omniscience is denied to man-- tis good to hearken to admonishment. ch. my lord, 'twere wise, if thou wouldst learn of him in reason; and thou, haemon, from thy sire! truth lies between you. cr. shall our age, forsooth, be taught discretion by a peevish boy? haem. only in what is right. respects of time must be outbalanced by the actual need. cr. to cringe to rebels cannot be a need. haem. i do not claim observance for the vile. cr. why, is not she so tainted? is 't not proved? haem. all thebes denies it. cr. am i ruled by thebes? haem. if youth be folly, that is youngly said. cr. shall other men prescribe my government? haem. one only makes not up a city, father. cr. is not the city in the sovereign's hand? haem. nobly you'd govern as the desert's king. cr. this youngster is the woman's champion. haem. you are the woman, then--for you i care. cr. villain, to bandy reasons with your sire! haem. i plead against the unreason of your fault. cr. what fault is there in reverencing my power? haem. there is no reverence when you spurn the gods. cr. abominable spirit, woman-led! haem. you will not find me following a base guide. cr. why, all your speech this day is spent for her. haem. for you and me too, and the gods below. cr. she will not live to be your wife on earth. haem. i know, then, whom she will ruin by her death. cr. what, wilt thou threaten, too, thou audacious boy? haem. it is no threat to answer empty words. cr. witless admonisher, thou shalt pay for this! haem. thou art my sire, else would i call thee senseless. cr. thou woman's minion! mince not terms with me, haem. wouldst thou have all the speaking on thy side? cr. is 't possible? by yon heaven! thou'lt not escape, for adding contumely to words of blame. bring out the hated thing, that she may die immediately, before her lover's face! haem. nay, dream not she shall suffer in my sight nor shalt thou ever see my face again let those stay with you that can brook your rage! [_exit_ ch. my lord, he is parted swiftly in deep wrath! the youthful spirit offended makes wild work. cr. ay, let him do his worst. let him give scope to pride beyond the compass of a man! he shall not free these maidens from their doom. ch. is death thy destination for them both? cr. only for her who acted. thou art right. ch. and what hast thou determined for her death? ch. where human footstep shuns the desert ground, i'll hide her living in a cave like vault, with so much provender as may prevent pollution from o'ertaking the whole city and there, perchance, she may obtain of death, her only deity, to spare her soul, or else in that last moment she will learn 'tis labour lost to worship powers unseen. [_exit_ creon chorus love, never foiled in fight! warrior love, that on wealth workest havoc! love, who in ambush of young maid's soft cheek all night keep'st watch!--thou roamest over seas. in lonely forest homes thou harbourest. who may avoid thee? none! mortal, immortal, all are o'erthrown by thee, all feel thy frenzy. lightly thou draw'st awry righteous minds into wrong to their ruin thou this unkindly quarrel hast inflamed 'tween kindred men--triumphantly prevails the heart-compelling eye of winsome bride, compeer of mighty law thronèd, commanding. madly thou mockest men, dread aphrodite. leader of chorus. ah! now myself am carried past the bound of law, nor can i check the rising tear, when i behold antigone even here touching the quiet bourne where all must rest. _enter_ antigone _guarded._ ant. ye see me on my way, i o burghers of my father's land! with one last look on helios' ray, led my last path toward the silent strand. alive to the wide house of rest i go; no dawn for me may shine, no marriage-blessing e'er be mine, no hymeneal with my praises flow! the lord of acheron's unlovely shore shall be mine only husband evermore. ch. yea, but with glory and fame,-- not by award of the sword, not with blighting disease, but by a law of thine own,-- thou, of mortals alone, goest alive to the deep tranquil home of the dead. ant. erewhile i heard men say, i how, in far phrygia, thebè's friend, tantalus' child, had dreariest end on heights of sipylus consumed away: o'er whom the rock like clinging ivy grows, and while with moistening dew her cheek runs down, the eternal snows weigh o'er her, and the tearful stream renew that from sad brows her stone-cold breast doth steep. like unto her the god lulls me to sleep. ch. but she was a goddess born, we but of mortal line; and sure to rival the fate of a daughter of sires divine were no light glory in death. ant. o mockery of my woe! ii i pray you by our fathers' holy fear, why must i hear your insults, while in life on earth i stand, o ye that flow in wealth, rich burghers of my bounteous land? o fount of dircè, and thou spacious grove, where thebè's chariots move! ye are my witness, though none else be nigh, by what enormity of lawless doom, without one friendly sigh, i go to the strong mound of yon strange tomb,-- all hapless, having neither part nor room with those who live or those who die! ch. thy boldness mounted high, and thou, my child, 'gainst the great pedestal of justice with unmeasured force didst fall. thy father's lot still presseth hard on thee. ant. that pains me more than all. ii ah! thou hast touched my father's misery still mourned anew, with all the world-famed sorrows on us rolled since cadmus old. o cursèd marriage that my mother knew! o wretched fortune of my sire, who lay where first he saw the day! such were the authors of my burdened life; to whom, with curses dowered, never a wife, i go to dwell beneath. o brother mine, thy princely marriage-tie hath been thy downfall, and in this thy death thou hast destroyed me ere i die. ch. 'twas pious, we confess, thy fervent deed. but he, who power would show, must let no soul of all he rules transgress. a self-willed passion was thine overthrow. ant. friendless, uncomforted of bridal lay, iii unmourned, they lead me on my destined way. woe for my life forlorn! i may not see the sacred round of yon great light rising again to greet me from the night; no friend bemoans my fate, no tear hath fallen for me! _enter_ creon. cr. if criminals were suffered to complain in dirges before death, they ne'er would end. away with her at once, and closing her, as i commanded, in the vaulty tomb, leave her all desolate, whether to die, or to live on in that sepulchral cell. we are guiltless in the matter of this maid; only she shall not share the light of day. ant. o grave! my bridal chamber, prison-house eterne, deep-hollowed, whither i am led to find mine own,--of whom persephonè hath now a mighty number housed in death:-- i last of all, and far most miserably, am going, ere my days have reached their term! yet lives the hope that, when i go, most surely dear will my coming be, father, to thee, and dear to thee, my mother, and to thee, brother! since with these very hands i decked and bathed you after death, and ministered the last libations. and i reap this doom for tending, polynices, on thy corse. indeed i honoured thee, the wise will say. for neither, had i children, nor if one i had married were laid bleeding on the earth, would i have braved the city's will, or taken this burden on me. wherefore? i will tell. a husband lost might be replaced; a son, if son were lost to me, might yet be born; but, with both parents hidden in the tomb, no brother may arise to comfort me. therefore above all else i honoured thee, and therefore creon thought me criminal, and bold in wickedness, o brother mine! and now by servile hands, for all to see, he hastens me away, unhusbanded, before my nuptial, having never known or married joy or tender motherhood. but desolate and friendless i go down alive, o horror! to the vaults of the dead. for what transgression of heaven's ordinance? alas! how can i look to heaven? on whom call to befriend me? seeing that i have earned, by piety, the meed of impious?-- oh! if this act be what the gods approve, in death i may repent me of my deed; but if they sin who judge me, be their doom no heavier than they wrongly wreak on me! ch. with unchanged fury beats the storm of soul that shakes this maiden. cr. then for that, be sure her warders shall lament their tardiness. ant. alas! i hear death's footfall in that sound. cr. i may not reassure thee.--'tis most true. ant. o land of thebè, city of my sires, ye too, ancestral gods! i go--i go! even now they lead me to mine end. behold! founders of thebes, the only scion left of cadmus' issue, how unworthily, by what mean instruments i am oppressed, for reverencing the dues of piety. [_exit guarded_ chorus. even danaë's beauty left the lightsome day. i closed in her strong and brass-bound tower she lay in tomb-like deep confine. yet she was gendered, o my child! from sires of noblest line, and treasured for the highest the golden rain. fated misfortune hath a power so fell: not wealth, nor warfare wild, nor dark spray-dashing coursers of the main against great destiny may once rebel. he too in darksome durance was compressed, i king of edonians, dryas' hasty son[ ], in eyeless vault of stone immured by dionysus' hest, all for a wrathful jest. fierce madness issueth in such fatal flower. he found 'twas mad to taunt the heavenly power, chilling the maenad breast kindled with bacchic fire, and with annoy angering the muse that in the flute hath joy. and near twin rocks that guard the colchian sea, ii bosporian cliffs 'fore salmydessus rise, where neighbouring ares from his shrine beheld phineus' two sons[ ] by female fury quelled. with cursèd wounding of their sight-reft eyes, that cried to heaven to 'venge the iniquity. the shuttle's sharpness in a cruel hand dealt the dire blow, not struck with martial brand. but chiefly for her piteous lot they pined, ii who was the source of their rejected birth. she touched the lineage of erechtheus old; whence in far caves her life did erst unfold, cradled 'mid storms, daughter of northern wind, steed-swift o'er all steep places of the earth. yet even on her, though reared of heavenly kind, the long-enduring fates at last took hold. _enter_ tiresias, _led by a boy._ tiresias. we are come, my lords of thebes, joint wayfarers, one having eyes for both. the blind must still thus move in frail dependence on a guide. cr. and what hath brought thee, old tirésias, now? ti. i will instruct thee, if thou wilt hear my voice. cr. i have not heretofore rejected thee. ti. therefore thy pilotage hath saved this city. cr. grateful experience owns the benefit. ti. take heed. again thou art on an edge of peril. cr. what is it? how i shudder at thy word! ti. the tokens of mine art shall make thee know. as i was sitting on that ancient seat of divination, where i might command sure cognisance of every bird of the air, i heard strange clamouring of fowl, that screeched in furious dissonance; and, i could tell, talons were bloodily engaged--the whirr of wings told a clear tale. at once, in fear, i tried burnt sacrifice at the high altar: where from the offering the fire god refused to gleam; but a dank humour from the bones dripped on the embers with a sputtering fume. the gall was spirited high in air, the thighs lay wasting, bared of their enclosing fat. such failing tokens of blurred augury this youth reported, who is guide to me, as i to others. and this evil state is come upon the city from thy will: because our altars--yea, our sacred hearths-- are everywhere infected from the mouths of dogs or beak of vulture that hath fed on oedipus' unhappy slaughtered son. and then at sacrifice the gods refuse our prayers and savour of the thigh-bone fat-- and of ill presage is the thickening cry of bird that battens upon human gore now, then, my son, take thought. a man may err; but he is not insensate or foredoomed to ruin, who, when he hath lapsed to evil, stands not inflexible, but heals the harm. the obstinate man still earns the name of fool. urge not contention with the dead, nor stab the fallen. what valour is 't to slay the slain? i have thought well of this, and say it with care; and careful counsel, that brings gain withal, is precious to the understanding soul. cr. i am your mark, and ye with one consent all shoot your shafts at me. nought left untried, not even the craft of prophets, by whose crew i am bought and merchandised long since. go on! traffic, get gain, electrum from the mine of lydia, and the gold of ind! yet know, grey-beard! ye ne'er shall hide him in a tomb. no, not if heaven's own eagle chose to snatch and bear him to the throne supreme for food, even that pollution should not daunt my heart to yield permission for his funeral. for well know i defilement ne'er can rise from man to god. but, old tirésias, hear! even wisest spirits have a shameful fall that fairly speak base words for love of gain. ti. ah! where is wisdom? who considereth? cr. wherefore? what means this universal doubt? ti. how far the best of riches is good counsel! cr. as far as folly is the mightiest bane. ti. yet thou art sick of that same pestilence. cr. i would not give the prophet blow for blow. ti. what blow is harder than to call me false? cr. desire of money is the prophet's plague. ti. and ill-sought lucre is the curse of kings. cr. know'st thou 'tis of thy sovereign thou speak'st this? ti. yea, for my aid gives thee to sway this city. cr. far seeing art thou, but dishonest too. ti. thou wilt provoke the utterance of my tongue to that even thought refused to dwell upon. cr. say on, so thou speak sooth, and not for gain. ti. you think me likely to seek gain from you? cr. you shall not make your merchandise on me! ti. not many courses of the racing sun shalt thou fulfil, ere of thine own true blood thou shalt have given a corpse in recompense for one on earth whom thou hast cast beneath, entombing shamefully a living soul, and one whom thou hast kept above the ground and disappointed of all obsequies, unsanctified and godlessly forlorn. such violence the powers beneath will bear not even from the olympian gods. for thee the avengers wait. hidden but near at hand, lagging but sure, the furies of the grave are watching for thee to thy ruinous harm, with thine own evil to entangle thee. look well to it now whether i speak for gold! a little while, and thine own palace-halls shall flash the truth upon thee with loud noise of men and women, shrieking o'er the dead. and all the cities whose unburied sons, mangled and torn, have found a sepulchre in dogs or jackals or some ravenous bird that stains their incense with polluted breath, are forming leagues in troublous enmity. such shafts, since thou hast stung me to the quick, i like an archer at thee in my wrath have loosed unerringly--carrying their pang, inevitable, to thy very heart. now, sirrah! lead me home, that his hot mood be spent on younger objects, till he learn to keep a safer mind and calmer tongue. [_exit_ ch. sire, there is terror in that prophecy. he who is gone, since ever these my locks, once black, now white with age, waved o'er my brow, hath never spoken falsely to the state. cr. i know it, and it shakes me to the core. to yield is dreadful: but resistingly to face the blow of fate, is full of dread. ch. the time calls loud on wisdom, good my lord. cr. what must i do? advise me. i will obey. ch. go and release the maiden from the vault, and make a grave for the unburied dead. cr. is that your counsel? think you i will yield? ch. with all the speed thou mayest: swift harms from heaven with instant doom o'erwhelm the froward man. cr. oh! it is hard. but i am forced to this against myself. i cannot fight with destiny. ch. go now to do it. trust no second hand. cr. even as i am, i go. come, come, my people. here or not here, with mattocks in your hands set forth immediately to yonder hill! and, since i have ta'en this sudden turn, myself, who tied the knot, will hasten to unloose it. for now the fear comes over me, 'tis best to pass one's life in the accustomed round. [_exeunt_ chorus. o god of many a name! i filling the heart of that cadmeian bride with deep delicious pride, offspring of him who wields the withering flame! thou for italia's good dost care, and 'midst the all-gathering bosom wide[ ] of dêo dost preside; thou, bacchus, by ismenus' winding waters 'mongst thebè's frenzied daughters, keep'st haunt, commanding the fierce dragon's brood. thee o'er the forkèd hill i the pinewood flame beholds, where bacchai rove, nymphs of corycian grove, hard by the flowing of castalia's rill. to visit theban ways, by bloomy wine-cliffs flushing tender bright 'neath far nyseian height thou movest o'er the ivy-mantled mound, while myriad voices sound loud strains of 'evoe!' to thy deathless praise. for thebè thou dost still uphold, ii first of cities manifold, thou and the nymph whom lightning made mother of thy radiant head. come then with healing for the violent woe that o'er our peopled land doth largely flow, passing the high parnassian steep or moaning narrows of the deep! come, leader of the starry quire ii quick-panting with their breath of fire! lord of high voices of the night, child born to him who dwells in light, appear with those who, joying in their madness, honour the sole dispenser of their gladness, thyiads of the aegean main night-long trooping in thy train. _enter_ messenger. mess. neighbours of cadmus and amphion's halls, no life of mortal, howsoe'er it stand, shall once have praise or censure from my mouth; since human happiness and human woe come even as fickle fortune smiles or lours; and none can augur aught from what we see. creon erewhile to me was enviable, who saved our thebè from her enemies; then, vested with supreme authority, ruled her aright; and flourish'd in his home with noblest progeny. what hath he now? nothing. for when a man is lost to joy, i count him not to live, but reckon him a living corse. riches belike are his, great riches and the appearance of a king; but if no gladness come to him, all else is shadow of a vapour, weighed with joy. ch. what new affliction heaped on sovereignty com'st thou to tell? mess. they are dead; and they that live are guilty of the death. ch. the slayer, who? and who the slain? declare. mess. haemon is dead, and by a desperate hand. ch. his own, or creon's? mess. by his own hand, impelled with violent wrath at creon for the murder of the maid. ch. ah, seer! how surely didst thou aim thy word! mess. so stands the matter. make of it what ye list. ch. see, from the palace cometh close to us creon's unhappy wife, eurydicè. is it by chance, or heard she of her son? _enter_ eurydice. eurydice. ye men of thebes, the tidings met mine ear as i was coming forth to visit pallas with prayerful salutation. i was loosening the bar of the closed gate, when the sharp sound of mine own sorrow smote against my heart, and i fell back astonied on my maids and fainted. but the tale? tell me once more; i am no novice in adversity. mess. dear lady, i will tell thee what i saw, and hide no grain of truth: why should i soothe thy spirit with soft tales, when the harsh fact must prove me a liar? truth is always best. i duly led the footsteps of thy lord to the highest point of the plain, where still was lying, forlorn and mangled by the dogs, the corse of polynices. we besought persephonè and pluto gently to restrain their wrath, and wash'd him pure and clean, and then we burned the poor remains with brushwood freshly pulled, and heaped a lofty mound of his own earth above him. then we turned us to the vault, the maiden's stony bride-chamber of death. and from afar, round the unhallowed cell, one heard a voice of wailing loud and long, and went and told his lord: who coming near was haunted by the dim and bitter cry, and suddenly exclaiming on his fate said lamentably, 'my prophetic heart divined aright. i am going, of all ways that e'er i went, the unhappiest to-day. my son's voice smites me. go, my men, approach with speed, and, where the stones are torn away, press through the passage to that door of death, look hard, and tell me, if i hear aright the voice of haemon, or the gods deceive me.' thus urged by our despairing lord, we made th' espial. and in the farthest nook of the vault we saw the maiden hanging by the neck with noose of finest tissue firmly tied, and clinging to her on his knees the boy, lamenting o'er his ruined nuptial-rite, consummated in death, his father's crime and his lost love. and when the father saw him, with loud and dreadful clamour bursting in he went to him and called him piteously: 'what deed is this, unhappy youth? what thought o'ermaster'd thee? where did the force of woe o'erturn thy reason? o come forth, my son, i beg thee!' but with savage eyes the youth glared scowling at him, and without a word plucked forth his two-edged blade. the father then fled and escaped: but the unhappy boy, wroth with himself, even where he stood, leant heavily upon his sword and plunged it in his side.-- and while the sense remained, his slackening arm enfolded still the maiden, and his breath, gaspingly drawn and panted forth with pain, cast ruddy drops upon her pallid face; then lay in death upon the dead, at last joined to his bride in hades' dismal hall:-- a monument unto mankind, that rashness is the worst evil of this mortal state. [_exit_ eurydice ch. what augur ye from this? the queen is gone without word spoken either good or bad. mess. i, too, am struck with dread. but hope consoles me, that having heard the affliction of her son, her pride forbids to publish her lament before the town, but to her maids within she will prescribe to mourn the loss of the house. she is too tried in judgement to do ill. ch. i cannot tell. the extreme of silence, too, is dangerous, no less than much vain noise. mess. well, we may learn, if there be aught unseen suppressed within her grief-distempered soul, by going within the palace. ye say well: there is a danger, even in too much silence. ch. ah! look where sadly comes our lord the king, bearing upon his arm a monument-- if we may speak it--of no foreign woe, but of his own infirmity the fruit. _enter_ creon _with the body of_ haemon. cr. o error of my insensate soul, i stubborn, and deadly in the fateful end! o ye who now behold slayer and slain of the same kindred blood! o bitter consequence of seeming-wise decree! alas, my son! strange to the world wert thou, and strange the fate that took thee off, that slew thee; woe is me! not for thy rashness, but my folly. ah me! ch. alas for him who sees the right too late! cr. alas! i have learnt it now. but then upon my head some god had smitten with dire weight of doom; and plunged me in a furious course, woe is me! discomforting and trampling on my joy. woe! for the bitterness of mortal pain! _enter_ nd messenger. nd mess. my lord and master. thou art master here of nought but sorrows. one within thine arms thou bear'st with thee, and in thy palace hall thou hast possession of another grief, which soon thou shalt behold. cr. what more of woe, or what more woeful, sounds anew from thee? nd mess. the honoured mother of that corse, thy queen, is dead, and bleeding with a new-given wound. cr. o horrible! o charnel gulf i of death on death, not to be done away, why harrowest thou my soul? ill boding harbinger of woe, what word have thy lips uttered? oh, thou hast killed me again, before undone! what say'st? what were thy tidings? woe is me! saidst thou a slaughtered queen in yonder hall lay in her blood, crowning the pile of ruin? ch. no longer hidden in the house. behold! [_the corpse of_ eurydice _is disclosed_ cr. alas! again i see a new, a second woe. what more calamitous stroke of destiny awaits me still? but now mine arms enfold my child, and lo! yon corse before my face! ah! hapless, hapless mother, hapless son! nd mess. she with keen knife before the altar place[ ] closed her dark orbs; but first lamented loud the glorious bed of buried megareus[ ], and then of haemon; lastly clamoured forth the curse of murdered offspring upon thee. cr. ay me! ay me! ii i am rapt with terror. is there none to strike me with doubly sharpened blade a mortal blow? ah! i am plunged in fathomless distress. nd mess. the guilt of this and of the former grief by this dead lady was denounced on thee. cr. tell us, how ended she her life in blood? nd mess. wounding herself to the heart, when she had heard the loud lamented death of haemon here. cr. o me! this crime can come on no man else, exempting me. i slew thee--i, o misery! i say the truth, 'twas i! my followers, take me with speed--take me away, away! me, who am nothing now. ch. thou sayest the best, if there be best in woe. briefest is happiest in calamity. cr. ah! let it come, ii the day, most welcome of all days to me, that brings the consummation of my doom. come! come! i would not see another sun. ch. time will determine that. we must attend to present needs. fate works her own dread work. cr. all my desire was gathered in my prayer. ch. but prayer is bootless. for to mortal men there is no saviour from appointed woe. cr. take me away, the vain-proud man that slew thee, o my son! unwittingly,--and thee! me miserable, which way shall i turn, which look upon? since all that i can touch is falling,--falling,--round me, and o'erhead intolerable destiny descends. leader of chorus. wise conduct hath command of happiness before all else, and piety to heaven must be preserved. high boastings of the proud bring sorrow to the height to punish pride:-- a lesson men shall learn when they are old. * * * * * aias the persons athena. odysseus. aias, _the son of telamon._ chorus _of salaminian mariners._ tecmessa. _a messenger._ teucer, _half brother of aias._ menelaus. agamemnon. eurysakÈs, _the child of aias and tecmessa, appears, but does not speak._ scene. before the encampment of aias on the shore of the troad. afterwards a lonely place beyond rhoeteum. time, towards the end of the trojan war. _'a wounded spirit who can bear?'_ after the death of achilles, the armour made for him by hephaestus was to be given to the worthiest of the surviving greeks. although aias was the most valiant, the judges made the award to odysseus, because he was the wisest. aias in his rage attempts to kill the generals; but athena sends madness upon him, and he makes a raid upon the flocks and herds of the army, imagining the bulls and rams to be the argive chiefs. on awakening from his delusion, he finds that he has fallen irrecoverably from honour and from the favour of the greeks. he also imagines that the anger of athena is unappeasable. under this impression he eludes the loving eyes of his captive-bride tecmessa, and of his salaminian comrades, and falls on his sword. ('the soul and body rive not more in parting than greatness going off.') but it is revealed through the prophet calchas, that the wrath of athena will last only for a day; and on the return of teucer, aias receives an honoured funeral, the tyrannical reclamations of the two sons of atreus being overcome by the firm fidelity of teucer and the magnanimity of odysseus, who has been inspired for this purpose by athena. aias athena (_above_). odysseus. athena. oft have i seen thee, laërtiades, intent on some surprisal of thy foes; as now i find thee by the seaward camp, where aias holds the last place in your line, lingering in quest, and scanning the fresh print of his late footsteps, to be certified if he keep house or no. right well thy sense hath led thee forth, like some keen hound of sparta! the man is even but now come home, his head and slaughterous hands reeking with ardent toil. thou, then, no longer strain thy gaze within yon gateway, but declare what eager chase thou followest, that a god may give thee light. odysseus. athena, 'tis thy voice! dearest in heaven, how well discerned and welcome to my soul from that dim distance doth thine utterance fly in tones as of tyrrhenian trumpet clang! rightly hast thou divined mine errand here, beating this ground for aias of the shield, the lion-quarry whom i track to day. for he hath wrought on us to night a deed past thought--if he be doer of this thing; we drift in ignorant doubt, unsatisfied-- and i unbidden have bound me to this toil. brief time hath flown since suddenly we knew that all our gathered spoil was reaved and slaughtered, flocks, herds, and herdmen, by some human hand, all tongues, then, lay this deed at aias' door. and one, a scout who had marked him, all alone, with new-fleshed weapon bounding o'er the plain, gave me to know it, when immediately i darted on the trail, and here in part i find some trace to guide me, but in part i halt, amazed, and know not where to look. thou com'st full timely. for my venturous course, past or to come, is governed by thy will. ath. i knew thy doubts, odysseus, and came forth zealous to guard thy perilous hunting-path. od. dear queen! and am i labouring to an end? ath. thou schem'st not idly. this is aias' deed. od. what can have roused him to a work so wild? ath. his grievous anger for achilles' arms. od. but wherefore on the flock this violent raid? ath. he thought to imbrue his hands with your heart's blood. od. what? was this planned against the argives, then? ath. planned, and performed, had i kept careless guard. od. what daring spirit, what hardihood, was here! ath. alone by night in craft he sought your tents. od. how? came he near them? won he to his goal? ath. he stood in darkness at the generals' gates. od. what then restrained his eager hand from murder? ath. i turned him backward from his baleful joy, and overswayed him with blind phantasies, to swerve against the flocks and well-watched herd not yet divided from the public booty. there plunging in he hewed the horned throng, and with him havoc ranged: while now he thought to kill the atreidae with hot hand, now this now that commander, as the fancy grew. i, joining with the tumult of his mind, flung the wild victim on the fatal net. anon, this toil being overpast, he draws the living oxen and the panting sheep with cords to his home, not as a hornèd prey, but as in triumph marshalling his foes: whom now he tortures in their bonds within. come, thou shalt see this madness in clear day, and tell to the argives all i show thee here only stand firm and shrink not, i will turn his eyes askance, not to distinguish thee, fear nought--ho! thou that bindest to thy will the limbs of those thy captives, come thou forth! aias! advance before thy palace gate! od. my queen! what dost thou? never call him forth. ath. hush, hush! be not so timorous, but endure. od. nay, nay! enough. he is there, and let him bide. ath. what fear you? dates his valour from to day? od. he was and is my valiant enemy. ath. then is not laughter sweetest o'er a foe? od. no more! i care not he should pass abroad. ath. you flinch from seeing the madman in full view. od. when sane, i ne'er had flinched before his face. ath. well, but even now he shall not know thee near. od. how, if his eyes be not transformed or lost? ath. i will confound his sense although he see. od. well, nothing is too hard for deity. ath. stand still and keep thy place without a word. od. i must. would i were far away from here! ath. aias! again i summon thee. why pay so scanty heed to her who fights for thee? _enter_ aias _with a bloody scourge._ aias. hail, offspring of the highest! pallas, hail! well hast thou stood by me. triumphal gold shall crown thy temple for this lordly prey. ath. a fair intention! but resolve me this: hast dyed thy falchion deep in argive blood? ai. there is my boast; that charge i'll ne'er deny. ath. have atreus' sons felt thy victorious might? ai. they have. no more they'll make a scorn of me! ath. i take it, then, they are dead. ai. ay, now they are dead, let them arise and rob me of mine arms! ath. good. next inform us of laërtes' son; how stands his fortune? hast thou let him go? ai. the accursed fox! dost thou inquire of him? ath. ay, of odysseus, thy late adversary. ai. he sits within, dear lady, to my joy, bound; for i mean him not just yet to die. ath. what fine advantage wouldst thou first achieve? ai. first, tie him to a pillar of my hall-- ath. poor wretch! what torment wilt thou wreak on him? ai. then stain his back with scourging till he die. ath. nay, 'tis too much. poor caitiff! not the scourge! ai. pallas, in all things else have thou thy will, but none shall wrest odysseus from this doom. ath. well, since thou art determined on the deed, spare nought of thine intent: indulge thy hand! ai. (_waving the bloody scourge_). i go! but thou, i charge thee, let thine aid be evermore like valiant as to-day. [_exit_ ath. the gods are strong, odysseus. dost thou see? what man than aias was more provident, or who for timeliest action more approved? od. i know of none. but, though he hates me sore, i pity him, poor mortal, thus chained fast to a wild and cruel fate,--weighing not so much his fortune as mine own. for now i feel all we who live are but an empty show and idle pageant of a shadowy dream. ath. then, warned by what thou seest, be thou not rash to vaunt high words toward heaven, nor swell thy port too proudly, if in puissance of thy hand thou passest others, or in mines of wealth. since time abases and uplifts again all that is human, and the modest heart is loved by heaven, who hates the intemperate will. [_exeunt_ chorus (_entering_). telamonian child, whose hand guards our wave-encircled land, salamis that breasts the sea, good of thine is joy to me; but if one who reigns above smite thee, or if murmurs move from fierce danaäns in their hate full of threatening to thy state, all my heart for fear doth sigh, shrinking like a dove's soft eye. hardly had the darkness waned, [_half-chorus i._ when our ears were filled and pained with huge scandal on thy fame. telling, thine the arm that came to the cattle-browsèd mead, wild with prancing of the steed, and that ravaged there and slew with a sword of fiery hue all the spoils that yet remain, by the sweat of spearmen ta'en. such report against thy life, [_half-chorus ii._ whispered words with falsehood rife, wise odysseus bringing near shrewdly gaineth many an ear: since invention against thee findeth hearing speedily, tallying with the moment's birth; and with loudly waxing mirth heaping insult on thy grief, each who hears it glories more than the tongue that told before. every slander wins belief aimed at souls whose worth is chief: shot at me, or one so small, such a bolt might harmless fall. ever toward the great and high creepeth climbing jealousy yet the low without the tall make at need a tottering wall let the strong the feeble save and the mean support the brave. chorus ah! 'twere vain to tune such song 'mid the nought discerning throng who are clamouring now 'gainst thee long and loud, and strengthless we, mighty chieftain, thou away, to withstand the gathering fray flocking fowl with carping cry seem they, lurking from thine eye, till the royal eagle's poise overawe the paltry noise till before thy presence hushed sudden sink they, mute and crushed. did bull slaying artemis, zeus' cruel daughter i (ah, fearful rumour, fountain of my shame!) prompt thy fond heart to this disastrous slaughter of the full herd stored in our army's name! say, had her blood stained temple[ ] missed the kindness of some vow promised fruit of victory, foiled of some glorious armour through thy blindness, or fell some stag ungraced by gift from thee? or did stern ares venge his thankless spear through this night foray that hath cost thee dear! for never, if thy heart were not distracted i by stings from heaven, o child of telamon, wouldst thou have bounded leftward, to have acted thus wildly, spoiling all our host hath won! madness might fall some heavenly power forfend it but if odysseus and the tyrant lords suggest a forged tale, o rise to end it, nor fan the fierce flame of their withering words! forth from thy tent, and let thine eye confound the brood of sisyphus[ ] that would thee wound! too long hast thou been fixed in grim repose, iii heightening the haughty malice of thy foes, that, while thou porest by the sullen sea, through breezy glades advanceth fearlessly, a mounting blaze with crackling laughter fed from myriad throats; whence pain and sorrow bred within my bosom are establishèd. _enter_ tecmessa. tecmessa. helpers of aias' vessel's speed, erechtheus' earth-derivèd seed, sorrows are ours who truly care for the house of telamon afar. the dread, the grand, the rugged form of him we know, is stricken with a troublous storm; our aias' glory droopeth low. chorus. what burden through the darkness fell where still at eventide 'twas well? phrygian teleutas' daughter, say; since aias, foremost in the fray, disdaining not the spear-won bride, still holds thee nearest at his side, and thou may'st solve our doubts aright. tec. how shall i speak the dreadful word? how shall ye live when ye have heard? madness hath seized our lord by night and blasted him with hopeless blight. such horrid victims mightst thou see huddled beneath yon canopy, torn by red hands and dyed in blood, dread offerings to his direful mood. ch. what news of our fierce lord thy story showeth, sharp to endure, impossible to fly! news that on tongues of danaäns hourly groweth, which rumour's myriad voices multiply! alas! the approaching doom awakes my terror. the man will die, disgraced in open day, whose dark dyed steel hath dared through mad brained error the mounted herdmen with their herds to slay. tec. o horror! then 'twas there he found the flock he brought as captives tied, and some he slew upon the ground, and some, side smiting, sundered wide two white foot rams he backward drew, and bound. of one he shore and threw the tipmost tongue and head away, the other to an upright stay he tied, and with a harness thong doubled in hand, gave whizzing blows, echoing his lashes with a song more dire than mortal fury knows. ch. ah! then 'tis time, our heads in mantles hiding, our feet on some stol'n pathway now to ply, or with swift oarage o'er the billows gliding, with ordered stroke to make the good ship fly such threats the atridae, armed with two fold power, launch to assail us. oh, i sadly fear stones from fierce hands on us and him will shower, whose heavy plight no comfort may come near. tec. 'tis changed, his rage, like sudden blast, without the lightning gleam is past and now that reason's light returns, new sorrow in his spirit burns. for when we look on self made woe, in which no hand but ours had part, thought of such griefs and whence they flow brings aching misery to the heart. ch. if he hath ceased to rave, he should do well the account of evil lessens when 'tis past. tec. if choice were given you, would you rather choose hurting your friends, yourself to feel delight, or share with them in one commingled pain? ch. the two fold trouble is more terrible. tec. then comes our torment now the fit is o'er. ch. how mean'st thou by that word? i fail to see. tec. he in his rage had rapture of delight and knew not how he grieved us who stood near and saw the madding tempest ruining him. but now 'tis over and he breathes anew, the counterblast of sorrow shakes his soul, whilst our affliction vexeth as before, have we not double for our single woe? ch. i feel thy reasoning move me, and i fear some heavenly stroke hath fallen. how else, when the end of stormy sickness brings no cheering ray? tec. our state is certain. dream not but 'tis so. ch. how first began the assault of misery? tell us the trouble, for we share the pain. tec. it toucheth you indeed, and ye shall hear all from the first. 'twas midnight, and the lamp of eve had died, when, seizing his sharp blade, he sought on some vain errand to creep forth. i broke in with my word: 'aias, what now? why thus uncalled for salliest thou? no voice of herald summoned thee. no trumpet blew. what wouldst thou when the camp is hushed in sleep?' he with few words well known to women's ears checked me: 'the silent partner is the best.' i saw how 'twas and ceased. forth then he fared alone--what horror passed upon the plain this night, i know not. but he drags within, tied in a throng, bulls, shepherd dogs, and spoil of cattle and sheep. anon he butchers them, felling or piercing, hacking or tearing wide, ribs from breast, limb from limb. others in rage he seized and bound and tortured, brutes for men. last, out he rushed before the doors, and there whirled forth wild language to some shadowy form, flouting the generals and laërtes' son with torrent laughter and loud triumphing what in his raid he had wreaked to their despite. then diving back within--the fitful storm slowly assuaging left his spirit clear. and when his eye had lightened through the room cumbered with ruin, smiting on his brow he roared; and, tumbling down amid the wreck of woolly carnage he himself had made, sate with clenched hand tight twisted in his hair. long stayed he so in silence. then flashed forth those frightful words of threatening vehemence, that bade me show him all the night's mishap, and whither he was fallen i, dear my friends, prevailed on through my fear, told all i knew. and all at once he raised a bitter cry, which heretofore i ne'er had heard, for still he made us think such doleful utterance betokened the dull craven spirit, and still dumb to shrill wailings, he would only moan with half heard muttering, like an angry bull. but now, by such dark fortune overpowered, foodless and dry, amid the quivering heap his steel hath quelled, all quietly he broods; and out of doubt his mind intends some harm: such words, such groans, burst from him. o my friends.-- therefore i hastened,--enter and give aid if aught ye can! men thus forgone will oft grow milder through the counsel of a friend. ch. teleutas' child! we shudder at thy tale that fatal frenzy wastes our hero's soul. aias (_within_). woe's me, me, me! tec. more cause anon! hear ye not aias there, how sharp the cry that shrills from him? ai. woe! woe! ch. madly it sounds--or springs it of deep grief for proofs of madness harrowing to his eye? ai. boy, boy! tec. what means he? oh, eurysakes! he cries on thee. where art thou? o my heart! ai. teucer i call! where 's teucer? will he ne'er come from the chase, but leave me to my doom? ch. not madness now. disclose him. let us look. haply the sight of us may calm his soul. tec. there, then; i open to your view the form of aias, and his fortunes as they are. [aias _is discovered_ ai. dear comrades of the deep, whose truth and love i stand forth alone unbroken in my woe, behold what gory sea of storm-lashed agony doth round and round me flow! ch. (_to_ tec.) too true thy witness: for the fact cries out wild thoughts were here and reason's lamp extinct. ai. strong helpers of sea-speed, whose nimble hand i plied hither the salt oar with circling stroke, no shepherd there was found to give the avenging wound. come, lay me with the flock! ch. speak no rash word! nor curing ill with ill augment the plague of this calamity. ai. mark ye the brave and bold, ii whom none could turn of old, when once he set his face to the fierce fight? now beasts that thought no harm have felt this puissant arm. o laughter of my foes! o mockery of my might! tec. aias, my lord! i entreat thee, speak not so! ai. thou here! away! begone, and trouble me not! o! o! ch. be softened! bear a steadier mind! ai. o heaven-accursèd hand that let the ruffians go, but falling 'midst the horn'd and bleating band, made darkling blood-streams flow! ch. why vex thy heart with what is over and done? do what we may, this ne'er will alter now. ai. child of laërtes old, ii thou that dost still behold and still contrive all shapes of monstrous ill, winding in foulest ways through the army's sinful maze,-- now even for pleasure thou may'st laugh thy fill. ch. laughter and tears are in the gift of god. ai. ay, might i see him, though thus broken,--ay me! even yet-- ch. nay, vaunt not. look where thou art fallen. ai. source where my life-blood springs, o zeus, might i but slay that crafty plague, with those twin-sceptred kings, then breathe my life away! tec. pray thus, and pray that i too be no more! if thou wert gone, what were my life to me? ai. darkness! my only light! iii o nether gloom, to me brighter than morning to the wakeful eye! take me to dwell with thee. take me! what help? zeus' daughter with fell might torments me sore. i may not look on high, nor to the tribe of momentary men.-- oh, whither, then, should it avail to fly? ah! whither should i go and stay? all here is ruin. this mad prey shames me for evermore: vengeance is at the door; yea, all the achaean host, with armèd hand, is ready at command to slay me o'er and o'er. tec. woe 's me! to hear from one so good and true words he had scorned to utter in past days. ai. grey firths of foaming brine, iii and ye, deep groves, that crown the sea-caves and long cliffs upon the shore, too long did ye confine my life about the walls of troia's town: but no more now! a breathing man, no more! the wise in heart may duly learn that lore. let xanthus know, whose waters neighbouring flow, and minister to argive men: one man he ne'er shall see again; one, i will vaunt it forth! highest in warlike worth of all greek forms that troia's towers have eyed: now, shorn of all that pride, i lie thus low. ch. i know not how to let thee speak, nor how to silence thee. such evils close thee round. ai. ay me! could human thought have prophesied my name would thus give echo to mine ill? 'ai' now for aias, doubly, trebly said, sorts all too well to mark my misery; whose father from this land of troy, as noblest of all the host, carrying the fairest prize, came girt about with glory to his home. but i his son, not less of might than he, nor poorer in the achievements of my hand, to this same region following in my prime, am scouted by the achaeans and destroyed. yet know i one thing well. had peleus' child, living, adjudged his armour as a meed of well-tried bravery, no grasp save mine had clutched it. but the atridae with mean craft conveyed his heirloom to a wit-proud knave, whilst aias' peerless prowess was despised. and had not this mine eye and mind distraught glanced from my purpose, ne'er again had they perverted judgement. but the invincible stern daughter of the highest, with baneful eye, even as mine arm descended, baffled me, and hurled upon my soul a frenzied plague, to stain my hand with these dumb victims' blood. and those mine enemies exult in safety,-- not with my will; but where a god misguides, strong arms are thwarted and the weakling lives. now, what remains? heaven hates me, 'tis too clear: the grecian host abhor me: troy, with all this country round our camp, is my sworn foe. shall i, across the aegean sailing home, leave these atridae and their fleet forlorn? how shall i dare to front my father's eye? how will he once endure to look on me, denuded of the prize of high renown, whose coronal stood sparkling on his brow? no! 'twere too dreadful. then shall i advance before the trojan battlements, and there in single conflict doing valiantly last die upon their spears? nay, for by this i might perchance make atreus' offspring glad. that may not be imagined. i must find some act to let my grey-haired father feel no heartless recreant once called him sire. shame on the wight who when beset with ill cares to live on in misery unrelieved. can hour outlasting hour make less or more of death? whereby then can it furnish joy? that mortal weighs for nothing-worth with me, whom hope can comfort with her fruitless fire. honour in life or honour in the grave befits the noble heart. you hear my will. ch. from thine own spirit, aias, all may tell, that utterance came, and none have prompted thee. yet stay thy hurrying thought, and by thy friends be ruled to loose this burden from thy mind. tec. o my great master! heaviest of all woe is theirs whose life is crushed beyond recall. i, born of one the mightiest of the free and wealthiest in the phrygian land, am now a captive. so heaven willed, and thy strong arm determined. therefore, since the hour that made my being one with thine, i breathe for thee; and i beseech thee by the sacred fire of home, and by the sweetness of the night when from thy captive i became thy bride, leave me not guardless to the unworthy touch and cruel taunting of thine enemies' for, shouldst thou die and leave us, then shall i borne off by argive violence with thy boy eat from that day the bread of slavery. and some one of our lords shall smite me there with galling speech: behold the concubine of aias, first of all the greeks for might, how envied once, worn with what service now! so will they speak; and while my quailing heart shall sink beneath its burden, clouds of shame will dim thy glory and degrade thy race. oh! think but of thy father, left to pine in doleful age, and let thy mother's grief-- who, long bowed down with many a careful year, prays oftentimes thou may'st return alive-- o'er awe thee. yea, and pity thine own son, unsheltered in his boyhood, lorn of thee, with bitter foes to tend his orphanhood, think, o my lord, what sorrow in thy death thou send'st on him and me. for i have nought to lean to but thy life. my fatherland thy spear hath ruined. fate--not thou--hath sent my sire and mother to the home of death what wealth have i to comfort me for thee? what land of refuge? thou art all my stay oh, of me too take thought! shall men have joy, and not remember? or shall kindness fade? say, can the mind be noble, where the stream of gratitude is withered from the spring? ch. aias, i would thy heart were touched like mine with pity; then her words would win thy praise. ai. my praise she shall not miss, if she perform my bidding with firm heart, and fail not here. tec. dear aias, i will fail in nought thou bidst me. ai. bring me my boy, that i may see his face. tec. oh, in my terror i conveyed him hence! ai. clear of this mischief, mean'st thou? or for what? tec. lest he might run to thee, poor child, and die. ai. that issue had been worthy of my fate! tec. but i kept watch to fence his life from harm. ai. 'twas wisely done. i praise thy foresight there. tec. well, since 'tis so, how can i help thee now? ai. give me to speak to him and see him near. tec. he stands close by with servants tending him. ai. then why doth he not come, but still delay? tec. thy father calls thee, child. come, lead him hither, whichever of you holds him by the hand. ai. moves he? or do thine accents idly fall? tec. see, where thy people bring him to thine eye. ai. lift him to me: lift him! he will not fear at sight of this fresh havoc of the sword, if rightly he be fathered of my blood. like some young colt he must be trained and taught to run fierce courses with his warrior sire. be luckier than thy father, boy! but else be like him, and thy life will not be low. one thing even now i envy thee, that none of all this misery pierces to thy mind. for life is sweetest in the void of sense, ere thou know joy or sorrow. but when this hath found thee, make thy father's enemies feel the great parent in the valiant child. meantime grow on in tender youthfulness, nursed by light breezes, gladdening this thy mother. no greek shall trample thee with brutal harm, that i know well, though i shall not be near-- so stout a warder to protect thy life i leave in teucer. he'll not fail, though now he follow far the chase upon his foes. my trusty warriors, people of the sea, be this your charge, no less,--and bear to him my clear commandment, that he take this boy home to my fatherland, and make him known to telamon, and eriboea too, my mother. let him tend them in their age. and, for mine armour, let not that be made the award of grecian umpires or of him who ruined me. but thou, named of the shield[ ], eurysakes, hold mine, the unpierceable seven-hided buckler, and by the well stitched thong grasp firm and wield it mightily.--the rest shall lie where i am buried.--take him now, quickly, and close the door. no tears! what! weep before the tent? how women crave for pity! make fast, i say. no wise physician dreams with droning charms to salve a desperate sore. ch. there sounds a vehement ardour in thy words that likes me not. i fear thy sharpened tongue. tec. aias, my lord, what act is in thy mind? ai. inquire not, question not; be wise, thou'rt best. tec. how my heart sinks! oh, by thy child, by heaven, i pray thee on my knees, forsake us not! ai. thou troublest me. what! know'st thou not that heaven hath ceased to be my debtor from to-day? tec. hush! speak not so. ai. speak thou to those that hear. tec. will you not hear me? ai. canst thou not be still? tec. my fears, my fears! ai. (_to the_ attendants). come, shut me in, i say. tec. oh, yet be softened! ai. 'tis a foolish hope, if thou deem'st now to mould me to thy will. [aias _is withdrawn. exit_ tecmessa chorus. island of glory! whom the glowing eyes i of all the wondering world immortalize, thou, salamis, art planted evermore, happy amid the wandering billows' roar; while i--ah, woe the while!--this weary time, by the green wold where flocks from ida stray, lie worn with fruitless hours of wasted prime, hoping--ah, cheerless hope!--to win my way where hades' horrid gloom shall hide me from the day. aias is with me, yea, but crouching low, i where heaven-sent madness haunts his overthrow, beyond my cure or tendance: woful plight! whom thou, erewhile, to head the impetuous fight, sent'st forth, thy conquering champion. now he feeds his spirit on lone paths, and on us brings deep sorrow; and all his former peerless deeds of prowess fall like unremembered things from atreus' loveless brood, this caitiff brace of kings. ah! when his mother, full of days and bowed ii with hoary eld, shall hear his ruined mind, how will she mourn aloud! not like the warbler of the dale, the bird of piteous wail, but in shrill strains far borne upon the wind, while on the withered breast and thin white hair falls the resounding blow, the rending of despair. best hid in death were he whom madness drives ii remediless; if, through his father's race born to the noblest place among the war-worn greeks, he lives by his own light no more, self-aliened from the self he knew before. oh, hapless sire, what woe thine ear shall wound! one that of all thy line no life save this hath found. _enter_ aias _with a bright sword, and_ tecmessa, _severally._ ai. what change will never-terminable time not heave to light, what hide not from the day? what chance shall win men's marvel? mightiest oaths fall frustrate, and the steely-tempered will. ay, and even mine, that stood so diamond-keen like iron lately dipped, droops now dis-edged and weakened by this woman, whom to leave a widow with her orphan to my foes, dulls me with pity. i will go to the baths and meadows near the cliff, and purging there my dark pollution, i will screen my soul from reach of pallas' grievous wrath. i will find same place untrodden, and digging of the soil where none shall see, will bury this my sword, weapon of hate! for death and night to hold evermore underground. for, since my hand had this from hector mine arch-enemy, no kindness have i known from argive men. so true that saying of the bygone world, 'a foe's gift is no gift, and brings no good.' well, we will learn of time. henceforth i'll bow to heavenly ordinance and give homage due to atreus' sons. who rules, must be obeyed. since nought so fierce and terrible but yields place to authority. wild winter's snows make way for bounteous summer's flowery tread, and night's sad orb retires for lightsome day with his white steeds to illumine the glad sky. the furious storm-blast leaves the groaning sea gently to rest. yea, the all-subduer sleep frees whom he binds, nor holds enchained for aye. and shall not men be taught the temperate will? yea, for i now know surely that my foe must be so hated, as being like enough to prove a friend hereafter, and my friend so far shall have mine aid, as one whose love will not continue ever. men have found but treacherous harbour in companionship. our ending, then, is peaceful. thou, my girl, go in and pray the gods my heart's desire be all fulfilled. my comrades, join her here, honouring my wishes; and if teucer come, bid him toward us be mindful, kind toward you. i must go--whither i must go. do ye but keep my word, and ye may learn, though now be my dark hour, that all with me is well. [_exit towards the country._ tecmessa _retires_ chorus. a shudder of love thrills through me. joy! i soar o pan, wild pan! [_they dance_ come from cyllenè hoar-- come from the snow drift, the rock-ridge, the glen! leaving the mountain bare fleet through the salt sea-air, mover of dances to gods and to men. whirl me in cnossian ways--thrid me the nysian maze! come, while the joy of the dance is my care! thou too, apollo, come bright from thy delian home, bringer of day, fly o'er the southward main here in our hearts to reign, loved to repose there and kindly to stay. horror is past. our eyes have rest from pain. o lord of heaven! [_they dance_ now blithesome day again purely may smile on our swift-sailing fleet, since, all his woe forgot, aias now faileth not aught that of prayer and heaven-worship is meet. time bringeth mighty aid--nought but in time doth fade: nothing shall move me as strange to my thought. aias our lord hath now cleared his wrath-burdened brow long our despair, ceased from his angry feud and with mild heart renewed peace and goodwill to the high-sceptred pair. _enter_ messenger. messenger. friends, my first news is teucer's presence here, fresh from the mysian heights; who, as he came right toward the generals' quarter, was assailed with outcry from the argives in a throng: for when they knew his motion from afar they swarmed around him, and with shouts of blame from each side one and all assaulted him as brother to the man who had gone mad and plotted 'gainst the host,--threatening aloud, spite of his strength, he should be stoned, and die. --so far strife ran, that swords unscabbarded crossed blades, till as it mounted to the height age interposed with counsel, and it fell. but where is aias to receive my word? tidings are best told to the rightful ear. ch. not in the hut, but just gone forth, preparing new plans to suit his newly altered mind. mess. alas! too tardy then was he who sped me hither; or i have proved too slow a messenger. ch. what point is lacking for thine errand's speed? mess. teucer was resolute the man should bide close held within-doors till himself should come. ch. why, sure his going took the happiest turn and wisest, to propitiate heaven's high wrath. mess. the height of folly lives in such discourse, if calchas have the wisdom of a seer. ch. what knowest thou of our state? what saith he? tell. mess. i can tell only what i heard and saw. whilst all the chieftains and the atridae twain were seated in a ring, calchas alone rose up and left them, and in teucer's palm laid his right hand full friendly; then out-spake with strict injunction by all means i' the world to keep beneath yon covert this one day your hero, and not suffer him to rove, if he would see him any more alive. for through this present light--and ne'er again--- holy athena, so he said, will drive him before her anger. such calamitous woe strikes down the unprofitable growth that mounts beyond his measure and provokes the sky. 'thus ever,' said the prophet, 'must he fall who in man's mould hath thoughts beyond a man. and aias, ere he left his father's door, made foolish answer to his prudent sire. 'my son,' said telamon, 'choose victory always, but victory with an aid from heaven.' how loftily, how madly, he replied! 'father, with heavenly help men nothing worth may win success. but i am confident without the gods to pluck this glory down.' so huge the boast he vaunted! and again when holy pallas urged him with her voice to hurl his deadly spear against the foe, he turned on her with speech of awful sound: 'goddess, by other greeks take thou thy stand; where i keep rank, the battle ne'er shall break.' such words of pride beyond the mortal scope have won him pallas' wrath, unlovely meed. but yet, perchance, so be it he live to-day, we, with heaven's succour, may restore his peace.'-- thus far the prophet, when immediately teucer dispatched me, ere the assembly rose, bearing to thee this missive to be kept with all thy care. but if my speed be lost, and calchas' word have power, the man is dead. ch. o trouble-tost tecmessa, born to woe, come forth and see what messenger is here! this news bites near the bone, a death to joy. _enter_ tecmessa. tec. wherefore again, when sorrow's cruel storm was just abating, break ye my repose? ch. (_pointing to the_ messenger). hear what he saith, and how he comes to bring news of our aias that hath torn my heart. tec. oh me! what is it, man? am i undone? mess. thy case i know not; but of aias this, that if he roam abroad, 'tis dangerous. tec. he is, indeed, abroad. oh! tell me quickly! mess. 'tis teucer's strong command to keep him close beneath this roof, nor let him range alone. tec. but where is teucer? and what means his word? mess. even now at hand, and eager to make known that aias, if he thus go forth, must fall. tec. alas! my misery! whence learned he this? mess. from thestor's prophet-offspring, who to-day holds forth to aias choice of life or death. tec. woe's me! o friends, this desolating blow is falling! oh, stand forward to prevent! and some bring teucer with more haste, while some explore the western bays and others search eastward to find your hero's fatal path! for well i see i am cheated and cast forth from the old favour. child, what shall i do? [_looking at_ eurysakes we must not stay. i too will fare along, go far as i have power. come, let us go. bestir ye! 'tis no moment to sit still, if we would save him who now speeds to die. ch. i am ready. come! fidelity of foot, and swift performance, shall approve me true. [_exeunt omnes_ _the scene changes to a lonely wooded spot._ aias (_discovered alone_). the sacrificer stands prepared,--and when more keen? let me take time for thinking, too! this gift of hector, whom of stranger men i hated most with heart and eyes, is set in hostile trojan soil, with grinding hone fresh-pointed, and here planted by my care thus firm, to give me swift and friendly death. fine instrument, so much for thee! then, first, thou, for 'tis meet, great father, lend thine aid. for no great gift i sue thee. let some voice bear teucer the ill news, that none but he may lift my body, newly fallen in death about my bleeding sword, ere i be spied by some of those who hate me, and be flung to dogs and vultures for an outcast prey. so far i entreat thee, lord of heaven. and thou, hermes, conductor of the shadowy dead, speed me to rest, and when with this sharp steel i have cleft a sudden passage to my heart, at one swift bound waft me to painless slumber! but most be ye my helpers, awful powers, who know no blandishments, but still perceive all wicked deeds i' the world--strong, swift, and sure, avenging furies, understand my wrong, see how my life is ruined, and by whom. come, ravin on achaean flesh--spare none; rage through the camp!--last, thou that driv'st thy course up yon steep heaven, thou sun, when thou behold'st my fatherland, checking thy golden rein, report my fall, and this my fatal end, to my old sire, and the poor soul who tends him. ah, hapless one! when she shall hear this word, how she will make the city ring with woe! 'twere from the business idly to condole. to work, then, and dispatch. o death! o death! now come, and welcome! yet with thee, hereafter, i shall find close communion where i go. but unto thee, fresh beam of shining day, and thee, thou travelling sun-god, i may speak now, and no more for ever. o fair light! o sacred fields of salamis my home! thou, firm set natal hearth: athens renowned, and ye her people whom i love; o rivers, brooks, fountains here--yea, even the trojan plain i now invoke!--kind fosterers, farewell! this one last word from aias peals to you: henceforth my speech will be with souls unseen. [_falls on his sword_ chorus (_re-entering severally_). ch. a. toil upon toil brings toil, and what save trouble have i? which path have i not tried? and never a place arrests me with its tale. hark! lo, again a sound! ch. b. 'tis we, the comrades of your good ship's crew. ch. a. well, sirs? ch. b. we have trodden all the westward arm o' the bay. ch. a. well, have ye found? ch. b. troubles enow, but nought to inform our sight. ch. a. nor yet along the road that fronts the dawn is any sign of aias to be seen. ch. who then will tell me, who? what hard sea-liver, what toiling fisher in his sleepless quest, what mysian nymph, what oozy thracian river, hath seen our wanderer of the tameless breast? where? tell me where! 'tis hard that i, far-toiling voyager, crossed by some evil wind, cannot the haven find, nor catch his form that flies me, where? ah! where? tec. (_behind_). oh, woe is me! woe, woe! ch. a. who cries there from the covert of the grove? tec. o boundless misery! ch. b. steeped in this audible sorrow i behold tecmessa, poor fate-burdened bride of war. tec. friends, i am spoiled, lost, ruined, overthrown! ch. a. what ails thee now? tec. see where our aias lies, but newly slain, fallen on his sword concealed within the ground, ch. woe for my hopes of home! aias, my lord, thou hast slain thy ship-companion on the salt sea foam. alas for us, and thee, child of calamity! tec. so lies our fortune. well may'st thou complain. ch. a. whose hand employed he for the deed of blood? tec. his own, 'tis manifest. this planted steel, fixed by his hand, gives verdict from his breast. ch. woe for my fault, my loss! thou hast fallen in blood alone, and not a friend to cross or guard thee. i, deaf, senseless as a stone, left all undone. oh, where, then, lies the stern aias, of saddest name, whose purpose none might turn? tec. no eye shall see him. i will veil him round with this all covering mantle; since no heart that loved him could endure to view him there, with ghastly expiration spouting forth from mouth and nostrils, and the deadly wound, the gore of his self slaughter. ah, my lord! what shall i do? what friend will carry thee? oh, where is teucer! timely were his hand, might he come now to smooth his brother's corse. o thou most noble, here ignobly laid, even enemies methinks must mourn thy fate! ch. ah! 'twas too clear thy firm knit thoughts would fashion, early or late, an end of boundless woe! such heaving groans, such bursts of heart-bruised passion, midnight and morn, bewrayed the fire below. 'the atridae might beware!' a plenteous fount of pain was opened there, what time the strife was set, wherein the noblest met, grappling the golden prize that kindled thy despair! tec. woe, woe is me! ch. deep sorrow wrings thy soul, i know it well. tec. o woe, woe, woe! ch. thou may'st prolong thy moan, and be believed, thou that hast lately lost so true a friend. tec. thou may'st imagine; 'tis for me to know. ch. ay, ay, 'tis true. tec. alas, my child! what slavish tasks and hard we are drifting to! what eyes control our will! ch. ay me! through thy complaint i hear the wordless blow of two high-throned, who rule without restraint of pity. heaven forfend what evil they intend! tec. the work of heaven hath brought our life thus low. ch. 'tis a sore burden to be laid on men. tec. yet such the mischief zeus' resistless maid, pallas, hath planned to make odysseus glad. ch. o'er that dark-featured soul what waves of pride shall roll, what floods of laughter flow, rudely to greet this madness-prompted woe, alas! from him who all things dares endure, and from that lordly pair, who hear, and seat them sure! tec. ay, let them laugh and revel o'er his fall! perchance, albeit in life they missed him not, dead, they will cry for him in straits of war. for dullards know not goodness in their hand, nor prize the jewel till 'tis cast away. to me more bitter than to them 'twas sweet, his death to him was gladsome, for he found the lot he longed for, his self-chosen doom. what cause have they to laugh? heaven, not their crew, hath glory by his death. then let odysseus insult with empty pride. to him and his aias is nothing; but to me, to me, he leaves distress and sorrow in his room! teucer (_within_). alas, undone! leader of ch. hush! that was teucer's cry. methought i heard his voice salute this object of dire woe. _enter_ teucer. teu. aias, dear brother, comfort of mine eye, hast thou then done even as the rumour holds? ch. be sure of that, teucer. he lives no more. teu. oh, then how heavy is the lot i bear! ch. yes, thou hast cause-- teu. o rash assault of woe!-- ch. to mourn full loud. teu. ay me! and where, oh where on trojan earth, tell me, is this man's child? ch. beside the huts, untended. teu. (_to_ tec). oh, with haste go bring him hither, lest some enemy's hand snatch him, as from the lion's widowed mate the lion-whelp is taken. spare not speed. all soon combine in mockery o'er the dead. [_exit_ tecmessa ch. even such commands he left thee ere he died. as thou fulfillest by this timely care. teu. o sorest spectacle mine eyes e'er saw! woe for my journey hither, of all ways most grievous to my heart, since i was ware, dear aias, of thy doom, and sadly tracked thy footsteps. for there darted through the host, as from some god, a swift report of thee that thou wert lost in death. i, hapless, heard, and mourned even then for that whose presence kills me. ay me! but come, unveil. let me behold my misery. [_the corpse of_ aias _is uncovered_ o sight unbearable! cruelly brave! dying, what store of griefs thou sow'st for me! where, amongst whom of mortals, can i go, that stood not near thee in thy troublous hour? will telamon, my sire and thine, receive me with radiant countenance and favouring brow returning without thee? most like! being one who smiles no more[ ], yield fortune what she may. will he hide aught or soften any word, rating the bastard of his spear-won thrall, whose cowardice and dastardy betrayed thy life, dear aias,--or my murderous guile, to rob thee of thy lordship and thy home? such greeting waits me from the man of wrath, whose testy age even without cause would storm. last, i shall leave my land a castaway, thrust forth an exile, and proclaimed a slave; so should i fare at home. and here in troy my foes are many and my comforts few. all these things are my portion through thy death. woe's me, my heart! how shall i bear to draw thee, o thou ill-starr'd! from this discoloured blade, thy self-shown slayer? didst thou then perceive dead hector was at length to be thine end?-- i pray you all, consider these two men. hector, whose gift from aias was a girdle, tight-braced therewith to the car's rim, was dragged and scarified till he breathed forth his life. and aias with this present from his foe finds through such means his death-fall and his doom. say then what cruel workman forged the gifts, but fury this sharp sword, hell that bright band? in this, and all things human, i maintain, gods are the artificers. my thought is said. and if there be who cares not for my thought, let him hold fast his faith and leave me mine. ch. spare longer speech, and think how to secure thy brother's burial, and what plea will serve; since one comes here hath no good will to us and like a villain haply comes in scorn. teu. what man of all the host hath caught thine eye? ch. the cause for whom we sailed, the spartan king. teu. yes; i discern him, now he moves more near. _enter_ menelaus. menelaus. fellow, give o'er. cease tending yon dead man! obey my voice, and leave him where he lies. teu. thy potent cause for spending so much breath? men. my will, and his whose word is sovereign here. teu. may we not know the reasons of your will? men. because he, whom we trusted to have brought to lend us loyal help with heart and hand, proved in the trial a worse than phrygian foe; who lay in wait for all the host by night, and sallied forth in arms to shed our blood; that, had not one in heaven foiled this attempt, our lot had been to lie as he doth here dead and undone for ever, while he lived and flourished. heaven hath turned this turbulence to fall instead upon the harmless flock. wherefore no strength of man shall once avail to encase his body with a seemly tomb, but outcast on the wide and watery sand, he'll feed the birds that batten on the shore. nor let thy towering spirit therefore rise in threatening wrath. wilt thou or not, our hand shall rule him dead, howe'er he braved us living, and that by force; for never would he yield, even while he lived, to words from me. and yet it shows base metal when the subject-wight deigns not to hearken to the chief in power. since without settled awe, neither in states can laws have rightful sway, nor can a host be governed with due wisdom, if no fear or wholesome shame be there to shield its safety. and though a man wax great in thews and bulk, let him be warned: a trifling harm may ruin him. whoever knows respect and honour both stands free from risk of dark vicissitude. but whereso pride and licence have their fling, be sure that state will one day lose her course and founder in the abysm. let fear have place still where it ought, say i, nor let men think to do their pleasure and not bide the pain. that wheel comes surely round. once aias flamed with insolent fierceness. now i mount in pride, and loudly bid thee bury him not, lest burying thy brother thou be burrowing thine own grave. ch. menelaüs, make not thy philosophy a platform whence to insult the valiant dead. teu. i nevermore will marvel, sirs, when one of humblest parentage is prone to sin, since those reputed men of noble strain stoop to such phrase of prating frowardness. come, tell it o'er again,--said you ye brought my brother bound to aid you with his power? sailed he not forth of his own sovereign will? where is thy voucher of command o'er him? where of thy right o'er those that followed him? sparta, not we, shall buckle to thy sway. 'twas written nowhere in the bond of rule that thou shouldst check him rather than he thee. thou sailedst under orders, not in charge of all, much less of aias. then pursue thy limited direction, and chastise, in haughty phrase, the men who fear thy nod. but i will bury aias, whether thou or the other general give consent or no. 'tis not for me to tremble at your word. not to reclaim thy wife, like those poor souls thou flll'st with labour, issued this man forth, but caring for his oath, and not for thee, or any other nobody. then come with heralds all arow, and bring the man called king of men with thee! for thy sole noise i budge not, wert thou twenty times thy name. ch. the sufferer should not bear a bitter tongue. hard words, how just soe'er, will leave their sting. men. our bowman carries no small pride, i see. teu. no mere mechanic's menial craft is mine. men. how wouldst thou vaunt it hadst thou but a shield! teu. unarmed i fear not thee in panoply. men. redoubted is the wrath lives on thy tongue. teu. whose cause is just hath licence to be proud. men. just, that my murderer have a peaceful end? teu. thy murderer? strange, to have been slain and live! men. yea, through heaven's mercy. by his will, i am dead. teu. if heaven have saved thee, give the gods their due. men. am i the man to spurn at heaven's command? teu. thou dost, to come and frustrate burial. men. honour forbids to yield my foe a tomb. teu. and aias was thy foeman? where and when? men. hate lived between us; that thou know'st full well. teu. for thy proved knavery, coining votes i' the court men. the judges voted. he ne'er lost through me. teu. guilt hiding guile wears often fairest front. men. i know whom pain shall harass for that word. teu. not without giving equal pain, 'tis clear. men. no more, but this. no burial for this man! teu. yea, this much more. he shall have instant burial. men. i have seen ere now a man of doughty tongue urge sailors in foul weather to unmoor, who, caught in the sea-misery by and by, lay voiceless, muffled in his cloak, and suffered who would of the sailors over trample him even so methinks thy truculent mouth ere long shall quench its outcry, when this little cloud breaks forth on thee with the full tempest's might. teu. i too have seen a man whose windy pride poured forth loud insults o'er a neighbour's fall, till one whose cause and temper showed like mine spake to him in my hearing this plain word: 'man, do the dead no wrong; but, if thou dost, be sure thou shalt have sorrow.' thus he warned the infatuate one: ay, one whom i behold, for all may read my riddle--thou art he. men. i will be gone. 'twere shame to me, if known, to chide when i have power to crush by force. teu. off with you, then! 'twere triple shame in me to list the vain talk of a blustering fool. [_exit_ menelaus leader of chorus. high the quarrel rears his head! haste thee, teucer, trebly haste, grave-room for the valiant dead furnish with what speed thou mayst, hollowed deep within the ground, where beneath his mouldering mound aias aye shall be renowned. _re-enter_ tecmessa _with_ eurysakes. teu. lo! where the hero's housemate and his child, hitting the moment's need, appear at hand, to tend the burial of the ill fated dead. come, child, take thou thy station close beside: kneel and embrace the author of thy life, in solemn suppliant fashion holding forth this lock of thine own hair, and hers, and mine with threefold consecration, that if one of the army force thee from thy father's corse, my curse may banish him from holy ground, far from his home, unburied, and cut off from all his race, even as i cut this curl. there, hold him, child, and guard him; let no hand stir thee, but lean to the calm breast and cling. (_to_ chorus) and ye, be not like women in this scene, nor let your manhoods falter; stand true men to this defence, till i return prepared, though all cry no, to give him burial. [_exit_ chorus. when shall the tale of wandering years be done? i when shall arise our exile's latest sun? oh, where shall end the incessant woe of troublous spear-encounter with the foe, through this vast trojan plain, of grecian arms the lamentable stain? would he had gone to inhabit the wide sky, i or that dark home of death where millions lie, who taught our grecian world the way to use vile swords and knit the dense array! his toil gave birth to toil in endless line. he made mankind his spoil. his tyrant will hath forced me to forgo ii the garland, and the goblet's bounteous flow: yea, and the flute's dear noise, and night's more tranquil joys; ay me! nor only these, the fruits of golden ease, but love, but love--o crowning sorrow!-- hath ceased for me. i may not borrow sweet thoughts from him to smooth my dreary bed, where dank night-dews fall ever on my head, lest once i might forget the sadness of the morrow. even here in troy, aias was erst my rock, ii from darkling fears and 'mid the battle-shock to screen me with huge might: now he is lost in night and horror. where again shall gladness heal my pain? o were i where the waters hoary, round sunium's pine-clad promontory, plash underneath the flowery upland height. then holiest athens soon would come in sight, and to athena's self i might declare my story. _enter_ teucer. teu. my steps were hastened, brethren, when i saw great agamemnon hitherward afoot. he means to talk perversely, i can tell. _enter_ agamemnon. ag. and so i hear thou'lt stretch thy mouth agape with big bold words against us undismayed-- thou, the she-captive's offspring! high would scale thy voice, and pert would be thy strutting gait, were but thy mother noble; since, being naught, so stiff thou stand'st for him who is nothing now, and swear'st we came not as commanders here of all the achaean navy, nor of thee; but aias sailed, thou say'st, with absolute right. must we endure detraction from a slave? what was the man thou noisest here so proudly? have i not set my foot as firm and far? or stood his valour unaccompanied in all this host? high cause have we to rue that prize-encounter for pelides' arms, seeing teucer's sentence stamps our knavery for all to know it; and nought will serve but ye, being vanquished, kick at the award that passed by voice of the majority in the court, and either pelt us with rude calumnies, or stab at us, ye laggards! with base guile. howbeit, these ways will never help to build the wholesome order of established law, if men shall hustle victors from their right, and mix the hindmost rabble with the van. that craves repression. not by bulky size, or shoulders' breadth, the perfect man is known; but wisdom gives chief power in all the world. the ox hath a huge broadside, yet is held right in the furrow by a slender goad; which remedy, i perceive, will pass ere long to visit thee, unless thy wisdom grow; who hast uttered forth such daring insolence for the pale shadow of a vanished man. learn modestly to know thy place and birth, and bring with thee some freeborn advocate to plead thy cause before us in thy room. i understand not in the barbarous tongue, and all thy talk sounds nonsense to mine ear. ch. would ye might both have sense to curb your ire! no better hope for either can i frame. teu. fie! how doth gratitude when men are dead prove renegade and swiftly pass away! this agamemnon hath no slightest word of kind remembrance any more for thee, aias, who oftentimes for his behoof hast jeoparded thy life in labour of war. now all is clean forgotten and out of mind. thou who hast multiplied words void of sense, hast thou no faintest memory of the time when who but aias came and rescued you already locked within the toils,--all lost, the rout began: when close abaft the ships the torches flared, and o'er the bootless trench hector was bounding high to board our fleet? who stayed that onset? was not aias he? whom thou deny'st to have once set foot by thine. find ye no merit there? and once again when he met hector singly, man to man, not by your bidding, but the lottery's choice, his lot, that skulked not low adown i' the heap, a moist earth-clod, but sure to spring in air, and first to clear the plumy helmet's brim. yes, aias was the man, and i too there kept rank, the 'barbarous mother's servile son.' i pity thee the blindness of that word. who was thy father's father? a barbarian, pelops, the phrygian, if you trace him far! and what was atreus, thine own father? one who served his brother with the abominable dire feast of his own flesh. and thou thyself cam'st from a cretan mother, whom her sire caught with a man who had no right in her and gave dumb fishes the polluted prey. such was thy race. what is the race thou spurnest? my father, telamon, of all the host being foremost proved in valour, took as prize my mother for his mate: a princess she, born of laomedon; alcmena's son gave her to grace him--a triumphant meed. thus royally descended and thus brave, shall i renounce the brother of my blood, or suffer thee to thrust him in his woes far from all burial, shameless that thou art? be sure that, if ye cast him forth, ye'll cast three bodies more beside him in one spot; for nobler should i find it here to die in open quarrel for my kinsman's weal, than for thy wife--or menelaüs', was 't? consider then, not my case, but your own. for if you harm me you will wish some day to have been a coward rather than dare me. ch. hail, lord odysseus! thou art come in time not to begin, but help to end, a fray. _enter_ odysseus. od. what quarrel, sirs? i well perceived from far the kings high-voicing o'er the valiant dead. ag. yea, lord odysseus, for our ears are full of this man's violent heart-offending talk. od. what words have passed? i cannot blame the man who meets foul speech with bitterness of tongue. ag. my speech was bitter, for his deeds were foul. od. what deed of his could harm thy sovereign head? ag. he boldly says this corse shall not be left unburied, but he'll bury it in our spite. od. may i then speak true counsel to my friend, and pull with thee in policy as of yore? ag. speak. i were else a madman; for no friend of all the argeians do i count thy peer. od. then hear me in heaven's name! be not so hard thus without ruth tombless to cast him forth; nor be so vanquished by a vehement will, that to thy hate even justice' self must bow. i, too, had him for my worst enemy, since i gained mastery o'er pelides' arms. but though he used me so, i ne'er will grudge for his proud scorn to yield him thus much honour, that, save achilles' self, i have not seen so noble an argive on the fields of troy. then 'twere not just in thee to slight him now; nor would thy treatment wound him, but confound the laws of heaven. no hatred should have scope to offend the noble spirits of the dead. ag. wilt thou thus fight against me on his side? od. yea, though i hated him, while hate was comely. ag. why, thou shouldst trample him the more, being dead. od. rejoice not, king, in feats that soil thy fame! ag. 'tis hard for power to observe each pious rule. od. not hard to grace the good words of a friend. ag. the 'noble spirit' should hearken to command. od. no more! 'tis conquest to be ruled by love. ag. remember what he was thou gracest so. od. a noisome enemy; but his life was great. ag. and wilt thou honour such a pestilent corse? od. hatred gives way to magnanimity. ag. with addle-pated fools. od. full many are found friends for an hour, yet bitter in the end. ag. and wouldst thou have us gentle to such friends? od. i would not praise ungentleness in aught. ag. we shall be known for weaklings through thy counsel. od. not so, but righteous in all grecian eyes. ag. thou bidst me then let bury this dead man? od. i urge thee to the course myself shall follow. ag. ay, every man for his own line! that holds. od. why not for my own line? what else were natural? ag. 'twill be thy doing then, ne'er owned by me. od. own it or not, the kindness is the same. ag. well, for thy sake i'd grant a greater boon; then why not this? however, rest assured that in the grave or out of it, aias still shall have my hatred. do thou what thou wilt. [_exit_ ch. whoso would sneer at thy philosophy, while such thy ways, odysseus, were a fool. od. and now let teucer know that from this hour i am more his friend than i was once his foe, and fain would help him in this burial-rite and service to his brother, nor would fail in aught that mortals owe their noblest dead. teu. odysseus, best of men, thine every word hath my heart's praise, and my worst thought of thee is foiled by thy staunch kindness to the man who was thy rancorous foe. thou wast not keen to insult in present of his corse, like these, the insensate general and his brother-king, who came with proud intent to cast him forth foully debarred from lawful obsequy. wherefore may he who rules in yon wide heaven, and the unforgetting fury-spirit, and she, justice, who crowns the right, so ruin them with cruellest destruction, even as they thought ruthlessly to rob him of his tomb! for thee, revered laërtes' lineal seed, i fear to admit thy hand unto this rite, lest we offend the spirit that is gone. but for the rest, i hail thy proffered aid; and bring whom else thou wilt, i'll ne'er resent it. this work shall be my single care; but thou, be sure i love thee for thy generous heart. od. i had gladly done it; but, since thou declinest, i bow to thy decision, and depart. [_exit_ teu. speed we, for the hour grows late: some to scoop his earthy cell, others by the cauldron wait, plenished from the purest well. hoist it, comrades, here at hand, high upon the three-foot stand! let the cleansing waters flow; brightly flame the fire below! others in a stalwart throng from his chamber bear along all the arms he wont to wield save alone the mantling shield. thou with me thy strength employ, lifting this thy father, boy; hold his frame with tender heed-- still the gashed veins darkly bleed. who professes here to love him? ply your busy cares above him, come and labour for the man, nobler none since time began, aias, while his life-blood ran. leader of ch. oft we know not till we see. weak is human prophecy. judge not, till the hour have taught thee what the destinies have brought thee. * * * * * king oedipus the persons oedipus, _king of thebes._ _priest of zeus._ creon, _brother of jocasta._ chorus _of theban elders._ tiresias, _the blind prophet._ jocasta, _the queen, sister to creon._ _a corinthian shepherd._ _a theban shepherd._ _messenger_ the following also appear, but do not speak: _a train of suppliants._ _the children_ antigone _and_ ismene. scene. before the royal palace in the cadmean citadel of thebes. laius, the descendant of cadmus, and king of thebes (or thebè), had been told by an oracle that if a son were born to him by his wife jocasta the boy would be his father's death. under such auspices, oedipus was born, and to elude the prophecy was exposed by his parents on mount cithaeron. but he was saved by a compassionate shepherd, and became the adopted son of polybus, king of corinth. when he grew up he was troubled by a rumour that he was not his father's son. he went to consult the oracle of apollo at delphi, and was told--not of his origin but of his destiny--that he should be guilty of parricide and incest. he was too horror-stricken to return to corinth, and as he travelled the other way, he met laius going from thebes to delphi. the travellers quarrelled and the son killed his father, but knew not whom he had slain. he went onward till he came near thebes, where the sphinx was making havoc of the noblest citizens, devouring all who failed to solve her riddle. but oedipus succeeded and overcame her, and, as laius did not return, was rewarded with the regal sceptre,-- and with the hand of the queen. he reigned nobly and prosperously, and lived happily with jocasta, by whom he had four children. but after some years a plague descended on the people, and apollo, on being inquired of, answered that it was for laius' death. the act of regicide must be avenged. oedipus undertakes the task of discovering the murderer,--and in the same act discovers his own birth, and the fulfilment of both the former prophecies. jocasta hangs herself, and oedipus in his despair puts out his eyes. king oedipus oedipus--priest of zeus (_with the_ train of suppliants _grouped before an altar_). oedipus. nurslings of cadmus, children of my care, why press ye now to kneel before my gate with sacred branches in those suppliant hands, while o'er your city clouds of incense rise and sounds of praise, mingling with sounds of woe? i would not learn of your estate, my sons, through others, wherefore i myself am come, your oedipus,--a name well known to men. speak, aged friend, whose look proclaims thee meet to be their spokesman--what desire, what fear hath brought you? doubt not of my earnest will to lend all succour. hard would be the heart that looked unmoved on such a kneeling throng. priest. great ruler of my country, thou beholdest the different ages of our flock who here are gathered round thine altar,--some, whose wing hath not yet ventured far from home, and some burdened with many years, priests of the gods, myself the arch priest of zeus, and these fresh youths, a chosen few. others there are who crowd the holy agora and the temples twain of pallas, and ismenus' hallowed fires, a suppliant host. for, as thyself perceivest, our city is tempest tost, and all too weak to lift above the waves her weary prow that plunges in a rude and ravenous sea. earth's buds are nipped, withering the germs within, our cattle lose their increase, and our wives have fruitless travail; and that scourge from heaven, the fiery pestilence abhorred of men, descending on our people with dire stroke lays waste the home of cadmus, while dark death wins ample tribute of laments and groans. we kneel, then, at thy hearth; not likening thee unto the gods, i nor these children here, but of men counting thee the first in might whether to cope with earthly casualty or visiting of more than earthly power. thou, in thy coming to this theban land, didst take away the hateful tax we paid to that stern songstress[ ],--aided not by us with hint nor counsel, but, as all believe, gifted from heaven with life-restoring thought. now too, great oedipus of matchless fame, we all uplift our suppliant looks to thee, to find some help for us, whether from man, or through the prompting of a voice divine. experienced counsel, we have seen and know, hath ever prosperous issue. thou, then, come, noblest of mortals, give our city rest from sorrow! come, take heed! seeing this our land now calls thee saviour for thy former zeal; and 'twere not well to leave this memory of thy great reign among cadmean men, 'he raised us up, only again to fall.' let the salvation thou hast wrought for us be flawless and assured! as once erewhile thy lucky star gave us prosperity, be the same man to-day. wouldst thou be king in power, as in command, 'tis greater far to rule a people than a wilderness. since nought avails or city or buttressed wall or gallant vessel, if unmanned and void. oed. ye touch me to the core. full well i know your trouble and your desire. think not, my sons, i have no feeling of your misery! yet none of you hath heaviness like mine. your grief is held within the single breast of each man severally. my burdened heart mourns for myself, for thebè, and for you. your coming hath not roused me from repose: i have watched, and bitterly have wept; my mind hath travelled many a labyrinth of thought. and now i have tried in act the only plan long meditation showed me. i have sent the brother of my queen, menoeceus' son, creon, to learn, in phoebus' delphian hall, what word or deed of mine may save this city. and when i count the time, i am full of pain to guess his speed; for he is absent long, beyond the limit of expectancy. but when he shall appear, base then were i in aught to disobey the voice of heaven. pr. lo, in good time, crowning thy gracious word, 'tis told me by these youths, creon draws near. oed. apollo! may his coming be as blest with saving fortune, as his looks are bright. pr. sure he brings joyful news; else had he ne'er worn that full wreath of thickly-berried bay. oed. we have not long to doubt. he can hear now. _enter_ creon. son of menoeceus, brother of my queen, what answer from apollo dost thou bring? creon. good; for my message is that even our woes, when brought to their right issue, shall be well. oed. what saith the oracle? thy words so far neither embolden nor dishearten me. cr. say, must i tell it with these standing by, or go within? i am ready either way. oed. speak forth to all. the burden of their grief weighs more on me than my particular fear. ce. my lips shall utter what the god hath said. sovereign apollo clearly bids us drive forth from this region an accursed thing (for such is fostered in the land and stains our sacred clime), nor cherish it past cure. oed. what is the fault, and how to be redressed? cr. by exile, or by purging blood with blood. since blood it is that shakes us with this storm. oed. whose murder doth apollo thus reveal? cr. my gracious lord, before thy prosperous reign king laius was the leader of our land. oed. though i ne'er saw him, i have heard, and know. cr. phoebus commands us now to punish home, whoe'er they are, the authors of his death. oed. but they, where are they? where shall now be read the fading record of this ancient guilt? cr he saith, 'tis in this land. and what is sought is found, while things uncared for glide away. oed. but where did laius meet this violent end? at home, afield, or on some foreign soil? cr. he had left us, as he said, to visit delphi; but nevermore returned since he set forth. oed. and was there none, no fellow traveller, to see, and tell the tale, and help our search? cr. no, they were slain; save one, who, flying in fear, had nought to tell us but one only thing. oed. what was that thing? a little door of hope, once opened, may discover much to view. cr. a random troop of robbers, meeting him, outnumbered and o'erpowered him. so 'twas told. oed. what robber would have ventured such a deed, if unsolicited with bribes from hence? cr. we thought of that. but laius being dead, we found no helper in our miseries. oed. when majesty was fallen, what misery could hinder you from searching out the truth? cr. a present trouble had engrossed our care. the riddling sphinx compelled us to observe the moment's grief, neglecting things unknown. oed. but i will track this evil to the spring and clear it to the day. most worthily doth great apollo, worthily dost thou prompt this new care for the unthought of dead. and me too ye shall find a just ally, succouring the cause of phoebus and the land. since, in dispelling this dark cloud, i serve no indirect or distant claim on me, but mine own life, for he that slew the king may one day turn his guilty hand 'gainst me with equal rage. in righting laius, then, i forward mine own cause.--now, children, rise from the altar-steps, and lift your suppliant boughs, and let some other summon to this place all cadmus' people, and assure them, i will answer every need. this day shall see us blest with glad fortune through god's help, or fallen. pr. rise then, my children. even for this we came which our good lord hath promised of himself. only may phoebus, who hath sent this word, with healing power descend, and stay the plague. [_exeunt severally_ chorus (_entering_). kind voice of heaven, soft-breathing from the height i of pytho's opulent home to thebè bright, what wilt thou bring to day? ah, delian healer, say! my heart hangs on thy word with trembling awe: what new giv'n law, or what returning in time's circling round wilt thou unfold? tell us, immortal sound, daughter of golden hope, tell us, we pray, we pray! first, child of zeus, pallas, to thee appealing, i then to sweet artemis, thy sister, kneeling, who with benignant hand still guards our sacred land, throned o'er the circling mart that hears her praise, and thou, whose rays pierce evil from afar, ho! come and save, ye mighty three! if e'er before ye drave the threatening fire of woe from thebè, come to day! for ah! the griefs that on me weigh ii are numberless; weak are my helpers all, and thought finds not a sword to fray this hated pestilence from hearth or hall. earth's blossoms blasted fall: nor can our women rise from childbed after pangs and cries; but flocking more and more toward the western shore, soul after soul is known to wing her flight, swifter than quenchless flame, to the far realm of night. so deaths innumerable abound. ii my city's sons unpitied lie around over the plague-encumbered ground and wives and matrons old on every hand along the altar-strand groaning in saddest grief pour supplication for relief. loud hymns are sounding clear with wailing voices near. then, golden daughter of the heavenly sire, send bright-eyed succour forth to drive away this fire. and swiftly speed afar, iii windborne on backward car, the viewless fiend who scares me with wild cries, to oarless thracian tide, of ocean-chambers wide, about the bed where amphitritè lies. day blights what night hath spared. o thou whose hand wields lightning, blast him with thy thundrous brand. shower from the golden string iii thine arrows lycian king! o phoebus, let thy fiery lances fly resistless, as they rove through xanthus' mountain-grove! o thoeban bacchus of the lustrous eye, with torch and trooping maenads and bright crown blaze on thee god whom all in heaven disown. [oedipus _has entered during the choral song_ oed. your prayers are answered. succour and relief are yours, if ye will heed my voice and yield what help the plague requires. hear it from me, who am hitherto a stranger to the tale, as to the crime. being nought concerned therewith, i could not of myself divine the truth. but now, as one adopted to your state, to all of you cadmeans i speak this: whoe'er among you knoweth the murderer of laius, son of royal labdacus, let him declare the deed in full to me. first, if the man himself be touched with fear, let him depart, carrying the guilt away; no harm shall follow him:--he shall go free. or if there be who knows another here, come from some other country, to have wrought this murder, let him speak. reward from me and store of kind remembrance shall be his. but if ye are silent, and one present here who might have uttered this, shall hold his peace, as fearing for himself, or for his friend, what then shall be performed, hear me proclaim. i here prohibit all within this realm whereof i wield the sceptre and sole sway, to admit the murderer, whosoe'er he be, within their houses, or to speak with him, or share with him in vow or sacrifice or lustral rite. all men shall thrust him forth, our dark pollution, so to me revealed by this day's oracle from pytho's cell. so firm is mine allegiance to the god and your dead sovereign in this holy war. now on the man of blood, whether he lurk in lonely guilt, or with a numerous band, i here pronounce this curse:--let his crushed life wither forlorn in hopeless misery. next, i pray heaven, should he or they be housed with mine own knowledge in my home, that i may suffer all i imprecate on them. last, i enjoin each here to lend his aid for my sake, and the god's, and for your land reft of her increase and renounced by heaven. it was not right, when your good king had fallen, although the oracle were silent still, to leave this inquisition unperformed. long since ye should have purged the crime. but now i, to whom fortune hath transferred his crown, and given his queen in marriage,--yea, moreover, his seed and mine had been one family had not misfortune trampled on his head cutting him off from fair posterity,-- all this being so, i will maintain his cause as if my father's, racking means and might to apprehend the author of the death of laius, son to labdacus, and heir to polydorus and to cadmus old, and proud agenor of the eldest time. once more, to all who disobey in this may heaven deny the produce of the ground and offspring from their wives, and may they pine with plagues more horrible than this to-day. but for the rest of you cadmean men, who now embrace my word, may righteousness, strong to defend, and all the gods for aye watch over you for blessing in your land. leader of ch. under the shadow of thy curse, my lord, i will speak. i slew him not, nor can i show the man who slew. phoebus, who gave the word, should name the guilty one. oed. thy thought is just, but man may not compel the gods. ch. again, that failing, i perceive a second way. oed. were there a third, spare not to speak it forth. ch. i know of one alone whose kingly mind sees all king phoebus sees--tirésias,--he infallibly could guide us in this quest. oed. that doth not count among my deeds undone. by creon's counsel i have sent twice o'er to fetch him, and i muse at his delay. ch. the rumour that remains is old and dim. oed. what rumour? let no tale be left untried. ch. 'twas said he perished by some wandering band. oed. but the one witness is removed from ken. ch. well, if the man be capable of fear, he'll not remain when he hath heard thy curse. oed. words have no terror for the soul that dares such doings. ch. yet lives one who shall convict him. for look where now they lead the holy seer, whom sacred truth inspires alone of men. _enter_ tiresias. oed. o thou whose universal thought commands all knowledge and all mysteries, in heaven and on the earth beneath, thy mind perceives, tirésias, though thine outward eye be dark, what plague is wasting thebè, who in thee, great sir, finds her one saviour, her sole guide. phoebus (albeit the messengers perchance have told thee this) upon our sending sent this answer back, that no release might come from this disaster, till we sought and found and slew the murderers of king laius, or drave them exiles from our land. thou, then, withhold not any word of augury or other divination which thou knowest, but rescue thebè, and thyself, and me, and purge the stain that issues from the dead. on thee we lean: and 'tis a noble thing to use what power one hath in doing good. tiresias. ah! terrible is knowledge to the man whom knowledge profits not. this well i knew, but had forgotten. else i ne'er had come. oed. why dost thou bring a mind so full of gloom? ti. let me go home. thy part and mine to-day will best be borne, if thou obey me in that. oed. disloyal and ungrateful! to deprive the state that reared thee of thine utterance now. ti. thy speech, i see, is foiling thine intent; and i would shield me from the like mishap. (_going._) oed. nay, if thou knowest, turn thee not away: all here with suppliant hands importune thee. ti. yea, for ye all are blind. never will i reveal my woe;--mine, that i say not, thine. oed. so, then, thou hast the knowledge of the crime and wilt not tell, but rather wouldst betray this people, and destroy thy fatherland! ti. you press me to no purpose. i'll not pain thee, nor myself. thou wilt hear nought from me. oed. how? miscreant! thy stubbornness would rouse wrath in a breast of stone. wilt thou yet hold that silent, hard, impenetrable mien? ti. you censure me for my harsh mood. your own dwells unsuspected with you. me you blame! oed. who can be mild and gentle, when thou speakest such words to mock this people? ti. it will come: although i bury it in silence here. oed. must not the king be told of what will come? ti. no word from me. at this, an if thou wilt, rage to the height of passionate vehemence. oed. ay, and my passion shall declare my thought. 'tis clear to me as daylight, thou hast been the arch-plotter of this deed; yea, thou hast done all but the actual blow. hadst thou thy sight, i had proclaimed thee the sole murderer. ti. ay, say'st thou so?--i charge thee to abide by thine own ordinance; and from this hour speak not to any theban nor to me. thou art the vile polluter of the land. oed. o void of shame! what wickedness is this? what power will give thee refuge for such guilt? ti. the might of truth is scatheless. i am free. oed. whence came the truth to thee? not from thine art. ti. from thee, whose rage impelled my backward tongue. oed. speak it once more, that i may know the drift. ti. was it so dark? or wouldst thou tempt me further? oed. i cannot say 'twas clear. speak it again. ti. i say thou art the murderer whom thou seekest. oed. again that baleful word! but thou shalt rue. ti. shall i add more, to aggravate thy wrath? oed. all is but idleness. say what thou wilt. ti. i tell thee thou art living unawares in shameful commerce with thy near'st of blood, ignorant of the abyss wherein thou liest. oed. think you to triumph in offending still? ti. if truth have power. oed. she hath, but not for thee. blind as thou art in eyes and ears and mind. ti. o miserable reproach, which all who now behold thee, soon shall thunder forth on thee! oed. nursed in unbroken night, thou canst not harm or me, or any man who seeth the day. ti. no, not from me proceeds thy fall; the god, who cares for this, is able to perform it. oed. came this device from creon or thyself? ti. not creon: thou art thy sole enemy. oed. o wealth and sovereign power and high success attained through wisdom and admired of men, what boundless jealousies environ you! when for this rule, which to my hand the state committed unsolicited and free, creon, my first of friends, trusted and sure, would undermine and hurl me from my throne, meanly suborning such a mendicant botcher of lies, this crafty wizard rogue, blind in his art, and seeing but for gain. where are the proofs of thy prophetic power? how came it, when the minstrel-hound was here, this folk had no deliverance through thy word? her snare could not be loosed by common wit, but needed divination and deep skill; no sign whereof proceeded forth from thee procured through birds or given by god, till i, the unknowing traveller, overmastered her, the stranger oedipus, not led by birds, but ravelling out the secret by my thought: whom now you study to supplant, and trust to stand as a supporter of the throne of lordly creon,--to your bitter pain thou and the man who plotted this will hunt pollution forth[ ].--but for thy reverend look thou hadst atoned thy trespass on the spot. ch. your friends would humbly deprecate the wrath that sounds both in your speech, my lord, and his. that is not what we need, but to discern how best to solve the heavenly oracle. ti. though thou art king and lord, i claim no less lordly prerogative to answer thee. speech is my realm; apollo rules my life, not thou. nor need i creon to protect me. now, then: my blindness moves thy scorn:--thou hast thy sight, and seest not where thou art sunk in evil, what halls thou dost inhabit, or with whom: know'st not from whence thou art--nay, to thy kin, buried in death and here above the ground, unwittingly art a most grievous foe. and when thy father's and thy mother's curse with fearful tread shall drive thee from the land, on both sides lashing thee,--thine eye so clear beholding darkness in that day,--oh, then, what region will not shudder at thy cry? what echo in all cithaeron will be mute, when thou perceiv'st, what bride-song in thy hall wafted thy gallant bark with nattering gale to anchor,--where? and other store of ill thou seest not, that shall show thee as thou art, merged with thy children in one horror of birth. then rail at noble creon, and contemn my sacred utterance! no life on earth more vilely shall be rooted out, than thine. oed. must i endure such words from him? begone! off to thy ruin, and with speed! away, and take thy presence from our palace-hall! ti. had you not sent for me, i ne'er had come. oed. i knew not thou wouldst utter folly here, else never had i brought thee to my door. ti. to thee i am foolish, then; but to the pair who gave thee life, i was wise. oed. hold, go not! who? who gave me being? ti. to-day shall bring to light thy birth and thy destruction. oed. wilt thou still speak all in riddles and dark sentences? ti. methought thou wert the man to find them out. oed. ay! taunt me with the gift that makes me great. ti. and yet this luck hath been thy overthrow. oed. i care not, since i rescued this fair town. ti. then i will go. come, sirrah, guide me forth! oed. be it so! for standing here you vex our eye, but, you being gone, our trouble goes with you. ti. i go, but i will speak. why should i fear thy frown? thou ne'er canst ruin me. the word wherefore i came, is this: the man you seek with threatening proclamation of the guilt of laius' blood, that man is here to-day, an alien sojourner supposed from far, but by-and-by he shall be certified a true-born theban: nor will such event bring him great joy; for, blind from having sight and beggared from high fortune, with a staff in stranger lands he shall feel forth his way; shown living with the children of his loins, their brother and their sire, and to the womb that bare him, husband-son, and, to his father, parricide and corrival. now go in, ponder my words; and if thou find them false, then say my power is naught in prophecy. [_exeunt severally_ chorus. whom hath the voice from delphi's rocky throne i loudly declared to have done horror unnameable with murdering hand? with speed of storm-swift car 'tis time he fled afar with mighty footstep hurrying from the land. for, armed with lightning brand, the son of zeus assails him with fierce bounds, hunting with death's inevitable hounds. late from divine parnassus' snow-capped height i this utterance sprang to light, to track by every path the man unknown. through woodland caverns deep and o'er the rocky steep harbouring in caves he roams the wild alone, with none to share his moan. shunning that prophet-voice's central sound, which ever lives, and haunts him, hovering round. the reverend seer hath stirred me with strange awe. ii gainsay i cannot, nor yet think him true. i know not how to speak. my fluttering heart in wild expectancy sees nothing clear. things past and future with the present doubt are shrouded in one mist. what quarrel lay 'twixt cadmus' issue and corinthus' heir was never shown me, from old times till now, by one on whose sure word i might rely in running counter to the king's fair fame, to wreak for laius that mysterious death. zeus and apollo scan the ways of men ii with perfect vision. but of mortals here that soothsayers are more inspired than i what certain proof is given? a man through wit may pass another's wisdom in the race. but never, till i see the word fulfilled, will i confirm their clamour 'gainst the king. in open day the female monster came: then perfect witness made his wisdom clear. thebè hath tried him and delights in him. wherefore my heart shall still believe him good. _enter_ creon. cr. citizens, hearing of dire calumny denounced on me by oedipus the king, i am here to make loud protest. if he think, in this embroilment of events, one word or deed of mine hath wrought him injury, i am not careful to prolong my life beneath such imputation. for it means no trifling danger, but disastrous harm, making my life dishonoured in the state, and meanly thought of by my friends and you. ch. perchance 'twas but the sudden flash of wrath, not the deliberate judgement of the soul. cr. who durst declare it[ ], that tirésias spake false prophecies, set on to this by me? ch. such things were said, i know not how advised. cr. and were the eyes and spirit not distraught, when the tongue uttered this to ruin me? ch. i cannot say. to what my betters do i am blind. but see, the king comes forth again. _enter_ oedipus. oed. insolent, art thou here? hadst thou the face to bring thy boldness near my palace-roof, proved as thou art to have contrived my death and laid thy robber hands upon my state? tell me, by heaven, had you seen in me a coward or a fool, when you planned this?-- deemed you i should be blind to your attempt craftily creeping on, or, when perceived, not ward it off? is't not a silly scheme, to think to compass without troops of friends power, that is only won by wealth and men? cr. wilt them be counselled? hear as much in turn as thou hast spoken, and then thyself be judge. oed. i know thy tongue, but i am slow to learn from thee, whom i have found my grievous foe. cr. first on this very point, hear me declare-- oed. i will not hear that thou art not a villain. cr. thine is a shallow judgement, if thou thinkest self-will without true thought can bring thee gain. oed. thine is a shallow judgement, if thou thinkest thou canst abuse thy kinsman and be free. cr. a rightful sentence. but i fain would learn what wrong is that you speak of? oed. tell me this; didst thou, or not, urge me to send and bring the reverend-seeming prophet? cr. yea, and still i hold that counsel firm. oed. how long is 't now since laius-- cr. what? i do not catch your drift. oed. vanished in ruin by a dire defeat? cr. 'twere long to count the years that come between. oed. and did this prophet then profess his art? cr. wise then as now, nor less in reverence. oed. then at that season did he mention me? cr. not in my hearing. oed. but, i may presume, ye held an inquisition for the dead? cr. yes, we inquired, of course: and could not hear. oed. why was he dumb, your prophet, in that day? cr. i cannot answer, for i do not know. oed. this you can answer, for you know it well. cr. say what? i will not gainsay, if i know. oed. that, but for your advice, he had not dared to talk of laius' death as done by me. cr. you know, that heard him, what he spake. but i would ask thee too a question in my turn. oed. no questioning will fasten blood on me. cr. hast thou my sister for thine honoured queen? oed. the fact is patent, and denial vain. cr. and shar'st with her dominion of this realm? oed. all she desires is given her by my will. cr. then, am not i third-partner with you twain? oed. there is your villany in breaking fealty. cr. not so, if thou wouldst reason with thyself as i do. first consider one thing well: who would choose rule accompanied with fear before safe slumbers with an equal sway? 'tis not my nature, no, nor any man's, who follows wholesome thoughts, to love the place of domination rather than the power. now, without fear, i have my will from thee; but were i king, i should do much unwillingly. how then can i desire to be a king, when masterdom is mine without annoy? delusion hath not gone so far with me as to crave more than honour joined with gain. now all men hail me happy, all embrace me; all who have need of thee, call in my aid; for thereupon their fortunes wholly turn. how should i leave this substance for that show? no man of sense can harbour thoughts of crime. such vain ambition hath no charm for me, nor could i bear to lend it countenance. if you would try me, go and ask again if i brought phoebus' answer truly back. nay more, should i be found to have devised aught in collusion with the seer, destroy me, not by one vote, but two, mine own with thine. but do not on a dim suspicion blame me of thy mere will. to darken a good name without clear cause is heinous wickedness; and to cast off a worthy friend i call no less a folly than to fling away what most we love, the life within our breast. the certainty of this will come with time; for time alone can clear the righteous man. an hour suffices to make known the villain. ch. prudence bids hearken to such words, my lord, for fear one fall. swift is not sure in counsel. oed. when he who hath designs on me is swift in his advance, i must bethink me swiftly. should i wait leisurely, his work hath gained achievement, while my plans have missed success. cr. what would you then? to thrust me from the land? oed. nay, death, not exile, is my wish for thee, when all have seen what envy brings on men. [cr. you'll ne'er relent nor listen to my plea.][ ] oed. you'll ne'er be governed or repent your guilt. cr. because i see thou art blind. oed. not to my need. cr. mine must be thought of too. oed. you are a villain. cr. how if thy thought be vain? oed. authority must be maintained. cr. not when authority declines to evil. oed. o my citizens! cr. i have a part in them no less than you. leader of ch. cease, princes. opportunely i behold jocasta coming toward you from the palace. her presence may attune your jarring minds. _enter_ jocasta. jocasta. unhappy that ye are, why have ye reared your wordy rancour 'mid the city's harms? have you no shame, to stir up private broils in such a time as this? get thee within! (_to_ oed) and thou too, creon! nor enlarge your griefs to make a mountain out of nothingness. cr. sister, thy husband oedipus declares one of two horrors he will wreak on me, banishment from my native land, or death. oed. yea, for i caught him practising, my queen, against our person with malignant guile. cr. may comfort fail me, and a withering curse destroy me, if i e'er planned aught of this. jo. i pray thee, husband, listen to his plea; chiefly respecting his appeal to heaven, but also me, and these who stand by thee. ch. . incline to our request i thy mind and heart, o king! oed. what would you i should yield unto your prayer? ch. . respect one ever wise, whose oath protects him now. oed. know ye what thing ye ask? ch. . i know. oed. then plainly tell. ch. . thy friend, who is rendered sacred by his oath, rob not of honour through obscure surmise. oed. in asking that, you labour for my death or banishment. of this be well assured. ch. . no, by the sun i swear, ii vaunt-courier of the host of heaven. for may i die the last of deaths, unblest of god or friend, if e'er such thought were mine. but oh! this pining land afflicts my sorrow-burdened soul, to think that to her past and present woe she must add this, which springs to her from you. oed. then let him range, though i must die outright, or be thrust forth with violence from the land! --not for his voice, but thine, which wrings my heart: he, wheresoe'er he live, shall have my hate. cr. you show yourself as sullen when you yield, as unendurable in your fury's height. such natures justly give themselves most pain. oed. let me alone, then, and begone! cr. i go, untainted in their sight, though thou art blind. [_exit_ ch. . lady, why tarriest thou i to lead thy husband in? jo. not till i learn what mischief is befallen. ch. . a dim, unproved debate. reproach, though unfounded, stings. jo. from both? ch. . from both alike. jo. how caused? ch. . enough for me, amply enough it seems, when our poor land is vexed already, not to wake what sleeps. oed. (_to_ leader of ch.). see where thine honest zeal hath landed thee, bating my wrath, and blunting my desire! ch. . my prince, i say it again: ii assure thee, i were lost to sense, infatuate, void of wholesome thought, could i be tempted now to loose my faith from thee, who, when the land i love laboured beneath a wildering load, didst speed her forth anew with favouring gale. now, too, if but thou may'st, be her good guide. jo. let not thy queen be left in ignorance what cause thou hadst to lift thy wrath so high. oed. i'll tell thee, lady, for i honour thee more than these citizens. 'twas creon there, and his inveterate treason against me. jo. accuse him, so you make the quarrel plain. oed. he saith i am the murderer of the king. jo. speaks he from hearsay, or as one who knows? oed. he keeps his own lips free: but hath suborned a rascal soothsayer to this villany. jo. hearken to me, and set your heart at rest on that you speak of, while i make you learn no mortal thing is touched by soothsaying. of that i'll give thee warrant brief and plain. word came to laius once, i will not say from phoebus' self, but from his ministers, the king should be destroyed by his own son, if son were born to him from me. what followed? laius was slain, by robbers from abroad, saith rumour, in a cross-way! but the child lived not three days, ere by my husband's hand his feet were locked, and he was cast and left by messengers on the waste mountain wold. so phoebus neither brought upon the boy his father's murder, nor on laius the thing he greatly feared, death by his son. such issue came of prophesying words. therefore regard them not. god can himself with ease bring forth what for his ends he needs. oed. what strange emotions overcloud my soul, stirred to her depths on hearing this thy tale! jo. what sudden change is this? what cares oppress thee? oed. methought i heard thee say, king laius was at a cross-road overpowered and slain? jo. so ran the talk that yet is current here. oed. where was the scene of this unhappy blow? jo. phocis the land is named. the parted ways meet in one point from dauha and from delphi. oed. and since the event how much of time hath flown? jo. 'twas just ere you appeared with prospering speed and took the kingdom, that the tidings came. oed. what are thy purposes against me, zeus? jo. why broods thy mind upon such thoughts, my king? oed. nay, ask me not! but tell me first what height had laius, and what grace of manly prime? jo. tall, with dark locks just sprinkled o'er with grey: in shape and bearing much resembling thee. oed. o heavy fate! how all unknowingly i laid that dreadful curse on my own head! jo. how? i tremble as i gaze on thee, my king! oed. the fear appals me that the seer can see. tell one thing more, to make it doubly clear! jo. i am lothe to speak, but, when you ask, i will. oed. had he scant following, or, as princes use, full numbers of a well-appointed train? jo. there were but five in all: a herald one; and laius travelled in the only car. oed. woe! woe! 'tis clear as daylight. who was he that brought you this dire message, o my queen? jo. a home-slave, who alone returned alive. oed. and is he now at hand within the house? jo. no, truly. when he came from yonder scene and found thee king in room of laius murdered, he touched my hand, and made his instant prayer that i would send him to o'erlook the flocks and rural pastures, so to live as far as might be from the very thought of thebes. i granted his desire. no servant ever more richly merited such boon than he. oed. can he be brought again immediately? jo. indeed he can. but why desire it so? oed. words have by me been uttered, o my queen, that give me too much cause to wish him here. jo. then come he shall. but i may surely claim to hear what in thy state goes heavily. oed. thou shalt not lose thy rights in such an hour, when i am harrowed thus with doubt and fear. to whom more worthy should i tell my grief? --my father was corinthian polybus, my mother, dorian meropè.--i lived a prince among that people, till a chance encountered me, worth wonder, but, though strange, not worth the anxious thought it waked in me. for at a feasting once over the wine one deep in liquor called aloud to me, 'hail, thou false foundling of a foster-sire!' that day with pain i held my passion down; but early on the morrow i came near and questioned both my parents, who were fierce in anger at the man who broached this word. for their part i was satisfied, but still it galled me, for the rumour would not die. eluding then my parents i made way to delphi, where, as touching my desire, phoebus denied me; but brake forth instead with other oracles of misery and horrible misfortune, how that i must know my mother's shame, and cause to appear a birth intolerable in human view, and do to death the author of my life. i fled forth at the word, conjecturing now corinthia's region by the stars of heaven, and wandered, where i never might behold those dreadful prophecies fulfilled on me. so travelling on, i came even to the place where, as thou tell'st, the king of thebè fell. and, o my wife, i will hide nought from thee. when i drew near the cross-road of your tale, a herald, and a man upon a car, like your description, there encountered me. and he who led the car, and he himself the greybeard, sought to thrust me from the path. then in mine angry mood i sharply struck the driver-man who turned me from the way; which when the elder saw, he watched for me as i passed by, and from the chariot-seat smote full upon my head with the fork'd goad; but got more than he gave; for, by a blow from this right hand, smit with my staff, he fell instantly rolled out of the car supine. i slew them every one. now if that stranger had aught in common with king laius, what wretch on earth was e'er so lost as i? whom have the heavens so followed with their hate? no house of theban or of foreigner must any more receive me, none henceforth must speak to me, but drive me from the door! i, i have laid this curse on mine own head! yea, and this arm that slew him now enfolds his queen. o cruel stain! am i not vile? polluted utterly! yes, i must flee, and, lost to thebè, nevermore behold my home, nor tread my country, lest i meet in marriage mine own mother, and bring low his head that gave me life and reared my youth, my father, polybus. ah! right were he who should declare some god of cruel mood had sent this trouble upon my soul! ye powers, worshipped in holiness, ne'er may i see that day, but perish from the sight of men, ere sins like these be branded on my name! ch. thy fear is ours, o king: yet lose not hope, till thou hast heard the witness of the deed. oed. ay, that is all i still have left of hope, to bide the coming of the shepherd man. jo. what eager thought attends his presence here? oed. i'll tell thee. should his speech accord with thine, my life stands clear from this calamity. jo. what word of mine agreed not with the scene? oed. you said he spake of robbers in a band as having slain him. now if he shall still persist in the same number, i am free. one man and many cannot be the same. but should he tell of one lone traveller, then, unavoidably, this falls on me. jo. so 'twas given out by him, be sure of that. he cannot take it back. not i alone but all the people heard him speak it so. and should he swerve in aught from his first tale, he ne'er can show the murder of the king rightly accordant with the oracle. for phoebus said expressly he should fall through him whom i brought forth. but that poor babe ne'er slew his sire, but perished long before. wherefore henceforth i will pursue my way regardless of all words of prophecy. oed. wisely resolved. but still send one to bring the labourer swain, and be not slack in this. jo. i will, and promptly. go we now within! my whole desire is but to work thy will. [_exeunt_ chorus o may my life be evermore i pure in each holy word and deed by those eternal laws decreed that pace the sapphire-paven floor! children of heaven, of ether born, no mortal knew their natal morn, nor may oblivion's waters deep e'er lull their wakeful spirit asleep, nor creeping age o'erpower the mighty god who far within them holds his unprofaned abode. pride breeds the tyrant: monstrous birth! i insolent pride, if idly nursed on timeless surfeit, plenty accursed, spurning the lowlier tract of earth mounts to her pinnacle,--then falls, dashed headlong down sheer mountain walls to dark necessity's deep ground, where never foothold can be found. let wrestlers for my country's glory speed, god, i thee pray! be god my helper in all need! but if one be, whose bold disdain i walks in a round of vapourings vain and violent acts, regarding not the rule of right, but with proud thought scorning the place where gods have set their seat, --made captive by an evil doom, shorn of that inauspicious bloom, let him be shown the path of lawful gain and taught in holier ways to guide his feet, nor with mad folly strain his passionate arms to clasp things impious to retain. who in such courses shall defend his soul from storms of thundrous wrath that o'er him roll? if honour to such lives be given, what needs our choir to hymn the power of heaven? no more to delphi, central shrine ii of earth, i'll seek, for light divine, nor visit abae's mystic fane nor travel o'er the well-trod plain where thousands throng to famed olympia's town, unless, with manifest accord, the event fulfil the oracular word. zeus, lord of all! if to eternity thou would'st confirm thy kingdom's large renown, let not their vauntings high evade the sovereign look of the everlasting eye! they make as though the ancient warning slept by laius erst with fear and trembling kept; apollo's glory groweth pale, and holiest rites are prone to faint and fail. _enter_ jocasta. jo. princes of thebes, it came into my thought to stand before some holy altar-place with frankincense and garlands. for the king, transported by the tempest of his fear, runs wild in grief, nor like a man of sense reasons of present things from what hath been. each tongue o'ermasters him that tells of woe. then since my counsels are of no avail, to thee, for thou art nearest, lykian god, i bring my supplication with full hand. o grant us absolution and relief! for seeing him, our pilot, so distraught, like mariners, we are all amazed with dread. _enter the_ corinthian shepherd. cor. sh. are ye the men to tell me where to find the mansion of the sovereign oedipus? or better, where he may himself be found? ch. here is the roof you seek, and he, our lord, is there within: and, stranger, thou behold'st the queenly mother of his royal race. cor. sh. may she and hers be alway fortunate! still may she crown him with the joys of home! jo. be thou, too, blest, kind sir! thy gracious tongue deserves no less. but tell me what request or what intelligence thou bring'st with thee? cor. sh. good tidings for thy house and husband, queen. jo. what are they? who hath sent thee to our hall? cor. sh. from corinth come i, and will quickly tell what sure will please you; though perchance 'twill grieve. jo. what news can move us thus two ways at once? cor. sh. 'twas rumoured that the people of the land of corinth would make oedipus their king. jo. is ancient polybus not still in power? cor. sh. no. death confines him in a kingly grave. jo. hold there! how say you? polybus in his grave? cor. sh. may i die for him if i speak not true! jo. (_to an attendant_). run thou, and tell this quickly to my lord! voices of prophecy, where are ye now? long time hath oedipus, a homeless man, trembled with fear of slaying polybus. who now lies slain by fortune, not by him. _enter_ oedipus. oed. jocasta, my dear queen, why didst thou send to bring me hither from our palace-hall? jo. hear that man's tale, and then consider well the end of yonder dreadful prophecy. oed. who is the man, and what his errand here? jo. he comes from corinth, to make known to thee that polybus, thy father, is no more. oed. how, stranger? let me learn it from thy mouth. cor. sh. if my first duty be to make this clear, know beyond doubt that he is dead and gone. oed. by illness coming o'er him, or by guile? cor. sh. light pressure lays to rest the timeworn frame. oed. he was subdued by sickness then, poor soul! cor. sh. by sickness and the burden of his years. oed. ah! my jocasta, who again will heed the pythian hearth oracular, and birds screaming in air, blind guides! that would have made my father's death my deed; but he is gone, hidden underneath the ground, while i stand hero harmless and weaponless:--unless, perchance, my absence killed him,--so he may have died through me. but be that as it may, the grave that covers polybus, hath silenced, too, one voice of prophecy, worth nothing now. jo. did i not tell thee so, long since? oed. thou didst. but i was drawn to error by my fear. jo. now cast it altogether out of mind. oed. must i not fear my mother's marriage-bed? jo. why should man fear, seeing his course is ruled by fortune, and he nothing can foreknow? 'tis best to live at ease as best one may. then fear not thou thy mother's nuptial hour. many a man ere now in dreams hath lain with her who bare him. he hath least annoy who with such omens troubleth not his mind. oed. that word would be well spoken, were not she alive that gave me birth. but since she lives, though you speak well, yet have i cause for fear. jo. your father's burial might enlighten you. oed. it doth. but i am darkened by a life. cor. sh. whose being overshadows thee with fear? oed. queen meropè, the consort of your king. cor. sh. what in her life should make your heart afraid? oed. a heaven-sent oracle of dreadful sound. cor. sh. may it be told, or must no stranger know? oed. indeed it may. word came from phoebus once that i must know my mother's shame, and shed with these my hands my own true father's blood. wherefore long since my home hath been removed far from corinthos:--not unhappily; but still 'tis sweet to see a parent's face. cor. sh. did fear of this make thee so long an exile? oed. of this and parricide, my aged friend. cor. sh. i came with kind intent--and, dear my lord, i fain would rid thee from this haunting dread. oed. our gratitude should well reward thy love. cor. sh. hope of reward from thee in thy return was one chief motive of my journey hither. oed. return? not to my parents' dwelling-place! cor. sh. son, 'tis too clear, you know not what you do. oed. wherefore, kind sir? for heaven's sake teach me this. cor. sh. if for these reasons you avoid your home. oed. the fear torments me, phoebus may prove true. cor. sh. lest from your parents you receive a stain? oed. that is the life-long torment of my soul. cor. sh. will you be certified your fears are groundless? oed. how groundless, if i am my parents' child? cor. sh. because with polybus thou hast no kin. oed. why? was not he the author of my life? cor. sh. as much as i am, and no more than i. oed. how can my father be no more to me than who is nothing? cor. sh. in begetting thee nor i nor he had any part at all. oed. why then did he declare me for his son? cor. sh. because he took thee once a gift from me. oed. was all that love unto a foundling shown? cor. sh. heirless affection so inclined his heart. oed. a gift from you! your purchase, or your child?[ ] cor. sh. found in cithaeron's hollowy wilderness. oed. what led your travelling footstep to that ground? cor. sh. the flocks i tended grazed the mountain there. oed. a shepherd wast thou, and a wandering hind? cor. sh. whatever else, my son, thy saviour then. oed. from what didst thou release me or relieve? cor. sh. thine instep bears memorial of the pain. oed. ah! what old evil will thy words disclose? cor. sh. thy feet were pierced. 'twas i unfastened them. oed. so cruel to my tender infancy! cor. sh. from this thou hast received thy name. oed. by heaven i pray thee, did my father do this thing, or was't my mother? cor. sh. that i dare not say. he should know best who gave thee to my hand. oed. another gave me, then? you did not find me? cor. sh. another herdsman passed thee on to me. oed. can you describe him? tell us what you know. cor. sh. methinks they called him one of laius' people. oed. of laius once the sovereign of this land? cor. sh. e'en so. he was a shepherd of his flock. oed. and is he still alive for me to see? cor. sh. you thebans are most likely to know that. oed. speak, any one of you in presence here, can you make known the swain he tells us of, in town or country having met with him? the hour for this discovery is full come. ch. methinks it is no other than the peasant whom thou didst seek before to see: but this could best be told by queen jocasta there. oed. we lately sought that one should come, my queen. know'st thou, is this of whom he speaks the same? jo. what matter who? regard not, nor desire even vainly to remember aught he saith. oed. when i have found such tokens of my birth, i must disclose it. jo. as you love your life, by heaven i beg you, search no further here! the sickness in my bosom is enough. oed. nay, never fear! were i proved thrice a slave and waif of bondwomen, you still are noble. jo. yet hearken, i implore you: do not so. oed. i cannot hear you. i must know this through. jo. with clear perception i advise the best. oed. thy 'best' is still my torment. jo. wretched one, never may'st thou discover who thou art! oed. will some one go and bring the herdman hither? leave her to revel in her lordly line! jo. o horrible! o lost one! this alone i speak to thee, and no word more for ever. [_exit_ ch. oedipus, wherefore is jocasta gone, driven madly by wild grief? i needs must fear lest from this silence she make sorrow spring. oed. leave her to raise what storm she will. but i will persevere to know mine origin, though from an humble seed. her woman's pride is shamed, it may be, by my lowliness. but i, whilst i account myself the son of prospering fortune, ne'er will be disgraced. for she is my true mother: and the months, coheirs with me of the same father, time, have marked my lowness and mine exaltation. so born, so nurtured, i can fear no change, that i need shrink to probe this to the root. [oedipus _remains, and gazes towards the country, while the_ chorus _sing_ chorus. if i wield a prophet's might, or have sense to search aright, cithaeron, when all night the moon rides high, loud thy praise shall be confessed, how upon thy rugged breast, thou, mighty mother, nursed'st tenderly great oedipus, and gav'st his being room within thy spacious home. yea, we will dance and sing thy glory for thy kindness to our king. phoebus, unto thee we cry, be this pleasing in thine eye! who, dear sovereign, gave thee birth, of the long lived nymphs of earth? say, was she clasped by mountain roving pan? or beguiled she one sweet hour with apollo in her bower, who loves to trace the field untrod by man? or was the ruler of cyllene's height the author of thy light? or did the bacchic god, who makes the top of helicon to nod, take thee for a foundling care from his playmates that are there? _the_ theban shepherd _is seen approaching, guarded._ oed. if haply i, who never saw his face, thebans, may guess, methinks i see the hind whose coming we have longed for. both his age, agreeing with this other's wintry locks, accords with my conjecture, and the garb of his conductors is well known to me as that of mine own people. but methinks [_to_ leader of chorus] thou hast more perfect knowledge in this case, having beheld the herdman in the past. ch. i know him well, believe me. laius had no more faithful shepherd than this man. oed. corinthian friend, i first appeal to you: was't he you spake of? cor. sh. 'twas the man you see. oed. turn thine eyes hither, aged friend, and tell what i shall ask thee. wast thou laius' slave? theb. sh. i was, not bought, but bred within the house. oed. what charge or occupation was thy care? theb. sh. most of my time was spent in shepherding. oed. and where didst thou inhabit with thy flock? theb. sh. 'twas now cithaeron, now the neighbouring tract. oed. and hadst thou there acquaintance of this man? theb. sh. following what service? what is he you mean? oed. the man you see. hast thou had dealings with him? theb. sh. i cannot bring him all at once to mind. cor. sh. no marvel, good my lord. but i will soon wake to clear knowledge his oblivious sense. for sure i am he can recall the time, when he with his two flocks, and i with one beside him, grazed cithaeron's pasture wide good six months' space of three successive years, from spring to rising of arcturus; then for the bleak winter season, i drove mine to their own folds, he his to laius' stalls. do i talk idly, or is this the truth? theb. sh. the time is far remote. but all is true. cor. sh. well, dost remember having given me then a child, that i might nurture him for mine? theb. sh. what means thy question? let me know thy drift. cor. sh. friend, yonder stands the infant whom we knew. theb. sh. confusion seize thee, and thy evil tongue! oed. check not his speech, i pray thee, for thy words call more than his for chastisement, old sir. theb. sh. o my dread lord, therein do i offend? oed. thou wilt not answer him about the child? theb. sh. he knows not what he speaks. his end is vain. oed. so! thou'lt not tell to please us, but the lash will make thee tell. theb. sh. by all that's merciful, scourge not this aged frame! oed. pinion him straight! theb. sh. unhappy! wherefore? what is't you would know? oed. gave you this man the child of whom he asks you? theb. sh. i gave it him. would i had died that hour! oed. speak rightly, or your wish will soon come true. theb. sh. my ruin comes the sooner, if i speak. oed. this man will balk us with his baffling prate. theb. sh. not so. i said long since, 'i gave the child.' oed. whence? was't your own, or from another's hand? theb. sh. 'twas not mine own; another gave it me. oed. what theban gave it, from what home in thebes? theb. sh. o, i implore thee, master, ask no more! oed. you perish, if i have to ask again. theb. sh. the child was of the stock of laius. oed. slave-born, or rightly of the royal line? theb. sh. ah me! now comes the horror to my tongue! oed. and to mine ear. but thou shalt tell it me! theb. sh. he was given out for laius' son: but she, thy queen, within the palace, best can tell. oed. how? did she give it thee? theb. sh. my lord, she did. oed. with what commission? theb. sh. i was to destroy him. oed. and could a mother's heart be steeled to this? theb. sh. with fear of evil prophecies. oed. what were they? theb. sh. 'twas said the child should be his father's death. oed. what then possessed thee to give up the child to this old man? theb. sh. pity, my sovereign lord! supposing he would take him far away unto the land whence he was come. but he preserved him to great sorrow. for if thou art he this man hath said, be well assured thou bear'st a heavy doom. oed. o horrible! horrible! all fulfilled, as sunlight clear! oh may i nevermore behold the day, since proved accursèd in my parentage, in those i live with, and in him i slew! [_exeunt_ chorus. o mortal tribes of men, i how near to nothingness i count you while your lives remain! what man that lives hath more of happiness than to seem blest, and, seeming, fade in night? o oedipus, in this thine hour of gloom, musing on thee and thy relentless doom, i call none happy who beholds the light. thou through surpassing skill i didst rise to wealth and power, when thou the monstrous riddling maid didst kill, and stoodst forth to my country as a tower to guard from myriad deaths this glorious town; whence thou wert called my king, of faultless fame, in all the world a far-resounded name, unparagoned in honour and renown. but now to hear of thee, who more distressed? ii who more acquainted with fierce misery, assaulted by disasters manifest, than thou in this thy day of agony? most noble, most renowned!--yet one same room heard thy first cry, and in thy prime of power, received thee, harbouring both bride and groom, and bore it silently till this dread hour. how could that furrowing of thy father's field year after year continue unrevealed? time hath detected thine unwitting deed, ii time, who discovers all with eyes of fire, accusing thee of living without heed in hideous wedlock husband, son, and sire. ah would that we, thou child of laius born, ah would that we had never seen thee nigh! e'er since we knew thee who thou art, we mourn exceedingly with cries that rend the sky. for, to tell truth, thou didst restore our life and gavest our soul sweet respite after strife. _enter_ messenger. mess. o ye who in this land have ever held chief honour, what an object of dire woe awaits your eyes, your ears! what piercing grief your hearts must suffer, if as kinsmen should ye still regard the house of laius! not phasis, nor the danube's rolling flood, can ever wash away the stain and purge this mansion of the horror that it hides. --and more it soon shall give to light, not now unconsciously enacted. of all ill, self-chosen sorrows are the worst to bear. ch. what hast thou new to add? the weight of grief from that we know burdens the heart enough. mess. soon spoken and soon heard is the chief sum. jocasta's royal head is sunk in death. ch. the hapless queen! what was the fatal cause? mess. her own determination. you are spared the worst affliction, not being there to see. yet to the height of my poor memory's power the wretched lady's passion you shall hear. when she had passed in her hot mood within the vestibule, straight to the bridal room she rushes, tearing with both hands her hair. then having entered, shutting fast the door, she called aloud on laius, long dead, with anguished memory of that birth of old whereby the father fell, leaving his queen to breed a dreadful brood for his own son. and loudly o'er the bed she wailed, where she, in twofold wedlock, hapless, had brought forth husband from husband, children from a child. we could not know the moment of her death, which followed soon, for oedipus with cries broke in, and would not let us see her end, but held our eyes as he careered the hall, demanding arms, and where to find his wife,-- no, not his wife, but fatal mother-croft, cropped doubly with himself and his own seed. and in his rage some god directed him to find her:--'twas no man of us at hand. then with a fearful shout, as following his leader, he assailed the folding-doors; and battering inward from the mortised bolts the bending boards, he burst into the room: where high suspended we beheld the queen, in twisted cordage resolutely swung. he all at once on seeing her, wretched king! undid the pendent noose, and on the ground lay the ill-starred queen. oh, then 'twas terrible to see what followed--for he tore away the tiring-pins wherewith she was arrayed, and, lifting, smote his eyeballs to the root, saying, nevermore should they behold the evil his life inherited from that past time, but all in dark henceforth should look upon features far better not beheld, and fail to recognize the souls he had longed to know. thus crying aloud, not once but oftentimes he drave the points into his eyes; and soon the bleeding pupils moistened all his beard, nor stinted the dark flood, but all at once the ruddy hail poured down in plenteous shower. thus from two springs, from man and wife together, rose the joint evil that is now o'erflowing. and the old happiness in that past day was truly happy, but the present hour hath pain, crime, ruin:--whatsoe'er of ill mankind have named, not one is absent here. ch. and finds the sufferer now some pause of woe? mess. he bids make wide the portal and display to all the men of thebes the man who slew his father, who unto his mother did what i dare not repeat, and fain would fling his body from the land, nor calmly bide the shock of his own curse on his own hall. meanwhile he needs some comfort and some guide, for such a load of misery who can bear? thyself shalt judge: for, lo, the palace-gates unfold, and presently thine eyes will see a hateful sight, yet one thou needs must pity. _enter_ oedipus, _blind and unattended._ leader of ch. o horror of the world! too great for mortal eye! more terrible than all i have known of ill! what fury of wild thought came o'er thee? who in heaven hath leapt against thy hapless life with boundings out of measure fierce and huge? ah! wretched one, i cannot look on thee: no, though i long to search, to ask, to learn. thine aspect is too horrible.--i cannot! oed. me miserable! whither am i borne? into what region are these wavering sounds wafted on aimless wings? o ruthless fate! to what a height thy fury hath soared! ch. too far for human sense to follow, or human thought to endure the horror. oed. o dark cloud, descending i unutterably on me! invincible, abhorred, borne onward by too sure a wind. woe, woe! woe! yet again i voice it, with such pangs both from these piercing wounds i am assailed and from within through memory of my grief. ch. nay, 'tis no marvel if thy matchless woe redouble thine affliction and thy moan! oed. ah! friend, thou art still constant! thou remainest i to tend me and to care for the blind man. alas! i know thee well, nor fail i to perceive, dark though i be, thy kind familiar voice. ch. how dreadful is thy deed! how couldst thou bear thus to put out thine eyes? what power impelled thee? oed. apollo, dear my friends, apollo brought to pass ii in dreadful wise, this my calamitous woe. but i,--no being else,--i with this hand destroyed them. [_pointing to his eyes_ for why should i have sight, to whom nought now gave pleasure through the eye? ch. there speak'st thou truly. oed. what could i see, whom hear with gladness, whom delight in any more? lead me away out of the land with speed! be rid of the destroyer, the accursed, whom most of all the world the gods abhor. ch. o miserable in thy calamity and not less miserable in thy despair, would thou wert still in ignorance of thy birth! oed. my curse on him who from the cruel bond ii that held my feet in that high pasture-land freed me, and rescued me from murder there, and saved my life! vain kindness! then to have died had spared this agony to me and mine. ch. ay, would it had been so! oed. then had i ne'er been proved a parricide, ne'er borne the shame of marriage bonds incestuous! but now i am god abandoned, son of the unholy, rival of him who gave me being. ah woe! what sorrow beyond sorrows hath chief place? that sorrow oedipus must bear! leader of ch. i know not how to call thee wise in this: thou wert better dead than to be blind and live. oed. that this last act hath not been for the best instruct me not, nor counsel me again. how, if i kept my sight, could i have looked in hades on my father's countenance, or mine all hapless mother, when, toward both, i have done deeds no death can e'er atone? ah! but my children were a sight of joy,-- offspring of such a marriage! were they so? never, to eyes of mine! nor town, nor tower, nor holy shrines o' the gods, which i myself, dowered with the fairest life of theban men, have forfeited, alas, by mine own law, declaring men should drive from every door one marked by heaven as impious and impure, nay worse, of laius born! and was i then, by mine own edict branded thus, to look on theban faces with unaltered eye? nay verily, but had there been a way to stop the hearing fountain through the ear, i had not faltered, but had closed and barred each gate of this poor body, deaf and blind! so thought might sweetly dwell at rest from ill cithaeron! why didst thou receive me? why not slay me then and there? so had i not told to the world the horror of my birth. o foster home of corinth and her king, how bright the life ye cherished, filming o'er what foulness far beneath! for i am vile, and vile were both my parents. so 'tis proved o cross road in the covert of the glen, o thicket in the gorge where three ways met, bedewed by these my hands with mine own blood from whence i sprang--have ye forgotten me? or doth some memory haunt you of the deeds i did before you, and went on to do worse horrors here? o marriage twice accurst! that gave me being, and then again sent forth fresh saplings springing from the selfsame seed, to amaze men's eyes and minds with dire confusion of father, brother, son, bride, mother, wife, murder of parents, and all shames that are! silence alone befits such deeds. then, pray you, hide me immediately away from men! kill me outright, or fling me far to sea, where never ye may look upon me more. come, lend your hand unto my misery! comply, and fear not, for my load of woe is incommunicable to all but me. ch. with timely presence to fulfil thy need with act and counsel, creon comes, who now is regent o'er this people in thy room. oed. alas, what shall i say to him? what plea for my defence will hold? my evil part toward him in all the past is clearly proved. _enter_ creon. cr. i come not, oedipus, to mock thy woes, nor to reproach thee for thine evils past. but ye, (_to_ chorus) if all respect of mortal eye be dead, let awe of the universal flame of life's great nourisher, our lord the sun, forbid your holding thus unveiled to view this huge abomination, which nor earth nor sacred element, nor light of heaven can once endure. convey him in with speed. religion bids that kindred eyes and ears alone should witness kindred crime and woe. oed. by heaven, since thou hast reft away my fear, so nobly meeting my unworthiness, i pray thee, hear me for thine own behoof. cr. what boon dost thou desire so earnestly? oed. fling me with speediest swiftness from the land, where nevermore i may converse with men. cr. doubt not i would have done it, but the god must be inquired of, ere we act herein. oed. his sacred utterance was express and clear, the parricide, the unholy, should be slain. cr. ay, so 'twas spoken: but, in such a time, we needs must be advised more perfectly. oed. will ye then ask him for a wretch like me? cr. yea. for even thou methinks wilt now believe. oed. not only so. but i will charge thee too, with urgent exhortation, to perform the funeral rite for her who lies within-- she is thy kinswoman--howe'er thou wilt. but never let this city of my sires claim me for living habitant! there, there leave me to range the mountain, where my nurse, cithaeron, echoeth with my name,--cithaeron, which both my parents destined for my tomb. so my true murderers will be my death. yet one thing i can tell. mine end will come not by disease nor ordinary chance i had not lived when at the point to die, but for some terrible doom. then let my fate run out its full career. but for my children thou, creon, shalt provide. as for my sons, i pray thee burden not thyself with them. they ne'er will lack subsistence--they are men. but my poor maidens, hapless and forlorn, who never had a meal apart from mine, but ever shared my table, yea, for them take heedful care, and grant me, though but once. yea, i beseech thee, with these hands to feel, thou noble heart! the forms i love so well, and weep with them our common misery. oh, if my arms were round them, i might seem to have them as of old when i could see-- what! am i fooled once more, or do i hear my dear ones weeping! and hath creon sent, pitying my sorrows, mine own children to me whom most i love? can this be truth i utter? cr. yea, i have done it. for i knew the joy thou ever hadst in this, thy comfort now. oed. fair be thy fortune, and, for this last deed, heaven guide thee on a better course than mine. where are ye, o my children? come, draw near to these my hands of brother blood with you, hands that have made so piteous to your sight the darkened gaze of his once brilliant eyes, who all in blindness, with no thought of ill, became your father at that fount of life, where he himself took being! oh! for you i weep, not seeing you, when i but think of all the bitter passages of fate that must attend you amongst men. for where can ye find fellowship, what civic throng shall ye resort unto, what festival, from whence, instead of sight or sound enjoyed, ye will not come in tears unto your home? and when ye reach the marriageable bloom, my daughters, who will be the man to cast his lot with yours, receiving for his own all those reproaches which have marred the name of both my parents and your name no less? what evil is not here? your father slew his father, and then eared the mother field where he himself was sown, and got you from the source of his own birth. such taunts will fly. and who will marry you? no man, my daughters; but ye must wither childless and unwed. son of menoeceus, who alone art left as father to these maidens, for the pair that gave them birth are utterly undone, suffer them not, being your kinswomen, to wander desolate and poor, nor make their lot perforce the counterpart of mine. but look on them with pity, left in youth forlorn of all protection save from thee. noble one, seal this promise with thy hand! --for you, my children, were ye of an age to ponder speech, i would have counselled you full carefully. now i would have you pray to dwell where 'tis convenient, that your life may find more blessing than your father knew. cr. thou hast had enough of weeping. close thee in thy chamber walls. oed. i must yield, though sore against me. cr. yea, for strong occasion calls. oed. know'st thou on what terms i yield it? cr. tell me, let us hear and know. oed. that ye send from the country. cr. god alone can let thee go. oed. but the gods long since abhor me. cr. thou wilt sooner gain that boon. oed. then consent. cr. 'tis not my wont to venture promises too soon. oed. lead me now within the palace. cr. come, but leave thy children. oed. nay! tear not these from my embraces! cr. hope not for perpetual sway: since the power thou once obtainedst ruling with unquestioned might ebbing from thy life hath vanished ere the falling of the night. leader of chorus. dwellers in our native thebè, fix on oedipus your eyes. who resolved the dark enigma, noblest champion and most wise. like a star his envied fortune mounted beaming[ ] far and wide: now he sinks in seas of anguish, whelmed beneath a raging tide. therefore, with the old-world sages, waiting for that final day, i will call no mortal happy, while he holds his house of clay, till without one pang of sorrow, all his hours have passed away. * * * * * electra the persons an old man, _formerly one of the retainers of agamemnon._ orestes, _son of agamemnon and clytemnestra_. electra, _sister of orestes_. chorus _of argive women_. chrysothemis, _sister of orestes and electra_. clytemnestra. aegisthus. pylades _appears with_ orestes, _but does not speak_. scene. mycenae: before the palace of the pelopidae. agamemnon on his return from troy, had been murdered by his wife clytemnestra and her paramour aegisthus, who had usurped the mycenean throne. orestes, then a child, had been rescued by his sister electra, and sent into phocis with the one servant who remained faithful to his old master. the son of agamemnon now returns, being of a full age, accompanied by this same attendant and his friend pylades, with whom he has already concerted a plan for taking vengeance on his father's murderers, in obedience to the command of apollo. orestes had been received in phocis by strophius, his father's friend. another phocian prince, named phanoteus, was a friend of aegisthus. electra orestes _and the_ old man--pylades _is present._ old man. son of the king who led the achaean host erewhile beleaguering troy, 'tis thine to day to see around thee what through many a year thy forward spirit hath sighed for. argolis lies here before us, hallowed as the scene of io's wildering pain: yonder, the mart named from the wolf slaying god[ ], and there, to our left, hera's famed temple. for we reach the bourn of far renowned mycenae, rich in gold and pelops' fatal roofs before us rise, haunted with many horrors, whence my hand, thy murdered sire then lying in his gore, received thee from thy sister, and removed where i have kept thee safe and nourished thee to this bright manhood thou dost bear, to be the avenger of thy father's bloody death. wherefore, orestes, and thou, pylades, dearest of friends, though from a foreign soil, prepare your enterprise with speed. dark night is vanished with her stars, and day's bright orb hath waked the birds of morn into full song. now, then, ere foot of man go forth, ye two knit counsels. 'tis no time for shy delay: the very moment for your act is come. or. kind faithful friend, how well thou mak'st appear thy constancy in service to our house! as some good steed, aged, but nobly bred, slacks not his spirit in the day of war, but points his ears to the fray, even so dost thou press on and urge thy master in the van. hear, then, our purpose, and if aught thy mind, keenly attent, discerns of weak or crude in this i now set forth, admonish me. i, when i visited the pythian shrine oracular, that i might learn whereby to punish home the murderers of my sire, had word from phoebus which you straight shall hear: 'no shielded host, but thine own craft, o king! the righteous death-blow to thine arm shall bring.' then, since the will of heaven is so revealed, go thou within, when opportunity shall marshal thee the way, and gathering all their business, bring us certain cognizance. age and long absence are a safe disguise; they never will suspect thee who thou art. and let thy tale be that another land, phocis, hath sent thee forth, and phanoteus, than whom they have no mightier help in war. then, prefaced with an oath, declare thy news, orestes' death by dire mischance, down-rolled from wheel-borne chariot in the pythian course. so let the fable be devised; while we, as phoebus ordered, with luxuriant locks shorn from our brows, and fair libations, crown my father's sepulchre, and thence return bearing aloft the shapely vase of bronze that's hidden hard by in brushwood, as thou knowest, and bring them welcome tidings, that my form is fallen ere now to ashes in the fire. how should this pain me, in pretence being dead, really to save myself and win renown? no saying bodes men ill, that brings them gain. oft have i known the wise, dying in word, return with glorious salutation home. so lightened by this rumour shall mine eye blaze yet like bale-star on mine enemies. o native earth! and gods that hold the land, accept me here, and prosper this my way! thou, too, paternal hearth! to thee i come, justly to cleanse thee by behest from heaven. send me not bootless, gods, but let me found a wealthy line of fair posterity! i have spoken. to thy charge! and with good heed perform it. we go forth. the occasion calls, great taskmaster of enterprise to men. electra (_within_). woe for my hapless lot! old m. hark! from the doors, my son, methought there came a moaning cry, as of some maid within. or. can it be poor electra? shall we stay, and list again the lamentable sound? old m. not so. before all else begin the attempt to execute apollo's sovereign will, pouring libation to thy sire: this makes victory ours, and our success assured. [_exeunt_ _enter_ electra. monody. el. o purest light! and air by earth alone measured and limitable, how oft have ye heard many a piercing moan, many a blow full on my bleeding breast, when gloomy night hath slackened pace and yielded to the day! and through the hours of rest, ah! well 'tis known to my sad pillow in yon house of woe, what vigil of scant joyance keeping, whiles all within are sleeping, for my dear father without stint i groan, whom not in bloody fray the war-god in the stranger-land received with hospitable hand, but she that is my mother, and her groom, as woodmen fell the oak, cleft through the skull with murdering stroke. and o'er this gloom no ray of pity, save from only me, goes forth on thee, my father, who didst die a cruel death of piteous agony. but ne'er will i cease from my crying and sad mourning lay, while i behold the sky, glancing with myriad fires, or this fair day. but, like some brood-bereavèd nightingale, with far-heard wail, here at my father's door my voice shall sound. o home beneath the ground! hades unseen, and dread persephonè, and darkling hermes, and the curse revered, and ye, erinyës, of mortals feared, daughters of heaven, that ever see who die unjustly, who are wronged i' the bed of those they wed, avenge our father's murder on his foe! aid us, and send my brother to my side; alone i cannot longer bide the oppressive strain of strength-o'ermastering woe. chorus (_entering_). o sad electra, child i of a lost mother, why still flow unceasingly with lamentation wild for him who through her treachery beguiled, inveigled by a wife's deceit, fallen at the foul adulterer's feet, most impiously was quelled long years ago? perish the cause! if i may lawfully pray so. el. o daughters of a noble line, ye come to soothe me from my troublous woe. i see, i know: your love is not unrecognized of mine. but yet i will not seem as i forgot, or cease to mourn my hapless father's lot. oh, of all love that ever may you move, this only boon i crave-- leave me to rave! ch. lament, nor praying breath i will raise thy sire, our honoured chief, from that dim multitudinous gulf of death. beyond the mark, due grief that measureth, still pining with excess of pain thou urgest lamentation vain, that from thy woes can bring thee no relief. why hast thou set thy heart on unavailing grief? el. senseless were he who lost from thought a noble father, lamentably slain! i love thy strain, bewildered mourner, bird divinely taught, for 'itys,' 'itys,' ever heard to pine. o niobè, i hold thee all divine, of sorrows queen, who with all tearful mien insepulchred in stone aye makest moan. ch. not unto thee alone hath sorrow come, ii daughter, that thou shouldst carry grief so far beyond those dwellers in the palace-home who of thy kindred are and own one source with thee. what life hath she, chrysothemis, and iphianassa bright, and he whose light is hidden afar from taste of horrid doom, youthful orestes, who shall come to fair mycenae's glorious town, welcomed as worthy of his sire's renown, sped by great zeus with kindly thought, and to this land with happiest omen brought? el. awaiting him i endlessly endure; unwed and childless still i go, with tears in constant flow, girt round with misery that finds no cure. but he forgets his wrong and all my teaching. what message have i sent beseeching, but baffled flies back idly home? ever he longs, he saith, but, longing, will not come. ch. take heart, dear child! still mighty in the sky ii is zeus who ruleth all things and surveys. commit to him thy grief that surgeth high, and walk in safer ways, let not hate vex thee sore, nor yet ignore the cause of hate and sorrow in thy breast. time bringeth rest: all is made easy through his power divine. the heir of agamemnon's line who dwells by crisa's pastoral strand shall yet return unto his native land; and he shall yet regard his own who reigns beneath upon his stygian throne. el. meanwhile my life falls from me in despair years pass and patience nought avails: my heart within me fails: orphaned i pine without protecting care; and like a sojourner all unregarded at slave-like labour unrewarded i toil within my father's hall thus meanly attired, and starved, a table-serving thrall. ch. sad was thy greeting when he reached the strand, iii piteous thy crying where thy father lay on that fell day when the bronze edge with dire effect was driven. by craft 'twas planned, by frenzied lust the blow was given: mother and father of a monstrous birth, whether a god there wrought or mortal of the earth. el. o day beyond all days that yet have rolled most hateful in thy course of light! o horror of that night! o hideous feast, abhorr'd, not to be told! how could i bear it, when my father's eye saw death advancing from the ruthless pair, conjoint in cruel villany, by whom my life was plunged in black despair? oh, to the workers of such deeds as these may great olympus' lord return of evil still afford, nor let them wear the gloss of sovran ease! ch. take thought to keep thy crying within bound. iii doth not thy sense enlighten thee to see how recklessly even now thou winnest undeservèd woe? still art thou found to make thy misery overflow through self-bred gloomy strife. but not for long shall one alone prevail who strives against the strong. el. 'twas dire oppression taught me my complaint i know my rage a quenchless fire: but nought, however dire, shall visit this my frenzy with restraint, or check my lamentation while i live. dear friends, kind women of true argive breed, say, who can timely counsel give or word of comfort suited to my need? beyond all cure shall this my cause be known. no counsels more! ah leave, vain comforters, and let me grieve with ceaseless pain, unmeasured in my moan. ch. with kind intent iv full tenderly my words are meant; like a true mother pressing heart to heart, i pray thee, do not aggravate thy smart. el. but have my miseries a measure? tell. can it be well to pour forgetfulness upon the dead? hath mortal head conceived a wickedness so bold? o never may such brightness shine for me, nor let me peaceful be with aught of good my life may still enfold, if from wide echoing of my father's name the wings of keen lament i must withhold. sure holy shame and pious care would vanish among men, if he, mere earth and nothingness, must lie in darkness, and his foes shall not again render him blood for blood in amplest penalty. leader of ch. less from our own desires, my child, we came, than for thy sake. but, if we speak amiss, take thine own course. we still will side with thee. el. full well i feel that too impatiently i seem to multiply the sounds of woe. yet suffer me, dear women! mighty force compels me. who that had a noble heart and saw her father's cause, as i have done, by day and night more outraged, could refrain? are my woes lessening? are they not in bloom?-- my mother full of hate and hateful proved, whilst i in my own home must dwell with these, my father's murderers, and by them be ruled, dependent on their bounty even for bread. and then what days suppose you i must pass, when i behold aegisthus on the throne that was my father's; when i see him wear such robes, and pour libations by the hearth where he destroyed him; lastly, when i see their crowning insolence,--our regicide laid in my father's chamber beside her, my mother--if she still must bear the name when resting in those arms? her shame is dead. she harbours with blood-guiltiness, and fears no vengeance, but, as laughing at the wrong, she watches for the hour wherein with guile she killed our sire, and orders dance and mirth that day o' the month, and joyful sacrifice of thanksgiving. but i within the house beholding, weep and pine, and mourn that feast of infamy, called by my father's name, all to myself; for not even grief may flow as largely as my spirit would desire. that so-called princess of a noble race o'ercrows my wailing with loud obloquy: 'hilding! are you alone in grief? are none mourning for loss of fathers but yourself? 'fore the blest gods! ill may you thrive, and ne'er find cure of sorrow from the powers below!' so she insults: unless she hear one say 'orestes will arrive': then standing close, she shouts like one possessed into mine ear, 'these are your doings, this your work, i trow. you stole orestes from my gripe, and placed his life with fosterers; but you shall pay full penalty.' so harsh is her exclaim. and he at hand, the husband she extols, hounds on the cry, that prince of cowardice, from head to foot one mass of pestilent harm. tongue-doughty champion of this women's-war. i, for orestes ever languishing to end this, am undone. for evermore intending, still delaying, he wears out all hope, both here and yonder. how, then, friends, can i be moderate, or feel the touch of holy resignation? evil fruit cannot but follow on a life of ill. ch. say, is aegisthus near while thus you speak? or hath he left the palace? we would know. el. most surely. never think, if he were by, i could stray out of door. he is abroad. ch. then with less fear i may converse with thee. el. ask what you will, for he is nowhere near. ch. first of thy brother i beseech thee tell, how deem'st thou? will he come, or still delay? el. his promise comes, but still performance sleeps. ch. well may he pause who plans a dreadful deed. el. i paused not in his rescue from the sword. ch. fear not. he will bestead you. he is true. el. but for that faith my life had soon gone by. ch. no more! i see approaching from the house thy sister by both parents of thy blood, chrysothemis; in her hand an offering, such as old custom yields to those below. _enter_ chrysothemis. chrysothemis. what converse keeps thee now beyond the gates, dear sister? why this talk in the open day? wilt thou not learn after so long to cease from vain indulgence of a bootless rage? i know in my own breast that i am pained by what thou griev'st at, and if i had power, my censure of their deeds would soon be known. but in misfortune i have chosen to sail with lowered canvas, rather than provoke with puny strokes invulnerable foes. i would thou didst the like: though i must own the right is on thy side, and not on mine. but if i mean to dwell at liberty, i must obey in all the stronger will. el. 'tis strange and pitiful, thy father's child can leave him in oblivion and subserve the mother. all thy schooling of me springs from her suggestion, not of thine own wit. sure, either thou art senseless, or thy sense deserts thy friends. treason or dulness then? choose!--you declared but now, if you had strength, you would display your hatred of this pair. yet, when i plan full vengeance for my sire, you aid me not, but turn me from the attempt. what's this but adding cowardice to evil? for tell me, or be patient till i show, what should i gain by ceasing this my moan? i live to vex them:--though my life be poor, yet that suffices, for i honour him, my father,--if affection touch the dead. you say you hate them, but belie your word, consorting with our father's murderers. i then, were all the gifts in which you glory laid at my feet, will never more obey this tyrant power. i leave you your rich board and life of luxury. ne'er be it mine[ ] to feed on dainties that would poison my heart's peace! i care not for such honour as thou hast. nor wouldst thou care if thou wert wise. but now, having the noblest of all men for sire, be called thy mother's offspring; so shall most discern thine infamy and traitorous mind to thy dead father and thy dearest kin. ch. no anger, we entreat. both have said well, if each would learn of other, and so do. chr. for my part, women, use hath seasoned me to her discourse. nor had i spoken of this, had i not heard a horror coming on that will restrain her from her endless moan. el. come speak it forth, this terror! i will yield, if thou canst tell me worse than i endure. chr. i'll tell thee all i know. if thou persist in these thy wailings, they will send thee far from thine own land, and close thee from the day, where in a rock-hewn chamber thou may'st chant thine evil orisons in darkness drear. think of it, while there 's leisure to reflect; or if thou suffer, henceforth blame me not. el. and have they so determined on my life? chr. 'tis certain; when aegisthus comes again. el. if that be all, let him return with speed! chr. unhappy! why this curse upon thyself? el. if this be their intent, why, let him come! chr. to work such harm on thee! what thought is this! el. far from mine eye to banish all your brood. chr. art not more tender of the life thou hast? el. fair, to a marvel, is my life, i trow! chr. it would be, couldst thou be advised for good. el. never advise me to forsake my kin. chr. i do not: only to give place to power. el. thine be such flattery. 'tis not my way. chr. sure, to be wrecked by rashness is not well. el. let me be wrecked in 'venging my own sire. chr. i trust his pardon for my helplessness. el. such talk hath commendation from the vile. chr. wilt thou not listen? wilt thou ne'er be ruled? el. no; not by thee! let me not sink so low. chr. then i will hie me on mine errand straight. el. stay; whither art bound? for whom to spend those gifts? chr. sent by my mother to my father's tomb to pour libations to him. el. how? to him? most hostile to her of all souls that are? chr. who perished by her hand--so thou wouldst say. el. what friend hath moved her? who hath cared for this? chr. methinks 'twas some dread vision, seen by night. el. gods of my father, o be with me now! chr. what? art thou hopeful from the fear i spake of? el. tell me the dream, and i will answer thee. chr. i know but little of it. el. speak but that. a little word hath ofttimes been the cause of ruin or salvation unto men. chr. 'tis said she saw our father's spirit come once more to visit the abodes of light; then take and firmly plant upon the hearth the sceptre which he bore of old, and now aegisthus bears: and out of this upsprang a burgeoned shoot, that shadowed all the ground of loved mycenae. so i heard the tale told by a maid who listened when the queen made known her vision to the god of day. but more than this i know not, save that i am sent by her through terror of the dream. and i beseech thee by the gods we serve to take my counsel and not rashly fall. if thou repel me now, the time may come when suffering shall have brought thee to my side. el. now, dear chrysothemis, of what thou bearest let nothing touch his tomb. 'tis impious and criminal to offer to thy sire rites and libations from a hateful wife. then cast them to the winds, or deep in dust conceal them, where no particle may reach his resting-place: but lie in store for her when she goes underground. sure, were she not most hardened of all women that have been, she ne'er had sent those loveless offerings to grace the sepulchre of him she slew. for think how likely is the buried king to take such present kindly from her hand, who slew him like an alien enemy, dishonoured even in death, and mangled him, and wiped the death-stain with his flowing locks-- sinful purgation! think you that you bear in those cold gifts atonement for her guilt? it is not possible. wherefore let be. but take a ringlet from thy comely head, and this from mine, that lingers on my brow[ ] longing to shade his tomb. ah, give it to him, all i can give, and this my maiden-zone, not daintily adorned, as once erewhile. then, humbly kneeling, pray that from the ground he would arise to help us 'gainst his foes, and grant his son orestes with high hand strongly to trample on his enemies; that in our time to come from ampler stores we may endow him, than are ours to-day. i cannot but imagine that his will hath part in visiting her sleep with fears. but howsoe'er, i pray thee, sister mine, do me this service, and thyself, and him, dearest of all the world to me and thee, the father of us both, who rests below. ch. she counsels piously; and thou, dear maid, if thou art wise, wilt do her bidding here. chr. yea, when a thing is right, it is not well idly to wrangle, but to act with speed. only, dear friends, in this mine enterprise, let me have silence from your lips, i pray; for should my mother know of it, sharp pain will follow yet my bold adventurous feat. [_exit_ chrysothemis chorus. an erring seer am i, i of sense and wisdom lorn, if this prophetic power of right, o'ertaking the offender, come not nigh ere many an hour be born. yon vision of the night, that lately breathed into my listening ear, hath freed me, o my daughter, from all fear. sweet was that bodement. he doth not forget, the achaean lord that gave thee being, nor yet the bronzen-griding axe, edged like a spear, hungry and keen, though dark with stains of time, that in the hour of hideous crime quelled him with cruel butchery: that, too, remembers, and shall testify. from ambush deep and dread i with power of many a hand and many hastening feet shall spring the fury of the adamantine tread, visiting argive land swift recompense to bring for eager dalliance of a blood-stained pair unhallowed, foul, forbidden. no omen fair,-- their impious course hath fixed this in my soul,-- nought but black portents full of blame shall roll before their eyes that wrought or aided there. small force of divination would there seem in prophecy or solemn dream, should not this vision of the night reach harbour in reality aright. o chariot-course of pelops, full of toil[ ]! ii how wearisome and sore hath been thine issue to our native soil!-- since, from the golden oar hurled to the deep afar, myrtilus sank and slept, cruelly plucked from that fell chariot-floor, this house unceasingly hath kept crime and misfortune mounting evermore. _enter_ clytemnestra. clytemnestra. again you are let loose and range at will. ay, for aegisthus is not here, who barred your rashness from defaming your own kin beyond the gates. but now he's gone from home, you heed not me: though you have noised abroad that i am bold in crime, and domineer outrageously, oppressing thee and thine. i am no oppressor, but i speak thee ill, for thou art ever speaking ill of me-- still holding forth thy father's death, that i have done it. so i did: i know it well: that i deny not; for not i alone but justice slew him; and if you had sense, to side with justice ought to be your part. for who but he of all the greeks, your sire, for whom you whine and cry, who else but he took heart to sacrifice unto the gods thy sister?--having less of pain, i trow, in getting her, than i, that bore her, knew! come, let me question thee! on whose behalf slew he my child? was 't for the argive host? what right had they to traffic in my flesh?-- menelaüs was his brother. wilt thou say he slew my daughter for his brother's sake? how then should he escape me? had not he, menelaüs, children twain, begotten of her whom to reclaim that army sailed to troy? was death then so enamoured of my seed, that he must feast thereon and let theirs live? or was the god-abandoned father's heart tender toward them and cruel to my child? doth this not argue an insensate sire? i think so, though your wisdom may demur. and could my lost one speak, she would confirm it. for my part, i can dwell on what i have done without regret. you, if you think me wrong, bring reasons forth and blame me to my face! el. thou canst not say this time that i began and brought this on me by some taunting word. but, so you'd suffer me, i would declare the right both for my sister and my sire. cly. thou hast my sufferance. nor would hearing vex, if ever thus you tuned your speech to me. el. then i will speak. you say you slew him. where could there be found confession more depraved, even though the cause were righteous? but i'll prove no rightful vengeance drew thee to the deed, but the vile bands of him you dwell with now. or ask the huntress artemis, what sin she punished, when she tied up all the winds round aulis.--i will tell thee, for her voice thou ne'er may'st hear! 'tis rumoured that my sire, sporting within the goddess' holy ground, his foot disturbed a dappled hart, whose death drew from his lips some rash and boastful word. wherefore latona's daughter in fell wrath stayed the army, that in quittance for the deer my sire should slay at the altar his own child. so came her sacrifice. the achaean fleet had else no hope of being launched to troy nor to their homes. wherefore, with much constraint and painful urging of his backward will, hardly he yielded;--not for his brother's sake. but grant thy speech were sooth, and all were done in aid of menelaüs; for this cause hadst thou the right to slay him? what high law ordaining? look to it, in establishing such precedent thou dost not lay in store repentance for thyself. for if by right one die for one, thou first wilt be destroyed if justice find thee.--but again observe the hollowness of thy pretended plea. tell me, i pray, what cause thou dost uphold in doing now the basest deed of all, chambered with the blood-guilty, with whose aid thou slewest our father in that day. for him you now bear children--ousting from their right the stainless offspring of a holy sire. how should this plead for pardon? wilt thou say thus thou dost 'venge thy daughter's injury? o shameful plea? where is the thought of honour, if foes are married for a daughter's sake?-- enough. no words can move thee. thy rash tongue with checkless clamour cries that we revile our mother. nay, no mother, but the chief of tyrants to us! for my life is full of weariness and misery from thee and from thy paramour. while he abroad, orestes, our one brother, who escaped hardly from thy attempt, unhappy boy! wears out his life, victim of cross mischance. oft hast thou taunted me with fostering him to be thy punisher. and this, be sure, had i but strength, i had done. now for this word, proclaim me what thou wilt,--evil in soul, or loud in cursing, or devoid of shame: for if i am infected with such guilt, methinks my nature is not fallen from thine. ch. (_looking at_ clytemnestra). i see her fuming with fresh wrath: the thought of justice enters not her bosom now. cly. what thought of justice should be mine for her, who at her age can so insult a mother? will shame withhold her from the wildest deed? el. not unashamed, assure thee, i stand here, little as thou mayest deem it. well i feel my acts untimely and my words unmeet. but your hostility and treatment force me against my disposition to this course. harsh ways are taught by harshness. cly. brazen thing! too true it is that words and deeds of mine are evermore informing thy harsh tongue. el. the shame is yours, because the deeds are yours. my words are but their issue and effect. cly. by sovereign artemis, whom still i serve, you'll rue this boldness when aegisthus comes. el. see now, your anger bears you off, and ne'er will let you listen, though you gave me leave. cly. must i not even sacrifice in peace from your harsh clamour, when you've had your say? el. i have done. i check thee not. go, sacrifice! accuse not me of hindering piety. cly. (_to an attendant_). then lift for me those fruitful offerings, while to apollo, before whom we stand, i raise my supplication for release from doubts and fears that shake my bosom now. and, o defender of our house! attend my secret utterance. no friendly ear is that which hearkens for my voice. my thought must not be blazoned with her standing by, lest through her envious and wide-babbling tongue she fill the city full of wild surmise. list, then, as i shall speak: and grant the dreams whose two-fold apparition i to-night have seen, if good their bodement, be fulfilled: if hostile, turn their influence on my foes. and yield not them their wish that would by guile thrust me from this high fortune, but vouchsafe that ever thus exempt from harms i rule the atridae's home and kingdom, in full life, partaking with the friends i live with now all fair prosperity, and with my children, save those who hate and vex me bitterly. lykeian phoebus, favourably hear my prayer, and grant to all of us our need! more is there, which, though i be silent here, a god should understand. no secret thing is hidden from the all-seeing sons of heaven. _enter the_ old man. old m. kind dames and damsels, may i clearly know if these be king aegisthus' palace-halls? ch. they are, sir; you yourself have guessed aright. old m. may i guess further that in yonder dame i see his queen? she looks right royally. ch. 'tis she,--no other,--whom your eyes behold. old m. princess, all hail! to thee and to thy spouse i come with words of gladness from a friend. cly. that auspice i accept. but i would first learn from thee who of men hath sent thee forth? old m. phanoteus the phocian, with a charge of weight. cly. declare it, stranger. coming from a friend, thou bring'st us friendly tidings, i feel sure. old m. orestes' death. ye have the sum in brief. el. ah me! undone! this day hath ruined me. cly. what? let me hear again. regard her not. old m. again i say it, orestes is no more. el. undone! undone! farewell to life and hope! cly. (_to_ electra). see thou to thine own case! (_to_ old man) now, stranger, tell me in true discourse the manner of his death. old m. for that i am here, and i will tell the whole. he, entering on the great arena famed as hellas' pride, to win a delphian prize, on hearing the loud summons of the man calling the foot-race, which hath trial first, came forward, a bright form, admired by all. and when his prowess in the course fulfilled the promise of his form, he issued forth dowered with the splendid meed of victory.-- to tell a few out of the many feats of such a hero were beyond my power. know then, in brief, that of the prizes set for every customary course proclaimed by order of the judges, the whole sum victoriously he gathered, happy deemed by all; declared an argive, and his name orestes, son of him who levied once the mighty armament of greeks for troy. so fared he then: but when a god inclines to hinder happiness, not even the strong are scatheless. so, another day, when came at sunrise the swift race of charioteers, he entered there with many a rival car:-- one from achaia, one from sparta, two libyan commanders of the chariot-yoke; and he among them fifth, with steeds of price from thessaly;--the sixth aetolia sent with chestnut mares; the seventh a magnete man; the eighth with milk-white colts from oeta's vale; the ninth from god-built athens; and the tenth boeotia gave to make the number full. then stood they where the judges of the course had posted them by lot, each with his team; and sprang forth at the brazen trumpet's blare. shouting together to their steeds, they shook the reins, and all the course was filled with noise of rattling chariots, and the dust arose to heaven. now all in a confusèd throng spared not the goad, each eager to outgo the crowded axles and the snorting steeds; for close about his nimbly circling wheels and stooping sides fell flakes of panted foam. orestes, ever nearest at the turn, with whirling axle seemed to graze the stone, and loosing with free rein the right-hand steed that pulled the side-rope[ ], held the near one in. so for a time all chariots upright moved, but soon the oetaean's hard-mouthed horses broke from all control, and wheeling as they passed from the sixth circuit to begin the seventh, smote front to front against the barcan car. and when that one disaster had befallen, each dashed against his neighbour and was thrown, till the whole plain was strewn with chariot-wreck. then the athenian, skilled to ply the rein, drew on one side, and heaving to, let pass the rider-crested surge that rolled i' the midst. meanwhile orestes, trusting to the end, was driving hindmost with tight rein; but now, seeing him left the sole competitor, hurling fierce clamour through his steeds, pursued: so drave they yoke by yoke--now this, now that pulling ahead with car and team. orestes, ill-fated one, each previous course had driven safely without a check, but after this, in letting loose again the left-hand rein[ ], he struck the edge of the stone before he knew, shattering the axle's end, and tumbled prone, caught in the reins[ ], that dragged him with sharp thongs. then as he fell to the earth the horses swerved, and roamed the field. the people when they saw him fallen from out the car, lamented loud for the fair youth, who had achieved before them such glorious feats, and now had found such woe,-- dashed on the ground, then tossed with legs aloft against the sky,--until the charioteers, hardly restraining the impetuous team, released him, covered so with blood that none,-- no friend who saw--had known his hapless form. which then we duly burned upon the pyre. and straightway men appointed to the task from all the phocians bear his mighty frame-- poor ashes! narrowed in a brazen urn,-- that he may find in his own fatherland his share of sepulture.--such our report, painful to hear, but unto us, who saw, the mightiest horror that e'er met mine eye. ch. alas! the stock of our old masters, then, is utterly uprooted and destroyed. cly. o heavens! what shall i say? that this is well? or terrible, but gainful? hard my lot, to save my life through my calamity! old m. lady, why hath my speech disheartened thee? cly. to be a mother hath a marvellous power: no injury can make one hate one's child. old m. then it should seem our coming was in vain. cly. in vain? nay, verily; thou, that hast brought clear evidences of his fate, who, sprung prom my life's essence, severed from my breast and nurture, was estranged in banishment, and never saw me from the day he went out from this land, but for his father's blood threatened me still with accusation dire; that sleep nor soothed at night nor sweetly stole my senses from the day, but, all my time, each instant led me on the way to death!-- but this day's chance hath freed me from all fear of him, and of this maid: who being at home troubled me more, and with unmeasured thirst kept draining my life-blood; but now her threats will leave us quiet days, methinks, and peace unbroken.--how then shouldst thou come in vain? el. o misery! 'tis time to wail thy fate, orestes, when, in thy calamity, thy mother thus insults thee. is it well? cly. 'tis well that he is gone, not that you live. el. hear, 'venging spirits of the lately dead! cly. the avenging spirits have heard and answered well. el. insult us now, for thou art fortunate! cly. you and orestes are to quench my pride. el. our pride is quenched. no hope of quenching thee! cly. a world of good is in thy coming, stranger, since thou hast silenced this all-clamorous tongue. old m. then i may go my way, seeing all is well. cly. nay, go not yet! that would disgrace alike me and the friend who sent you to our land. but come thou in, and leave her out of door to wail her own and loved ones' overthrow. [_exeunt_ clytemnestra _and_ old man el. think you the wretch in heartfelt agony weeps inconsolably her perished son? she left us with a laugh! o misery! how thou hast ruined me, dear brother mine, by dying! thou hast torn from out my heart the only hope i cherished yet, that thou living wouldst come hereafter to avenge thy father's woes and mine. where must i go? since i am left of thee and of my sire bereaved and lonely, and once more must be the drudge and menial of my bitterest foes, my father's murderers. say, is it well? nay, nevermore will i consort with these, but sinking here before the palace gate, thus, friendless, i will wither out my life. hereat if any in the house be vexed, let them destroy me; for to take my life were kindness, and to live is only pain: life hath not kindled my desires with joy. ch. . o ever-blazing sun! i o lightning of the eternal sire! can ye behold this done and tamely hide your all-avenging fire? el. ah me! ch. . my daughter, why these tears? el. woe! ch. . weep not, calm thy fears. el. you kill me. ch. . how? el. to breathe a hope for one beneath so clearly sunk in death, 'tis to afflict me more already pining sore. ch. . one in a woman's toils i was tangled[ ], buried by her glittering coils, who now beneath-- el. ah woe! ch. . rules with a spirit unimpaired and strong. el. o dreadful! ch. . dreadful was the wrong. el. but she was quelled. ch. . ay. el. true! that faithful mourner knew a brother's aid. but i have no man now. the one i had, is gone, is gone. rapt into nothingness. ch. . thou art wrung with sore distress. ii el. i know it. too well i know, taught by a life of woe, where horror dwells without relief. ch. . our eyes have seen thy grief. el. then comfort not again-- ch. . whither now turns thy strain? el. one utterly bereft, seeing no hope is left, of help from hands owning the same great sire. ch. . 'tis nature's debt. ii el. to expire on sharp-cut dragging thongs, 'midst wildly trampling throngs of swiftly racing hoofs, like him, poor hapless one? ch. . vast, dim, and boundless was the harm. el. yea, severed from mine arm, by strangers kept-- ch. . o pain! el. hidden he must remain, of me unsepulchred, unmourned, unwept. _enter_ chrysothemis. chr. driven by delight, dear sister, i am come, reckless of dignity, with headlong speed. for news i bear of joy and sweet relief from ills that drew from thee thy ceaseless moan. el. whence couldst thou hear of succour for my woes, that close in darkness without hope of dawn? chr. here is orestes, learn it from my mouth, as certainly as you now look on me. el. what? art thou mad, unhappy one, to laugh over thine own calamity and mine? chr. no, by our father's hearth, i say not this in mockery. i tell you he is come. el. me miserable! who hath given thine ear the word that so hath wrought on thy belief? chr. myself am the eyewitness, no one else gained my belief, but proofs i clearly saw. el. what sign hath so engrossed thine eye, poor girl? what sight hath fired thee with this quenchless glow? chr. but list to me, i pray thee, that henceforth thou mayest account me clear eyed, or a fool! el. by all means, if it pleasure thee, say on. chr. well, i will tell thee all i saw:--i came unto the ancient tomb that holds our sire; and from the topmost mound i marked a stream of milk fresh-flowing, and his resting place ringed round with garlands of all flowers that blow. i marvelled at the sight, and peered about, lest some one might be nearer than we knew. but finding all was quiet in the spot, i ventured closer to the tomb, and there, hard by the limit, i beheld a curl of hair new shorn, with all the gloss of youth and straight it struck my heart, as with a sense of something seen, ah me! long, long ago, and told me that my sight encountered here the token of orestes, dearest soul then, clasping it, i did not cry aloud, but straight mine eyes were filled with tears of joy. and now as much as then i feel assured he and none else bestowed this ornament. to whom beyond thyself and me belongs such consecration? and i know this well, i did it not,--nor thou. impossible! thou canst not worship even the blessèd gods forth of this roof, unpunished. and, most sure, our mother is not minded so to act, nor, had she done it, could we fail to know. this offering comes then of orestes' hand. take courage, dear one. not one fate pursues one house perpetually, but changeth still. ours was a sullen genius, but perchance this day begins the assurance of much good. el. oh how i pity thine infatuate mind! chr. why? dost thou find no comfort in my news? el. you know not where you roam. far wide! far wide! chr. not know? when i have seen it with mine eyes? el. dear, he is dead. look not to him, poor girl! salvation comes to thee no more from him. chr. oh me, unfortunate! who told thee this? el. he who stood by and saw his life destroyed. chr. amazement seizes me. where is that man? el. right welcome to the mother there within. chr. me miserable! who then can have decked with all those ceremonies our father's tomb? el. i cannot but suppose some hand hath brought these gifts in memory of orestes dead. chr. o cruel fate! while i in ecstasy sped with such news, all ignorant, it seems, of our dire fortune; and, arriving, find fresh sorrows added to the former woe. el. it is so, sister; yet if thou wilt list to me, thou mayest disperse this heaviness. chr. what? shall i raise the dead again to life? el. i did not mean so. i am not so fond. chr. what bid you then that i have power to do? el. to endure courageously what i enjoin. chr. so it make profit, i will not refuse. el. remember, without toil no plan may thrive! chr. i know it, and will aid thee to my power. el. then hearken my resolve. thou seëst now, we have no friendly succour in the world; but death has taken all, and we are left two only. i, so long as i could hear my brother lived and flourished, still had hope he would arise to wreak his father's blood. but now that he is gone, to thee i turn, to help thy sister boldly to destroy the guilty author of our father's death, aegisthus.--wherefore hide it from thee now? --yea, sister! till what term wilt thou remain inactive? to what end? what hope is yet left standing? surely thou hast cause to grieve, bobbed of thy father's opulent heritage, and feeling bitterly the creeping years that find thee still a virgin and unwed. nay, nor imagine thou shalt ever know that blessing. not so careless of his life is king aegisthus, as to risk the birth of sons from us, to his most certain fall. but if thou wilt but follow my resolve, first thou shalt win renown of piety from our dead father, and our brother too, who rest beneath the ground, and shalt be free for evermore in station as in birth, and nobly matched in marriage, for the good draw gazers to them still. then seest thou not what meed of honour, if thou dost my will, thou shalt apportion to thyself and me? for who, beholding us, what citizen, what foreigner, will not extend the hand of admiration, and exclaim, 'see, friends, these scions of one stock, these noble twain, these that have saved their father's house from woe, who once when foes were mighty, set their life upon a cast, and stood forth to avenge the stain of blood! who will not love the pair and do them reverence? who will not give honour at festivals, and in the throng of popular resort, to these in chief, for their high courage and their bold emprise?' such fame will follow us in all the world. living or dying, still to be renowned. ah, then, comply, dear sister; give thy sire this toil--this labour to thy brother give; end these my sufferings, end thine own regret: the well-born cannot bear to live in shame. ch. in such affairs, for those who speak and hear wise thoughtfulness is still the best ally. chr. true, noble women, and before she spake sound thought should have prevented the rash talk that now hath proved her reckless. what wild aim beckons thee forth in arming this design whereto thou wouldst demand my ministry? dost not perceive, thou art not man but woman, of strength inferior to thine enemies,-- their genius daily prospering more and more, whilst ours is dwindling into nothingness? who then that plots against a life so strong shall quit him of the danger without harm? take heed we do not add to our distress should some one hear of this our colloquy. small help and poor advantage 'twere for us to win brief praise and then inglorious die. nay, death is not so hateful as when one desiring death is balked of that desire. and i beseech thee, ere in utter ruin we perish and make desolate our race, refrain thy rage. and i will guard for thee in silence these thy words unrealized; if thou wilt learn this wisdom from long time, having no strength, to bend before the strong. ch. comply. than prudence and a heedful mind, no fairer treasure can be found for men. el. thy words have not surprised me. well i knew the good i offered would come back with scorn. i, all alone and with a single hand, must do this. for it shall not rest undone. chr. would thou hadst been thus minded when our sire lay dying! in one act thou hadst compassed all. el. my spirit was the same: my mind was less. chr. be such the life-long temper of thy mind! el. thine admonition augurs little aid. chr. yea. for the attempt would bring me certain bane. el. i envy thee thy prudence, hate thy fear. chr. even when thou speak'st me fair, i will endure it. el. take heart. that never will be thine from me. chr. long time remains to settle that account. el. i find no profit in thee. go thy way. chr. profit there is, hadst thou a mind to learn. el. go to thy mother and declare all this! chr. i am not so in hatred of thy life. el. yet know the shame thou wouldst prepare for me. chr. no, no! not shame, but care for thine estate. el. must i still follow as thou thinkest good? chr. when thou hast wisdom, thou shalt be the guide. el. 'tis hard when error wears the garb of sense. chr. right. that is the misfortune of your case. el. why? feel you not the justice of my speech? chr. justice may chance to bring me injury. el. i care not, i, to live by such a rule. chr. well, if you do it, you will find me wise. el. well, i will do it, nought dismayed by thee. chr. speak you plain sooth? and will you not be counselled? el. no, for bad counsel is of all most hateful. chr. you take the sense of nothing that i say. el. long since, not newly, my resolve is firm. chr. then i will go. thy heart will ne'er be brought to praise my words, nor i thine action here. el. then go within! i will not follow thee, though thou desire it vehemently. none would be so fond to hunt on a cold trail. chr. if this seem wisdom to thee, then be wise thy way: but in the hour of misery, when it hath caught thee, thou wilt praise my words. [_exit_ chrysothemis chorus. wise are the birds of air i that with true filial care for those provide convenient food who gave them birth, who wrought their good. why will not men the like perfection prove? else, by the fires above, and heavenly rectitude, fierce recompense they shall not long elude. o darkling rumour, world-o'er-wandering voice that piercest to the shades beneath the ground, to dead atrides waft a sound of sad reproach, not bidding him rejoice. stained is the ancestral hall, i broken the battle-call, that heretofore his children twain in loving concord did sustain. alone, deserted, vexed, electra sails, storm-tossed with rugged gales, lamenting evermore like piteous philomel, and pining sore for her lost father;--might she but bring down that two-fold fury, caring not for death, but ready to resign her breath, what maid so worthy of a sire's renown? none who inherit from a noble race, ii complying with things base will let their ancient glory be defiled. so 'twas thy choice, dear child, through homeless misery[ ] to win a two-fold prize, purging the sin and shame[ ] that cloud the argive name, so to be called most noble and most wise. may'st thou surpass thy foes in wealth and power ii as o'er thee now they tower! since i have found thee, not in bright estate, nor blessed by wayward fate, but through thy loyalty to heaven's eternal cause wearing the stainless crown of perfectest renown, and richly dowered by the mightiest laws. _enter_ orestes _and_ pylades, _with the urn_. or. say, dames and damsels, have we heard aright, and speed we to the goal of our desire? ch. and what desire or quest hath brought thee hither? or. i seek aegisthus' dwelling all this while. ch. welcome. the tongue that told thee hath no blame. or. which of you all will signify within our joint arrival,--not unwelcome here. ch. this maiden, if the nearest should report. or. mistress, wilt thou go yonder and make known, that certain phocians on aegisthus wait? el. oh! can it be that you are come to bring clear proofs of the sad rumour we have heard? or. i know not what ye have heard. old strophius charged me with tidings of orestes' fate. el. what, stranger? how this terror steals on me! or. bearing scant remnants of his body dead in this small vase thou seest, we bring them home. el. o sorrow! thou art here: i see full well that burden of my heart in present view. or. if thou hast tears for aught orestes suffered, know that he lies within this vessel's room. el. ah, sir! by all in heaven, if yonder urn hide him, ah! give it once into my hand, that o'er that dust i may lament and mourn myself and mine own house and all our woe! or. bring it and give her, whosoe'er she be. for not an enemy--this petition shows it-- but of his friends or kindred, is this maid. [_the urn is given into_ electra's _hands_ el. o monument of him whom o'er all else i loved! sole relic of orestes' life, how cold in this thy welcome is the hope wherein i decked thee as i sent thee forth! then bright was thy departure, whom i now bear lightly, a mere nothing, in my hands. would i had gone from life, ere i dispatched thee from my arms that saved thee to a land of strangers, stealing thee from death! for then thou hadst been quiet on that far off day, and had thy portion in our father's tomb now thou hast perished in the stranger land far from thy sister, lorn and comfortless and i, o wretchedness! neither have bathed and laid thee forth, nor from the blazing fire collected the sad burden, as was meet but thou, when foreign hands have tended thee com'st a small handful in a narrow shell woe for the constant care i spent on thee of old all vainly, with sweet toil! for never wast thou thy mother's darling, nay, but mine, and i of all the household most thy nurse, while 'sister, sister,' was thy voice to me but now all this is vanished in one day, dying in thy death. thou hast carried all away as with a whirlwind, and art gone. no more my father lives, thyself art lost in death, i am dead, who lived in thee. our enemies laugh loudly, and she maddens in her joy, our mother most unmotherly, of whom thy secret missives ofttimes told me, thou wouldst be the punisher. but that fair hope the hapless genius of thy lot and mine hath reft away, and gives thee thus to me,-- for thy loved form thy dust and fruitless shade o bitterness! o piteous sight! woe! woe! oh! sent on thy dire journey, dearest one, how thou hast ruined me! thou hast indeed, dear brother! then receive me to thyself, hide me in this thy covering, there to dwell, me who am nothing, with thy nothingness, for ever! yea, when thou wert here above, i ever shared with thee in all, and now i would not have thee shut me from thy tomb. oh! let me die and follow thee! the dead, my mind assures me now, have no more pain. ch. electra, think! thou hadst a mortal sire, and mortal was thy brother. grieve not far. or. o me! what shall i speak, or which way turn the desperate word? i cannot hold my tongue. el. what pain o'ercomes thee? wherefore speak'st thou so? or. can this be famed electra i behold? el. no other. in sad case, as you may see or. ah! deep indeed was this calamity! el. is't possible that thou shouldst grieve for me? or. o ruined form! abandoned to disgrace! el. 'tis me you mean, stranger, i feel it now. or. woe 's me! untrimmed for bridal, hapless maid! el. why this fixed gaze, o stranger! that deep groan? or. how all unknowing was i of mine ill! el. what thing hath passed to make it known to thee? or. the sight of thee attired with boundless woe. el. and yet thine eye sees little of my pain. or. can aught be still more hateful to be seen? el. i have my dwelling with the murderers-- or. of whom? what evil would thy words disclose? el. of him who gave me birth. i am their slave. or. whose power compels thee to this sufferance? el. one called my mother, most unmotherly. or. how? by main force, or by degrading shames? el. by force and shames, and every kind of evil. or. and is there none to succour or prevent? el. none. him i had, you give me here in dust. or. how mine eye pities thee this while, poor maid! el. know now, none ever pitied me but you. or. none ever came whose heart like sorrow wrung. el. is't possible we have some kinsman here? or. i will tell it, if these women here be friendly. el. they are. they may be trusted. only speak. or. let go yon vase, that thou may'st learn the whole. el. nay, by the gods! be not so cruel, sir! or. obey me and thou shalt not come to harm. el. ah, never rob me of what most i love! or. you must not hold it. el. o me miserable for thee, orestes, if i lose thy tomb! or. speak no rash word. thou hast no right to mourn. el. no right to mourn my brother who is gone? or. such utterance belongs not to thy tongue, el. oh, am i thus dishonoured of the dead? or. far from dishonour. but this ne'er was thine. el. is't not orestes' body that i bear? or. nay, but the idle dressing of a tale. el. and where is his poor body's resting-place? or. nowhere. seek not the living with the dead, el. my son, what saidst thou? or. nought but what is true. el. doth he yet live? or. if i have life in me. el. art thou orestes? or. let my signet here, that was our father's, tell thine eyes, i am. el. o day of days! or. time hath no happier hour. el. is it thy voice? or. hearken not otherwhere. el. have my arms caught thee? or. hold me so for aye! el. o dearest women, argives of my home! ye see orestes, dead in craft, but now by that same craft delivered and preserved. ch. we see, dear daughter, and the gladsome tear steals from our eye to greet the bright event. el. offspring of him i loved beyond all telling! i ah! thou art come,--hast found me, eye to eye behold'st the face thou didst desire to see. or. true, i am here; but bide in silence still. el. wherefore? or. hush! speak not loud, lest one within should hearken. el. by ever-virgin artemis, ne'er will i think worthy of my fear this useless mass of woman-cowardice burdening the house within, not peering out of door. or. yet know that women too have might in war. of that methinks thou hast feeling evidence. el. ah me! thou hast unveiled and thrust before my gaze that burning load of my distress no time will soothe, no remedy will heal. or. i know that too. but when we are face to face with the evildoers,--then let remembrance work. el. all times alike are fit with instant pain i justly to mind me of that dreadful day; even now but hardly hath my tongue been free. or. yes, that is it. therefore preserve this boon. el. whereby? or. put limits to unseasonable talk. el. ah! brother, who, when thou art come, could find it meet to exchange language for silence, as thou bidst me do? since beyond hope or thought was this thy sight to me. or. god gave me to your sight when so he willed. el. o heaven of grace beyond the joy i knew but now! if god hath brought thee to our roof, a miracle of bounty then is here. or. i hate to curb the gladness of thy spirit, but yet i fear this ecstasy of joy. el. oh! after all these years, ii now thou at length hast sped thy dearest advent on the wished-for way, do not, in all this woe thou seest surrounding me-- or. what means this prayer? el. forbid me not my joy, nor make me lose the brightness of thy face! or. deep were my wrath at him who should attempt it. el. is my prayer heard? or. why doubt it? el. friends, i learned a tale beyond my thought; and hearing i restrained my passion, voiceless in my misery, uttering no cry. but now i have thee safe; now, dearest, thou art come, with thy blest countenance, which i can ne'er forget, even at the worst of woe. or. a truce now to unnecessary words. my mother's vileness and aegisthus' waste, draining and squandering with spendthrift hand our patrimony, tell me not anew. such talk might stifle opportunity. but teach me, as befits the present need, what place may serve by lurking vigilance or sudden apparition to o'erwhelm our foes in the adventure of to-day. and, when we pass within, take heedful care bright looks betray thee not unto our mother. but groan as for the dire calamity vainly reported:--let's achieve success, then with free hearts we may rejoice and laugh. el. dear brother, wheresoe'er thy pleasure leads, my will shall follow, since the joys i know, not from myself i took them, but from thee. and ne'er would i consent thy slightest grief should win for me great gain. ill should i then serve the divinity of this high hour! thou knowest how matters in the palace stand. thou hast surely heard, aegisthus is from home, and she, our mother, is within. nor fear she should behold me with a smiling face. mine ancient hate of her hath sunk too deep. and from the time i saw thee, tears of joy will cease not. wherefore should i stint their flow? i, who in this thy coming have beheld thee dead and living? strangely hast thou wrought on me;--that should my father come alive, i would not think the sight were miracle, but sober truth. since such thy presence, then, lead as thy spirit prompts. for i alone of two things surely had achieved one, noble deliverance or a noble death. or. be silent; for i hear within the house a footstep coming forth. el. (_loudly_). strangers, go in! for none within the palace will reject your burden, nor be gladdened by the event. _enter the_ old man. old m. o lost in folly and bereft of soul! is't that your care for life hath ebbed away, or were you born without intelligence, when fallen, not near, but in the midst of ill, and that the greatest, ye perceive it not? had i not watched the doors this while, your deeds had gone within the palace ere yourselves. but, as things are, my care hath fenced you round. now, then, have done with long-protracted talk, and this insatiable outburst of joy, and enter, for in such attempts as these delay is harmful: and 'tis more than time. or. but how shall i find matters there within? old m. well. you are shielded by their ignorance. or. that means you have delivered me as dead. old m. alone of dead men thou art here above. or. doth this delight them, or how went the talk? old m. i will report, when all is done. meanwhile, know, all is well with them, even what is evil. el. who is this, brother? i beseech thee, tell. or. dost not perceive? el. i cannot even imagine. or. know'st not into whose hands thou gav'st me once? el. whose hands? how say you? or. his, who through thy care conveyed me secretly to phocis' plain. el. what! is this he, whom i, of all the band, found singly faithful in our father's death? or. he is that man. no more! el. o gladsome day! dear only saviour of our father's house, how earnest thou hither? art thou he indeed, that didst preserve orestes and myself from many sorrows? o dear hands, kind feet, swift in our service,--how couldst thou so long be near, nor show one gleam, but didst destroy my heart with words, hiding the loveliest deeds? father!--in thee methinks i see my father. o welcome! thou of all the world to me most hated and most loved in one short hour. old m. enough, dear maiden! many nights and days are circling hitherward, that shall reveal in clear recountment all that came between. but to you two that stand beside i tell, now is your moment, with the queen alone, and none of men within; but if you pause, know that with others of profounder skill you'll have to strive, more than your present foes. or. then, pylades, we need no more to dwell on words, but enter on this act with speed, first worshipping the holy shrines o' the gods that were my father's, harboured at the gate. [_they pass within_. electra _remains in an attitude of prayer_ el. o king apollo! hear them graciously, and hear me too, that with incessant hand honoured thee richly from my former store! and now, fierce slayer, i importune thee, and woo thee with such gifts as i can give, be kindly aidant to this enterprise, and make the world take note, what meed of bane heaven still bestows on man's iniquity. [electra _goes within_ ch. lo, where the war-god moves with soft, sure footstep, on to his design, breathing hot slaughter of an evil feud! even now the inevitable hounds that track dark deeds of hideous crime are gone beneath the covert of the domes. not long in wavering suspense shall hang the dreaming presage of my wistful soul. for lo! within is led with crafty tread the avenger of the shades, even to his father's throne of ancient power, and in his hand the bright new-sharpened death! and hermes, maia's son, is leading him, and hath concealed the guile even to the fatal end in clouds of night. his time of weary waiting all is o'er. _re-enter_ electra. el. o dearest women! they are even now about it. only bide in silence still. ch. what is the present scene? el. she decks the vase for burial, and they both are standing by. ch. and wherefore hast thou darted forth? el. to watch aegisthus' coming, that he enter not at unawares. cly. (_within_). ah! ah! woe for the house, desert of friends, and filled with hands of death! el. a cry within! did ye not hear it, friends? ch. would i had not! i heard, and shivered through. cly. (_within_). oh me! alas, aegisthus! where art thou? el. hark! yet again that sound! cly. (_within_). o son, have pity! pity the womb that bare thee. el. thou hadst none for him, nor for his father, in that day. half-ch. poor city! hapless race! thy destiny to-day wears thee away, away. what morn shall see thy face? cly. (_within_). oh, i am smitten! el. give a second stroke, if thou hast power. cly. (_within_). oh me! again, again! el. would thou wert shrieking for aegisthus too! ch. the curse hath found, and they in earth who lie are living powers to-day. long dead, they drain away the streaming blood of those who made them die. _enter_ orestes _and_ pylades. behold, they come, they come! his red hand dripping as he moves with drops of sacrifice the war-god loves. my 'wildered heart is dumb. el. how is it with you, brother? or. if apollo spake rightfully, the state within is well. el. wretched one, is she dead? or. no more have fear thou shalt be slighted by thy mother's will. ch. cease, for i see aegisthus near in view. el. in, in again, boys! or. where do ye behold the tyrant? el. to our hand from yonder gate he comes with beaming look. half-ch. haste, with what speed ye may, stand on the doorway stone, that, having thus much done, ye may do all to-day. or. fear not: we will perform it. el. speed ye now: follow your thought. or. we are already there. el. leave matters here to me. all shall go well. [_exit_ orestes _with_ pylades ch. few words, as if in gentleness, 'twere good to utter in his ear, that, eager and unware, one step may launch him on the field of blood. _enter_ aegisthus. aegisthus. which of you know where are the phocian men who brought the news i hear, orestes' life hath suffered shipwreck in a chariot-race? you, you i question, you in former time so fearless! you methinks most feelingly can tell us, for it touches you most near. el. i know: assure thee. else had i not heard the dearest of all fortunes to my heart. aeg. where are the strangers then? enlighten me. el. yonder. their hostess entertained them well. aeg. and did they certainly report him dead? el. not only so. they showed him to our sight. aeg. may this clear evidence be mine to see? el. i envy not the sight that waits you there. aeg. against their wont thy words have given me joy. el. much joy be thine, if this be joy to thee! aeg. silence, i say! wide let the gates be flung! for all the myceneans to behold and all in argolis, that if but one hath heretofore been buoyed on empty hopes fixed in orestes, seeing him now dead, he may accept my manage, and not wait for our stern chastisement to teach him sense. el. my lesson is already learnt: at length i am schooled to labour with the stronger will. [_the body of_ clytemnestra _is disclosed under a veil:_ orestes _standing by_ aeg. zeus! divine envy surely hath laid low the form i here behold. but if the truth provoke heaven's wrath, be it unexpressed.--unveil! off with all hindrance, that mine eye may see, and i may mourn my kinsman as i should. or. thyself put forth thy hand. not mine but thine to look and speak with kindness to this corse. aeg. i will, for thou advisest well; but thou, call clytemnestra, if she be within. [aegisthus _lifts the shroud_ or. she is beside thee, gaze not otherwhere. aeg. what do i see! oh! or. why so strange? whom fear you? aeg. who are the men into whose midmost toils all hapless i am fallen? or. ha! knowest thou not thou hast been taking living men for dead?[ ] aeg. i understand that saying. woe is me! i know, orestes' voice addresseth me. or. a prophet! how wert thou so long deceived? aeg. undone, undone! yet let me speak one word. el. brother, by heaven, no more! let him not speak. when death is certain, what do men in woe gain from a little time? kill him at once! and, killed, expose him to such burial from dogs and vultures, as beseemeth such, far from our view. nought less will solace me for the remembrance of a life of pain. or. go in and tarry not. no contest this of verbal question, but of life or death. aeg. why drive you me within? if this you do be noble, why must darkness hide the deed? why not destroy me out of hand? or. command not! enter, and in the place where ye cut down my father, thou shalt yield thy life to me. aeg. is there no help but this abode must see the past and future ills of pelops' race? or. thine anyhow. that i can prophesy with perfect inspiration to thine ear. aeg. the skill you boast belonged not to your sire. or. you question and delay. go in! aeg. lead on. or. nay, go thou first. aeg. that i may not escape thee? or. no, that thou may'st not have thy wish in death. i may not stint one drop of bitterness. and would this doom were given without reprieve, if any try to act beyond the law, to kill them. then the wicked would be few. leader of ch. o seed of atreus! how triumphantly through grief and hardness thou hast freedom found, with full achievement in this onset crowned! * * * * * the trachinian maidens the persons dÊanira, _wife of heracles._ _an_ attendant. hyllus, _son of heracles and dêanira_. chorus _of trachinian maidens_. _a_ messenger. lichas, _the herald_. _a_ nurse. _an_ old man. heracles. iole, _who does not speak_. scene. before the temporary abode of heracles in trachis. this tragedy is named from the chorus. from the subject it might have been called 'deanira or the death of heracles'. the centaur nessus, in dying by the arrow of heracles, which had been dipped in the venom of the hydra, persuaded the bride deanira, whose beauty was the cause of his death, to keep some of the blood from the wound as a love-charm for her husband. many years afterwards, when heracles was returning from his last exploit of sacking oechalia, in euboea, he sent before him, by his herald lichas, iole, the king's daughter, whom he had espoused. deanira, when she had discovered this, commissioned lichas when he returned to present his master with a robe, which she had anointed with the charm,--hoping by this means to regain her lord's affection. but the poison of the hydra did its work, and heracles died in agony, deanira having already killed herself on ascertaining what she had done. the action takes place in trachis, near the mahae gulf, where heracles and deanira, by permission of ceyx, the king of the country, have been living in exile. at the close of the drama, heracles, while yet alive, is carried towards his pyre on mount oeta. the trachinian maidens dÊanira. men say,--'twas old experience gave the word, --'no lot of mortal, ere he die, can once be known for good or evil.' but i know, before i come to the dark dwelling-place, mine is a lot, adverse and hard and sore. who yet at pleuron, in my father's home, of all aetolian women had most cause to fear my bridal. for a river-god, swift achelôüs, was my suitor there and sought me from my father in three forms; now in his own bull-likeness, now a serpent of coiling sheen, and now with manlike build but bovine front, while from the shadowy beard sprang fountain-waters in perpetual spray. looking for such a husband, i, poor girl! still prayed that death might find me, ere i knew that nuptial.--later, to my glad relief, zeus' and alcmena's glorious offspring came, and closed with him in conflict, and released my heart from torment. how the fight was won i could not tell. if any were who saw unshaken of dread foreboding, such may speak. but i sate quailing with an anguished fear, lest beauty might procure me nought but pain, till he that rules the issue of all strife, gave fortunate end--if fortunate! for since, assigned by that day's conquest, i have known the couch of heracles, my life is spent in one continual terror for his fate. night brings him, and, ere morning, some fresh toil drives him afar. and i have borne him seed; which he, like some strange husbandman that farms a distant field, finds but at sowing time and once in harvest. such a weary life still tossed him to and fro,--no sooner home but forth again, serving i know not whom. and when his glorious head had risen beyond these labours, came the strongest of my fear. for since he quelled the might of iphitus, we here in trachis dwell, far from our home, dependent on a stranger, but where he is gone, none knoweth. only this i know, his going pierced my heart with pangs for him, and now i am all but sure he bears some woe. these fifteen months he hath sent me not one word. and i have cause for fear. ere he set forth he left a scroll with me, whose dark intent i oft pray heaven may bring no sorrow down. attendant. queen dêanira, many a time ere now have i beheld thee with all tearful moan bewailing the departure of thy lord. but, if it be permitted that a slave should tender counsel to the free, my voice may venture this:--of thy strong band of sons why is not one commissioned to explore for heracles? and why not hyllus first, whom most it would beseem to show regard for tidings of his father's happiness? ah! here i see him bounding home, with feet apt for employment! if you count me wise, he and my words attend upon your will. _enter_ hyllus. dÊ. dear child, dear boy! even from the lowliest head wise counsel may come forth. this woman here, though a bond-maiden, hath a free-born tongue. hyl. what word is spoken, mother? may i know? dÊ. that, with thy father lost to us so long, 'tis shame thou dost not learn his dwelling-place. hyl. yea, i have learnt, if one may trust report. dÊ. where art thou told his seat is fixed, my son? hyl. 'tis said that through the length of this past year he wrought as bondman to a lydian girl. dÊ. hath he borne that? then nothing can be strange! hyl. well, that is over, i am told. he is free. dÊ. where is he rumoured, then, alive or dead? hyl. in rich euboea, besieging, as they tell, the town of eurytus, or offering siege. dÊ. child, hast thou heard what holy oracles he left with me, touching that very land? hyl. what were they, mother, for i never knew? dÊ. that either he must end his being there, or, this one feat performed, his following time should grace his life with fair prosperity. wilt thou not then, my child, when he is held in such a crisis of uncertain peril, run to his aid?--since we must perish with him, or owe our lasting safety to his life. hyl. i will go, mother. had i heard this voice of prophecy, long since i had been there. fear is unwonted for our father's lot. but now i know, my strength shall all be spent to learn the course of these affairs in full. dÊ. go then, my son. though late, to learn and do what wisdom bids, hath certainty of gain. [_exit_ hyllus. dÊanira _withdraws_ chorus (_entering and turning towards the east_). born of the starry night in her undoing, i lulled in her bosom at thy parting glow, o sun! i bid thee show, what journey is alcmena's child pursuing? what region holds him now, 'mong winding channels of the deep, or asian plains, or rugged western steep? declare it, thou peerless in vision of thy flashing ray that lightens on the world with each new day. sad dêanira, bride of battle-wooing[ ], i ne'er lets her tearful eyelids close in rest, but in love-longing breast, like some lorn bird its desolation rueing, of her great husband's way still mindful, worn with harrowing fear lest some new danger for him should be near, by night and day pines on her widowed couch of ceaseless thought, with dread of evil destiny distraught: [_enter_ dÊanira. for many as are billows of the south ii blowing unweariedly, or northern gale, one going and another coming on incessantly, baffling the gazer's eye, such cretan ocean of unending toil cradles our cadmus-born, and swells his fame. but still some power doth his foot recall from stumbling down to hades' darkling hall. wherefore, in censure of thy mood, i bring ii glad, though opposing, counsel. let not hope grow weary. never hath a painless life been cast on mortals by the power supreme of the all-disposer, cronos' son. but joy and sorrow visit in perpetual round all mortals, even as circleth still on high the constellation of the northern sky. what lasteth in the world? not starry night, iii nor wealth, nor tribulation; but is gone all suddenly, while to another soul the joy or the privation passeth on. these hopes i bid thee also, o my queen! hold fast continually, for who hath seen zeus so forgetful of his own? how can his providence forsake his son? dÊ. i see you have been told of my distress, and that hath brought you. but my inward woe, be it evermore unknown to you, as now! such the fair garden of untrammeled ease where the young life grows safely. no fierce heat, no rain, no wind disturbs it, but unharmed it rises amid airs of peace and joy, till maiden turn to matron, and the night inherit her dark share of anxious thought, haunted with fears for husband or for child. then, imaged through her own calamity, some one may guess the burden of my life. full many have been the sorrows i have wept, but one above the rest i tell to-day. when my great husband parted last from home, he left within the house an ancient scroll inscribed with characters of mystic note, which heracles had never heretofore, in former labours, cared to let me see,-- as bound for bright achievement, not for death. but now, as though his life had end, he told what marriage-portion i must keep, what shares he left his sons out of their father's ground: and set a time, when fifteen moons were spent, counted from his departure, that even then or he must die, or if that date were out and he had run beyond it, he should live thenceforth a painless and untroubled life. such by heaven's fiat was the promised end of heracles' long labours, as he said; so once the ancient oak-tree had proclaimed in high dodona through the sacred doves. of which prediction on this present hour in destined order of accomplishment the veritable issue doth depend. and i, dear friends, while taking rest, will oft start from sweet slumbers with a sudden fear, scared by the thought, my life may be bereft of the best husband in the world of men. ch. hush! for i see approaching one in haste, garlanded, as if laden with good news. _enter_ messenger. messenger. queen dêanira, mine shall be the tongue to free thee first from fear. alcmena's child is living, be assured, and triumphing, and bringing to our gods the fruits of war. dÊ. what mean'st thou, aged sir, by what thou sayest? mess. that soon thy husband, envied all around, will come, distinguished with victorious might. dÊ. what citizen or stranger told thee this? mess. your herald lichas, where the oxen graze the summer meadow, cries this to a crowd. i, hearing, flew off hither, that being first to bring thee word thereof, i might be sure to win reward and gratitude from thee. dÊ. and how is he not here, if all be well? mess. crossed by no light impediment, my queen. for all the maliac people, gathering round, throng him with question, that he cannot move. but he must still the travail of each soul, and none will be dismissed unsatisfied. such willing audience he unwillingly harangues, but soon himself will come in sight. dÊ. o zeus! who rulest oeta's virgin wold, at last, though late, thou hast vouchsafed us joy. lift up your voices, o my women! ye within the halls, and ye beyond the gate! for now we reap the gladness of a ray, that dawns unhoped for in this rumour's sound. chorus with a shout by the hearth let the palace roof ring from those that are dreaming of bridal, and ye, young men, let your voices in harmony sing to the god of the quiver, the lord of the free! and the paean withal from the maiden band to artemis, huntress of many a land, let it rise o'er the glad roof tree, to phoebus' own sister, with fire in each hand, and the nymphs that her co-mates be! my spirit soars. o sovereign of my soul! i will accept the thrilling flute's control. [_they dance_ the ivy-crownèd thyrsus, see! with bacchic fire is kindling me, and turns my emulous tread where'er the mazy dance may lead. euoî! euoî! o paean! send us joy. see, dearest queen, behold! before thy gaze the event will now unfold. dÊ. think not mine eye hath kept such careless guard, dear maids, that i could miss this moving train. herald, i bid thee hail, although so late appearing, if thou bringest health with thee! _enter_ lichas, _with_ captive women. lichas. a happy welcome on a happy way, as prosperous our achievement. meet it is good words should greet bright actions, mistress mine! dÊ. kind friend, first tell me what i first would know-- shall i receive my heracles alive? lich. i left him certainly alive and strong: blooming in health, not with disease oppressed. dÊ. in greece, or in some barbarous country? tell! lich. euboea's island hath a promontory, where to cenaean zeus he consecrates rich altars and the tribute of the ground. dÊ. moved by an oracle, or from some vow? lich. so vowed he when he conquered with the spear the country of these women whom you see. dÊ. and who, by heaven, are they? who was their sire? their case is piteous, or eludes my thought. lich. he took them for the service of the gods and his own house, when high oechalia fell. dÊ. was't then before that city he was kept those endless ages of uncounted time? lich. not so. the greater while he was detained among the lydians, sold, as he declares, to bondage. nor be jealous of the word, since heaven, my queen, was author of the deed. enthrallèd so to asian omphalè, he, as himself avers, fulfilled his year. the felt reproach whereof so chafed his soul, he bound fierce curses on himself and sware that,--children, wife and all,--he yet would bring in captive chains the mover of this harm. nor did this perish like an idle word, but, when the stain was off him, straight he drew allied battalions to assault the town of eurytus, whom, sole of earthly powers, he had noted as the source of his annoy, because, having received him in his hall a guest of ancient days, he burst on him with outrage of loud voice and villanous mind, saying, 'with his hand upon the unerring bow, oechalia's princes could o'ershoot his skill; and born to bondage, he must quail beneath his overlord'; lastly, to crown this cry, when at a banquet he was filled with wine, he flung him out of door. whereat being wroth, when iphitus to the tirynthian height followed the track where his brood-mares had strayed, he, while the thought and eye of the man by chance were sundered, threw him from the tower-crowned cliff. in anger for which deed the olympian king, father of gods and men, delivered him to be a bond-slave, nor could brook the offence, that of all lives he vanquished, this alone should have been ta'en by guile. for had he wrought in open quittance of outrageous wrong, even zeus had granted that his cause was just. the braggart hath no favour even in heaven. whence they, o'erweening with their evil tongue, are now all dwellers in the house of death, their ancient city a captive;--but these women whom thou beholdest, from their blest estate brought suddenly to taste of piteous woe, come to thy care. this task thy wedded lord ordained, and i, his faithful minister, seek to perform. but, for his noble self, when with pure hands he hath done sacrifice to his great father for the victory given, look for his coming, lady. this last word of all my happy speech is far most sweet. ch. now surety of delight is thine, my queen, part by report and part before thine eye. dÊ. yea, now i learn this triumph of my lord, joy reigns without a rival in my breast. this needs must run with that in fellowship. yet wise consideration even of good is flecked with fear of what reverse may come. and i, dear friends, when i behold these maids, am visited with sadness deep and strange. poor friendless beings, in a foreign land wandering forlorn in homeless orphanhood! erewhile, free daughters of a freeborn race, now, snared in strong captivity for life. o zeus of battles, breaker of the war, ne'er may i see thee[ ] turn against my seed so cruelly; or, if thou meanest so, let me be spared that sorrow by my death! such fear in me the sight of these hath wrought. who art thou, of all damsels most distressed? single or child-bearing? thy looks would say, a maid, of no mean lineage. lichas, tell, who is the stranger-nymph? who gave her birth? who was her sire? mine eye hath pitied her o'er all, as she o'er all hath sense of woe. lich. what know i? why should'st thou demand? perchance not lowest in the list of souls there born. dÊ. how if a princess, offspring of their king? lich. i cannot tell. i did not question far. dÊ. have none of her companions breathed her name? lich. i brought them silently. i did not hear. dÊ. yet speak it to us of thyself, poor maid! 'tis sorrow not to know thee who thou art. lich. she'll ne'er untie her tongue, if she maintain an even tenor, since nor more nor less would she disclose; but, poor unfortunate! with agonizing sobs and tears she mourns this crushing sorrow, from the day she left her wind-swept home. her case is cruel, sure,-- and claims a privilege from all who feel. dÊ. well, let her go, and pass beneath the roof in peace, as she desires; nor let fresh pain from me be added to her previous woe. she hath enough already. come, away! let's all within at once, that thou mayest speed thy journey, and i may order all things here. [_exit_ lichas, _with_ captives, _into the house_. dÊanira _is about to follow them_ _re-enter_ messenger. mess. pause first there on the threshold, till you learn (apart from those) who 'tis you take within, and more besides that you yet know not of, which deeply imports your knowing. of all this i throughly am informed. dÊ. what cause hast thou thus to arrest my going? mess. stand, and hear. not idle was my former speech, nor this. dÊ. say, must we call them back in presence here, or would'st thou tell thy news to these and me? mess. to thee and these i may, but let those be. dÊ. well, they are gone. let words declare thy drift. mess. that man, in all that he hath lately said, hath sinned against the truth: or now he's false, or else unfaithful in his first report. dÊ. what? tell me thy full meaning clearly forth. that thou hast uttered is all mystery. mess. i heard this herald say, while many thronged to hearken, that this maiden was the cause, why lofty-towered oechalia and her lord fell before heracles, whom love alone of heavenly powers had warmed to this emprise, and not the lydian thraldom or the tasks of rigorous omphalè, nor that wild fate of rock-thrown iphitus. now he thrusts aside the love-god, contradicting his first tale. when he that was her sire could not be brought to yield the maid for heracles to hold in love unrecognized, he framed erelong a feud about some trifle, and set forth in arms against this damsel's fatherland (where eurytus, the herald said, was king) and slew the chief her father; yea, and sacked their city. now returning, as you see, he sends her hither to his halls, no slave, nor unregarded, lady,--dream not so! since all his heart is kindled with desire. i, o my queen! thought meet to show thee all the tale i chanced to gather from his mouth, which many heard as well as i, i' the midst of trachis' market-place, and can confirm my witness. i am pained if my plain speech sound harshly, but the honest truth i tell. dÊ. ah me! where am i? whither am i fallen? what hidden woe have i unwarily taken beneath my roof? o misery! was she unknown, as he that brought her sware? mess. nay, most distinguished both in birth and mien; called in her day of freedom iolè, eurytus' daughter,--of whose parentage, forsooth as ignorant, he ne'er would speak. ch. i curse not all the wicked, but the man whose secret practices deform his life. dÊ. say, maidens, how must i proceed? the words now spoken have bewildered all my mind. ch. go in and question lichas, who perchance will tell the truth if you but tax him home. dÊ. i will; you counsel reasonably. mess. and i, shall i bide here till thou com'st forth? or how? dÊ. remain. for see, without my sending for him, he issueth from the palace of himself. _enter_ lichas. lich. what message must i carry to my lord? tell me, my queen. i am going, as thou seest. dÊ. so slow in coming, and so quickly flown, ere one have time to talk with thee anew! lich. what wouldst thou ask me? i am bent to hear. dÊ. and art thou bent on truth in the reply? lich. by heaven! in all that i have knowledge of. dÊ. then tell me, who is she thou brought'st with thee? lich. an islander. i cannot trace her stock. mess. look hither, man. who is't to whom thou speakest? lich. why such a question? what is thine intent? mess. nay, start not, but make answer if thou knowest. lich. to dêanira, oeneus' queenly child, heracles' wife,--if these mine eyes be true,-- my mistress. mess. ay, that is the very word i longed to hear thee speak. thy mistress, sayest? lich. to whom i am bound. mess. hold there! what punishment wilt thou accept, if thou art found to be faithless to her? lich. i faithless! what dark speech hast thou contrived? mess. not i at all. 'tis thou dost wrap thy thoughts i' the dark. lich. well, i will go. 'tis folly to have heard thee for so long. mess. you go not till you answer one word more. lich. one, or a thousand! you'll not stint, i see. mess. thou knowest the captive maid thou leddest home? lich. i do. but wherefore ask? mess. did you not say that she, on whom you look with ignorant eye, was iolè, the daughter of the king, committed to your charge? lich. where? among whom? what witness of such words will bear thee out? mess. many and sound. a goodly company in trachis' market-place heard thee speak this. lich. ay. i said 'twas rumoured. but i could not give my vague impression for advised report. mess. impression, quotha! did you not on oath proclaim your captive for your master's bride? lich. my master's bride! dear lady, by the gods, who is the stranger? for i know him not. mess. one who was present where he heard thee tell, how that whole city was subdued and taken, not for the bondage to the lydian girl, but through the longing passion for this maid. lich. dear lady, let the fellow be removed. to prate with madmen is mere foolishness. dÊ. nay, i entreat thee by his name, whose fire lightens down oeta's topmost glen, be not a niggard of the truth. thou tell'st thy tale to no weak woman, but to one who knows mankind are never constant to one joy. whoso would buffet love, aspires in vain. for love leads even immortals at his will, and me. then how not others, like to me? 'twere madness, sure, in me to blame my lord when this hath caught him, or the woman there, his innocent accomplice in a thing, no shame to either, and no harm to me. it is not so. but if from him thou learnest the lore of falsehood, it were best unlearnt; or if the instruction comes of thine own thought, such would-be kindness doth not prove thee kind. then tell me all the truth. to one free-born the name of liar is a hateful lot. and thou canst not be hid. thy news was heard by many, who will tell me. if thou fearest, thou hast no cause--for doubtfulness is pain, but to know all, what harm? his loves ere now were they not manifold? and none hath borne reproach or evil word from me. she shall not, though his new passion were as strong as death; since most mine eye hath pitied her, because her beauty was the ruin of her life, and all unweeting, she her own bright land, poor hapless one! hath ravaged and enslaved.-- let that be as it must. but for thy part, though false to others, be still true to me. ch. 'tis fairly said. comply. thou ne'er wilt blame her faithfulness, and thou wilt earn our loves. lich. yea, dear my queen, now i have seen thee hold thy mortal wishes within mortal bound so meekly, i will freely tell thee all. it is as he avers. this maiden's love, piercing through heracles, was the sole cause, why her oechalia, land of plenteous woe, was made the conquest of his spear. and he-- for i dare so far clear him--never bade concealment or denial. but myself, fearing the word might wound thy queenly heart, sinned, if thou count such tenderness a sin. but now that all is known, for both your sakes, his, and thine own no less, look favouringly upon the woman, and confirm the word thou here hast spoken in regard to her:-- for he, whose might is in all else supreme, is wholly overmastered by her love. dÊ. yea, so my mind is bent. i will do so. i will not, in a bootless strife 'gainst heaven, augment my misery with self-sought ill. come, go we in, that thou may'st bear from me such message as is meet, and also carry gifts, such as are befitting to return for gifts new-given. thou ought'st not to depart unladen, having brought so much with thee. [_exeunt_ chorus. victorious in her might, i the queen of soft delight still ranges onward with triumphant sway. what she from kronos' son and strong poseidon won, and pluto, king of night, i durst not say. but who, to earn this bride, came forth in sinewy pride to strive, or e'er the nuptial might be known with fearless heart i tell what heroes wrestled well, with showering blows, and dust in clouds upthrown. one was a river bold, i horn-crowned, with tramp fourfold, bull achelôüs, acarnania's fear; and one from bacchus' town, own son of zeus, came down, with brandished mace, bent bow, and barbèd spear. who then in battle brunt, together, front to front, hurled, eager both to win the beauteous prize; and cypris 'mid the fray alone, that dreadful day, sate umpire, holding promise in her eyes. then clashed the fist, then clanged the bow; ii then horns gave crashing blow for blow, whilst, as they clung, the twining hip throw both essay and hurtling foreheads' fearful play, and groans from each were wrung. but the tender fair one far away sate watching with an eye of piteous cheer (a mother's heart will heed the thing i say,) till won by him who freed her from her fear. sudden she leaves her mother's gentle side, borne through the waste, our hero's tender bride. _enter_ dÊanira. dÊ. dear friends, while yonder herald in the house holds converse with the captives ere he go, i have stol'n forth to you, partly to tell the craft my hand hath compassed, and in part, to crave your pity for my wretchedness. for i have taken to my hearth a maid,-- and yet, methinks, no maiden any more, like some fond shipmaster, taking on board a cargo fraught with treason to my heart. and now we two are closed in one embrace beneath one coverlet. such generous meed for faith in guarding home this dreary while hath the kind heracles our trusty spouse, sent in return! yet, oft as he hath caught this same distemperature, i know not how to harbour indignation against him. but who that is a woman could endure to dwell with her, both married to one man? one bloom is still advancing, one doth fade. the budding flower is cropped, the full-blown head is left to wither, while love passeth by unheeding. wherefore i am sore afraid he will be called my husband, but her mate, for she is younger. yet no prudent wife would take this angerly, as i have said. but, dear ones, i will tell you of a way, whereof i have bethought me, to prevent this heart-break. i had hidden of long time in a bronze urn the ancient centaur's gift, which i, when a mere girl, culled from the wound of hairy-breasted nessus in his death. he o'er evenus' rolling depths, for hire, ferried wayfarers on his arm, not plying or rowing-boat, or canvas-wingèd bark. who, when with heracles, a new-made bride, i followed by my father's sending forth, shouldering me too, in the mid-stream, annoyed with wanton touch. and i cried out; and he, zeus' son, turned suddenly, and from his bow sent a wing'd shaft, that whizzed into his chest to the lungs. then the weird thing, with dying voice spake to me:--'child of aged oeneüs, since thou wert my last burden, thou shalt win some profit from mine act, if thou wilt do what now i bid thee. with a careful hand collect and bear away the clotted gore that clogs my wound, e'en where the monster snake had dyed the arrow with dark tinct of gall; and thou shalt have this as a charm of soul for heracles, that never through the eye shall he receive another love than thine.' whereof bethinking me, for since his death i kept it in a closet locked with care, i have applied it to this robe, with such addition as his living voice ordained.-- the thing is done. no criminal attempts could e'er be mine. far be they from my thought, as i abhor the woman who conceives them! but if by any means through gentle spells and bonds on heracles' affection, we may triumph o'er this maiden in his heart, my scheme is perfected. unless you deem mine action wild. if so, i will desist. ch. if any ground of confidence approve thine act, we cannot check thy counsel here. dÊ. my confidence is grounded on belief, though unconfirmed as yet by actual proof. ch. well, do it and try. assurance cannot come till action bring experience after it. dÊ. the truth will soon be known. the man e'en now is coming forth, and quickly will be there. screen ye but well my counsel. doubtful deeds, wrapt close, will not deliver us to shame. _enter_ lichas. lich. daughter of oeneus, tell me thy commands. already time rebukes our tardiness. dÊ. even that hath been my care, lichas, while thou wert talking to the stranger-maids within, that thou shouldst take for me this finewoven web, a present from these fingers to my lord. and when thou giv'st it, say that none of men must wear it on his shoulders before him; and neither light of sun may look upon it, nor holy temple-court, nor household flame, till he in open station 'fore the gods display it on a day when bulls are slaughtered. so once i vowed, that should i ever see or hear his safe return, i would enfold his glorious person in this robe, and show to all the gods in doing sacrifice him a fresh worshipper in fresh array.-- the truth hereof he will with ease descry betokened on this treasure-guarding seal.-- now go, and be advised, of this in chief, to act within thine office; then of this, to bear thee so, that from his thanks and mine meeting in one, a twofold grace may spring. lich. if this my hermes-craft be firm and sure, then never will i fail thee, o my queen! but i will show the casket as it is to whom i bear it, and in faithfulness add all the words thou sendest in fit place. dÊ. go, then, at once. thou hast full cognizance how things within the palace are preserved? lich. i know, and will declare. there is no flaw. dÊ. methinks thou knowest too, for thou hast seen, my kind reception of the stranger-maid? lich. i saw, and was amazed with heart-struck joy. dÊ. what more is there to tell?--too rash, i fear, were thy report of longing on my part, till we can learn if we be longed for there. [_exeunt severally_ chorus. o ye that haunt the strand i where ships in quiet land near oeta's height and the warm rock-drawn well, and ye round melis' inland gulf who dwell, worshipping her who wields the golden wand,-- (there hellas' wisest meet in council strong): soon shall the flute arise with sound of glad surprise, thrilling your sense with no unwelcome song, but tones that to the harp of heavenly muse belong. zeus' and alcmena's son,-- i all deeds of glory done,-- speeds now triumphant to his home, whom we twelve weary months of blind expectancy lost in vast distance, from our country gone. while, sadly languishing, his loving wife, still flowing down with tears, pined with unnumbered fears. but ares, lately stung to furious strife, frees him for ever[ ] from the toilsome life. o let him come to-day! ii ne'er may his vessel stay, but glide with feathery sweep of many an oar, till from his altar by yon island shore even to our town he wind his prosperous way, in mien returning mild, and inly reconciled, with that anointing in his heart ingrained, which the dark centaur's wizard lips ordained. _enter_ dÊanira. dÊ. o how i fear, my friends, lest all too far i have ventured in my action of to-day! ch. what ails thee, dêanira, oeneus' child? dÊ. i know not, but am haunted by a dread, lest quickly i be found to have performed a mighty mischief, through bright hopes betrayed. ch. thou dost not mean thy gift to heracles? dÊ. indeed i do. now i perceive how fond is eagerness, where actions are obscure. ch. tell, if it may be told, thy cause of fear. dÊ. a thing is come to pass, which should i tell, will strike you with strange wonder when you learn. for, o my friends, the stuff wherewith i dressed that robe, a flock of soft and milkwhite wool, is shrivelled out of sight, not gnawn by tooth of any creature here, but, self-consumed, frittered and wasting on the courtyard-stones. to let you know the circumstance at full, i will speak on. of all the centaur-thing, when labouring in his side with the fell point o' the shaft, enjoined me, i had nothing lost, but his vaticination in my heart remained indelible, as though engraved with pen of iron upon brass. 'twas thus:-- i was to keep this unguent closely hid in dark recesses, where no heat of fire or warming ray might reach it, till with fresh anointing i addressed it to an end. so i had done. and now this was to do, within my chamber covertly i spread the ointment with piece of wool, a tuft pulled from a home-bred sheep; and, as ye saw, i folded up my gift and packed it close in hollow casket from the glaring sun. but, entering in, a fact encounters me past human wit to fathom with surmise. for, as it happened, i had tossed aside the bit of wool i worked with, carelessly, into the open daylight, 'mid the blaze of helios' beam. and, as it kindled warm, it fell away to nothing, crumbled small, like dust in severing wood by sawyers strewn. so, on the point of vanishing, it lay. but, from the place where it had lain, brake forth a frothy scum in clots of seething foam, like the rich draught in purple vintage poured from bacchus' vine upon the thirsty ground. and i, unhappy, know not toward what thought to turn me, but i see mine act is dire. for wherefore should the centaur, for what end, show kindness to the cause for whom he died? that cannot be. but seeking to destroy his slayer, he cajoled me. this i learn too late, by sad experience, for no good. and, if i err not now, my hapless fate is all alone to be his murderess. for, well i know, the shaft that made the wound gave pain to cheiron, who was more than man; and wheresoe'er it falls, it ravageth all the wild creatures of the world. and now this gory venom blackly spreading bane from nessus' angry wound, must it not cause the death of heracles? i think it must. yet my resolve is firm, if aught harm him, my death shall follow in the self-same hour. she cannot bear to live in evil fame, who cares to have a nature pure from ill. ch. horrid mischance must needs occasion fear. but hope is not condemned before the event. dÊ. in ill-advised proceeding not even hope remains to minister a cheerful mind. ch. yet to have erred unwittingly abates the fire of wrath; and thou art in this case. dÊ. so speaks not he who hath a share of sin, but who is clear of all offence at home. ch. 'twere well to say no more, unless thou hast aught to impart to thine own son: for he is here, who went erewhile to find his father forth. hyllus _(re-entering)_. o mother, mother! i would to heaven one of three things were true: either that thou wert dead, or, living, wert no mother to me, or hadst gained a mind furnished with better thoughts than thou hast now! dÊ. my son! what canst thou so mislike in me? hyl. i tell thee thou this day hast been the death of him that was thy husband and my sire. dÊ. what word hath passed thy lips? my child, my child! hyl. a word that must be verified. for who can make the accomplished fact as things undone? dÊ. alas, my son! what saidst thou? who hath told that i have wrought a deed so full of woe? hyl. 'twas i myself that saw with these mine eyes my father's heavy state:--no hearsay word. dÊ. and where didst thou come near him and stand by? hyl. art thou to hear it? on, then, with my tale! when after sacking eurytus' great city he marched in triumph with first-fruits of war,-- there is a headland, last of long euboea, surf-beat cenaeum,--where to his father zeus he dedicates high altars and a grove. there first i saw him, gladdened from desire. and when he now addressed him to the work of various sacrifice, the herald lichas arrived from home, bearing thy fatal gift, the deadly robe: wherewith invested straight, as thou hadst given charge, he sacrificed the firstlings of the spoil, twelve bulls entire, each after each. but the full count he brought was a clear hundred of all kinds of head. then the all-hapless one commenced his prayer in solemn gladness for the bright array. but presently, when from the holy things, and from the richness of the oak-tree core, there issued flame mingled with blood, a sweat rose on his flesh, and close to every limb clung, like stone-drapery from the craftsman's hand, the garment, glued unto his side. then came the tearing pangs within his bones, and then the poison feasted like the venomed tooth of murderous basilisk.--when this began, he shouted on poor lichas, none to blame for thy sole crime, 'what guile is here, thou knave? what was thy fraud in fetching me this robe?' he, all-unknowing, in an evil hour declared his message, that the gift was thine. whereat the hero, while the shooting spasm had fastened on the lungs, seized him by the foot where the ankle turns i' the socket, and, with a thought, hurl'd on a surf-vex'd reef that showed i' the sea: and rained the grey pulp from the hair, the brain being scattered with the blood. then the great throng saddened their festival with piteous wail for one in death and one in agony. and none had courage to approach my sire,-- convulsed upon the ground, then tossed i' the air with horrid yells and crying, till the cliffs echoed round, the mountain-promontories of locris, and euboea's rugged shore. wearied at length with flinging on the earth, and shrieking oft with lamentable cry, cursing the fatal marriage with thyself the all-wretched, and the bond to oeneus' house, that prize that was the poisoner of his peace, he lifted a wild glance above the smoke that hung around, and 'midst the crowd of men saw me in tears, and looked on me and said, 'o son, come near; fly not from my distress, though thou shouldst be consumèd in my death, but lift and bear me forth; and, if thou mayest, set me where no one of mankind shall see me. but if thy heart withhold thee, yet convey me out of this land as quickly as ye may. let me not die where i am now.' we then, thus urgently commanded, laid him down within our bark, and hardly to this shore rowed him convulsed and roaring.--presently, he will appear, alive or lately dead. such, mother, is the crime thou hast devised and done against our sire, wherefore let right and vengeance punish thee!--may i pray so? i may: for thou absolv'st me by thy deed, thou that hast slain the noblest of the earth, thy spouse, whose like thou ne'er wilt see again. [_exit_ dÊanira. ch. why steal'st thou forth in silence? know'st thou not thy silence argues thine accuser's plea? hyl. let her go off. would that a sudden flood might sweep her far and swiftly from mine eye! why fondle vainly the fair-sounding name of mother, when her acts are all unmotherly? let her begone for me: and may she find such joy as she hath rendered to my sire! [_exit_ hyllus chorus. see where falls the doom, of old i by the unerring voice foretold,-- 'when twelve troublous years have rolled, then shall end your long desire: toil on toil no more shall tire the offspring of the eternal sire.' lo! the destined hour is come! lo! it hath brought its burden home. for when the eyes have looked their last how should sore labour vex again? how, when the powers of will and thought are past, should life be any more enthralled to pain? and if nessus' withering shroud, i wrought by destiny and craft, steep him in a poisonous cloud. steaming from the venomed shaft, which to death in hideous lair the many-wreathed hydra bare, how shall he another day feel the glad warmth of helios' ray?-- enfolded by the monster-thing of lerna, while the cruel sting of the shagg'd centaur's murderous-guileful tongue breaks forth withal to do him painful wrong. and she, poor innocent, who saw ii checkless advancing to the gate a mighty harm unto her state,-- this rash young bridal without fear of law,-- gave not her will to aught that caused this woe, but since it came through that strange mind's conceiving,-- that ruined her in meeting,--deeply grieving, she mourns with dewy tears in tenderest flow. the approaching hour appeareth great with woe: some guile-born misery doth fate foreshow. the springs of sorrow are unbound, ii and such an agony disclose, as never from the hands of foes to afflict the life of heracles was found. o dark with battle-stains, world-champion spear, that from oechalia's highland leddest then this bride that followed swiftly in thy train, how fatally overshadowing was thy fear! but these wild sorrows all too clearly come from love's dread minister[ ], disguised and dumb. ch. . am i a fool, or do i truly hear lament new-rising from our master's home? tell! ch. . clearly from within a wailing voice peals piteously. the house hath some fresh woe. ch. . mark! how strangely, with what cloud upon her brow, yon aged matron with her tidings moves! _enter_ nurse. nurse. ah! mighty, o my daughters! was the grief sprung from the gift to heracles conveyed! leader of ch. what new thing is befallen? why speak'st thou so? nur. our queen hath found her latest journey's end. even now she is gone, without the help of feet. ch. not dead? nur. you know the whole. ch. dead! hapless queen! nur. the truth hath twice been told. ch. o tell us how! what was her death, poor victim of dire woe? nur. most ruthless was the deed. ch. say, woman, say! what was the sudden end? nur. herself she slew. ch. what rage, what madness, clutched the mischief-working brand? how could her single thought contrive the accomplishment of death on death? nur. chill iron stopped the sources of her breath. ch. and thou, poor helpless crone, didst see this done? nur. yea, i stood near and saw. ch. how was it? tell! nur. with her own hand this violence was given. ch. what do i hear? nur. the certainty of truth. ch. a child is come, from this new bridal that hath rushed within, a fresh-born fury of woe! nur. too true. but hadst thou been at hand to see her action, pity would have wrung thy soul. ch. could this be ventured by a woman's hand? nur. ay, and in dreadful wise, as thou shalt hear. when all alone she had gone within the gate, and passing through the court beheld her boy spreading the couch that should receive his sire, ere he returned to meet him,--out of sight she hid herself, and fell at the altar's foot, and loudly cried that she was left forlorn; and, taking in her touch each household thing that formerly she used, poor lady, wept o'er all; and then went ranging through the rooms, where, if there caught her eye the well-loved form of any of her household, she would gaze and weep aloud, accusing her own fate and her abandoned lot, childless henceforth! when this was ended, suddenly i see her fly to the hero's room of genial rest. with unsuspected gaze o'ershadowed near, i watched, and saw her casting on the bed the finest sheets of all. when that was done, she leapt upon the couch where they had lain and sat there in the midst. and the hot flood burst from her eyes before she spake:--'farewell, my bridal bed, for never more shalt thou give me the comfort i have known thee give.' then with tight fingers she undid her robe, where the brooch lay before the breast, and bared all her left arm and side. i, with what speed strength ministered, ran forth to tell her son the act she was preparing. but meanwhile, ere we could come again, the fatal blow fell, and we saw the wound. and he, her boy, seeing, wept aloud. for now the hapless youth knew that himself had done this in his wrath, told all too late i' the house, how she had wrought most innocently, from the centaur's wit. so now the unhappy one, with passionate words and cries and wild embracings of the dead, groaned forth that he had slain her with false breath of evil accusation, and was left orphaned of both, his mother and his sire. such is the state within. what fool is he that counts one day, or two, or more to come? to-morrow is not, till the present day in fair prosperity have passed away. [_exit_ chorus. which shall come first in my wail, i which shall be last to prevail, is a doubt that will never be done. trouble at home may be seen, i trouble is looked for with teen; and to have and to look for are one. would some fair wind ii but waft me forth to roam far from the native region of my home, ere death me find, oppressed with wild affright even at the sudden sight of him, the valiant son of zeus most high! before the house, they tell, he fareth nigh, a wonder beyond thought, with torment unapproachable distraught. hark! ... ii the cause then of my cry was coming all too nigh: (doth the clear nightingale lament for nought?) some step of stranger folk is this way brought. as for a friend they love heavy and slow with noiseless feet they move. which way? which way? ah me! behold him come. his pallid lips are dumb. dead, or at rest in sleep? what shall i say? [heracles _is brought in on a litter, accompanied by_ hyllus _and an_ old man hyl. oh, woe is me! my father, piteous woe for thee! oh, whither shall i turn my thought! ah me! old m. hush! speak not, o my child, lest torment fierce and wild rekindle in thy father's rugged breast, and break this rest where now his life is held at point to fall. with firm lips clenched refrain thy voice through all. hyl. yet tell me, doth he live, old sir? old m. wake not the slumberer, nor kindle and revive the terrible recurrent power of pain, my son! hyl. my foolish words are done, but my full heart sinks 'neath the heavy strain. heracles. o father, who are these? what countrymen? where am i? what far land holds me in pain that ceaseth not? ah me! again that pest is rending me. pain, pain! old m. now thou may'st know 'twas better to have lurked in silent shade and not thus widely throw the slumber from his eyelids and his head. hyl. i could not brook all speechless on his misery to look. monody. her. o altar on the euboean strand, high-heaped with offerings from my hand, what meed for lavish gifts bestowed from thy new sanctuary hath flowed! father of gods! thy cruel power hath foiled me with an evil blight. ah! would mine eyes had closed in night ere madness in a fatal hour had burst upon them with a blaze, no help or soothing once allays! what hand to heal, what voice to charm, can e'er dispel this hideous harm? whose skill save thine, monarch divine? mine eyes, if such i saw, would hail him from afar with trembling awe. ah! ah! o vex me not, touch me not, leave me to rest, to sleep my last sleep on earth's gentle breast. you touch me, you press me, you turn me again, you break me, you kill me! o pain! o pain! you have kindled the pang that had slumbered still. it comes, it hath seized me with tyrannous will! where are ye, men, whom over hellas wide this arm hath freed, and o'er the ocean-tide, and through rough brakes, from every monstrous thing? yet now in mine affliction none will bring a sword to aid, a fire to quell this fire, o most unrighteous! nor to my desire will come and quench the hateful life i hold with mortal stroke! ah! is there none so bold? old m. son of our hero, this hath mounted past my feeble force to cope with. take him thou! fresher thine eye and more the hope thou hast than mine to save him. hyl. i support him now thus with mine arm: but neither fleshly vest nor inmost spirit can i lull to rest from torture. none may dream to wield this power, save he, the king supreme. her. son! where art thou to lift me and hold me aright? it tears me, it kills me, it rushes in might, this cruel, devouring, unconquered pain shoots forth to consume me. again! again! o fate! o athena!--o son, at my word have pity and slay me with merciful sword! pity thy father, boy; with sharp relief smite on my breast, and heal the wrathful grief wherewith thy mother, god-abandoned wife, hath wrought this ruin on her husband's life. o may i see her falling, even so as she hath thrown me, to like depth of woe! sweet hades, with swift death, brother of zeus, release my suffering breath! ch. horror hath caught me as i hear this, woe, racking our mighty one with mightier pain. her. many hot toils and hard beyond report, with sturdy thews and sinews i have borne, but no such labour hath the thunderer's wife or sour eurystheus ever given, as this, which oeneus' daughter of the treacherous eye hath fastened on my back, this amply-woven net of the furies, that is breaking me. for, glued unto my side, it hath devoured my flesh to the bone, and lodging in the lungs it drains the vital channels, and hath drunk the fresh life-blood, and ruins all my frame, foiled in the tangle of a viewless bond. yet me nor war-host, nor earth's giant brood, nor centaur's monstrous violence could subdue, nor hellas, nor the stranger, nor all lands where i have gone, cleansing the world from harms. but a soft woman without manhood's strain alone and weaponless hath conquered me. son, let me know thee mine true-born, nor rate thy mother's claim beyond thy sire's, but bring thyself from out the chambers to my hand her body that hath borne thee, that my heart may be assured, if lesser than my pain it will distress thee to behold her limbs with righteous torment agonized and torn. nay, shrink not, son, but pity me, whom all may pity--me, who, like a tender girl, am heard to weep aloud! this none could say he knew in me of old; for, murmuring not, i went with evil fortune, silent still. now, such a foe hath found the woman in me! ay, but come near; stand by me, and behold what cause i have for crying. look but here! here is the mystery unveiled. o see! ye people, gaze on this poor quivering flesh, look with compassion on my misery! ah me! ah! ah! again! even now the hot convulsion of disease shoots through my side, and will not let me rest from this fierce exercise of wearing woe. take me, o king of night! o sudden thunderstroke. smite me! o sire, transfix me with the dart of thy swift lightning! yet again that fang is tearing; it hath blossomed forth anew, it soars up to the height! o breast and back, o shrivelling arms and hands, ye are the same that crushed the dweller of the némean wild, the lion unapproachable and rude, the oxherd's plague, and hydra of the lake of lerna, and the twi-form prancing throng of centaurs,--insolent, unsociable, lawless, ungovernable:--the tuskèd pest of erymanthine glades; then underground pluto's three-headed cur--a perilous fear, born from the monster-worm; and, on the verge of earth, the dragon, guarding fruits of gold. these toils and others countless i have tried, and none hath triumphed o'er me. but to-day, jointless and riven to tatters, i am wrecked thus utterly by imperceptible woe; i, proudly named alcmena's child, and his who reigns in highest heaven, the king supreme! ay, but even yet, i tell ye, even from here, where i am nothingness and cannot move, she who hath done this deed shall feel my power. let her come near, that, mastered by my might, she may have this to tell the world, that, dying, as living, i gave punishment to wrong. ch. o hellas, how i grieve for thy distress! how thou wilt mourn in losing him we see! hyl. my father, since thy silence gives me leave, still hear me patiently, though in thy pain! for my request is just. lend me thy mind less wrathfully distempered than 'tis now; else thou canst never know, where thou art keen with vain resentment and with vain desire her. speak what thou wilt and cease, for i in pain catch not the sense of thy mysterious talk hyl. i come to tell thee of my mother's case, and her involuntary unconscious fault. her. base villain! hast thou breathed thy mother's name, thy father's murderess, in my hearing too! hyl. her state requires not silence, but full speech. her. her faults in former time might well be told. hyl. so might her fault to day, couldst thou but know. her. speak, but beware base words disgrace thee not. hyl. list! she is dead even now with new-given wound. her. by whom? thy words flash wonder through my woe. hyl. her own hand slaughtered her, no foreign stroke. her. wretch! to have reft this office from my hands. hyl. even your rash spirit were softened, if you knew. her. this bodes some knavery. but declare thy thought! hyl. she erred with good intent. the whole is said. her. good, o thou villain, to destroy thy sire! hyl. when she perceived that marriage in her home, she erred, supposing to enchain thy love. her. hath trachis a magician of such might? hyl. long since the centaur nessus moved her mind to work this charm for heightening thy desire. her. o horror, thou art here! i am no more. my day is darkened, boy! undone, undone! i see our plight too plainly. woe is me! come, o my son! --thou hast no more a father,-- call to me all the brethren of thy blood, and poor alcmena, wedded all in vain unto the highest, that ye may hear me tell with my last breath what prophecies i know. hyl. thy mother is not here, but by the shore of tiryns hath obtained a dwelling-place; and of thy sons, some she hath with her there, and some inhabit thebè's citadel. but we who are with thee, sire, if there be aught that may by us be done, will hear, and do. her. then hearken thou unto this task, and show if worthily thou art reputed mine. now is time to prove thee. my great father forewarned me long ago that i should die by none who lived and breathed, but from the will of one now dwelling in the house of death. and so this centaur, as the voice divine then prophesied, in death hath slain me living. and in agreement with that ancient word i now interpret newer oracles which i wrote down on going within the grove of the hill-roving and earth-couching selli,-- dictated to me by the mystic tongue innumerous, of my father's sacred tree; declaring that my ever instant toils should in the time that new hath being and life end and release me. and i look'd for joy. but the true meaning plainly was my death.-- no labour is appointed for the dead.-- then, since all argues one event, my son, once more thou must befriend me, and not wait for my voice goading thee, but of thyself submit and second my resolve, and know filial obedience for thy noblest rule. hyl. i will obey thee, father, though my heart sinks heavily in approaching such a theme. her. before aught else, lay thy right hand in mine. hyl. why so intent on this assurance, sire? her. give it at once and be not froward, boy. hyl. there is my hand: i will gainsay thee nought. her. swear by the head of him who gave me life. hyl. tell me the oath, and i will utter it. her. swear thou wilt do the thing i bid thee do. hyl. i swear, and make zeus witness of my troth. her. but if you swerve, pray that the curse may come. hyl. it will not come for swerving:--but i pray. her. now, dost thou know on oeta's topmost height the crag of zeus? hyl. i know it, and full oft have stood there sacrificing. her. then even there, with thine own hand uplifting this my body, taking what friends thou wilt, and having lopped much wood from the deep-rooted oak and rough wild olive, lay me on the gathered pile, and burn all with the touch of pine-wood flame. let not a tear of mourning dim thine eye; but silent, with dry gaze, if thou art mine, perform it. else my curse awaits thee still to weigh thee down when i am lost in night. hyl. how cruel, o my father, is thy tongue! her. 'tis peremptory. else, if thou refuse, be called another's and be no more mine. hyl. alas that thou shouldst challenge me to this, to be thy murderer, guilty of thy blood! her. not i, in sooth: but healer of my pain, and sole preserver from a life of woe. hyl. how can it heal to burn thee on the pyre? her. if this act frighten thee, perform the rest. hyl. mine arms shall not refuse to carry thee. her. and wilt thou gather the appointed wood? hyl. so my hand fire it not. in all but this, not scanting labour, i will do my part. her. enough. 'tis well. and having thus much given add one small kindness to a list so full. hyl. how great soe'er it were, it should be done. her. the maid of eurytus thou knowest, i ween. hyl. of iolè thou speak'st, or i mistake. her. of her. this then is all i urge, my son. when i am dead, if thou wouldst show thy duty, think of thine oath to me, and, on my word, make her thy wife: nor let another man take her, but only thou; since she hath lain so near this heart. obey me, o my boy! and be thyself the maker of this bond. to spurn at trifles after great things given, were to confound the meed already won. hyl. oh, anger is not right, when men are ill! but who could bear to see thee in this mind? her. you murmur, as you meant to disobey. hyl. how can i do it, when my mother's death and thy sad state sprang solely from this girl? who, not possessed with furies, could choose this? far better, father, for me too to die, than to live still with my worst enemy. her. this youth withdraws his reverence in my death. but, if thou yield'st not to thy father's best, the curse from heaven shall dog thy footsteps still. hyl. ah! thou wilt tell me that thy pain is come. her. yea, for thou wak'st the torment that had slept. hyl. ay me! how cross and doubtful is my way! her. because you will reject your father's word. hyl. must i be taught impiety from thee? her. it is not impious to content my heart. hyl. then you require this with an absolute will? her. and bid heaven witness to my strong command. hyl. then i will do it, for the act is thine. i will not cast it off. obeying thee, my sire, the gods will ne'er reprove my deed. her. thou endest fairly. now, then, o my son, add the performance swiftly, that, before some spasm or furious onset of my pain have seized me, ye may place me on the pyre. come, loiter not, but lift me. now my end is near, the last cessation of my woe. hyl. since thy command is urgent, o my sire! we tarry not, but bear thee to the pyre. her. stubborn heart, ere yet again wakes the fierce rebound of pain, while the evil holds aloof, thou, with bit of diamond proof, curb thy cry, with forcèd will seeming to do gladly still! hyl. lift him, men, and hate not me for the evil deeds ye see, since the heavens' relentless sway recks not of the righteous way. he who gave life and doth claim from his seed a father's name can behold this hour of blame. though the future none can tell, yet the present is not well: sore for him who bears the blow, sad for us who feel his woe, shameful to the gods, we trow. ch. maidens from the palace-hall, come ye forth, too, at our call! mighty deaths beyond belief, many an unknown form of grief, ye have seen to-day; and nought but the power of zeus hath wrought. * * * * * philoctetes the persons odysseus. neoptolemus. chorus _of mariners_. philoctetes. messenger, _disguised as a merchantman_. heracles, _appearing from the sky_. scene. a desert shore of the island of lemnos. it was fated that troy should be taken by neoptolemus, the son of achilles, assisted by the bow of heracles in the hands of philoctetes. now philoctetes had been rejected by the army because of a trouble in his foot, which made his presence with them insufferable; and had been cast away by odysseus on the island of lemnos. but when the decree of fate was revealed by prophecy, odysseus undertook to bring philoctetes back, and took with him neoptolemus, whose ambition could only be gratified through the return of philoctetes with the bow. philoctetes was resolutely set against returning, and at the opening of the drama neoptolemus is persuaded by odysseus to take him with guile. but when philoctetes appears, the youth's ingenuous nature is so wrought upon through pity and remorse, that his sympathy and native truthfulness at length overcome his ambition. when the inward sacrifice is complete, heracles appears from heaven, and by a few words changes the mind of philoctetes, so that all ends well. philoctetes odysseus. neoptolemus. odysseus. this coast of sea-girt lemnos, where we stand, is uninhabited, untrodden of men. and here, o noble son of noblest sire, achilles-born neoptolemus, i erewhile,-- ordered by those who had command,--cast forth trachinian philoctetes, poeas' son, his foot dark-dripping with a rankling wound; when with wild cries, that frighted holy rest, filling the camp, he troubled every rite, that none might handle sacrifice, or pour wine-offering, but his noise disturbed our peace. but why these words? no moment this for talk, lest he discern my coming, and i lose the scheme, wherewith i think to catch him soon. now most behoves thy service, to explore this headland for a cave with double mouth, whose twofold aperture, on wintry days, gives choice of sunshine, and in summer noons the breeze wafts slumber through the airy cell. then, something lower down, upon the left, unless 'tis dried, thine eye may note a spring. go near now silently, and make me know if still he persevere, and hold this spot, or have roamed elsewhere, that informed of this i may proceed with what remains to say, and we may act in concert. neoptolemus. lord odysseus, thy foremost errand will not task me far. methinks i see the cave whereof thou speakest. od. where? let me see it. above there, or below? neo. yonder, above. and yet i hear no tread. [neoptolemus _climbs up to the cave_ od. look if he be not lodged in slumber there. neo. i find no inmate, but an empty room. od. what? no provision for a dwelling-place? neo. a bed of leaves for some one harbouring here. od. nought else beneath the roof? is all forlorn? neo. a cup of wood, some untaught craftsman's skill, and, close at hand, these embers of a fire. od. that store is his. i read the token clear. neo. oh! and these festering rags give evidence, steeped as with dressing some malignant sore. od. the man inhabits here: i know it now. and sure he's not far off. how can he range, whose limb drags heavy with an ancient harm? but he's gone, either to bring forage home, or where he hath found some plant of healing power. send therefore thine attendant to look forth, lest unawares he find me. all our host were not so fair a prize for him as i. neo. my man is going, and shall watch the path. what more dost thou require of me? speak on. od. son of achilles, know that thou art come to serve us nobly, not with strength alone, but, faithful to thy mission, if so be, to do things strange, unwonted to thine ear. neo. what dost thou bid me? od. 'tis thy duty now to entrap the mind of poeas' son with words. when he shall ask thee, who and whence thou art, declare thy name and father. 'tis not that i charge thee to conceal. but for thy voyage, 'tis homeward, leaving the achaean host, with perfect hatred hating them, because they who had drawn thee with strong prayers from home, their hope for taking troy, allowed thee not thy just demand to have thy father's arms, but, e'er thy coming, wrongly gave them o'er unto odysseus: and thereon launch forth with boundless execration against me. that will not pain me, but if thou reject this counsel, thou wilt trouble all our host, since, if his bow shall not be ta'en, thy life will ne'er be crowned through troy's discomfiture. now let me show, why thine approach to him is safe and trustful as mine cannot be thou didst sail forth, not to redeem thine oath, nor by constraint, nor with the foremost band. all which reproaches i must bear: and he, but seeing me, while master of his bow, will slay me, and my ruin will be thine. this point then craves our cunning, to acquire by subtle means the irresistible bow-- thy nature was not framed, i know it well, for speaking falsehood, or contriving harm. yet, since the prize of victory is so dear, endure it--we'll be just another day but now, for one brief hour, devote thyself to serve me without shame, and then for aye hereafter be the pearl of righteousness. neo. the thing that, being named, revolts mine ear, son of laërtes, i abhor to do 'tis not my nature, no, nor, as they tell, my father's, to work aught by craft and guile. i'll undertake to bring him in by force, not by deceit. for, sure, with his one foot, he cannot be a match for all our crew being sent, my lord, to serve thee, i am loth to seem rebellious. but i rather choose to offend with honour, than to win by wrong. od. son of a valiant sire, i, too, in youth, had once a slow tongue and an active hand. but since i have proved the world, i clearly see words and not deeds give mastery over men. neo. what then is thy command? to lie? no more? od. to entangle philoctetes with deceit. neo. why through deceit? may not persuasion fetch him? od. never. and force as certainly will fail. neo. what lends him such assurance of defence? od. arrows, the unerring harbingers of death. neo. then to go near him is a perilous thing. od. unless with subtlety, as i have said. neo. and is not lying shameful to thy soul? od. not if by lying i can save my soul. neo. how must one look in speaking such a word? od. where gain invites, this shrinking is not good. neo. what gain i through his coming back to troy? od. his arms alone have power to take troy-town. neo. then am not i the spoiler, as ye said? od. thou without them, they without thee, are powerless. neo. if it be so, they must be sought and won. od. yea, for in this two prizes will be thine. neo. what? when i learn them, i will not refuse. od. wisdom and valour joined in one good name. neo. shame, to the winds! come, i will do this thing. od. say, dost thou bear my bidding full in mind? neo. doubt not, since once for all i have embraced it. od. thou, then, await him here. i will retire, for fear my hated presence should be known, and take back our attendant to the ship. and then once more, should ye appear to waste the time unduly, i will send again this same man hither in disguise, transformed to the strange semblance of a merchantman; from dark suggestion of whose crafty tongue, thou, o my son, shalt gather timely counsel. now to my ship. this charge i leave to thee. may secret hermes guide us to our end, and civic pallas, named of victory, the sure protectress of my devious way. chorus (_entering_). strange in the stranger land, i what shall i speak? what hide from a heart suspicious of ill? tell me, o master mine! wise above all is the man, peerless in searching thought, who with the zeus-given wand wieldeth a heaven-sent power. this unto thee, dear son, fraught with ancestral might, this to thy life hath come. wherefore i bid thee declare, what must i do for thy need? neo. even now methinks thou longest to espy near ocean's marge the place where he doth lie. gaze without fear. but when the traveller stern, who from this roof is parted, shall return, advancing still as i the signal give, to serve each moment's mission thou shalt strive. ch. that, o my son, from of old i hath been my care, to take note what by thy beck'ning is told; still thy success to promote. but for our errand to-day behoves thee, master, to say where is the hearth of his home; or where even now doth he roam? o tell me, lest all unaware he spring like a wolf from his lair and i by surprise should be ta'en, where doth he move or remain, here lodging, or wandering away? neo. thou seëst yon double doorway of his cell, poor habitation of the rock. ch. . but tell where is the pain-worn wight himself abroad? neo. to me 'tis clear, that, in his quest for food, here, not far off, he trails yon furrowed path. for, so 'tis told, this mode the sufferer hath of sustenance, oh hardness! bringing low wild creatures with wing'd arrows from his bow; nor findeth healer for his troublous woe. ch. i feel his misery. ii with no companion eye, far from all human care, he pines with fell disease; each want he hourly sees awakening new despair. how can he bear it still? o cruel heavens! o pain of that afflicted mortal train whose life sharp sorrows fill! born in a princely hall, ii highest, perchance, of all, now lies he comfortless alone in deep distress, 'mongst rough and dappled brutes, with pangs and hunger worn; while from far distance shoots, on airy pinion borne, the unbridled echo, still replying to his most bitter crying. neo. at nought of this i marvel--for if i judge rightly, there assailed him from on high that former plague through chrysa's cruel sting[ ]: and if to-day he suffer anything with none to soothe, it must be from the will of some great god, so caring to fulfil the word of prophecy, lest he should bend on troy the shaft no mortal may forfend, before the arrival of troy's destined hour, when she must fall, o'er-mastered by their power. ch. . hush, my son! iii neo. why so? ch. . a sound gendered of some mortal woe, started from the neighbouring ground. here, or there? ah! now i know. hark! 'tis the voice of one in pain, travelling hardly, the deep strain of human anguish, all too clear, that smites my heart, that wounds mine ear. ch. . from far it peals. but thou, my son! iii neo. what? ch. . think again. he moveth nigh: he holds the region: not with tone of piping shepherd's rural minstrelsy, but belloweth his far cry, stumbling perchance with mortal pain, or else in wild amaze, as he our ship surveys unwonted on the inhospitable main. _enter_ philoctetes. philoctetes. ho! what men are ye that to this desert shore, harbourless, uninhabited, are come on shipboard? of what country or what race shall i pronounce ye? for your outward garb is grecian, ever dearest to this heart that hungers now to hear your voices' tune. ah! do not fear me, do not shrink away from my wild looks: but, pitying one so poor, forlorn and desolate in nameless woe, speak, if with friendly purpose ye are come. oh answer! 'tis not meet that i should lose this kindness from your lips, or ye from mine. neo. then know this first, o stranger, as thou wouldest, that we are greeks. phi. o dear, dear name! ah me! in all these years, once, only once, i hear it! my son, what fairest gale hath wafted thee? what need hath brought thee to the shore? what mission? declare all this, that i may know thee well. neo. the sea-girt scyros is my native home. thitherward i make voyage:--achilles' son, named neoptolemus.--i have told thee all. phi. dear is that shore to me, dear is thy father o ancient lycomedes' foster-child, whence cam'st thou hither? how didst thou set forth? neo. from troy we made our course in sailing hither. phi. how? sure thou wast not with us, when at first we launched our vessels on the troyward way? neo. hadst thou a share in that adventurous toil? phi. and know'st thou not whom thou behold'st in me, young boy? neo. how should i know him whom i ne'er set eye on? phi. hast not even heard my name, nor echoing rumour of my ruinous woe? neo. nay, i know nought of all thy questioning. phi. how full of griefs am i, how heaven-abhorred, when of my piteous state no faintest sound hath reached my home, or any grecian land! but they, who pitilessly cast me forth, keep silence and are glad, while this my plague blooms ever, and is strengthened more and more. boy, great achilles' offspring, in this form thou seest the man, of whom, methinks, erewhile thou hast been told, to whom the hercúlean bow descended, philoctetes, poeas' son; whom the two generals and the ithacan king cast out thus shamefully forlorn, afflicted with the fierce malady and desperate wound made by the cruel basilisk's murderous tooth. with this for company they left me, child! exposed upon this shore, deserted, lone. from seaward chrysa came they with their fleet and touched at lemnos. i had fallen to rest from the long tossing, in a shadowy cave on yonder cliff by the shore. gladly they saw, and left me, having set forth for my need, poor man, some scanty rags, and a thin store of provender. such food be theirs, i pray! imagine, o my son, when they were gone, what wakening, what arising, then was mine; what weeping, what lamenting of my woe! when i beheld the ships, wherewith i sailed, gone, one and all! and no man in the place, none to bestead me, none to comfort me in my sore sickness. and where'er i looked, nought but distress was present with me still. no lack of that, for one thing!--ah! my son, time passed, and there i found myself alone within my narrow lodging, forced to serve each pressing need. for body's sustenance this bow supplied me with sufficient store, wounding the feathered doves, and when the shaft, from the tight string, had struck, myself, ay me! dragging this foot, would crawl to my swift prey. then water must be fetched, and in sharp frost wood must be found and broken,--all by me. nor would fire come unbidden, but with flint from flints striking dim sparks, i hammered forth the struggling flame that keeps the life in me. for houseroom with the single help of fire gives all i need, save healing for my sore. now learn, my son, the nature of this isle. no mariner puts in here willingly. for it hath neither moorage, nor sea-port, for traffic or kind shelter or good cheer. not hitherward do prudent men make voyage. perchance one may have touched against his will. many strange things may happen in long time. these, when they come, in words have pitied me, and given me food, or raiment, in compassion. but none is willing, when i speak thereof, to take me safely home. wherefore i pine now this tenth year, in famine and distress, feeding the hunger of my ravenous plague. such deeds, my son, the atridae, and the might of sage odysseus, have performed on me. wherefore may all the olympian gods, one day, plague them with stern requital for my wrong! ch. methinks my feeling for thee, poeas' child, is like that of thy former visitants. neo. i, too, a witness to confirm his words, know them for verities, since i have found the atridae and odysseus evil men. phi. art thou, too, wroth with the all-pestilent sons of atreus? have they given thee cause to grieve? neo. would that my hand might ease the wrath i feel! then sparta and mycenae should be ware that scyros too breeds valiant sons for war. phi. brave youth! i love thee. tell me the great cause why thou inveighest against them with such heat? neo. o son of poeas, hardly shall i tell what outrage i endured when i had come; yet i will speak it. when the fate of death o'ertook achilles-- phi. out, alas! no more! hold, till thou first hast made me clearly know, is peleus' offspring dead? neo. alas! he is, slain by no mortal, felled by phoebus' shaft: so men reported-- phi. well, right princely was he! and princely is he who slew him. shall i mourn him first, or wait till i have heard thy tale? neo. methinks thou hast thyself enough to mourn, without the burden of another's woe. phi. well spoken. then renew thine own complaint, and tell once more wherein they insulted thee. neo. there came to fetch me, in a gallant ship, odysseus and the fosterer of my sire[ ], saying, whether soothly, or in idle show, that, since my father perished, it was known none else but i should take troy's citadel. such words from them, my friend, thou may'st believe, held me not long from making voyage with speed, chiefly through longing for my father's corse, to see him yet unburied,--for i ne'er had seen him[ ]. then, besides, 'twas a fair cause, if, by my going, i should vanquish troy. one day i had sailed, and on the second came to sad sigeum with wind-favoured speed, when straightway all the host, surrounding me as i set foot on shore, saluted me, and swore the dead achilles was in life, their eyes being witness, when they looked on me. he lay there in his shroud: but i, unhappy, soon ending lamentation for the dead, went near to those atridae, as to friends, to obtain my father's armour and all else that had been his. and then,--alas the while, that men should be so hard!--they spake this word: 'seed of achilles, thou may'st freely take all else thy father owned, but for those arms, another wields them now, laërtes' son.' tears rushed into mine eyes, and in hot wrath i straightway rose, and bitterly outspake: 'o miscreant! what? and have ye dared to give mine arms to some man else, unknown to me?' then said odysseus, for he chanced to be near, 'yea, child, and justly have they given me these. i saved them and their master in the field.' then in fierce anger all at once i launched all terms of execration at his head, bating no word, being maddened by the thought that i should lose this heirloom,--and to him! he, at this pass, though not of wrathful mood, stung by such utterance, made rejoinder thus: 'thou wast not with us here, but wrongfully didst bide afar. and, since thou mak'st so bold, i tell thee, never shalt thou, as thou sayest, sail with these arms to scyros.'--thus reviled, with such an evil echo in mine ear, i voyage homeward, robbed of mine own right by that vile offset of an evil tree[ ]. yet less i blame him than the men in power. for every multitude, be it army or state, takes tone from those who rule it, and all taint of disobedience from bad counsel springs. i have spoken. may the atridae's enemy be dear to heaven, as he is loved by me! ch. mother of mightiest zeus, feeder of all that live, who from thy mountainous breast rivers of gold dost give! to thee, o earth, i cried that shameful day, when insolence from atreus' sons went forth full on our lord: when they bestowed away his father's arms to crown odysseus' worth; thou, whom bull-slaughtering lions yoked bear, o mighty mother, hear! phi. your coming is commended by a grief that makes you kindly welcome. for i feel a chord that vibrates to your voice, and tells, thus have odysseus and the atridae wrought. full well i know, odysseus' poisoned tongue shrinks from no mischief nor no guileful word that leads to bad achievement in the end. this moves not my main marvel, but if one saw this and bore it,--aias of the shield. neo. ah, friend, he was no more. had he but lived, this robbery had ne'er been wrought on me. phi. what? is he too departed? neo. he is dead. the light no more beholds him. phi. oh! alas! but tydeus' offspring, and the rascal birth laërtes bought of sisyphus, they live: i know it. for their death were to be wished. neo. yea, be assured, they live and flourish high exalted in the host of argive men. phi. and nestor, my old friend, good aged man, is he yet living? oft he would prevent their evils, by the wisdom of his thought. neo. he too is now in trouble, having lost antilochus, the comfort of his age. phi. there, there! in one brief word thou hast revealed the mournful case of twain, whom i would last have chosen to hear of as undone. ah me! where must one look? when these are dead, and he, odysseus, lives,--and in a time like this, that craves their presence, and his death for theirs. neo. he wrestles cleverly; but, o my friend, even ablest wits are ofttimes snared at last. phi. tell me, i pray, what was become of him, patroclus, whom thy father loved so well? neo. he, too, was gone. i'll teach thee in a word one truth for all. war doth not willingly snatch off the wicked, but still takes the good. phi. true! and to prove thy saying, i will inquire the fate of a poor dastard, of mean worth, but ever shrewd and nimble with his tongue. neo. whom but odysseus canst thou mean by this? phi. i meant not him. but there was one thersites, who ne'er made conscience to stint speech, where all cried 'silence!' is he living, dost thou know? neo. i saw him not, but knew he was alive. phi. he must be: for no evil yet was crushed. the heavens will ever shield it. 'tis their sport to turn back all things rancorous and malign from going down to the grave, and send instead the good and true. oh, how shall we commend such dealings, how defend them? when i praise things god-like, i find evil in the gods. neo. i, o thou child of a trachinian sire, henceforth will take good care, from far away to look on troy and atreus' children twain. yea, where the trickster lords it o'er the just, and goodness languishes and rascals rule, --such courses i will nevermore endure. but rock-bound scyros henceforth shall suffice to yield me full contentment in my home. now, to my vessel! and thou, poeas' child, farewell, right heartily farewell! may heaven grant thy desire, and rid thee of thy plague! let us be going, that when god shall give fair voyage, that moment we may launch away. phi. my son, are ye now setting forth? neo. our time bids us go near and look to sail erelong. phi. now, by thy father, by thy mother,--nay, by all thy love e'er cherished in thy home, suppliant i beg thee, leave me not thus lone, forlorn in all my misery which thou seest, in all thou hast heard of here surrounding me! stow me with other freightage. full of care, i know, and burdensome the charge may prove. yet venture! surely to the noble mind all shame is hateful and all kindness blest. and shame would be thy meed, didst thou fail here but, doing this, thou shalt have glorious fame, when i return alive to oeta's vale. come, 'tis the labour not of one whole day. so thou durst take me, fling me where thou wilt o' the ship, in hold, prow, stern, or wheresoe'er i least may trouble those on board with me. ah! by great zeus, the suppliant's friend, comply, my son, be softened! see, where i am fall'n thus on my knees before thee, though so weak, crippled and powerless. ah! forsake me not thus far from human footstep. take me, take me! if only to thy home, or to the town of old chalcodon[ ] in euboea.--from thence i have not far to oeta, and the ridge of trachis, and spercheius' lordly flood. so thou shalt bless my father with my sight. and yet long since i fear he may be gone. for oft i sent him suppliant prayers by men who touched this isle, entreating him to fetch and bear me safely home with his own crew. but either he is dead, or else, methinks, it well may be, my messengers made light of my concerns, and hastened onward home. but now in thee i find both messenger and convoy, thou wilt pity me and save. for, well thou knowest, danger never sleeps, and fear of dark reverse is always nigh. mortals, when free, should look where mischief lurks, and in their happiest hour consider well their life, lest ruin unsuspected come. ch. pity him, o my king! many a crushing woe he telleth, such as i pray none of my friends may know. and if, dear master, thou mislikest sore yon cruel-hearted lordly pair, i would, turning their plan of evil to his good, on swift ship bear him to his native shore, meeting his heart's desire; and free thy path from fear of heavenly wrath. neo. thou mak'st small scruple here; but be advised: lest, when this plague on board shall weary thee, thy voice should alter from this liberal tone. ch. no, truly! fear not thou shalt ever have just cause to utter such reproach on me. neo. then sure 'twere shame, should i more backward prove than thou, to labour for the stranger's need. come, if thou wilt, let us make voyage, and he, let him set forth with speed. our ship shall take him. he shall not be refused. only may heaven lead safely hence and to our destined port! phi. o morning full of brightness! kindest friend, sweet mariners, how can i make you feel, in act, how dearly from my heart i love you! ye have won my soul. let us be gone, my son,-- first having said farewell to this poor cave, my homeless dwelling-place, that thou may'st know, how barely i have lived, how firm my heart! methinks another could not have endured the very sight of what i bore. but i through strong necessity have conquered pain. ch. stay: let us understand. there come two men a stranger, with a shipmate of thy crew. when ye have heard them, ye may then go in. _enter_ messenger, _disguised as a merchantman_. merchantman. son of achilles, my companion here, who with two more remained to guard thy ship, agreed to help me find thee where thou wert, since unexpectedly, through fortune's will, i meet thee, mooring by the self-same shore. for like a merchantman, with no great sail, making my course from ilion to my home, grape-clustered peparethos, when i heard the mariners declare that one and all were of thy crew, i would not launch again, without a word, till we had told our news.-- methinks thou knowest nought of thine own case, what new devices of the argive chiefs surround thee; nor devices only now, but active deeds, no longer unperformed. neo. well, stranger, for the kindness thou hast shown,-- else were i base,--my heart must thank thee still. but tell me what thou meanest, that i may learn what new-laid plot thou bring'st me from the camp. mer. old phoenix, acamas and demophon are gone in thy pursuit with ships and men. neo. to bring me back with reasons or perforce? mer. i know not. what i heard, i am here to tell. neo. how? and is this in act? are they set forth to please the atridae, phoenix and the rest? mer. the thing is not to do, but doing now. neo. what kept odysseus back, if this be so, from going himself? had he some cause for fear? mer. he and the son of tydeus, when our ship hoist sail, were gone to fetch another man. neo. for whom could he himself be sailing forth? mer. for some one,--but first tell me, whispering low whate'er thou speakest,--who is this i see? neo. (_speaking aloud_). this, sir, is philoctetes the renowned. mer. (_aside to_ neoptolemus). without more question, snatch thyself away and sail forth from this land. phi. what saith he, boy? through what dark traffic is the mariner betraying me with whispering in thine ear? neo. i have not caught it, but whate'er he speaks he must speak openly to us and thee. mer. seed of achilles, let me not offend the army by my words! full many a boon, being poor, i reap from them for service done. neo. the atridae are my foes; the man you see is my fast friend, because he hates them sore. then, if you come in kindness, you must hide nothing from him or me of all thou hast heard. mer. look what thou doest, my son! neo. i mark it well. mer. thou shalt be answerable. neo. content: but speak. mer. then hear me. these two men whom i have named, diomedes and odysseus, are set forth engaged on oath to bring this man by force if reasons fail. the achaeans every one have heard this plainly from odysseus' mouth. he was the louder and more confident. neo. say, for what cause, after so long a time, can atreus' sons have turned their thoughts on him, whom long they had cast forth? what passing touch of conscience moved them, or what stroke from heaven, whose wrath requites all wicked deeds of men? mer. methinks thou hast not heard what i will now unfold to thee. there was a princely seer, a son of priam, helenus by name, whom he for whom no word is bad enough, crafty odysseus, sallying forth alone one night, had taken, and in bonds displayed 'fore all the achaeans, a right noble prey. he, 'mid his other prophecies, foretold no grecian force should sack troy's citadel, till with fair reasons they had brought this man from lemnos isle, his lonely dwelling-place. when thus the prophet spake, laërtes' son straight undertook to fetch this man, and show him to all the camp:--he hoped, with fair consent: but else, perforce.--and, if he failed in this, whoever would might smite him on the head. my tale is told, dear youth. i counsel speed to thee and to the friend for whom thou carest. phi. ah me, unhappy! has that rascal knave sworn to fetch me with reasons to their camp? as likely might his reasons bring me back, like his begetter, from the house of death. mer. you talk of what i know not. i will go shipward. may god be with you for all good. [_exit_ phi. is not this terrible, laërtes' son should ever think to bring me with soft words and show me from his deck to all their host? no! sooner will i listen to the tongue of the curs'd basilisk that thus hath maim'd me. ay, but he'll venture anything in word or deed. and now i know he will be here. come, o my son, let us be gone, while seas and winds divide us from odysseus' ship. let us depart. sure timely haste brings rest and quiet slumber when the toil is done. neo. shall we not sail when this south-western wind hath fallen, that now is adverse to our course? phi. all winds are fair to him who flies from woe. neo. nay, but this head-wind hinders them no less. phi. no head-wind hinders pirates on their way, when violence and rapine lead them on. neo. well, then, let us be going, if you will; when you have taken from within the cave what most you need and value. phi. though my all be little, there is that i may not lose. neo. what can there be that we have not on board? phi. a leaf i have found, wherewith i still the rage of my sore plague, and lull it quite to rest. neo. well, bring it forth.--what? is there something more? phi. if any of these arrows here are fallen, i would not leave them for a casual prey. neo. how? do i see thee with the marvellous bow? phi. here in my hand. the world hath only one. neo. and may one touch and handle it, and gaze with reverence, as on a thing from heaven? phi. thou mayest, my son. this and whate'er of mine may stead thee, 'tis thy privilege to enjoy. neo. in very truth i long for it, but so, that longing waits on leave. am i permitted? phi. thou art, my son,--and well thou speakest,--thou art. thou, that hast given me light and life, the joy of seeing mount oeta and my father's home, with all i love there, and his aged head,-- thou that hast raised me far above my foes who triumphed! thou may'st take it in thine hand, and,--when thou hast given it back to me,--may'st vaunt alone of mortals for thine excellence to have held this in thy touch. i, too, at first, received it as a boon for kindness done. neo. well, go within. phi. nay, i must take thee too. my sickness craves thee for its comforter. [philoctetes _and_ neoptolemus _go into the cave_ chorus. in fable i have heard, i though sight hath ne'er confirmed the word, how he who attempted once the couch supreme, to a whirling wheel by zeus the all-ruler bound, tied head and heel, careering ever round, atones his impious unsubstantial dream. of no man else, through eye or ear, have i discerned a fate more full of fear than yonder sufferer's of the cureless wound: who did no violence, defrauded none:-- a just man, had he dwelt among the just unworthily behold him thrust alone to hear the billows roar that break around a rugged shore! how could he live, whose life was thus consumed with moan? where neighbour there was none: i no arm to stay him wandering lone, unevenly, with stumbling steps and sore; no friend in need, no kind inhabitant, to minister to his importunate want, no heart whereto his pangs he might deplore. none who, whene'er the gory flow was rushing hot, might healing herbs bestow, or cull from teeming earth some genial plant to allay the anguish of malignant pain and soothe the sharpness of his poignant woe. like infant whom the nurse lets go, with tottering movement here and there, he crawled for comfort, whensoe'er his soul-devouring plague relaxed its cruel strain. not fed with foison of all-teeming earth ii whence we sustain us, ever-toiling men, but only now and then with wingèd things, by his wing'd shafts brought low, he stayed his hunger from his bow. poor soul, that never through ten years of dearth had pleasure from the fruitage of the vine, but seeking to some standing pool, nor clear nor cool, foul water heaved to head for lack of heartening wine. but now, consorted with the hero's child, ii he winneth greatness and a joyful change; over the water wild borne by a friendly bark beneath the range of oeta, where spercheius fills wide channels winding among lovely hills haunted of melian nymphs, till he espies the roof-tree of his father's hall, and high o'er all shines the bronze shield of him, whose home is in the skies[ ]. [neoptolemus _comes out of the cave, followed by_ philoctetes _in pain_ neo. prithee, come on! why dost thou stand aghast, voiceless, and thus astonied in thine air? phi. oh! oh! neo. what? phi. nothing. come my son, fear nought. neo. is pain upon thee? hath thy trouble come? phi. no pain, no pain! 'tis past; i am easy now. ye heavenly powers! neo. why dost thou groan aloud, and cry to heaven? phi. to come and save. kind heaven! oh, oh! neo. what is 't? why silent? wilt not speak? i see thy misery. phi. oh! i am lost, my son! i cannot hide it from you. oh! it shoots, it pierces. oh unhappy! oh! my woe! i am lost, my son, i am devoured. oh me! oh! oh! oh! oh! pain! pain! oh pain! oh pain! child, if a sword be to thine hand, smite hard, shear off my foot! heed not my life! quick, come! neo. what hath so suddenly arisen, that thus thou mak'st ado and groanest o'er thyself? phi. thou knowest. neo. what know i? phi. o! thou knowest, my son! neo. i know not. phi. how? not know? ah me! pain, pain! neo. thy plague is a sore burden, heavy and sore. phi. sore? 'tis unutterable. have pity on me! neo. what shall i do? phi. do not in fear forsake me. this wandering evil comes in force again, hungry as ere it fed. neo. o hapless one! thrice hapless in thy manifold distress! what wilt thou? shall i raise thee on mine arm? phi. nay, but receiving from my hand the bow, as late thou didst desire me, keep it safe and guard it, till the fury of my pain pass over me and cease. for when 'tis spent, slumber will seize me, else it ne'er would end. i must sleep undisturbed. but if meanwhile they come,--by heaven i charge thee, in no wise, willingly nor perforce, let them have this! else thou wilt be the slayer of us both; of me thy suppliant, and of thyself. neo. fear not my care. no hand shall hold these arms but thine and mine. give, and heaven bless the deed! phi. i give them; there, my son! but look to heaven and pray no envy smite thee, nor such bane in having them, as fell on me and him who bore them formerly. neo. o grant it, gods! and grant us fair and happy voyage, where'er our course is shaped and righteous heaven shall guide. phi. ah! but i fear, my son, thy prayer is vain: for welling yet again from depths within, this gory ooze is dripping. it will come! i know it will. o, foot, torn helpless thing, what wilt thou do to me? ah! ah! it comes, it is at hand. 'tis here! woe's me, undone! i have shown you all. stay near me. go not far: ah! ah! o island king, i would this agony might cleave thy bosom through and through! woe, woe! woe! ah! ye two commanders of the host, agamemnon, menelaüs, o that ye, another ten years' durance in my room might nurse this malady! o death, death, death! i call thee daily--wilt thou never come? will it not be?--my son, thou noble boy, if thou art noble, take and burn me there aloft in yon all-worshipped lemnian fire! yea, when the bow thou keep'st was my reward, i did like service for the child of heaven. how now, my son? what say'st? art silent? where--where art thou, boy? neo. my heart is full, and groaning o'er thy woes. phi. nay, yet have comfort. this affliction oft goes no less swiftly than it came. i pray thee, stand fast and leave me not alone! neo. fear nought. we will not stir. phi. wilt thou remain? neo. be sure of it. phi. i'll not degrade thee with an oath, my son. neo. rest satisfied. i may not go without thee. phi. thy hand, to pledge me that! neo. there, i will stay. phi. now, now, aloft! neo. where mean'st thou? phi. yonder aloft! neo. whither? thou rav'st. why starest thou at the sky? phi. now, let me go. neo. where? phi. let me go, i say! neo. i will not. phi. you will kill me. let me go! neo. well, thou know'st best i hold thee not. phi. o earth, i die. receive me to thy breast! this pain subdues me utterly, i cannot stand. neo. methinks he will be fast in slumber soon that head sinks backward, and a clammy sweat bathes all his limbs, while from his foot hath burst a vein, dark bleeding. let us leave him, friends, in quietness, till he hath fallen to sleep. chorus lord of the happiest life, i sleep, thou that know'st not strife, that know'st not grief, still wafting sure relief, come, saviour now! thy healing balm is spread over this pain worn head, quench not the beam that gives calm to his brow. look, o my lord, to thy path, either to go or to stay how is my thought to proceed? what is our cause for delay? look! opportunity's power, fitting the task to the hour, giveth the race to the swift. neo. he hears not. but i see that to have ta'en his bow without him were a bootless gain he must sail with us. so the god hath said heaven hath decreed this garland for his head: and to have failed with falsehood were a meed of shameful soilure for a shameless deed. ch. god shall determine the end-- ii but for thine answer, friend, waft soft words low! all sick men's sleep, we know, hath open eye; their quickly ruffling mind quivers in lightest wind, sleepless in slumber new danger to spy. think, o my lord, of thy path, secretly look forth afar, what wilt thou do for thy need? how with the wise wilt thou care? if toward the nameless thy heart chooseth this merciful part, huge are the dangers that drift. the wind is fair, my son, the wind is fair, the man is dark and helpless, stretched in night. (o kind, warm sleep that calmest human care!) powerless of hand and foot and ear and sight, blind, as one lying in the house of death. (think well if here thou utterest timely breath.) this, o my son, is all my thought can find, best are the toils that without frightening bind. neo. hush! one word more were madness. he revives. his eye hath motion. he uplifts his head. phi. fair daylight following sleep, and ye, dear friends, faithful beyond all hope in tending me! i never could have dreamed that thou, dear youth, couldst thus have borne my sufferings and stood near so full of pity to relieve my pain. not so the worthy generals of the host;-- this princely patience was not theirs to show. only thy noble nature, nobly sprung, made light of all the trouble, though oppressed with fetid odours and unceasing cries. and now, since this my plague would seem to yield some pause and brief forgetfulness of pain, with thine own hand, my son, upraise me here, and set me on my feet, that, when my strength after exhaustion shall return again, we may move shoreward and launch forth with speed. neo. i feel unhoped-for gladness when i see thy painless gaze, and hear thy living breath, for thine appearance and surroundings both were deathlike. but arise! or, if thou wilt, these men shall raise thee. for they will not shrink from toil which thou and i at once enjoin. phi. right, right, my son! but lift me thine own self, as i am sure thou meanest. let these be, lest they be burdened with the noisome smell before the time. enough for them to bear the trouble on board. neo. i will; stand up, endure! phi. fear not. old habit will enable me. neo. o me! what shall i do? now 'tis my turn to exclaim! phi. what canst thou mean? what change is here, my son? neo. i know not how to shift the troublous word. 'tis hopeless. phi. what is hopeless? speak not so, dear child! neo. but so my wretched lot hath fallen. phi. ah! can it be, the offence of my disease hath moved thee not to take me now on board? neo. all is offence to one who hath forced himself from the true bent to an unbecoming deed. phi. nought misbecoming to thyself or sire doest thou or speak'st, befriending a good man. neo. my baseness will appear. that wrings my soul. phi. not in thy deeds. but for thy words, i fear me! neo. o heaven! must double vileness then be mine both shameful silence and most shameful speech? phi. or my discernment is at fault, or thou mean'st to betray me and make voyage without me. neo. nay, not without thee, there is my distress! lest i convey thee to thy bitter grief. phi. how? how, dear youth? i do not understand. neo. here i unveil it. thou art to sail to troy, to join the chieftains and the achaean host. phi. what do i hear? ah! neo. grieve not till you learn. phi. learn what? what wilt thou make of me? what mean'st thou? neo. first to release thee from this plague, and then with thee to go and take the realm of troy. phi. and is this thine intent? neo. 'tis so ordained unchangeably. be not dismayed! 'tis so. phi. me miserable! i am betrayed, undone! what guile is here? my bow! give back my bow! neo. i may not. interest, and duty too, force me to obey commandment. phi. o thou fire, thou terror of the world! dark instrument of ever-hateful guile!--what hast thou done? how thou hast cheated me! art not ashamed to look on him that sued to thee for shelter? o heart of stone, thou hast stolen my life away with yonder bow!--ah, yet i beg of thee, give it me back, my son, i entreat thee, give! by all thy father worshipped, rob me not of life!--ah me! now he will speak no more, but turns away, obdúrate to retain it. o ye, my comrades in this wilderness, rude creatures of the rocks, o promontories, creeks, precipices of the hills, to you and your familiar presence i complain of this foul trespass of achilles' son. sworn to convey me home, to troy he bears me. and under pledge of his right hand hath ta'en and holds from me perforce my wondrous bow, the sacred gift of zeus-born heracles, thinking to wave it midst the achaean host triumphantly for his. in conquering me he vaunts as of some valorous feat, and knows not he is spoiling a mere corse, an empty dream, the shadow of a vapour. in my strength he ne'er had vanquished me. even as i am, he could not, but by guile. now, all forlorn, i am abused, deceived. what must i do? nay, give it me. nay, yet be thy true self! thou art silent. i am lost. o misery! rude face of rock, back i return to thee and thy twin gateway, robbed of arms and food, to wither in thy cave companionless:-- no more with these mine arrows to destroy or flying bird or mountain-roving beast. but, all unhappy! i myself must be the feast of those on whom i fed, the chase of that i hunted, and shall dearly pay in bloody quittance for their death, through one who seemed all ignorant of sinful guile. perish,--not till i am certain if thy heart will change once more,--if not, my curse on thee! ch. what shall we do, my lord? we wait thy word or to sail now, or yield to his desire. neo. my heart is pressed with a strange pity for him, not now beginning, but long since begun. phi. ay, pity me, my son! by all above, make not thy name a scorn by wronging me! neo. o! i am troubled sore. what must i do? would i had never left mine island home! phi. thou art not base, but seemest to have learnt some baseness from base men. now, as 'tis meet, be better guided--leave me mine arms, and go. neo. (_to chorus_). what shall we do? _enter_ odysseus. odysseus. what art thou doing, knave? give me that bow, and haste thee back again. phi. alas! what do i hear? odysseus' voice? od. be sure of that, odysseus, whom thou seest. phi. oh, i am bought and sold, undone! 'twas he that kidnapped me, and robbed me of my bow. od. yea. i deny it not. be sure, 'twas i. phi. give back, my son, the bow; release it! od. that, though he desire it, he shall never do. thou too shalt march along, or these shall force thee. phi. they force me! o thou boldest of bad men! they force me? od. if thou com'st not willingly. phi. o lemnian earth and thou almighty flame, hephaestos' workmanship, shall this be borne, that he by force must drag me from your care? od. 'tis zeus, i tell thee, monarch of this isle, who thus hath willed. i am his minister. phi. wretch, what vile words thy wit hath power to say! the gods are liars when invoked by thee. od. nay, 'tis their truth compels thee to this voyage. phi. i will not have it so. od. i will. thou shalt. phi. woe for my wretchedness! my father, then, begat no freeman, but a slave in me. od. nay, but the peer of noblest men, with whom thou art to take and ravage troy with might. phi. never,--though i must suffer direst woe,-- while this steep lemnian ground is mine to tread! od. what now is thine intent? phi. down from the crag this head shall plunge and stain the crag beneath. od. (_to the attendants_.) ay, seize and bind him. baffle him in this. phi. poor hands, for lack of your beloved string, caught by this craven! o corrupted soul! how thou hast undermined me, having taken to screen thy quest this youth to me unknown, far worthier of my friendship than of thine, who knew no better than to obey command. even now 'tis manifest he burns within with pain for his own error and my wrong. but, though unwilling and mapt for ill, thy crafty, mean, and cranny spying soul too well hath lessoned him in sinful lore. now thou hast bound me, o thou wretch, and thinkest to take me from this coast, where thou didst cast me outlawed and desolate, a corpse 'mongst men. oh! i curse thee now, as ofttimes in the past: but since heaven yields me nought but bitterness, thou livest and art blithe, while 'tis my pain to live on in my misery, laughed to scorn by thee and atreus' sons, those generals twain whom thou art serving in this chase. but thou with strong compulsion and deceit was driven troyward, whilst i, poor victim, of free will took my seven ships and sailed there, yet was thrown far from all honour,--as thou sayest, by them, but, as they turn the tale, by thee.--and now why fetch me hence and take me? to what end? i am nothing, dead to you this many a year. how, o thou heaven-abhorred! am i not now lame and of evil smell? how shall ye vaunt before the gods drink-offering or the fat of victims, if i sail among your crew? for this, as ye professed, was the chief cause why ye disowned me. perish!--so ye shall, for the wrong done me, if the heavens be just. and that they are, i know. else had ye ne'er sailed on this errand for an outcast wretch, had they not pricked your heart with thoughts of me. oh, if ye pity me, chastising powers, and thou, the genius of my land, revenge, revenge this crime on all their heads at once! my life is pitiable; but if i saw their ruin, i would think me well and strong. ch. how full of bitterness is his resolve, wrathfully spoken with unbending will! od. i might speak long in answer, did the time give scope, but now one thing is mine to say. i am known to vary with the varying need; and when 'tis tried, who can be just and good, my peer will not be found for piety. but though on all occasions covetous of victory, this once i yield to thee, and willingly. unhand him there. let go! leave him to stay. what further use of thee, when we have ta'en these arms? have we not teucer, skilled in this mystery? yea, i may boast myself thine equal both in strength and aim to wield them. fare thee well, then! thou art free to roam thy barren isle. we need thee not. let us be going! and perchance thy gift may bring thy destined glory to my brow. phi. what shall i do? alas, shalt thou be seen graced with mine arms amongst achaean men? od. no more! i am going. phi. o achilles' child! wilt thou, too, vanish? must i lose thy voice? od. come on, and look not, noble though thou be, lest thou undo our fortune. phi. mariners, must ye, too, leave me thus disconsolate? will ye not pity me? ch. our captain's here. whate'er he saith to thee, that we too speak. neo. my chief will call me weakling, soft of heart; but go not yet, since our friend bids you stay. till we have prayed, and all be ready on board. meanwhile, perchance, he may conceive some thought that favours our design. we two will start; and ye, be swift to speed forth at our call. [_exit_ monody. phi. o cavern of the hollow rock, i frosty and stifling in the seasons' change! how i seem fated never more to range from thy sad covert, that hath felt the shock of pain on pain, steeped with my wretchedness. now thou wilt be my comforter in death! grief haunted harbour, choked with my distress! tell me, what hope is mine of daily food, who will be careful for my good? i fail. ye cowering creatures of the sky, oh, as ye fly, snatch me, borne upward on the blast's sharp breath! ch. . thou child of misery! no mightier power hath this decreed, but thine own will and deed hath bound thee thus in grief, since, when kind heaven had sent relief and shown the path of wisdom firm and sure, thou still hast chosen this evil to endure. phi. o hapless life, sore bruised with pain! i no more with living mortal may i dwell, but ever pining in this desert cell with lonely grief, all famished must remain and perish; for what food is mine to share, when this strong arm no longer wields my bow, whose fleet shafts flew to smite the birds of air i was o'erthrown by words, words dark and blind, low-creeping from a traitorous mind! o might i see him, whose unrighteous thought this ruin wrought, plagued for no less a period with like woe! ch. . not by our craft thou art caught, but destiny divine hath wrought the net that holds thee bound. aim not at us the sound of thy dread curse with dire disaster fraught. on others let that light! 'tis our true care thou should'st not scorn our love in thy despair. phi. now, seated by the shore ii of heaving ocean hoar, he mocks me, waving high the sole support of my precarious being, the bow which none e'er held but i. o treasure of my heart, torn from this hand, that loved thy touch,--if thou canst understand, how sad must be thy look in seeing thy master destined now no more, like heracles of yore, to wield thee with an archer's might! but in the grasp of an all-scheming wight, o bitter change! thou art plied; and swaying ever by his side, shalt view his life of dark malignity, teeming with guileful shames, like those he wrought on me. ch. . nobly to speak for the right is manly and strong; but not with an envious blight to envenom the tongue; he to serve all his friends of the fleet, one obeying a many-voiced word, through the minist'ring craft of our lord hath but done what was meet. phi. come, legions of the wild, ii of aspect fierce or mild, fowl from the fields of air, and beasts that roam with bright untroubled gaze, no longer bounding from my lair fly mine approach! now freely without fear ye may surround my covert and come near, treading the savage rock-strewn ways. the might i had is no more mine, stolen with those arms divine. this fort hath no man to defend. come satisfy your vengeful jaws, and rend these quivering tainted limbs! already hovering death bedims my fainting sense. who thus can live on air, tasting no gift of earth that breathing mortals share? ch. . ah! do not shrink from thy friend, if love thou reverest, but know 'tis for thee to forfend the fate which thou fearest. the lot thou hast here to deplore, is sad evermore to maintain, and hardship in sickness is sore, but sorest in pain. phi. kindest of all that e'er before iii have trod this shore, again thou mind'st me of mine ancient woe! why wilt thou ruin me? what wouldst thou do? ch. . how mean'st thou? phi. if to troy, of me abhorred thou e'er hast hoped to lead me with thy lord. ch. . so i judge best. phi. begone at once, begone! ch. . sweet is that word, and swiftly shall be done! let us be gone, each to his place on board. [the chorus _make as if they were going_ phi. nay, by dear zeus, to whom all suppliants moan leave me not yet! ch. . keep measure in thy word. phi. stay, by heaven, stay! ch. . what wilt thou say? phi. o misery! o cruel power that rul'st this hour! i am destroyed. ah me! o poor torn limb, what shall i do with thee through all my days to be? ah, strangers, come, return, return! ch. . what new command are we to learn crossing thy former mind? phi. ah! yet be kind. reprove not him, whose tongue, with grief distraught, obeys not, in dark storms, the helm of thought! ch. . come, poor friend, the way we call. phi. never, learn it once for all! not though he, whom heaven obeys, blast me with fierce lightning's blaze! perish troy, and all your host, that have chosen, to their cost, to despise and cast me forth, since my wound obscured my worth! ah, but, strangers, if your sense hath o'er-mastered this offence, yield but one thing to my prayer! ch. . what wouldst thou have? phi. some weapon bare, axe or sword or sharpened dart, bring it to content my heart. ch. . what is thy new intent? phi. to sever point by point this body, joint from joint. on bloody death my mind is bent. ch. . wherefore? phi. to see my father's face. ch. . where upon earth? phi. he hath no place where sun doth shine, but in the halls of night. o native country, land of my delight, would i were blest one moment with thy sight! why did i leave thy sacred dew and loose my vessels from thy shore, to join the hateful danaän crew and lend them succour? oh, i am no more! leader of ch. long since thou hadst seen me nearing yonder ship, had i not spied odysseus and the son of great achilles hastening to our side. od. wilt thou not tell me why thou art hurrying this backward journey with reverted speed? neo. to undo what i have wrongly done to-day. od. thy words appal me. what is wrongly done? neo. when in obeying thee and all the host-- od. thou didst what deed that misbecame thy life? neo. i conquered with base stratagem and fraud-- od. whom? what new plan is rising in thy mind? neo. not new. but to the child of poeas here-- od. what wilt thou do? i quake with strange alarm. neo. from whom i took these weapons, back again---- od. o heaven! thou wilt not give them! mean'st thou this? neo. yea, for i have them through base sinful means. od. i pray thee, speak'st thou thus to anger me? neo. if the truth anger thee, the truth is said. od. achilles' son! what word is fallen from thee? neo. must the same syllables be thrice thrown forth? od. once was too much. would they had ne'er been said! neo. enough. thou hast heard my purpose clearly told. od. i know what power shall thwart thee in the deed. neo. whose will shall hinder me? od. the achaean host and i among them. neo. thou'rt sharp-witted, sure! but little wit or wisdom show'st thou here. od. neither thy words nor thy design is wise. neo. but if 'tis righteous, that is better far. od. how righteous, to release what thou hast ta'en by my device? neo. i sinned a shameful sin, and i will do mine utmost to retrieve it. od. how? fear'st thou not the achaeans in this act? neo. in doing right i fear not them nor thee. od. i call thy power in question. neo. then i'll fight, not with troy's legions, but with thee. od. come on! let fortune arbitrate. neo. thou seest my hand feeling the hilt. od. and me thou soon shalt see doing the like and dallying not!--and yet i will not touch thee, but will go and tell the army, that shall wreak this on thy head. [_exit_ neo. thou show'st discretion: which if thou preserve, thou may'st maintain a path exempt from pain. ho! son of poeas, philoctetes, come and leave thy habitation in the rock. phi. what noise again is troubling my poor cave? why do ye summon me? what crave ye, sirs? ha! 'tis some knavery. are ye come to add some monster evil to my mountainous woe? neo. fear not, but hearken to what now i speak. phi. i needs must fear thee, whose fair words erewhile brought me to bitter fortune. neo. may not men repent and change? phi. such wast thou in thy talk, when thou didst rob me of my bow,--so bright without, so black within. neo. ah, but not now, assure thee! only let me hear thy will, is 't constant to remain here and endure, or to make voyage with us? phi. stop, speak no more! idle and vain will all thine utterance be. neo. thou art so resolved? phi. more firmly than i say. neo. i would i might have brought thee to my mind, but since my words are out of tune, i have done. phi. thou wert best. no word of thine can touch my soul or win me to thy love, who by deceit hast reft my life away. and then thou com'st to school me,--of noblest father, basest son! perish, the atridae first of all, and then laërtes' child, and thou! neo. curse me no more, but take this hallowed weapon from my hand. phi. what words are these? am i again deceived? neo. no, by the holiest name of zeus on high! phi. o voice of gladness, if thy speech be true! neo. the deed shall prove it. only reach thy hand, and be again sole master of thy bow. [odysseus _appears_ od. but i make protest, in the sight of heaven, for atreus' sons, and all the achaean host. phi. dear son, whose voice disturbs us? do i hear odysseus? od. ay, and thou behold'st him nigh, and he shall force thee to the trojan plain, howe'er achilles' offspring make or mar. phi. this shaft shall bear thee sorrow for that boast. neo. let it not fly, by heaven! phi. dear child, let go mine arm! neo. i will not. [_exit_ odysseus phi. ah! why hast thou robbed my bow of bringing down mine enemy? neo. this were ignoble both for thee and me. phi. one thing is manifest, the first o' the host lying forerunners of the achaean band, are brave with words, but cowards with the steel. neo. well, now the bow is thine. thou hast no cause for blame or anger any more 'gainst me. phi. none. thou hast proved thy birthright, dearest boy. not from the loins of sisyphus thou earnest, but from achilles, who in life was held noblest of men alive, and now o' the dead. neo. it gladdens me that thou shouldst speak in praise both of my sire and me. but hear me tell the boon for which i sue thee.--mortal men must bear such evils as high heaven ordains; but those afflicted by self-chosen ills, like thine to-day, receive not from just men or kind indulgence or compassionate thought. and thou art restive grown, and wilt not hearken, but though one counsel thee with kind'st intent, wilt take him for a dark malignant foe. yet, calling zeus to witness for my soul, once more i will speak. know this, and mark it well: thou bear'st this sickness by a heavenly doom, through coming near to chrysa's sentinel, the lurking snake, that guards the sky-roofed fold[ ]. and from this plague thou ne'er shall find reprieve while the same sun god rears him from the east and droops to west again, till thou be come of thine own willing mind to troia's plain, where our physicians, sons of phoebus' child[ ], shall soothe thee from thy sore, and thou with me and with this bow shalt take troy's citadel. how do i know this? i will tell thee straight we have a trojan captive, helenus, both prince and prophet, who hath clearly told this must be so, yea, and ere harvest time this year, great troy must fall, else if his words be falsified, who will may slay the seer. now, since thou know'st of this, yield thy consent; for glorious is the gain, being singled forth from all the greeks as noblest, first to come to healing hands, and then to win renown unrivalled, vanquishing all tearful troy. phi. oh how i hate my life! why must it keep this breathing form from sinking to the shades? how can i prove a rebel to his mind who thus exhorts me with affectionate heart? and yet, oh misery! must i give way? then how could i endure the light of heaven? with whom could i exchange a word? ay me! eyes that have seen each act of my sad life, how could ye bear it, to behold the sons of atreus, my destroyers, comrades now and friends! laërtes' wicked son, my friend! and less i feel the grief of former wrong than shudder with expectance of fresh harm they yet may work on me. for when the mind hath once been mother of an evil brood, it nurses nought but evils. yea, at thee i marvel. thou should'st ne'er return to troy, nor suffer me to go, when thou remember'st what insult they have done thee, ravishing thy father's rights from thee. and wilt thou then sail to befriend them, pressing me in aid? nay, do not, son; but, even as thou hast sworn, convey me home, and thou, in scyros dwelling, leave to their evil doom those evil men. so thou shalt win a twofold gratitude from me and from my father, and not seem, helping vile men, to be as vile as they. neo. 'tis fairly spoken. yet i would that thou relying on my word and on heaven's aid, would'st voyage forth from lemnos with thy friend. phi. mean'st thou to troy, and to the hateful sons of atreus, me, with this distressful limb? neo. nay, but to those that will relieve the pain of thy torn foot and heal thee of thy plague. phi. thy words are horrible. what mean'st thou, boy? neo. the act i deem the noblest for us both. phi. wilt thou speak so? where is thy fear of heaven? neo. why should i fear, when i see certain gain? phi. gain for the sons of atreus, or for me? neo. methinks a friend should give thee friendly counsel. phi. friendly, to hand me over to my foes? neo. ah, be not hardened in thy misery! phi. i know thou wilt ruin me by what thou speakest. neo. not i. the case is dark to thee, i see. phi. i know the atreidae cast me on this rock. neo. but how, if they should save thee afterward? phi. they ne'er shall make me see troy with my will. neo. hard is my fortune, then, if by no sleight of reasoning i can draw thee to my mind. for me, 'twere easiest to end speech, that thou might'st live on as thou livest in hopeless pain. phi. then leave me to my fate!--but thou hast touched my right hand with thine own, and given consent to bear me to my home. do this, dear son! and do not linger to take thought of troy. enough that name hath echoed in my groans. neo. if thou wilt, let us be going. phi. nobly hast thou said the word. neo. lean thy steps on mine. phi. as firmly as my foot will strength afford. neo. ah! but how shall i escape achaean anger? phi. do not care! neo. ah! but should they spoil my country! phi. i to shield thee will be there. neo. how to shield me, how to aid me? phi. with the shafts of heracles i will scare them. neo. give thy blessing to this isle, and come in peace. heracles _appears from above._ heracles. first, son of poeas, wait till thou hast heard the voice of heracles, and weighed his word. him thou beholdest from the heavenly seat come down, for thee leaving the blest retreat, to tell thee all high zeus intends, and stay thy purpose in the journey of to-day. then hear me, first how after my long toils by strange adventure i have found and won immortal glory, which thine eyes perceive; and the like lot, i tell thee, shall be thine, after these pains to rise to glorious fame. sailing with this thy comrade to troy-town, first thou shalt heal thee from thy grievous sore, and then, being singled forth from all the host as noblest, thou shalt conquer with that bow paris, prime author of these years of harm, and capture troy, and bear back to thy hall the choicest guerdon, for thy valour's meed, to oeta's vale and thine own father's home. but every prize thou tak'st be sure thou bear unto my pyre, in memory of my bow. this word, achilles' offspring, is for thee no less. for, as thou could'st not without him, so, without thee, he cannot conquer troy. then, like twin lions hunting the same hill, guard thou him, and he thee! and i will send asclepius troyward to relieve thy pain. for ilion now a second time must fall before the herculean bow. but, take good heed, midst all your spoil to hold the gods in awe. for our great father counteth piety far above all. this follows men in death, and fails them not when they resign their breath. phi. thou whom i have longed to see, thy dear voice is law to me. neo. i obey with gladdened heart. her. lose no time: at once depart! bright occasion and fair wind urge your vessel from behind. phi. come, let me bless the region ere i go. poor house, sad comrade of my watch, farewell! ye nymphs of meadows where soft waters flow thou ocean headland, pealing thy deep knell, where oft within my cavern as i lay my hair was moist with dashing south-wind's spray, and ofttimes came from hermes' foreland high sad replication of my storm-vext cry; ye fountains and thou lycian water sweet,-- i never thought to leave you, yet my feet are turning from your paths,--we part for aye. farewell! and waft me kindly on my way, o lemnian earth enclosed by circling seas, to sail, where mighty fate my course decrees, and friendly voices point me, and the will of that heroic power, who doth this act fulfil. ch. come now all in one strong band; then, ere loosing from the land, pray we to the nymphs of sea kind protectresses to be, till we touch the trojan strand. * * * * * oedipus at colonos the persons oedipus, _old and blind._ antigone, _his daughter, a young girl._ ismene, _his daughter, a young girl._ chorus _of village guardians._ _an athenian._ theseus, _king of athens._ creon, _envoy from thebes._ polynices, _the elder son of oedipus._ _messenger._ scene. colonos. oedipus had remained at thebes for some time after his fall. but he was afterwards banished by the command of creon, with the consent of his own sons. their intention at first was to lay no claim to the throne. but by-and-by ambition prevailed with eteocles, the younger- born, and he persuaded creon and the citizens to banish his elder brother. polynices took refuge at argos, where he married the daughter of adrastus, and levied an army of auxiliaries to support his pretensions to the throne of thebes. before going into exile oedipus had cursed his sons. antigone after a while fled forth to join her father and support him in his wanderings. ismenè also once brought him secret intelligence. years have now elapsed, and the delphian oracle proclaims that if oedipus dies in a foreign land the enemies of thebes shall overcome her. in ignorance of this fact, oedipus, now aged as well as blind, and led by his daughter antigone, appears before the grove of the eumenides, at colonos, in the neighbourhood of athens. he has felt an inward intimation, which is strengthened by some words of the oracle received by him long since at delphi, that his involuntary crimes have been atoned for, and that the avenging deities will now receive him kindly and make his cause their own. after some natural hesitation on the part of the village-councillors of colonos, oedipus is received with princely magnanimity by theseus, who takes him under the protection of athens, and defends him against the machinations of creon. thus the blessing of the gods, which oedipus carried with him, is secured to athens, and denied to thebes. the craft of creon and the prayers of polynices alike prove unavailing. then the man of many sorrows, whose essential nobleness has survived them all, passes away mysteriously from the sight of men. the scene is laid at colonos, a suburb of athens much frequented by the upper classes, especially the knights (see thuc. viii. ); and before the sacred grove of the eumenides, or gentle goddesses, a euphemistic title for the erinyes, or goddesses of vengeance. oedipus at colonos oedipus. antigone. oedipus. antigone, child of the old blind sire, what land is here, what people? who to-day shall dole to oedipus, the wandering exile, their meagre gifts? little i ask, and less receive with full contentment; for my woes, and the long years ripening the noble mind, have schooled me to endure.--but, o my child, if thou espiest where we may sit, though near some holy precinct, stay me and set me there, till we may learn where we are come. 'tis ours to hear the will of strangers and to obey. antigone. woe-wearied father, yonder city's wall that shields her, looks far distant; but this ground is surely sacred, thickly planted over with olive, bay and vine, within whose bowers thick-fluttering song-birds make sweet melody. here then repose thee on this unhewn stone. thou hast travelled far to-day for one so old. oed. seat me, my child, and be the blind man's guard. ant. long time hath well instructed me in that. oed. now, canst thou tell me where we have set our feet? ant. athens i know, but not the nearer ground. oed. ay, every man that met us in the way named athens. ant. shall i go, then, and find out the name of the spot? oed. yes, if 'tis habitable. ant. it is inhabited. yet i need not go. i see a man even now approaching here. oed. how? makes he towards us? is he drawing nigh? ant. he is close beside us. whatsoe'er thou findest good to be spoken, say it. the man is here. _enter an_ athenian. oed. o stranger, learning from this maid, who sees both for herself and me, that thou art come with timely light to clear our troubled thought-- athenian. ere thou ask more, come forth from where thou sittest! ye trench on soil forbidden human tread. oed. what soil? and to what power thus consecrate? ath. none may go near, nor dwell there. 'tis possessed by the dread sisters, children of earth and night. oed. what holy name will please them, if i pray? ath. 'all seeing gentle powers' the dwellers here would call them. but each land hath its own rule. oed. and gently may they look on him who now implores them, and will never leave this grove! ath. what saying is this? oed. the watchword of my doom. ath. yet dare i not remove thee, till the town have heard my purpose and confirm the deed. oed. by heaven, i pray thee, stranger, scorn me not, poor wanderer that i am, but answer me. ath. make clear thy drift. thou'lt get no scorn from me. oed. then, pray thee, tell me how ye name the place where now i sit. ath. the region all around is sacred. for 'tis guarded and possessed by dread poseidon, and the titan mind that brought us fire--prometheus. but that floor whereon thy feet are resting, hath been called the brazen threshold of our land, the stay of glorious athens, and the neighbouring fields are fain to honour for their patron-god thee, o colonos, first of knights, whose name [_pointing to a statue_ they bear in brotherhood and own for theirs. such, friend, believe me, is this place, not praised in story, but of many a heart beloved. oed. then is the land inhabited of men? ath. by men, who name them from colonos there. oed. have they a lord, or sways the people's voice? ath. lord theseus, child of aegeus, our late king. oed. will some one of your people bring him hither? ath. wherefore? what urgent cause requires his presence? oed. he shall gain mightily by granting little. ath. who can gain profit from the blind? oed. the words these lips shall utter, shall be full of sight. ath. well, thou look'st nobly, but for thy hard fate. this course is safe. thus do. stay where i found thee, till i go tell the neighbour townsmen here not of the city, but colonos. they shall judge for thee to abide or to depart. [_exit_ oed. tell me, my daughter, is the man away? ant. he is gone, father. i alone am near. speak what thou wilt in peace and quietness. oed. dread forms of holy fear, since in this land your sanctuary first gave my limbs repose, be not obdurate to my prayer, nor spurn the voice of phoebus, who that fateful day, when he proclaimed my host of ills to come, told me of rest after a weary time, where else but here? 'when i should reach my bourne, and find repose and refuge with the powers of reverend name, my troubled life should end with blessing to the men who sheltered me, and curses on their race who banished me and sent me wandering forth.' whereof he vouched me sure token, or by earthquake, or by fire from heaven, or thundrous voices. and i know some aëry message from your shrine hath drawn me with wingèd whisper to this grove. not else had ye first met me coming, nor had i sate on your dread unchiselled seat of stone, with dry cold lips greeting your sober shrine. then give apollo's word due course, and give completion to my life, if in your sight these toils and sorrows past the human bound seem not too little. kindly, gentle powers, offspring of primal darkness, hear my prayer! hear it, athenai, of all cities queen, great pallas' foster-city! look with ruth on this poor shadow of great oedipus, this fading semblance of his kingly form. ant. be silent now. there comes an aged band with jealous looks to know thine errand here. oed. i will be silent, and thine arm shall guide my footstep under covert of the grove out of the path, till i make sure what words these men will utter. warily to observe is the prime secret of the prudent mind. [_exeunt_ chorus (_entering_). keep watch! who is it? look! where is he? vanished! gone! oh where? most uncontrolled of men! look well, inquire him out, search keenly in every nook! --some wanderer is the aged wight, a wanderer surely, not a native here. else never had he gone within the untrodden grove of these--unmarried, unapproachable in might, --whose name we dare not breathe, but pass their shrine without a look, without a word, uttering the unheard voice of reverential thought. but now, one comes, they tell, devoid of awe, whom, peering all around this grove i find not, where he abideth. oed. (_behind_). behold me! for i 'see by sound,' as mortals say. ch. oh, oh! with horror i see him, with horror hear him speak. oed. pray you, regard me not as a transgressor! ch. defend us, zeus! who is that aged wight? oed. not one of happiest fate, or enviable, o guardians of this land! 'tis manifest; else had i not come hither led by another's eyes, not moored my bark on such a slender stay. ch. alas! and are thine eyes sightless? o full of misery, as thou look'st full of years! but not, if i prevail, shalt thou bring down this curse. thou art trespassing. yet keep thy foot from stumbling in that verdant, voiceless dell, where running water as it fills the hallowed bowl, mingles with draughts[ ] of honey. stranger, hapless one! avoid that with all care. away! remove! distance impedes the sound. dost hear, woe-burdened wanderer? if aught thou carest to bring before our council, leave forbidden ground, and there, where all have liberty, speak,--but till then, avaunt thee! oed. daughter, what must i think, or do? ant. my sire! we must conform us to the people's will, yielding ere they compel. oed. give me thy hand. ant. thou hast it. oed. --strangers, let me not be wronged, when i have trusted you and come from where i stood! ch. assure thee, from this seat no man shall drag thee off against thy will. oed. farther? ch. advance thy foot. oed. yet more? ch. assist him onward maiden, thou hast thy sight. ant. come, follow, this way follow with thy darkened steps, father, the way i am leading thee. ch. content thee, sojourning in a strange land, o man of woe! to eschew whate'er the city holds in hate, and honour what she loves! oed. then do thou lead me, child, where with our feet secure from sin we may be suffered both to speak and hear. let us not war against necessity. ch. there! from that bench of rock go not again astray. oed. even here? ch. enough, i tell thee. oed. may i sit? ch. ay, crouch thee low adown crooking thy limbs, upon the stone. ant. father, this task is mine-- sink gently down into thy resting-place, oed. woe is me! ant. supporting on this loving hand thy reverend aged form. oed. woe, for my cruel fate! [oedipus _is seated_ ch. now thou unbendest from thy stubborn ways, o man of woe! declare, what mortal wight thou art, that, marked by troublous fortune, here art led. what native country, shall we learn, is thine? oed. o strangers, i have none! but do not-- ch. what dost thou forbid, old sir? oed. do not, oh, do not ask me who i am, nor probe me with more question. ch. what dost thou mean? oed. my birth is dreadful. ch. tell it forth. oed. what should i utter, o my child? woe is me! ch. thy seed, thy father's name, stranger, pronounce! oed. alas! what must i do? my child! ant. since no resource avails thee, speak! oed. i will. i cannot hide it further. ch. ye are long about it. haste thee! oed. know ye of one begotten of laius? ch. horror! horror! oh! oed. derived from labdacus? ch. o heaven! oed. fate-wearied oedipus? ch. art thou he? oed. fear not my words. ch. oh! oh! oed. unhappy me! ch. oh! oed. daughter, what is coming? ch. away! go forth. leave ye the land. begone! oed. and where, then, is the promise thou hast given? ch. no doom retributive attends the deed that wreaks prevenient wrong. deceit, matched with deceit, makes recompense of evil, not of kindness. get thee forth! desert that seat again, and from this land unmooring speed thee away, lest on our state thou bring some further bale! monody. ant. o strangers, full of reverent care! since ye cannot endure my father here, aged and blind, because ye have heard a rumour of the deeds he did unknowingly,--yet, we entreat you. strangers, have pity on me, the hapless girl, who pray for mine own sire and for none else, --pray, looking in your eyes with eyes not blind. as if a daughter had appeared to you. pleading for mercy to the unfortunate. we are in your hands as in the hand of god, helpless. o then accord the unhoped for boon! by what is dear to thee, thy veriest own, i pray thee,--chattel or child, or holier name! search through the world, thou wilt not find the man who could resist the leading of a god. ch. daughter of oedipus, be well assured we view with pity both thy case and his, but fear of heavenly wrath confines our speech to that we have already said to you. oed. what profit lives in fame and fair renown by unsubstantial rumour idly spread? when athens is extolled with peerless praise for reverence, and for mercy!--she alone the sufferer's shield, the exile's comforter! what have i reaped hereof? ye have raised me up from yonder seat, and now would drive me forth fearing a name! for there is nought in me or deeds of mine to make you fear. my life hath more of wrong endured than of wrong done, were it but lawful to disclose to you wherefore ye dread me,--not my sin but theirs, my mother's and my sire's. i know your thought. yet never can ye fasten guilt on me, who, though i had acted with the clear'st intent, were guiltless, for my deed requited wrong. but as it was, all blindly i went forth on that dire road, while they who planned my death planned it with perfect knowledge. therefore, sirs, by heaven i pray you, as ye have bid me rise, protect your suppliant without fail; and do not in jealous reverence for the blessed gods rob them of truest reverence, but know this:-- god looks upon the righteousness of men and their unrighteousness, nor ever yet hath one escaped who wrought iniquity. take part, then, with the gods, nor overcloud the golden fame of athens with dark deeds; but as ye have pledged your faith to shelter me, defend me and rescue, not rejecting me through mere abhorrence of my ruined face. for on a holy mission am i come, sent with rich blessings for your neighbours here. and when the head and sovereign of your folk is present, ye shall learn the truth at full. till then, be gracious to me, and not perverse. ch. thy meaning needs must strike our hearts with awe, old wanderer! so weighty are the words that body it forth. therefore we are content the lord of athens shall decide this case. oed. and where is he who rules this country, sirs? ch. he keeps his father's citadel. but one is gone to fetch him, he who brought us hither. oed. think you he will consider the blind man, and come in person here to visit him? ch. be sure he will,--when he hath heard thy name. oed. and who will carry that? ch. 'tis a long road; but rumour from the lips of wayfarers flies far and wide, so that he needs must hear; and hearing, never doubt but he will come. so noised in every land hath been thy name, old sovereign,--were he sunk in drowsiness, that sound would bring him swiftly to thy side. oed. well, may he come to bless his city and me! when hath not goodness blessed the giver of good? ant. o heavens! what shall i say, what think, my father? oed. daughter antigone, what is it? ant. i see a woman coming toward us, mounted well on a fair sicilian palfrey, and her face with brow-defending hood of thessaly is shadowed from the sun. what must i think? is it she or no? can the eye so far deceive? it is. 'tis not. unhappy that i am, i know not.--yes, 'tis she. for drawing near she greets me with bright glances, and declares beyond a doubt, ismene's self is here. oed. what say'st thou, daughter? ant. that i see thy child, my sister. soon her voice will make thee sure. _enter_ ismene. ismene. father and sister!--names for ever dear! hard hath it been to find you, yea, and hard i feel it now to look on you for grief. oed. child, art thou here? ism. father! o sight of pain! oed. offspring and sister! ism. woe for thy dark fate! oed. hast thou come, daughter? ism. on a troublous way. oed. touch me, my child! ism. i give a hand to both. oed. to her and me? ism. three linked in one sad knot. oed. child, wherefore art thou come? ism. in care for thee. oed. because you missed me? ism. ay, and to bring thee tidings, with the only slave whom i could trust. oed. and they, thy brethren, what of them? were they not there to take this journey for their father's good? ism. ask not of them. dire deeds are theirs to day. oed. how in all points their life obeys the law of egypt, where the men keep house and weave sitting within doors, while the wives abroad provide with ceaseless toil the means of life. so in your case, my daughters, they who should have ta'en this burden on them, bide at home like maidens, while ye take their place, and lighten my miseries by your toil. antigone, e'er since her childhood ended, and her frame was firmly knit, with ceaseless ministry still tends upon the old man's wandering, oft in the forest ranging up and down fasting and barefoot through the burning heat or pelting rain, nor thinks, unhappy maid, of home or comfort, so her father's need be satisfied. and thou, that camest before, eluding the cadmeans, and didst tell me what words apollo had pronounced on me. and when they banished me, stood'st firm to shield me, what news, ismene, bring'st thou to thy sire to day? what mission sped thee forth? i know thou com'st not idly, but with fears for me. ism. father, i will not say what i endured in searching out the place that sheltered thee. to tell it o'er would but renew the pain. but of the danger now encompassing thine ill starred sons,--of that i came to speak. at first they strove with creon and declared the throne should be left vacant and the town freed from pollution,--paying deep regard in their debate to the dark heritage of ruin that o'ershadowed all thy race. far different is the strife which holds them now, since some great power, joined to their sinful mind, incites them both to seize on sovereign sway. eteocles, in pride of younger years, robbed elder polynices of his right, dethroned and banished him. to argos then goes exiled polynices, and obtains through intermarriage a strong favouring league, whose word is, 'either argos vanquishes the seed of cadmus or exalts their fame' this, father, is no tissue of empty talk, but dreadful truth, nor can i tell where heaven is to reveal his mercy to thy woe. oed. and hadst thou ever hoped the gods would care for mine affliction, and restore my life? ism. i hope it now since this last oracle. oed. what oracle hath been declared, my child? ism. that they shall seek thee forth, alive or dead, to bring salvation to the theban race. oed. who can win safety through such help as mine? ism. 'tis said their victory depends on thee. oed. when shrunk to nothing, am i indeed a man? ism. yea, for the gods uphold thee, who then destroyed. oed. poor work, to uphold in age who falls when young! ism. know howsoe'er that creon will be here for this same end, ere many an hour be spent. oed. for what end, daughter? tell me in plain speech. ism. to set thee near their land, that thou may'st be beyond their borders, but within their power. oed. what good am i, thus lying at their gate? ism. thine inauspicious burial brings them woe. oed. there needs no oracle to tell one that. ism. and therefore they would place thee near their land, where thou may'st have no power upon thyself. oed. say then, shall theban dust o'ershadow me? ism. the blood of kindred cleaving to thy hand, father, forbids thee. oed. never, then, henceforth, shall they lay hold on me! ism. if that be true, the brood of cadmus shall have bale. oed. what cause having appeared, will bring this doom to pass? ism. thy wrath, when they are marshalled at thy tomb. oed. from whom hast thou heard this? ism. sworn messengers brought such report from delphi's holy shrine. oed. hath phoebus so pronounced my destiny? ism. so they declare who brought the answer back. oed. did my sons hear? ism. they know it, both of them. oed. villains, who, being informed of such a word, turned not their thoughts toward me, but rather chose ambition and a throne! ism. it wounds mine ear to hear it spoken, but the news i bring is to that stern effect. oed. then i pray heaven the fury of their fate-appointed strife may ne'er be quenched, but that the end may come according to my wish upon them twain to this contention and arbitrament of battle which they now assay and lift the threatening spear! so neither he who wields the sceptred power should keep possession still, nor should his brother out of banishment ever return:--who, when their sire--when i was shamefully thrust from my native land, checked not my fall nor saved me, but, for them, i was driven homeless and proclaimed an exile. ye will tell me 'twas in reason that the state granted this boon to my express desire. nay; for in those first hours of agony, when my heart raged, and it seemed sweetest to me to die the death, and to be stoned with stones, no help appeared to yield me that relief. but after lapse of days, when all my pain was softened, and i felt that my hot spirit had run to fierce excess of bitterness in wreaking mine offence--then, then the state drove me for ever from the land, and they, their father's sons, who might have saved their father, cared not to help him, but betrayed by them, for lack of one light word, i wandered forth to homeless banishment and beggary. but these weak maidens to their nature's power have striven to furnish me with means to live and dwell securely, girded round with love. my sons have chosen before their father's life a lordly throne and sceptred sovereignty. but never shall they win me to their aid, nor shall the theban throne for which they strive bring them desired content. that well i know, comparing with my daughter's prophecies those ancient oracles which phoebus once spake in mine ear. then let them send to seek me creon, or who is strongest in their state. for if ye, strangers, will but add your might to the protection of these awful powers, the guardians of your soil, to shelter me, ye shall acquire for this your state a saviour mighty to save, and ye shall vex my foes. ch. thou art worthy of all compassion, oedipus, thyself and these thy daughters. now, moreover since thou proclaim'st thyself our country's saviour i would advise thee for the best. oed. kind sir, be my good guide. i will do all thou biddest. ch. propitiate then these holy powers, whose grove received thee when first treading this their ground. oed. what are the appointed forms? advise me, sirs. ch. first see to it that from some perennial fount clean hands provide a pure drink-offering. oed. and when i have gotten this unpolluted draught? ch. you will find bowls, formed by a skilful hand, whose brims and handles you must duly wreathe. oed. with leaves or flocks of wool, or in what way? ch. with tender wool ta'en from a young ewe-lamb. oed. well, and what follows to complete the rite? ch. next, make libation toward the earliest dawn. oed. mean'st thou from those same urns whereof thou speakest? ch. from those three vessels pour three several streams, filling the last to the brim. oed. with what contents must this be filled? instruct me. ch. not with wine, but water and the treasure of the bee. oed. and when leaf-shadowed earth has drunk of this, what follows? ch. thou shalt lay upon her then from both thy hands a row of olive-twigs-- counting thrice nine in all--and add this prayer-- oed. that is the chief thing,--that i long to hear. ch. as we have named them gentle, so may they from gentle hearts accord their suppliant aid;-- be this thy prayer, or whoso prays for thee, spoken not aloud, but so that none may hear; and in departing, turn not. this being done, i can stand by thee without dread. but else, i needs must fear concerning thee. oed. my daughters, have ye both heard our friends who inhabit here? ant. yea, father; and we wait for thy command. oed. i cannot go. two losses hinder me, two evils, want of strength and want of sight. let one of you go and perform this service. one soul, methinks, in paying such a debt may quit a million, if the heart be pure. haste, then, to do it. only leave me not untended. for i cannot move alone nor without some one to support me and guide. ism. i will be ministrant. but let me know where i must find the place of offering. ch. beyond this grove. and, stranger maid, if aught seem wanting, there is one at hand to show it. ism. then to my task. meantime, antigone, watch by our sire. we must not make account of labour that supplies a parent's need. [_exit_ ch. thy long since slumbering woe i would not wake again, i but yet i long to learn. oed. what hidden lore? ch. the pain that sprang against thy life with spirit-mastering force. oed. ah, sirs, as ye are kind, re-open not that source of unavoided shame. ch. friend, we would hear the tale told truly, whose wide voice doth hourly more prevail. oed. misery! ch. be not loth! oed. o bitterness! ch. consent. for all thou didst require we gave to thy content. oed. oh, strangers, i have borne an all-too-willing brand, i yet not of mine own choice. ch. whence? we would understand. oed. nought knowing of the curse she fastened on my head thebè in evil bands bound me. ch. thy mother's bed, say, didst thou fill? mine ear still echoes to the noise. oed. 'tis death to me to hear, but, these, mine only joys, friends, are my curse. ch. o heaven! oed. the travail of one womb hath gendered all you see, one mother, one dark doom. ch. how? are they both thy race, and-- ii oed. sister branches too, nursed at the self-same place with him from whom they grew. ch. o horror! oed. ay, not one, ten thousand charged me then! ch. o sorrow! oed. never done, an ever-sounding strain. ch. o crime! oed. by me ne'er wrought. ch. but how? oed. the guerdon fell. would i had earned it not from those i served too well. ch. but, hapless, didst thou slay-- ii oed. what seek ye more to know? ch. thy father? oed. o dismay! ye wound me, blow on blow. ch. thy hand destroyed him. oed. yes. yet lacks there not herein a plea for my redress. ch. how canst thou clear that sin? oed. i'll tell thee. for the deed, 'twas proved mine,--oh 'tis true! yet by heaven's law i am freed:--i wist not whom i slew. ch. enough. for lo! where aegeus' princely son, theseus, comes hither, summoned at thy word. _enter_ theseus. theseus. from many voices in the former time telling thy cruel tale of sight destroyed i have known thee, son of laius, and to-day i know thee anew, in learning thou art here. thy raiment, and the sad change in thy face, proclaim thee who thou art, and pitying thee, dark-fated oedipus, i fain would hear what prayer or supplication thou preferrest to me and to my city, thou and this poor maid who moves beside thee. full of dread must be that fortune thou canst name, which i would shrink from, since i know of mine own youth, how in strange lands a stranger as thou art i bore the brunt of perilous circumstance beyond all others; nor shall any man, like thee an alien from his native home, find me to turn my face from succouring him. i am a man and know it. to-morrow's good is no more mine than thine or any man's. oed. thy noble spirit, theseus, in few words hath made my task of utterance brief indeed. thou hast told aright my name and parentage and native city. nought remains for me but to make known mine errand, and our talk is ended. the. tell me plainly thy desire. oed. i come to offer thee this woe-worn frame, as a free boon,--not goodly in outward view. a better gift than beauty is that i bring. the. what boon dost thou profess to have brought with thee? oed. thou shalt know by and by,--not yet awhile. the. when comes the revelation of thine aid? oed. when i am dead, and thou hast buried me. the. thou cravest the last kindness. what's between thou dost forget or else neglect. oed. herein one word conveys the assurance of the whole. the. you sum up your petition in brief form. oed. look to it. great issues hang upon this hour. the. mean'st thou in this the fortune of thy sons or mine? oed. i mean the force of their behest compelling my removal hence to thebes. the. so thy consent were sought, 'twere fair to yield. oed. once i was ready enough. they would not then. the. wrath is not wisdom in misfortune, man! oed. nay, chide not till thou knowest. the. inform me, then! i must not speak without just grounds. oed. o theseus, i am cruelly harassed with wrong heaped on wrong. the. mean'st thou that prime misfortune of thy birth? oed. no. that hath long been rumoured through the world. the. what, then, can be thy grief? if more than that, 'tis more than human. oed. here is my distress:-- i am made an outcast from my native land by mine own offspring. and return is barred for ever to the man who slew his sire. the. how then should they require thee to go near, and yet dwell separate? oed. the voice of heaven will drive them to it. the. as fearing what reverse prophetically told? oed. destined defeat by athens in the athenian land. the. what source of bitterness 'twixt us and thebes can rise? oed. dear son of aegeus, to the gods alone comes never age nor death. all else i' the world time, the all subduer, merges in oblivion. earth and men's bodies weaken, fail, and perish. faith withers, breach of faith springs up and glows and neither men nor cities that are friends breathe the same spirit with continuing breath. love shall be turned to hate, and hate to love with many hereafter, as with some to-day. and though, this hour, between great thebes and thee no cloud be in the heaven, yet moving time enfolds a countless brood of days to come, wherein for a light cause they shall destroy your now harmonious league with severing war, even where my slumbering form, buried in death, coldly shall drink the life blood of my foes, if zeus be zeus, and his son phoebus true. i would not speak aloud of mysteries. then let me leave where i began. preserve thine own good faith, and thou shalt never say, unless heaven's promise fail me, that for nought athens took oedipus to dwell with her. ch. my lord, long since the stranger hath professed like augury of blessings to our land. the. and who would dare reject his proffered good? whose bond with us of warrior amity hath ne'er been sundered,--and to day he comes a god-sent suppliant, whose sacred hand is rich with gifts for athens and for me. in reverent heed whereof i ne'er will scorn the boon he brings, but plant him in our land. and if it please our friend to linger here, ye shall protect him:--if to go with me best likes thee, oedipus,--ponder, and use thy preference. for my course shall join with thine. oed. ye heavens, reward such excellence! the. how, then? is it thy choice now to go home with me? oed. yea, were it lawful. but in this same spot-- the. what wouldst thou do? i'll not withstand thy will. oed. i must have victory o'er my banishers. the. thy dwelling with us, then, is our great gain? oed. yes, if thou fail me not, but keep thy word. the. nay, fear not me! i will aye be true to thee. oed. i will not bind thee, like a knave, with oaths. the. oaths were no stronger than my simple word. oed. what will ye do, then? the. what is that thou fearest? oed. they will come hither. the. thy guards will see to that. oed. beware, lest, if you leave me-- the. tell not me, i know my part. oed. terror will have me speak. the. terror and i are strangers. oed. but their threats! thou canst not know-- the. i know that none shall force thee from this ground against thy will. full oft have threatening words in wrath been voluble, yet, when the mind regained her place again, the threatened evil vanished. so to-day bold words of boastful meaning have proclaimed thy forcible abduction by thy kin. yet shall they find (i know it) the voyage from thebes, on such a quest, long and scarce navigable. whate'er my thought, if phoebus sent thee forth, i would bid thee have no fear. and howsoe'er, my name will shield thee from all injury. chorus. friend! in our land of conquering steeds thou art come i to this heaven-fostered haunt, earth's fairest home, gleaming colonos, where the nightingale in cool green covert warbleth ever clear, true to the clustering ivy and the dear divine, impenetrable shade, from wildered boughs and myriad fruitage made, sunless at noon, stormless in every gale. wood-roving bacchus there, with mazy round, and his nymph nurses range the unoffended ground. and nourished day by day with heavenly dew i bright flowers their never-failing bloom renew, from eldest time dêo and cora's crown full-flowered narcissus, and the golden beam of crocus, while cephisus' gentle stream in runnels fed by sleepless springs over the land's broad bosom daily brings his pregnant waters, never dwindling down. the quiring muses love to seek the spot and aphroditè's golden car forsakes it not. here too a plant, nobler than e'er was known ii on asian soil, grander than yet hath grown in pelops' mighty dorian isle, unsown, free, self-create, the conquering foeman's fear, the kind oil-olive, silvery-green, chief nourisher of childish life, is seen to burgeon best in this our mother-land. no warrior, young, nor aged in command, shall ravage this, or scathe it with the spear; for guardian zeus' unslumbering eye beholds it everlastingly, and athens' grey-eyed queen, dwelling for ever near. yet one more praise mightier than all i tell ii o'er this my home, that ocean loves her well, and coursers love her, children of the wave to grace these roadways prince poseidon first framed for the horse, that else had burst from man's control, the spirit taming bit and the trim bark, rowed by strong arms, doth flit o'er briny seas with glancing motion brave lord of the deep! by that thy glorious gift thou hast established our fair town for ever in supreme renown-- the sea nymphs' plashing throng glide not more smoothly swift. ant. o land exalted thus in blessing and praise, now is thy time to prove these brave words true. oed. what hath befallen, my daughter? ant. here at hand, not unaccompanied, is creon, father. oed. dear aged friends, be it yours now to provide my safety and the goal of my desire! ch. it shall be so. fear nought. i am old and weak, but athens in her might is ever young. _enter_ creon. creon. noble inhabiters of attic ground i see as 'twere conceived within your eyes at mine approach some new engendered fear nay, shrink not, nor let fall one fretful word. i bring no menace with me, for mine age is feeble, and the state whereto i come is mighty,--none in hellas mightier,-- that know i well. but i am sent to bring by fair persuasion to our theban plain the reverend form of him now present here. nor came this mission from one single will, but the commands of all my citizens are on me, seeing that it becomes my birth to mourn his sorrows most of all the state thou, then, poor sufferer, lend thine ear to me and come. all cadmus' people rightfully invite thee with one voice unto thy home, i before all,--since i were worst of men, were i not pained at thy misfortunes, sir, --to see thee wandering in the stranger's land aged and miserable, unhoused, unfed, singly attended by this girl, whose fall to such a depth of undeservèd woe i could not have imagined! hapless maid! evermore caring for thy poor blind head, roving in beggary, so young, with no man to marry her,--a mark for all mischance. o misery, what deep reproach i have laid on thee and me and our whole ill-starred race! but who can hide evil that courts the day? thou, therefore, oedipus, without constraint, (by all the gods of cadmus' race i pray thee) remove this horror from the sight of men by coming to the ancestral city and home of thy great sires,--bidding a kind farewell to worthiest athens, as is meet. but thebes, thy native land, yet more deserves thy love. oed. thou unabashed in knavery, who canst frame for every cause the semblance of a plea pranked up with righteous seeming, why again would'st thou contrive my ruin, and attempt to catch me where i most were grieved being caught? beforetime, when my self-procurèd woes were plaguing me, and i would fain have rushed to instant banishment, thou wouldst not then grant this indulgence to my keen desire. but when i had fed my passion to the full, and all my pleasure was to live at home, then 'twas thy cue to expel and banish me, nor was this name of kindred then so dear. now once again, when thou behold'st this city and people joined in friendly bands with me, thou wouldst drag me from my promised resting-place, hiding hard policy with courtly show. strange kindness, to love men against their will! suppose, when thou wert eager in some suit, no grace were granted thee, but all denied, and when thy soul was sated, then the boon were offered, when such grace were graceless now; --poor satisfaction then were thine, i ween! even such a gift thou profferest me to-day, kind in pretence, but really full of evil. these men shall hear me tell thy wickedness. thou comest to take me, not unto my home, but to dwell outlawed at your gate, that so your thebè may come off untouched of harm from her encounter with athenian men. ye shall not have me thus. but you shall have my vengeful spirit ever in your land abiding for destruction,--and my sons shall have this portion in their father's ground, to die thereon. know i not things in thebes better than thou? yea, for 'tis mine to hear safer intelligencers,--zeus himself, and phoebus, high interpreter of heaven. thou bring'st a tongue suborned with false pretence, sharpened with insolence;--but in shrewd speech thou shalt find less of profit than of bane. this thou wilt ne'er believe. therefore begone! let me live here. for even such life as mine were not amiss, might i but have my will. cr. which of us twain, believ'st thou, in this talk hath more profoundly sinned against thy peace? oed. if thou prevail'st with these men present here even as with me, i shall be well content. cr. unhappy man, will not even time bring forth one spark of wisdom to redeem thine age? oed. thou art a clever talker. but i know no just man who in every cause abounds with eloquent speech. cr. 'tis not to abound in speech, when one speaks fitting words in season. oed. oh! as if thy words were few and seasonable! cr. not in the dotard's judgement. oed. get thee gone! i speak their mind as well--and dog not me beleaguering mine appointed dwelling-place! cr. these men shall witness--for thy word is naught; and for thy spiteful answer to thy friends, if once i seize thee-- oed. who shall seize on me without the will of my protectors here? cr. well, short of that, thou shalt have pain, i trow. oed. what hast thou done, that thou canst threaten thus? cr. one of thy daughters i have sent in charge. this other, i myself will quickly take. oed. oh, cruel! cr. soon thou'lt have more cause to cry. oed. hast thou my child? cr. i will have both ere long. oed. dear friends, what will ye do? will ye forsake me? will you not drive the offender from your land? ch. stranger, depart at once! thou hast done wrong, and wrong art doing. cr. (_to attendants_). now then, lead her away by force, if she refuse to go with you. ant. ah me! unhappy! whither shall i flee? what aid of god or mortal can i find? ch. what dost thou, stranger? cr. i will lay no hand on him, but on my kinswoman. oed. alas! lords of colonos, will ye suffer it? ch. thou art transgressing, stranger. cr. nay, i stand within my right. ch. how so? cr. i take mine own. oed. athens to aid! ch. stranger, forbear! what dost thou? let go, or thou shalt try thy strength with us. cr. unhand me! ch. not while this intent is thine. cr. if you harm me, you will have war with thebes. oed. did i not tell you this would come? ch. release the maid with speed. cr. command where you have power. ch. leave hold, i say! cr. away with her, say i! ch. come hither, neighbours, come! my city suffers violence. wrongful men are hurting her with force. come hither to me! ant. unhappy, i am dragged away,--o strangers! oed. where art thou, o my child? ant. i go away against my will. oed. reach forth thy hands, my daughter! ant. i cannot. cr. off with her! oed. alas, undone! [_exit_ antigone, _guarded_ cr. thou shalt not have these staves henceforth to prop thy roaming to and fro. take thine own way! since thou hast chosen to thwart thy nearest kin,-- beneath whose orders, though a royal man, i act herein,--and thine own native land. the time will surely come when thou shalt find that in this deed and all that thou hast done in opposition to their friendly will, thou hast counselled foolishly against thy peace, yielding to anger, thy perpetual bane. [_going_ ch. stranger, stand where thou art! cr. hands off, i say! ch. thou shalt not go, till thou restore the maids. cr. soon, then, my city shall retain from you a weightier cause of war. i will lay hands not on the maidens only. ch. what wilt thou do? cr. oedipus i will seize and bear away. ch. great heaven forfend! cr. it shall be done forthwith, unless the ruler of this land prevent me. oed. o shameless utterance! wilt thou lay thy hold on me? cr. be silent! speak no more! oed. no more? may these dread goddesses not close my lips to this one prayer of evil against thee, thou villain, who, when i have lost mine eyes, bereavest me of all that i had left to make my darkness light! therefore i pray, for this thy wrongful act, may he in heaven whose eye sees all things, helios, give to thee slowly to wither in an age like mine! cr. men of this land, bear witness to his rage! oed. they see us both, and are aware that i repay thee but with words for deeds of wrong. cr. no longer will i curb my wrath. though lonely and cumbered by mine age, i will bear off this man! oed. me miserable! ch. how bold thou art, if standing here thou think'st to do this thing! cr. i do. ch. then athens is to me no city. cr. slight men prevail o'er strength in a just cause. oed. hear ye his words? ch. he shall not make them good. be witness, zeus! cr. zeus knows more things than thou. oed. is not this violence? cr. violence you must bear. ch. come, chieftain of our land! come hither with all speed. they pass the bound. _enter_ theseus. the. wherefore that shouting? daunted by what fear stayed ye me sacrificing to the god[ ] who guards this deme colonos? let me know what cause so hastened my reluctant foot. oed. dear friend (i know thy voice addressing us), one here hath lately done me cruel wrong. the. who is the wrong-doer, say, and what the deed? oed. this creon, whom thou seest, hath torn away two children that were all in all to me. the. can this be possible? oed. thou hear'st the truth. the. then one of you run to the altar-foot hard by, and haste the people from the rite, horsemen and footmen at the height of speed to race unto the parting of the roads where travellers from both gorges wont to meet. lest there the maidens pass beyond our reach and i be worsted by this stranger's might and let him laugh at me. be swift! away! --for him, were i as wroth as he deserves, he should not go unpunished from my hand. but now he shall be ruled by the same law he thought to enforce. thou goest not from this ground till thou hast set these maids in presence here; since by thine act thou hast disgraced both me and thine own lineage and thy native land, who with unlicensed inroad hast assailed an ancient city, that hath still observed justice and equity, and apart from law ratifies nothing; and, being here, hast cast authority to the winds, and made thine own whate'er thou wouldst, bearing it off perforce,-- deeming of me forsooth as nothing worth, and of my city as one enslaved to foes or void of manhood. not of thebe's will come such wild courses. it is not her way to foster men in sin, nor would she praise thy doing, if she knew that thou hast robbed me and the gods, dragging poor suppliant wights from their last refuge at thy will--i would not, had i perchance set foot within thy land, even were my cause most righteous, have presumed, without consent of him who bore chief sway, to seize on any man, but would have known how men should act who tread on foreign soil. thou bring'st disgrace on thine own mother state all undeservedly, and the lapse of years hath left thee aged, but not wise--again i bid those maids now to be brought with speed, unless thou would'st be made a sojourner in athens by compulsion. this i speak not with my lips alone, but from my will. ch. stranger, dost thou perceive? thy parentage is owned as noble, but thine evil deeds are blazoned visibly. cr. great aegeus' son! not as misprising this thy city's strength in arms, or wisdom in debate, i dared this capture, but in simple confidence thy citizens would not so envy me my blood relations, as to harbour them against my will,--nor welcome to their hearths a man incestuous and a parricide, the proved defiler of his mother's bed such was the mount of ares that i knew, seat of high wisdom, planted in their soil, that suffers no such lawless runaways to haunt within the borders of your realm. relying on that i laid my hands upon this quarry, nor had done so, were it not that bitterly he cursed myself and mine. that moved me to requital, since even age still bears resentment, till the power of death frees men from anger, as from all annoy. being sovereign here thou wilt do thy pleasure. i, though i have justice on my side, am weak through being alone. yet if you meddle with me, old as i am, you'll find me dangerous. oed. o boldness void of shame! whom dost thou think thy obloquy most harms, this agèd head or thine, who hast thus let pass thy lips the crimes i have borne unwittingly. so heaven was pleased to wreak some old offence upon our race. since in myself you will find no stain of sin for which such ruinous error 'gainst myself and mine own house might be the recompense. tell me, i pray thee, if a word from heaven came to my father through the oracle that he should die by his son's hand,--what right hast thou to fasten that reproach on me, the child not yet begotten of my sire, an unborn nothing, unconceived? or if, born as i was to misery, i encountered and killed my father in an angry fray, nought knowing of what i did or whom i slew, what reason is't to blame the unwitting deed? and, oh, thou wretch! art not ashamed to force me to speak that of my mother, thine own sister, which i will speak, for i will not keep silence, since thou hast been thus impious with thy tongue. she was my mother, oh, the bitter word! though neither knew it, and having borne me, she became the mother of children to her son, an infamous birth! yet this i know, thy crime of speech against us both is voluntary. but all involuntary was my deed in marriage and is this mine utterance now. no,--that shall not be called a bosom-sin, nor shall my name be sullied with the deed, thy tongue would brand on me, against my sire. for answer me one question. if to-day, here, now, one struck at thee a murderous stroke,-- at thee, the righteous person,--wouldst thou ask if such assailant were thy sire, or strike forthwith? methinks, as one who cares to live, you would strike before you questioned of the right, or reasoned of his kindred whom you slew. such was the net that snared me: such the woes heaven drew me to fulfil. my father's spirit, came he to life, would not gainsay my word. but thou, to whom, beneath the garb of right, no matter is too dreadful or too deep for words, so rail'st on me, in such a presence. well thou dost flatter the great name of theseus, and athens in her glory stablished here, but midst thy fulsome praises thou forgettest how of all lands that yield the immortal gods just homage of true piety, this land is foremost. yet from hence thou would'st beguile me, the aged suppliant. nay, from hence thou would'st drag myself with violence, and hast reft away my children. wherefore i conjure these powers, with solemn invocation and appeal, to come and take my part, that thou may'st know what men they are who guard this hallowed realm. ch. my lord, the stranger deserves well. his fate is grievous, but the more demands our aid. the. enough of words. the captors and their prey are hasting;--we, they have wronged, are standing still. cr. i am powerless here. what dost thou bid me do? the. lead us the way they are gone. i too must be thine escort, that if hereabout thou hast our maidens, thou mayest show them to my sight. but if men flee and bear them, we may spare superfluous labour. others hotly urge that business, whom those robbers shall not boast before their gods to have 'scaped out of this land. come, be our guide! thou hast and hast not. fortune hath seized thee seizing on thy prey. so quickly passes the gain that's got by wrongful guile. nay, thou shalt have no helper. well i wot thou flew'st not to this pitch of truculent pride alone, or unsupported by intrigue; but thy bold act hath some confederate here. this i must look into, nor let great athens prove herself weaker than one single man. hast caught my drift? or is my voice as vain now, as you thought it when you planned this thing? cr. i will gainsay nought of what thou utterest here. but once in thebes, i too shall know my course. the. threaten, but go! thou, oedipus, remain in quietness and perfect trust that i, if death do not prevent me, will not rest till i restore thy children to thy hand. chorus. soon shall the wheeling foes i clash with the din of brazen-throated war. would i were there to see them close, be the onset near or far! whether at daphnè's gorge to phoebus dear, or by the torch-lit shore where kind maternal powers for evermore guard golden mysteries of holy fear to nourish mortal souls whose voice the seal of silent awe controls imprinted by the eumolpid minister. there, on that sacred way, shall the divinest head of royal theseus, rouser of the fray, and those free maids, in their two squadrons led, meet in the valorous fight that conquers for the right. else, by the snow-capped rock, i passing to westward, they are drawing nigh the tract beyond the pasture high where oea feeds her flock. the riders ride, the rattling chariots flee at racing speed.--'tis done! he shall be vanquished. our land's chivalry are valiant, valiant every warrior son of theseus.--on they run? frontlet and bridle glancing to the light, forward each steed is straining to the fight, forward each eye and hand of all that mounted band, athena's knighthood, champions of her name and his who doth the mighty waters tame, rhea's son that from of old doth the earth with seas enfold. strive they? or is the battle still to be? ii an eager thought in me is pleading, 'soon must they restore the enduring maid, whose kinsmen vex her sore!' to-day shall zeus perform his will. the noble cause wins my prophetic skill. oh! had i wings, and like a storm-swift dove poised on some aery cloud might there descry the conflict from above, scouring the region with mine eye! sovran of heaven, all-seeing zeus, afford ii unto this nation's lord puissance to crown the fair emprise, thou, and all-knowing pallas, thy dread child! apollo, huntsman of the wild, --thou and thy sister, who doth still pursue swift many-spotted stags,--arise, arise, with love we pray you, be our champions true! yea, both together come to aid our people and our home! leader of ch. ah! wanderer friend, thou wilt not have to accuse thy seer of falsehood. i behold the maids this way once more in safe protection brought. oed. where? is it true? how say you? ant. father, father! oh that some god would give thee once to see the man whose royal virtue brings us hither! oed. my daughters, are ye there? ant. saved by the arm of theseus and his most dear ministers. oed. come near me, child, and let your father feel the treasure he had feared for ever gone. ant. not hard the boon which the heart longs to give. oed. where are ye, where? ant. together we draw near. oed. loved saplings of a solitary tree! ant. a father's heart hides all. oed. staves of mine age! ant. forlorn supporters of an ill-starred life! oed. i have all i love; nor would the stroke of death be wholly bitter, with you standing by. press close to either side of me, my children; grow to your sire, and ye shall give me rest from mine else lonely, hapless, wandering life. and tell your tale as briefly as ye may, since at your age short speaking is enough. ant. here is our saviour. he shall tell thee all, and shorten labour both for us and thee. oed. think it not strange, dear friend, that i prolong the unhoped-for greeting with my children here. full well i know, the joy i find in them springs from thee only, and from none beside. thou, thou alone hast saved them. may the gods fulfil my prayer for thee and for thy land! since only in athens, only here i' the world, have i found pious thought and righteous care, and truth in word and deed. from a full heart and thankful mind i thus requite thy love, knowing all i have is due to none but thee. extend to me, i pray thee, thy right hand, o king, that i may feel thee, and may kiss, if that be lawful, thy dear head! and yet what am i asking? how can one like me desire of thee to touch an outlawed man, on whose dark life all stains of sin and woe are fixed indelibly? i will not dare-- no, nor allow thee!--none but only they who have experience of such woes as mine may share their wretchedness. thou, where thou art receive my salutation, and henceforth continue in thy promised care of me as true as to this moment thou hast proved. the. i marvel not at all if mere delight in these thy daughters lengthened thy discourse, or led thee to address them before me. that gives me not the shadow of annoy. nor am i careful to adorn my life with words of praise, but with the light of deeds. and thou hast proof of this. for i have failed in nought of all i promised, agèd king! here stand i with thy children in full life unharmed in aught the foe had threatened them. and now why vaunt the deeds that won the day, when these dear maids will tell them in thine ear? but let me crave thy counsel on a thing that crossed me as i came. small though it seem when told, 'tis worthy of some wonder, too. be it small or great, men should not let things pass. oed. what is it, o son of aegeus? let me hear, i am wholly ignorant herein. the. we are told one, not thy townsman, but of kin to thee, hath come in unawares, and now is found kneeling at great poseidon's altar, where i sacrificed, what time ye called me hither. oed. what countryman, and wherefore suppliant there? the. one thing alone i know. he craves of thee some speech, they say, that will not hold thee long. oed. his kneeling there imports no trivial suit. the. all he desires, they tell me, is to come, have speech with thee, and go unharmed away. oed. who can he be that kneels for such a boon? the. think, if at argos thou a kinsman hast who might desire to obtain so much of thee. oed. dear friend! hold there! no more! the. what troubles thee? oed. ask it not of me! the. what? speak plainly forth. oed. thy words have shown me who the stranger is. the. and who is he that i should say him nay? oed. my son, o king,--hateful to me, whose tongue least of the world i could endure to hear. the. what pain is there in hearing? canst thou not hear, and refuse to do what thou mislikest? oed. my lord, i have come to loathe his very voice. i pray thee, urge me not to yield in this. the. think that the god must be considered too, the right of suppliants may compel thy care. ant. father, give ear, though i be young that speak. yield to the scruple of the king, who claims this reverence for his people's god, and yield to us who beg our brother may come near. take heart! he will not force thee from thy will. what harm can come of hearkening? wisdom's ways reveal themselves through words. he is thy son. whence, were his heartless conduct against thee beyond redemption impious, o my sire, thy vengeance still would be unnatural. oh let him!--others have had evil sons and passionate anger, but the warning voice of friends hath charmed their mood. then do not thou look narrowly upon thy present griefs, but on those ancient wrongs thou didst endure from father and from mother. thence thou wilt learn that evil passion ever ends in woe. thy sightless eyes are no light argument to warn thee through the feeling of thy loss. relent and hear us! 'tis a mere disgrace to beg so long for a just boon. the king is kind to thee. be generous in return. oed. child, your dear pleading to your hard request hath won me. let this be as ye desire. only, my lord, if he is to come near, let no man's power molest my liberty. the. i need no repetition, aged friend, of that request. vaunt will i not, but thou be sure, if heaven protect me, thou art free. chorus. who, loving life, hath sought i to outlive the appointed span, shall be arraigned before my thought for an infatuate man. since the added years entail much that is bitter,--joy flies out of ken, desire doth fail, the longed-for moments cloy. but when the troublous life, be it less or more, is past, with power to end the strife comes rescuing death at last. lo! the dark bridegroom waits! no festal choir shall grace his destined hour, no dance, no lyre! far best were ne'er to be, i but, having seen the day, next best by far for each to flee as swiftly as each may, yonder from whence he came: for once let youth be there with her light fooleries, who shall name the unnumbered brood of care? no trial spared, no fall! feuds, battles, murders, rage, envy, and last of all, despised, dim, friendless age! ay, there all evils, crowded in one room, each at his worst of ill, augment the gloom. such lot is mine, and round this man of woe, ii --as some grey headland of a northward shore bears buffets of all-wintry winds that blow,-- new storms of fate are bursting evermore in thundrous billows, borne some from the waning light, some through mid-noon, some from the rising morn, some from the realm of night. ant. ah! who comes here? sure 'tis the argive man approaching hitherward, weeping amain. and, father, it is he! oed. whom dost thou mean? ant. the same our thoughts have dwelt on all this while, polynices. he is here. polynices. what shall i do? i stand in doubt which first i should lament, my own misfortune or my father's woe, whom here i find an outcast in his age with you, my sisters, in the stranger land, clothed in such raiment, whose inveterate filth horridly clings, wasting his reverend form, while the grey locks over the eye-reft brow wave all unkempt upon the ruffling breeze. and likewise miserable appears the store he bears to nourish that time-wasted frame. wretch that i am! too late i learn the truth, and here give witness to mine own disgrace, which is as deep as thy distress. myself declare it. ask not others of my guilt. but seeing that zeus on his almighty throne keeps mercy in all he doth to counsel him, thou, too, my father, let her plead with thee! the evil that is done may yet be healed; it cannot be augmented. art thou silent? o turn not from me, father! speak but once! wilt thou not answer, but with shame dismiss me voiceless, nor make known wherefore thou art wroth? o ye his daughters, one with me in blood, say, will not ye endeavour to unlock the stern lips of our unrelenting sire? let him not thus reject in silent scorn without response the suppliant of heaven! ant. thyself, unhappy one, say why thou camest. speech ofttimes, as it flows, touching some root of pity or joy, or even of hate, hath stirred the dumb to utterance. pol. i will tell my need:-- first claiming for protector the dread god from whose high altar he who rules this land hath brought me under safe-guard of his power, scatheless to speak and hear and go my way. his word, i am well assured, will be made good, strangers, by you, and by my sisters twain, and by our sire.--now let me name mine errand. i am banished, father, from our native land, because, being elder-born, i claimed to sit upon thy sovereign throne. for this offence eteocles, thy younger son, exíled me, not having won the advantage in debate or trial of manhood, but through guileful art gaining the people's will. whereof i deem thy fury the chief author; and thereto prophetic voices also testify. for when i had come to dorian argolis, i raised, through marriage with adrastus' child, an army bound in friendly league with me, led by the men who in the apian land hold first pre-eminence and honour in war, with whose aid levying all that mighty host of seven battalions, i have deeply sworn either to die, or drive from theban ground those who such wrongs have wrought. so far, so well. but why come hither? father, to crave thine aid with earnest supplication for myself and for my firm allies, who at this hour, seven leaders of seven bands embattled there, encompass thebè's plain. amphiaráus, foremost in augury, foremost in war, first wields his warlike spear. next, oeneus' son, aetolian tydeus; then etéoclus of argive lineage; fourth, hippomedon, sent by his father tálaüs, and the fifth is capancus, who brags he will destroy thebè with desolating fire. the sixth, parthonopaeus, from the arcadian glen comes bravely down, swift atalanta's child, named from his mother's lingering maidenhood ere she conceived him. and the seventh am i, thy son, or if not thine, but the dire birth of evil destiny, yet named thy son, who lead this dauntless host from argolis against the theban land. now one and all we pray thee on our knees, conjuring thee as thou dost love these maids and thine own life, my father, to forgive me, ere i go to be revenged upon my brother there who drave me forth and robbed me of my throne. if aught in prophecy deserves belief, 'tis certain, whom thou favourest, those shall win. now by the wells whereof our fathers drank and by the gods they worshipped, hear our prayer, grant this petition: since alike in woe, alike in poverty and banishment, partakers of one destiny, thou and i cringe to the stranger for a dwelling place. whilst he at home, the tyrant, woe is me, laughs at us both in soft luxurious pride. whose might, so thou wilt favour my design, i will lightly scatter in one little hour; and plant thee in thy theban palace home near to myself, hurling the usurper forth. all this with thy consent i shall achieve, but without thee, i forfeit life and all. ch. for his sake who hath brought him, oedipus, say what is meet, and let him go in peace. oed. ay, were it not the lord of all this land theseus, that brought him to me and desired he might hear words from me,--never again had these tones fallen upon his ear. but now that boon is granted him: he shall obtain, ere he depart, such utterance of my tongue, as ne'er shall give him joy,--ne'er comfort thee, villain, who when possessed of the chief power which now thy brother holds o'er theban land, didst banish me, thy father, who stand here, to live in exile, clothed with such attire, that moves thy tears now that thine own estate is fallen into like depth of struggling woe. but tears are bootless. howsoe'er i live, i must endure, and hold thee still my murderer. 'tis thou hast girt me round with misery, 'tis thou didst drive me forth, and driven by thee i beg my bread, a wandering sojourner. yea, had these daughters not been born to me to tend me, i were dead, for all thou hast done. they have rescued, they have nursed me. they are men, not women, in the strength of ministry. ye are another's, not my sons--for this the eye of destiny pursues thee still eager to light on thee with instant doom if once that army move toward the town of ancient thebes,--the _town_, no dearer name, 'city' or 'country' shall beseem thy lip till ye both fall, stained with fraternal gore long since i launched that curse against you twain which here again i summon to mine aid, that ye may learn what duty children owe to a parent, nor account it a light thing that ye were cruel sons to your blind sire. these maidens did not so. wherefore my curse prevails against thy prayer for thebe's throne, if ancient zeus, the eternal lawgiver, have primal justice for his counsellor. begone, renounced and fatherless for me, and take with thee, vilest of villanous men, this imprecation:--vain be thine attempt in levying war against thy father's race, frustrate be thy return to argos' vale: die foully by a fratricidal hand and foully slay him who hath banished thee! further, i bid the horror breathing gloom tartarean, of the vault that holds my sire, to banish thee from that last home: i invoke the spirits who haunt this ground, and the fierce god who hath filled you both with this unnatural hate.-- go now with all this in thine ears, and tell the people of cadmus and thy firm allies in whom thou trustest, what inheritance oedipus hath divided to his sons. ch. 'tis pity for thee, prince, to have come at all; and now we bid thee go the way thou camest. pol. alas! vain enterprise, and hope undone! oh, my poor comrades! to what fatal end i led you forth from argos, woe is me! i may not tell it you,--no, nor return. in silence i must go to meet my doom. daughters of this inexorable sire, since now ye have heard his cruel curse on me, ah! in heaven's name, my sisters, do not you treat me despitefully, but if, one day, our father's execration is fulfilled and ye shall be restored to theban ground, grace me with funeral honours and a tomb! so shall this ample praise which ye receive for filial ministration, in that day be more than doubled through your care for me. ant. brother, i beg thee, listen to my prayer! pol. dearest antigone, speak what thou wilt. ant. turn back thy host to argos with all speed, and ruin not thyself and thebè too. pol. impossible. if once i shrink for fear, no longer may i lead them to the war. ant. but why renew thy rage? what benefit comes to thee from o'erturning thine own land? pol. 'tis shameful to remain in banishment, and let my brother mock my right of birth. ant. then seest thou not how true unto their aim our father's prophecies of mutual death against you both are sped? pol. he speaks his wish. 'tis not for me to yield. ant. o me, unhappy! but who that hears the deep oracular sound of his dark words, will dare to follow thee? pol. they will not hear of danger from my mouth. wise generals tell of vantage, not of bale. ant. art thou then so resolved, o brother mine? pol. i am. retard me not! i must attend to my dark enterprise, blasted and foiled beforehand by my father's angry curse. but as for you, heaven prosper all your way, if ye will show this kindness in my death, for nevermore in life shall ye befriend me! nay, cling to me no longer. fare ye well. ye will behold my living form no more. ant. o misery! pol. bewail me not. ant. and who that saw thee hurrying forth to certain death would not bewail thee, brother? pol. if fate wills, why, i must die. ant. nay, but be ruled by me. pol. give me not craven counsel. ant. woe is me, to lose thee! pol. heaven hath power to guide the event or thus or otherwise. howe'er it prove, i pray that ye may ne'er encounter ill. all men may know, ye merit nought but good. [_exit. the sky is overcast--a storm is threatened_ chorus. new trouble, strange trouble, deep laden with doom, i from the sight-bereft stranger seems dimly to loom! or peers fate through the gloom? she will move toward her mark or through shining or shade; since no purpose of gods ever idly was made. time sees the fulfilment, who lifteth to-day what was lowly, and trampleth the lofty to clay. thunder! heavens! what a sound! oed. my children! would but some one in the place haste hither theseus, noblest among men! ant. wherefore, my father? what is thy desire? oed. these winged thunders of the highest will soon bear me away to the unseen. send quickly! chorus. again, yonder crash through the fire-startled air i wing'd from zeus, rushes down, till my thin locks of hair, stiff with fear, upward stare. my soul shrinks and cowers, for yon gleam from on high darts again! ne'er in vain hath it leapt from the sky, but flies forth amain to what task zeus hath given. i fear the unknown fatal edict of heaven! lightning glares all around! oed. my daughters, the divinely promised end here unavoidably descends on me. ant. how dost thou know it? by what certain sign? oed. i know it perfectly. let some one go with speed to bring the lord of athens hither. chorus. great heaven, how above me, beside me, around, ii peals redoubled the soul-thrilling sound! o our god, to this land, to our mother, if aught thou wouldst send with some darkness of destiny fraught, smile gently once more! with the good let me bear what of fortune soe'er,-- taste no cup, touch no food, the doomed sinner may share. zeus, to thee, lord, i cry! oed. is the king coming? will he find me alive, my daughters, and with reason undisturbed? ant. say wherefore dost thou crave with such desire the clearness of an undistracted mind? oed. i would fully render from a grateful soul the boon i promised, when i gained my suit. chorus (_looking towards athens_). come, my chief! come with speed! or, if haply at hand, ii on the height where the curved altars stand, thou art hallowing with oxen in sacrifice slain yonder shrine of poseidon, dread lord of the main, hie thee hither! be swift! the blind stranger intends to thee, to thy friends, to thy city, for burdens imposed, just amends. haste thee, king! hear our cry! _enter_ theseus. the. why sounds again from hence your joint appeal, wherein the stranger's voice is loudly heard? is it some lightning-bolt new-fallen from zeus, or cloud-born hail that is come rattling down? from heavens so black with storm nought can surprise. oed. prince, thou art come to my desire. some god hath happily directed this thy way. the. what is befallen? son of laius, tell! oed. my path slopes downward, and before my death i would confirm to athens and to thee my promised boon. the. what sign dost thou perceive that proves thine end so near? oed. the gods themselves with herald voices are proclaiming it, nought failing of the fore-appointed signs. the. what are these tokens, aged monarch, say? oed. the loud continual thunder, and the darts that flash in volleys from the unconquered hand. the. i may not doubt thee; for thy speech, i feel, hath ample witness of prophetic power. what must i do? oed. i will instruct thee now, aegeus' great son! in rites that shall remain an ageless treasure to thy countrymen. i will presently, with no man guiding me, conduct thee to the spot, where i must die. this is thy secret, not to be revealed to any one of men, or where 'tis hid or whereabout it lies. so through all time this neighbouring[ ] mound shall yield thee mightier aid than many a shield and help of alien spears. more shalt thou learn, too sacred to divulge, when yonder thou art come thyself alone. since to none other of these citizens nor even unto the children of my love may i disclose it. 'tis for thee to keep inviolate while thou livest, and when thy days have ending, breathe it to the foremost man alone, and he in turn unto the next successively. so shalt thou ever hold athens unravaged by the dragon brood[ ]. cities are numberless, and any one may lightly insult even those who dwell secure. for the eye of heaven though late yet surely sees when, casting off respect, men turn to crime. erechtheus' heir! let that be far from thee! a warning needless to a man so wise! now go we--for this leading of the god is urgent--to the place, nor loiter more. this way, my children! follow me! for i am now your guide, as ye were mine. come on! nay, touch me not, but leave me of myself to find the holy sepulchre, wherein this form must rest beneath athenian soil. come this way! come! this way are leading me guide hermes and the queen of realms below. o light, all dark to me! in former time bright seemed thy shining! now thy latest ray sheds vital influence o'er this frame. i go to hide the close of my disastrous life with hades. kind athenian friend, farewell! may'st thou, thy followers, and this glorious land be happy, and in your endless happiness remember him who blessed you in his death. [_exeunt_ chorus. prince of the powers unseen, durst we with prayers adore thee and thy viewless queen, your aid, aidôneus, would our lips implore! by no harsh-sounding doom let him we love descend, with calm and cloudless end, in deep plutonian dwelling evermore to abide among the people of the tomb! long worn with many an undeservèd woe, just gods will give thee glory there below. dread forms, who haunt this floor, and thou, the unconquered beast, that hugely liest at rest by the dim shining adamantine door, --still from thy cavernous lair gnarling, so legends tell, a tameless guard of hell,-- mayest thou this once thy vigilance forbear, and leave large room for him now entering there. hear us, great son of darkness and the deep; on thee we call, god of the dreamless sleep! _enter_ messenger. mess. athenian citizens, my briefest tale were to say singly, oedipus is gone; but to describe the scene enacted yonder craves no brief speech, nor was the action brief. ch. then he is gone! poor man! mess. know it once for all, he hath left eternally the light of day. ch. poor soul! what? ended he with peace divine? mess. ay, there is the main marvel. how he moved from hence, thou knowest, for thou too wert here, and saw'st that of his friends none guided him, but he they loved was leader to them all. now, when he came to the steep pavement, rooted with adamant foundation deep in earth, on one of many paths he took his stand near the stone basin, where peirithoüs and theseus graved their everlasting league. there, opposite the mass of laurian ore, turned from the hollow pear-tree and the tomb of marble, he sate down, and straight undid his travel-soiled attire, then called aloud on both his children, and bade some one fetch pure water from a running stream. and they, hasting together to the neighbouring hill of green demeter, goddess of the spring, brought back their sire's commission speedily, and bathed, and clothed him with the sacred robe. when he was satisfied, and nothing now remained undone of all he bade them do, the god of darkness thundered, and the maids stood horror-stricken on hearing; then together fell at their father's knees and wept and wailed loudly and long with beating of the breast. he, when that sound of sorrow pierced his ear, caressed them in his arms and said:--'my daughters, from this day forth you have no more a father. all that was mine is ended, and no longer shall ye continue your hard ministry of labour for my life.--and yet, though hard, not unendurable, since all the toil was rendered light through love, which ye can never receive on earth so richly, as from him bereaved of whom ye now shall live forlorn.' such was the talk, mingled with sobs and crying, as each clung fast to each. but when they came to an end of weeping and those sounds were stilled, first all was silent; then a sudden voice hurried him onward, making each man's hair bristle on end with force of instant fear. now here, now there, not once but oftentimes, a god called loudly, 'oedipus, oedipus! why thus delay our going? this long while we are stayed for and thou tarriest. come away!' he, when he knew the summons of the god, gave word for royal theseus to go near; and when he came, said: 'friend for ever kind, reach thy right hand, i pray thee (that first pledge) to these my children:--daughters, yours to him!-- and give thy sacred word that thou wilt never betray these willingly: but still perform all that thou mayest with true thought for their good.' he, with grand calmness like his noble self, promised on oath to keep this friendly bond. and when he had done so, oedipus forthwith stroking his children with his helpless hands spake thus:--'my daughters, you must steel your hearts to noble firmness, and depart from hence, nor ask to see or hear forbidden things. go, go at once! theseus alone must stay sole rightful witness of these mysteries.' those accents were the last we all might hear. then, following the two maids, with checkless tears and groans we took our way. but by and by, at distance looking round, we saw,--not him, who was not there,--but theseus all alone holding his hand before his eyes, as if some apparition unendurable had dazed his vision. in a little while, we marked him making reverence in one prayer to the earth, and to the home of gods on high. but by what fate he perished, mortal man, save theseus, none can say. no lightning-flash from heaven, no tempest rising from the deep, caused his departure in that hour, but either some messenger from heaven, or, from beneath, the lower part of earth, where comes no pain, opening kindly to receive him in. not to be mourned, nor with a tearful end of sickness was he taken from the earth, but wondrously, beyond recorded fate. if any deem my words unwise, i care not in that man's judgement to be counted wise. ch. where are those maidens and their escort? say. mess. they are not far off, but here. the voice of weeping betokens all too plainly their approach. ant. alas! how manifold, the inheritance of woe drawn from the troubled fountain of our birth! indelible, ineradicable grief! for him erewhile we had labour infinite and unrelieved, and now in his last hour we have to tell of sights and sorrows beyond thought. ch. how then? ant. friends, ye might understand. ch. speak. is he gone? ant. gone! even as heart could wish, had wishes power. how else, when neither war, nor the wide sea encountered him, but viewless realms enwrapt him, wafted away to some mysterious doom? whence on our hearts a horror of night is fallen. woe 's me! for whither wandering shall we find hard livelihood, by land or over sea? ism. i know not. let dark hades take me off to lie in death with mine age honoured sire! death were far better than my life to be. ch. noblest of maidens, ye must learn to bear meekly the sending of the gods. be not on fire with grief. your state is well assured. ant. if to be thus is well, then may one long for evil to return. things nowise dear were dear to me, whiles i had him to embrace. o father! loved one! that art wearing now the eternal robe of darkness underground, old as thou wert, think not this maid and i will cease from loving thee! ch. he met his doom. ant. he met the doom he longed for. ch. how was that? ant. in the strange land where he desired to die he died. he rests in shadow undisturbed; nor hath he left a tearless funeral. for these mine eyes, father, unceasingly mourn thee with weeping, nor can i subdue this ever-mounting sorrow for thy loss. ah me! would thou hadst not desired to die here among strangers, but alone with thee there, in the desert, i had seen thee die! ism. unhappy me! what destiny, dear girl, awaits us both, bereaved and fatherless? ch. his end was fortunate. he rests in peace. dear maidens, then desist from your complaint. sorrow is swift to overtake us all. ant. thither again, dear girl, let us go speedily! ism. say, for what end? ant. desire possesses me-- ism. whereof? ant. to see the darksome dwelling-place-- ism. of whom? ant. woe is me! of him, our sire! ism. but how can this be lawful? seest thou not? ant. how say'st thou? why this remonstrance? ism. seest thou not, again, he hath no grave and no man buried him. ant. take me but where he lies. then slay me there. ism. ah! woe is me, doubly unfortunate, forlorn and destitute, whither henceforth for wretched comfort must we go? ch. fear nought, dear maidens! ism. where shall we find refuge? ch. here, long since, your refuge is secure. ant. how so? ch. no harm shall touch you. ant. i know that. ch. what then further engrosseth thee? ant. how to get home i know not. ch. seek not for it. ant. weariness o'erweighs me. ch. hath it not before oppressed thee? ant. before, it vexed me; now it overwhelms. ch. a mighty sea of misery is your lot. ant. woe is me! o zeus! and whither must we go? unto what doom doth my fate drive me now? ch. children, lament no longer. 'tis not well to mourn 'mongst those with whom the honoured dead hath left the heirloom of his benison. _enter_ theseus. ant. theseus, behold us falling at thy feet. the. what boon, my children, are ye bent to obtain? ant. our eyes would see our father's burial-place. the. 'tis not permitted to go near that spot. ant. o athens' sovereign lord, what hast thou said? the. dear children, 'twas your father's spoken will that no man should approach his resting-place, nor human voice should ever violate the mystery of the tomb wherein he lies. he promised, if i truly kept this word, my land would evermore be free from harm. the power which no man may transgress and live, the oath of zeus, bore witness to our troth. ant. his wishes are enough. then, pray thee, send an escort to convey us to our home, primeval thebes, if so we may prevent the death that menaces our brethren there. the. that will i; and in all that i may do to prosper you and solace him beneath,-- who even now passes to eternity,-- i must not falter. come, lament no more. his destiny hath found a perfect end. * * * * * notes some proper names aidoneus, hades or pluto. ares, the war-god, a destructive power. deo, demeter. erinyes, the furies. helios, the sun-god. rhea, the mother of the gods. thebe, the town of thebes personified. antigone. p. , l. . _the serpent._ the dragon, the emblem of thebes. l. . _idly caparisoned._ reading [greek: huperopliais]. p. , l. . _self-harnessed helper._ an allusion to the [greek: seiraphoros], or side trace-horse, in a chariot-race. p. , l. . _children of the steed._ mules are so-called by homer. p. , l. . _dryas' hasty son._ lycurgus. see homer, _iliad_, vi. l. . _phineus' two sons._ idothea, the second wife of phineus, persecuted his two sons by cleopatra, a daughter of boreas, whom he had repudiated and immured. the argonauts saw them in the condition here described. p. , l. . _the all-gathering bosom wide._ the plain of eleusis, where mysteries were held in honour of dêo or demeter. p. , l. . reading [greek: *oxuthêktô ... peri*xiphei]. l. . _the glorious bed of buried megareus._ megareus, son of creon and eurydice, sacrificed himself for thebes by falling into a deep cave called the dragon's lair. aias. p. , l. . _her blood-stained temple._ in some of her temples artemis was worshipped with sacrifices of bulls, and, according to an old tradition, also with human sacrifices. p. . l. . _the brood of sisyphus._ amongst his enemies, odysseus was reputed to be the offspring of sisyphus and not of laertes. p. , l. . _named of the shield._ eurysakes means broadshield. p. , l. . _who smiles no more._ compare a fragment of the _teucer_ of sophocles ( , nauck), 'how vain then, o my son, how vain was my delight in thy proud fame, while i supposed thee living! the fell fury from her dark shroud beguiled me with sweet lies.' king oedipus. p. , l. . _that stern songstress._ the sphinx. see also 'minstrel hound.' p. , l. . _will hunt | pollution forth._ the party cry of 'driving out the pollution' was raised against the alcmaeonidae and other families in athens, who were supposed to lie under a traditional curse. p. . l. . _who durst declare it._ [greek: tou pros d' ephanthê]. though the emphatic order of words is unusual, this seems more forcible than the var. [greek: toupos d' ephanthe]. p. , l. . [cr. _you'll ne'er relent nor listen to my plea._] a line has here been lost in the original. p. , l. . _your purchase or your child?_ oedipus is not to be supposed to have weighed the import of the corinthian shepherd's words, 'nor i nor he,' &c., _supra_. p. . l. . _his envied fortune mounted beaming._ reading [greek: en zêlô politôn] (with mss) and [greek: epiphlegôn] from my conjecture. electra. p. , l. . _the wolf-slaying god._ apollo lyceius, from _lycos_, a wolf. p. , l. . _ne'er be it mine,_ &c. reading [greek: toume mê *lupoun monon | boskêma]. p. , l. . _that lingers on my brow._ a somewhat forced interpretation of [greek: tênde liparê tricha]. possibly [greek: tênd' alamprunton tricha]: 'and this--unkempt and poor--yet give it to him.' p. , l. . _chariot course of pelops, full of toil._ pelops won his bride hippodameia by bribing myrtilus, his charioteer; whom, in order to conceal his fault, he flung into the sea. p. , l. . _that pulled the side-rope._ see on ant., p. , l. . l. . _in letting loose again the left-hand rein._ the near horse (see above) knows his business, and, when the slackening of the rein shows that the goal is cleared, makes eagerly for the direct downward course. but if he is let go an instant too soon, he brings the car into contact with the stone. l. . _caught in the reins._ in an ancient chariot-race, the reins were often passed round the body of the charioteer, so as to give more purchase. see this described in the _hippolytus_ of euripides. p. , l. . _one in a woman's toils | was tangled._ amphiaraus, betrayed by eriphyle for a necklace. p. , l. . _through homeless misery._ i read [greek: aiôn' aoikon] for [greek: aiôna koinon] of the mss. l. . _purging the sin and shame._ i read [greek: kathagnisasa] for the impossible [greek: kathoplisasa]. p. , l. . _thou hast been taking,_ &c. otherwise, reading with the mss [greek: zôn tois thanousin ounek' antaudas isa], _at point to die, thou art talking with the dead._ trachinian maidens. p. , l. . _bride of battle-wooing._ 'dêanira' signifies 'cause of strife to heroes.' p. , l. . _ne'er may i see thee._ the spartan captives from pylos had lately been at athens, and some of them were reputed descendants of hyllus, the son of dêanira. p. , l. . _frees him for ever._ his last contest brings his final deliverance. p. , l. . _from love's dread minister,_ i.e. from aphrodite, working through the concealed and silent iole. philoctetes. p. , l. . _through chrysa's cruel sting._ chrysa was an island near the troad, sacred to a goddess of the name. her precinct was guarded by a serpent, whose bite, from which philoctetes suffered, was incurable. see below p. , l. . p. , l. . _the fosterer of my sire._ phoenix, the tutor of achilles. p. , l. . _for i ne'er | had seen him._ the legend which makes achilles go to troy from scyros is probably ignored. l. . _vile offset of an evil tree._ alluding to the supposed birth of odysseus. see on ai., l. , p. [sic. should be p. ]. p. , l. . _of old chalcodon._ one of the former generation, a friend and neighbour of poeas the father of philoctetes. p. , l. . _of him, whose home is in the skies._ heracles, imagined as transfigured on mount oeta. p. , l. . _the sky-roofed fold._ the open precinct that was sacred to the goddess, merely surrounded by a wall. see above, note on p. , l. . p. , l. . _phoebus' child._ asclepius. oedipus at colonos. p. , l. . _mingles with draughts,_ &c. where libations are mixed of water and honey. p. , l. . _the god._ poseidon. see above, p. [sic. should be p. ], l. . p. , l. . _neighbouring._ [greek: geitonôn] (the participle). l. . _the dragon-brood._ the cadmeian race at thebes, sprung from the dragon's teeth sown by cadmus. n.b.--for other questionable points the student is referred to the small edition of _sophocles_, by campbell and abbott ( vols., clarendon press, ). oxford: horace hart, printer to the university. [note on text: italicized stanzas are indented spaces. italicized words or phrases are capitalized. lines longer than characters are broken, and the continuation is indented two spaces. some obvious errors may be corrected.] [this etext has been transcribed from the original edition, which was published in new york in .] helen of troy and other poems by sara teasdale [american (missouri & new york) poet] author of "sonnets to duse, and other poems" to marion cummings stanley contents helen of troy beatrice sappho marianna alcoforando guenevere erinna love songs song the rose and the bee the song maker wild asters when love goes the wayfarer the princess in the tower when love was born the shrine the blind love me the song for colin four winds roundel dew a maiden "i love you" but not to me hidden love snow song youth and the pilgrim the wanderer i would live in your love may rispetto less than the cloud to the wind buried love song pierrot at night song love in autumn the kiss november a song of the princess the wind a winter night the metropolitan tower gramercy park in the metropolitan museum coney island union square central park at dusk young love sonnets and lyrics primavera mia soul's birth love and death for the anniversary of john keats' death silence the return fear anadyomene galahad in the castle of the maidens to an aeolian harp to erinna to cleis paris in spring madeira from the sea city vignettes by the sea on the death of swinburne triolets vox corporis a ballad of two knights christmas carol the faery forest a fantasy a minuet of mozart's twilight the prayer two songs for a child on the tower helen of troy and other poems helen of troy wild flight on flight against the fading dawn the flames' red wings soar upward duskily. this is the funeral pyre and troy is dead that sparkled so the day i saw it first, and darkened slowly after. i am she who loves all beauty--yet i wither it. why have the high gods made me wreak their wrath-- forever since my maidenhood to sow sorrow and blood about me? lo, they keep their bitter care above me even now. it was the gods who led me to this lair, that tho' the burning winds should make me weak, they should not snatch the life from out my lips. olympus let the other women die; they shall be quiet when the day is done and have no care to-morrow. yet for me there is no rest. the gods are not so kind to her made half immortal like themselves. it is to you i owe the cruel gift, leda, my mother, and the swan, my sire, to you the beauty and to you the bale; for never woman born of man and maid had wrought such havoc on the earth as i, or troubled heaven with a sea of flame that climbed to touch the silent whirling stars and blotted out their brightness ere the dawn. have i not made the world to weep enough? give death to me. yet life is more than death; how could i leave the sound of singing winds, the strong sweet scent that breathes from off the sea, or shut my eyes forever to the spring? i will not give the grave my hands to hold, my shining hair to light oblivion. have those who wander through the ways of death, the still wan fields elysian, any love to lift their breasts with longing, any lips to thirst against the quiver of a kiss? lo, i shall live to conquer greece again, to make the people love, who hate me now. my dreams are over, i have ceased to cry against the fate that made men love my mouth and left their spirits all too deaf to hear the little songs that echoed through my soul. i have no anger now. the dreams are done; yet since the greeks and trojans would not see aught but my body's fairness, till the end, in all the islands set in all the seas, and all the lands that lie beneath the sun, till light turn darkness, and till time shall sleep, men's lives shall waste with longing after me, for i shall be the sum of their desire, the whole of beauty, never seen again. and they shall stretch their arms and starting, wake with "helen!" on their lips, and in their eyes the vision of me. always i shall be limned on the darkness like a shaft of light that glimmers and is gone. they shall behold each one his dream that fashions me anew;-- with hair like lakes that glint beneath the stars dark as sweet midnight, or with hair aglow like burnished gold that still retains the fire. yea, i shall haunt until the dusk of time the heavy eyelids filled with fleeting dreams. i wait for one who comes with sword to slay-- the king i wronged who searches for me now; and yet he shall not slay me. i shall stand with lifted head and look within his eyes, baring my breast to him and to the sun. he shall not have the power to stain with blood that whiteness--for the thirsty sword shall fall and he shall cry and catch me in his arms, bearing me back to sparta on his breast. lo, i shall live to conquer greece again! beatrice send out the singers--let the room be still; they have not eased my pain nor brought me sleep. close out the sun, for i would have it dark that i may feel how black the grave will be. the sun is setting, for the light is red, and you are outlined in a golden fire, like ursula upon an altar-screen. come, leave the light and sit beside my bed, for i have had enough of saints and prayers. strange broken thoughts are beating in my brain, they come and vanish and again they come. it is the fever driving out my soul, and death stands waiting by the arras there. ornella, i will speak, for soon my lips shall keep a silence till the end of time. you have a mouth for loving--listen then: keep tryst with love before death comes to tryst; for i, who die, could wish that i had lived a little closer to the world of men, not watching always thro' the blazoned panes that show the world in chilly greens and blues and grudge the sunshine that would enter in. i was no part of all the troubled crowd that moved beneath the palace windows here, and yet sometimes a knight in shining steel would pass and catch the gleaming of my hair, and wave a mailed hand and smile at me, whereat i made no sign and turned away, affrighted and yet glad and full of dreams. ah, dreams and dreams that asked no answering! i should have wrought to make my dreams come true, but all my life was like an autumn day, full of gray quiet and a hazy peace. what was i saying? all is gone again. it seemed but now i was the little child who played within a garden long ago. beyond the walls the festal trumpets blared. perhaps they carried some madonna by with tossing ensigns in a sea of flowers, a painted virgin with a painted child, who saw for once the sweetness of the sun before they shut her in an altar-niche where tapers smoke against the windy gloom. i gathered roses redder than my gown and played that i was saint elizabeth, whose wine had turned to roses in her hands. and as i played, a child came thro' the gate, a boy who looked at me without a word, as tho' he saw stretch far behind my head long lines of radiant angels, row on row. that day we spoke a little, timidly, and after that i never heard the voice that sang so many songs for love of me. he was content to stand and watch me pass, to seek for me at matins every day, where i could feel his eyes the while i prayed. i think if he had stretched his hands to me, or moved his lips to say a single word, i might have loved him--he had wondrous eyes. ornella, are you there? i cannot see-- is every one so lonely when he dies? the room is filled with lights--with waving lights-- who are the men and women 'round the bed? what have i said, ornella? have they heard? there was no evil hidden in my life, and yet, and yet, i would not have them know-- am i not floating in a mist of light? o lift me up and i shall reach the sun! sappho the twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep, and in my lesbos, over leagues of sea, the temples glimmer moonwise in the trees. twilight has veiled the little flower face here on my heart, but still the night is kind and leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast. am i that sappho who would run at dusk along the surges creeping up the shore when tides came in to ease the hungry beach, and running, running, till the night was black, would fall forespent upon the chilly sand and quiver with the winds from off the sea? ah, quietly the shingle waits the tides whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me love brought no peace, nor darkness any rest. i crept and touched the foam with fevered hands and cried to love, from whom the sea is sweet, from whom the sea is bitterer than death. ah, aphrodite, if i sing no more to thee, god's daughter, powerful as god, it is that thou hast made my life too sweet to hold the added sweetness of a song. there is a quiet at the heart of love, and i have pierced the pain and come to peace. i hold my peace, my cleis, on my heart; and softer than a little wild bird's wing are kisses that she pours upon my mouth. ah, never any more when spring like fire will flicker in the newly opened leaves, shall i steal forth to seek for solitude beyond the lure of light alcaeus' lyre, beyond the sob that stilled erinna's voice. ah, never with a throat that aches with song, beneath the white uncaring sky of spring, shall i go forth to hide awhile from love the quiver and the crying of my heart. still i remember how i strove to flee the love-note of the birds, and bowed my head to hurry faster, but upon the ground i saw two winged shadows side by side, and all the world's spring passion stifled me. ah, love, there is no fleeing from thy might, no lonely place where thou hast never trod, no desert thou hast left uncarpeted with flowers that spring beneath thy perfect feet. in many guises didst thou come to me; i saw thee by the maidens while they danced, phaon allured me with a look of thine, in anactoria i knew thy grace, i looked at cercolas and saw thine eyes; but never wholly, soul and body mine, didst thou bid any love me as i loved. now i have found the peace that fled from me; close, close, against my heart i hold my world. ah, love that made my life a lyric cry, ah, love that tuned my lips to lyres of thine, i taught the world thy music, now alone i sing for one who falls asleep to hear. marianna alcoforando (the portuguese nun-- - ) the sparrows wake beneath the convent eaves; i think i have not slept the whole night through. but i am old; the aged scarcely know the times they wake and sleep, for life burns down; they breathe the calm of death before they die. the long night ends, the day comes creeping in, showing the sorrows that the darkness hid, the bended head of christ, the blood, the thorns, the wall's gray stains of damp, the pallet bed where little sister marta dreams of saints, waking with arms outstretched imploringly that seek to stay a vision's vanishing. i never had a vision, yet for me our lady smiled while all the convent slept one winter midnight hushed around with snow-- i thought she might be kinder than the rest, and so i came to kneel before her feet, sick with love's sorrow and love's bitterness. but when i would have made the blessed sign, i found the water frozen in the font, and touched but ice within the carved stone. the saints had hid themselves away from me, leaving the windows black against the night; and when i sank upon the altar steps, before the virgin mother and her child, the last, pale, low-burnt taper flickered out, but in the darkness, smooth and fathomless, still twinkled like a star the holy lamp that cast a dusky glow upon her face. then through the numbing cold peace fell on me, submission and the gracious gift of tears, for when i looked, oh! blessed miracle, her lips had parted and our lady smiled! and then i knew that love is worth its pain and that my heart was richer for his sake, since lack of love is bitterest of all. the day is broad awake--the first long beam of level sun finds sister marta's face, and trembling there it lights a timid smile upon the lips that say so many prayers, and have no words for hate and none for love. but when she passes where her prayers have gone, will god not smile a little sadly then, and send her back with gentle words to earth that she may hold a child against her breast and feel its little hands upon her hair? we weep before the blessed mother's shrine, to think upon her sorrows, but her joys what nun could ever know a tithing of? the precious hours she watched above his sleep were worth the fearful anguish of the end. yea, lack of love is bitterest of all; yet i have felt what thing it is to know one thought forever, sleeping or awake; to say one name whose sweetness grows so strange that it might work a spell on those who weep; to feel the weight of love upon my heart so heavy that the blood can scarcely flow. love comes to some unlooked-for, quietly, as when at twilight, with a soft surprise, we see the new-born crescent in the blue; and unto others love is planet-like, a cold and placid gleam that wavers not, and there are those who wait the call of love expectant of his coming, as we watch to see the east grow pallid ere the moon lifts up her flower-like head against the night. love came to me as comes a cruel sun, that on some rain-drenched morning, when the leaves are bowed beneath their clinging weight of drops, tears through the mist, and burns with fervent heat the tender grasses and the meadow flowers; then suddenly the heavy clouds close in and through the dark the thunder's muttering is drowned amid the dashing of the rain. but i have seen my day grow calm again. the sun sets slowly on a peaceful world, and sheds a quiet light across the fields. guenevere i was a queen, and i have lost my crown; a wife, and i have broken all my vows; a lover, and i ruined him i loved:-- there is no other havoc left to do. a little month ago i was a queen, and mothers held their babies up to see when i came riding out of camelot. the women smiled, and all the world smiled too. and now, what woman's eyes would smile on me? i still am beautiful, and yet what child would think of me as some high, heaven-sent thing, an angel, clad in gold and miniver? the world would run from me, and yet am i no different from the queen they used to love. if water, flowing silver over stones, is forded, and beneath the horses' feet grows turbid suddenly, it clears again, and men will drink it with no thought of harm. yet i am branded for a single fault. i was the flower amid a toiling world, where people smiled to see one happy thing, and they were proud and glad to raise me high; they only asked that i should be right fair, a little kind, and gowned wondrously, and surely it were little praise to me if i had pleased them well throughout my life. i was a queen, the daughter of a king. the crown was never heavy on my head, it was my right, and was a part of me. the women thought me proud, the men were kind, and bowed right gallantly to kiss my hand, and watched me as i passed them calmly by, along the halls i shall not tread again. what if, to-night, i should revisit them? the warders at the gates, the kitchen-maids, the very beggars would stand off from me, and i, their queen, would climb the stairs alone, pass through the banquet-hall, a loathed thing, and seek my chambers for a hiding-place, and i should find them but a sepulchre, the very rushes rotted on the floors, the fire in ashes on the freezing hearth. i was a queen, and he who loved me best made me a woman for a night and day, and now i go unqueened forevermore. a queen should never dream on summer eves, when hovering spells are heavy in the dusk:-- i think no night was ever quite so still, so smoothly lit with red along the west, so deeply hushed with quiet through and through. and strangely clear, and deeply dyed with light, the trees stood straight against a paling sky, with venus burning lamp-like in the west. i walked alone amid a thousand flowers, that drooped their heads and drowsed beneath the dew, and all my thoughts were quieted to sleep. behind me, on the walk, i heard a step-- i did not know my heart could tell his tread, i did not know i loved him till that hour. within my breast i felt a wild, sick pain, the garden reeled a little, i was weak, and quick he came behind me, caught my arms, that ached beneath his touch; and then i swayed, my head fell backward and i saw his face. all this grows bitter that was once so sweet, and many mouths must drain the dregs of it. but none will pity me, nor pity him whom love so lashed, and with such cruel thongs. erinna they sent you in to say farewell to me, no, do not shake your head; i see your eyes that shine with tears. sappho, you saw the sun just now when you came hither, and again, when you have left me, all the shimmering great meadows will laugh lightly, and the sun put round about you warm invisible arms as might a lover, decking you with light. i go toward darkness tho' i lie so still. if i could see the sun, i should look up and drink the light until my eyes were blind; i should kneel down and kiss the blades of grass, and i should call the birds with such a voice, with such a longing, tremulous and keen, that they would fly to me and on the breast bear evermore to tree-tops and to fields the kiss i gave them. sappho, tell me this, was i not sometimes fair? my eyes, my mouth, my hair that loved the wind, were they not worth the breath of love upon them? yet he passed, and he will pass to-night when all the air is blue with twilight; but i shall not see. i shall have gone forever. hold my hands, hold fast that death may never come between; swear by the gods you will not let me go; make songs for death as you would sing to love-- but you will not assuage him. he alone of all the gods will take no gifts from men. i am afraid, afraid. sappho, lean down. last night the fever gave a dream to me, it takes my life and gives a little dream. i thought i saw him stand, the man i love, here in my quiet chamber, with his eyes fixed on me as i entered, while he drew silently toward me--he who night by night goes by my door without a thought of me-- neared me and put his hand behind my head, and leaning toward me, kissed me on the mouth. that was a little dream for death to give, too short to take the whole of life for, yet i woke with lips made quiet by a kiss. the dream is worth the dying. do not smile so sadly on me with your shining eyes, you who can set your sorrow to a song and ease your hurt by singing. but to me my songs are less than sea-sand that the wind drives stinging over me and bears away. i have no care what place the grains may fall, nor of my songs, if time shall blow them back, as land-wind breaks the lines of dying foam along the bright wet beaches, scattering the flakes once more against the laboring sea, into oblivion. what care have i to please apollo since love hearkens not? your words will live forever, men will say "she was the perfect lover"--i shall die, i loved too much to live. go sappho, go-- i hate your hands that beat so full of life, go, lest my hatred hurt you. i shall die, but you will live to love and love again. he might have loved some other spring than this; i should have kept my life--i let it go. he would not love me now tho' cypris bound her girdle round me. i am death's, not love's. go from me, sappho, back to find the sun. i am alone, alone. o cyprian . . . love songs song you bound strong sandals on my feet, you gave me bread and wine, and bade me out, 'neath sun and stars, for all the world was mine. oh take the sandals off my feet, you know not what you do; for all my world is in your arms, my sun and stars are you. the rose and the bee if i were a bee and you were a rose, would you let me in when the gray wind blows? would you hold your petals wide apart, would you let me in to find your heart, if you were a rose? "if i were a rose and you were a bee, you should never go when you came to me, i should hold my love on my heart at last, i should close my leaves and keep you fast, if you were a bee." the song maker i made a hundred little songs that told the joy and pain of love, and sang them blithely, tho' i knew no whit thereof. i was a weaver deaf and blind; a miracle was wrought for me, but i have lost my skill to weave since i can see. for while i sang--ah swift and strange! love passed and touched me on the brow, and i who made so many songs am silent now. wild asters in the spring i asked the daisies if his words were true, and the clever little daisies always knew. now the fields are brown and barren, bitter autumn blows, and of all the stupid asters not one knows. when love goes i o mother, i am sick of love, i cannot laugh nor lift my head, my bitter dreams have broken me, i would my love were dead. "drink of the draught i brew for thee, thou shalt have quiet in its stead." ii where is the silver in the rain, where is the music in the sea, where is the bird that sang all day to break my heart with melody? "the night thou badst love fly away, he hid them all from thee." the wayfarer love entered in my heart one day, a sad, unwelcome guest; but when he begged that he might stay, i let him wait and rest. he broke my sleep with sorrowing, and shook my dreams with tears, and when my heart was fain to sing, he stilled its joy with fears. but now that he has gone his way, i miss the old sweet pain, and sometimes in the night i pray that he may come again. the princess in the tower i the princess sings: i am the princess up in the tower and i dream the whole day thro' of a knight who shall come with a silver spear and a waving plume of blue. i am the princess up in the tower, and i dream my dreams by day, but sometimes i wake, and my eyes are wet, when the dusk is deep and gray. for the peasant lovers go by beneath, i hear them laugh and kiss, and i forget my day-dream knight, and long for a love like this. ii the minstrel sings: i lie beside the princess' tower, so close she cannot see my face, and watch her dreaming all day long, and bending with a lily's grace. her cheeks are paler than the moon that sails along a sunny sky, and yet her silent mouth is red where tender words and kisses lie. i am a minstrel with a harp, for love of her my songs are sweet, and yet i dare not lift the voice that lies so far beneath her feet. iii the knight sings: o princess cease your dreams awhile and look adown your tower's gray side-- the princess gazes far away, nor hears nor heeds the words i cried. perchance my heart was overbold, god made her dreams too pure to break, she sees the angels in the air fly to and fro for mary's sake. farewell, i mount and go my way, --but oh her hair the sun sifts thro'-- the tilts and tourneys wait my spear, i am the knight of the plume of blue. when love was born when love was born i think he lay right warm on venus' breast, and whiles he smiled and whiles would play and whiles would take his rest. but always, folded out of sight, the wings were growing strong that were to bear him off in flight erelong, erelong. the shrine there is no lord within my heart, left silent as an empty shrine where rose and myrtle intertwine, within a place apart. no god is there of carven stone to watch with still approving eyes my thoughts like steady incense rise; i dream and weep alone. but if i keep my altar fair, some morning i shall lift my head from roses deftly garlanded to find the god is there. the blind the birds are all a-building, they say the world's a-flower, and still i linger lonely within a barren bower. i weave a web of fancies of tears and darkness spun. how shall i sing of sunlight who never saw the sun? i hear the pipes a-blowing, but yet i may not dance, i know that love is passing, i cannot catch his glance. and if his voice should call me and i with groping dim should reach his place of calling and stretch my arms to him, the wind would blow between my hands for joy that i shall miss, the rain would fall upon my mouth that his will never kiss. love me brown-thrush singing all day long in the leaves above me, take my love this little song, "love me, love me, love me!" when he harkens what you say, bid him, lest he miss me, leave his work or leave his play, and kiss me, kiss me, kiss me! the song for colin i sang a song at dusking time beneath the evening star, and terence left his latest rhyme to answer from afar. pierrot laid down his lute to weep, and sighed, "she sings for me," but colin slept a careless sleep beneath an apple tree. four winds "four winds blowing thro' the sky, you have seen poor maidens die, tell me then what i shall do that my lover may be true." said the wind from out the south, "lay no kiss upon his mouth," and the wind from out the west, "wound the heart within his breast," and the wind from out the east, "send him empty from the feast," and the wind from out the north, "in the tempest thrust him forth, when thou art more cruel than he, then will love be kind to thee." roundel if he could know my songs are all for him, at silver dawn or in the evening glow, would he not smile and think it but a whim, if he could know? or would his heart rejoice and overflow, as happy brooks that break their icy rim when april's horns along the hillsides blow? i may not speak till eros' torch is dim, the god is bitter and will have it so; and yet to-night our fate would seem less grim if he could know. dew i dream that he is mine, i dream that he is true, and all his words i keep as rose-leaves hold the dew. o little thirsty rose, o little heart beware, lest you should hope to hold a hundred roses' share. a maiden oh if i were the velvet rose upon the red rose vine, i'd climb to touch his window and make his casement fine. and if i were the little bird that twitters on the tree, all day i'd sing my love for him till he should harken me. but since i am a maiden i go with downcast eyes, and he will never hear the songs that he has turned to sighs. and since i am a maiden my love will never know that i could kiss him with a mouth more red than roses blow. "i love you" when april bends above me and finds me fast asleep, dust need not keep the secret a live heart died to keep. when april tells the thrushes, the meadow-larks will know, and pipe the three words lightly to all the winds that blow. above his roof the swallows, in notes like far-blown rain, will tell the little sparrow beside his window-pane. o sparrow, little sparrow, when i am fast asleep, then tell my love the secret that i have died to keep. but not to me the april night is still and sweet with flowers on every tree; peace comes to them on quiet feet, but not to me. my peace is hidden in his breast where i shall never be, love comes to-night to all the rest, but not to me. hidden love i hid the love within my heart, and lit the laughter in my eyes, that when we meet he may not know my love that never dies. but sometimes when he dreams at night of fragrant forests green and dim, it may be that my love crept out and brought the dream to him. and sometimes when his heart is sick and suddenly grows well again, it may be that my love was there to free his life of pain. snow song fairy snow, fairy snow, blowing, blowing everywhere, would that i too, could fly lightly, lightly through the air. like a wee, crystal star i should drift, i should blow near, more near, to my dear where he comes through the snow. i should fly to my love like a flake in the storm, i should die, i should die, on his lips that are warm. youth and the pilgrim gray pilgrim, you have journeyed far, i pray you tell to me is there a land where love is not, by shore of any sea? for i am weary of the god, and i would flee from him tho' i must take a ship and go beyond the ocean's rim. "i know a port where love is not, the ship is in your hand, then plunge your sword within your breast and you will reach the land." the wanderer i saw the sunset-colored sands, the nile like flowing fire between, where rameses stares forth serene, and ammon's heavy temple stands. i saw the rocks where long ago, above the sea that cries and breaks, bright perseus with medusa's snakes set free the maiden white like snow. and many skies have covered me, and many winds have blown me forth, and i have loved the green bright north, and i have loved the cold sweet sea. but what to me are north and south, and what the lure of many lands, since you have leaned to catch my hands and lay a kiss upon my mouth. i would live in your love i would live in your love as the sea-grasses live in the sea, borne up by each wave as it passes, drawn down by each wave that recedes; i would empty my soul of the dreams that have gathered in me, i would beat with your heart as it beats, i would follow your soul as it leads. may the wind is tossing the lilacs, the new leaves laugh in the sun, and the petals fall on the orchard wall, but for me the spring is done. beneath the apple blossoms i go a wintry way, for love that smiled in april is false to me in may. rispetto was that his step that sounded on the stair? was that his knock i heard upon the door? i grow so tired i almost cease to care, and yet i would that he might come once more. it was the wind i heard, that mocks at me, the bitter wind that is more cruel than he; it was the wind that knocked upon the door, but he will never knock nor enter more. less than the cloud to the wind less than the cloud to the wind, less than the foam to the sea, less than the rose to the storm am i to thee. more than the star to the night, more than the rain to the lea, more than heaven to earth art thou to me. buried love i shall bury my weary love beneath a tree, in the forest tall and black where none can see. i shall put no flowers at his head, nor stone at his feet, for the mouth i loved so much was bittersweet. i shall go no more to his grave, for the woods are cold. i shall gather as much of joy as my hands can hold. i shall stay all day in the sun where the wide winds blow, but oh, i shall weep at night when none will know. song o woe is me, my heart is sad, for i should never know if love came by like any lad, without his silver bow. or if he left his arrows sharp and came a minstrel weary, i'd never tell him by his harp nor know him for my dearie. "o go your ways and have no fear, for tho' love passes by, he'll come a hundred times, my dear, before your turn to die." pierrot pierrot stands in the garden beneath a waning moon, and on his lute he fashions a little silver tune. pierrot plays in the garden, he thinks he plays for me, but i am quite forgotten under the cherry tree. pierrot plays in the garden, and all the roses know that pierrot loves his music, but i love pierrot. at night love said, "wake still and think of me," sleep, "close your eyes till break of day," but dreams came by and smilingly gave both to love and sleep their way. song when love comes singing to his heart that would not wake for me, i think that i shall know his joy by my own ecstasy. and tho' the sea were all between, the time their hands shall meet, my heart will know his happiness, so wildly it will beat. and when he bends above her mouth, rejoicing for his sake, my soul will sing a little song, but oh, my heart will break. love in autumn i sought among the drifting leaves, the golden leaves that once were green, to see if love were hiding there and peeping out between. for thro' the silver showers of may and thro' the summer's heavy heat, in vain i sought his golden head and light, fast-flying feet. perhaps when all the world is bare and cruel winter holds the land, the love that finds no place to hide will run and catch my hand. i shall not care to have him then, i shall be bitter and a-cold-- it grows too late for frolicking when all the world is old. then little hiding love, come forth, come forth before the autumn goes, and let us seek thro' ruined paths the garden's last red rose. the kiss i hoped that he would love me, and he has kissed my mouth, but i am like a stricken bird that cannot reach the south. for tho' i know he loves me, to-night my heart is sad; his kiss was not so wonderful as all the dreams i had. november the world is tired, the year is old, the little leaves are glad to die, the wind goes shivering with cold among the rushes dry. our love is dying like the grass, and we who kissed grow coldly kind, half glad to see our poor love pass like leaves along the wind. a song of the princess the princess has her lovers, a score of knights has she, and each can sing a madrigal, and praise her gracefully. but love that is so bitter hath put within her heart a longing for the scornful knight who silent stands apart. and tho' the others praise and plead, she maketh no reply, yet for a single word from him, i ween that she would die. the wind a wind is blowing over my soul, i hear it cry the whole night thro'-- is there no peace for me on earth except with you? alas, the wind has made me wise, over my naked soul it blew,-- there is no peace for me on earth even with you. a winter night my window-pane is starred with frost, the world is bitter cold to-night, the moon is cruel and the wind is like a two-edged sword to smite. god pity all the homeless ones, the beggars pacing to and fro. god pity all the poor to-night who walk the lamp-lit streets of snow. my room is like a bit of june, warm and close-curtained fold on fold, but somewhere, like a homeless child, my heart is crying in the cold. the metropolitan tower we walked together in the dusk to watch the tower grow dimly white, and saw it lift against the sky its flower of amber light. you talked of half a hundred things, i kept each little word you said; and when at last the hour was full, i saw the light turn red. you did not know the time had come, you did not see the sudden flower, nor know that in my heart love's birth was reckoned from that hour. gramercy park for w. p. the little park was filled with peace, the walks were carpeted with snow, but every iron gate was locked. lest if we entered, peace would go. we circled it a dozen times, the wind was blowing from the sea, i only felt your restless eyes whose love was like a cloak for me. oh heavy gates that fate has locked to bar the joy we may not win, peace would go out forevermore if we should dare to enter in. in the metropolitan museum within the tiny pantheon we stood together silently, leaving the restless crowd awhile as ships find shelter from the sea. the ancient centuries came back to cover us a moment's space, and thro' the dome the light was glad because it shone upon your face. ah, not from rome but farther still, beyond sun-smitten salamis, the moment took us, till you stooped to find the present with a kiss. coney island why did you bring me here? the sand is white with snow, over the wooden domes the winter sea-winds blow-- there is no shelter near, come, let us go. with foam of icy lace the sea creeps up the sand, the wind is like a hand that strikes us in the face. doors that june set a-swing are bolted long ago; we try them uselessly-- alas, there cannot be for us a second spring; come, let us go. union square with the man i love who loves me not, i walked in the street-lamps' flare; we watched the world go home that night in a flood through union square. i leaned to catch the words he said that were light as a snowflake falling; ah well that he never leaned to hear the words my heart was calling. and on we walked and on we walked past the fiery lights of the picture shows-- where the girls with thirsty eyes go by on the errand each man knows. and on we walked and on we walked, at the door at last we said good-bye; i knew by his smile he had not heard my heart's unuttered cry. with the man i love who loves me not i walked in the street-lamps' flare-- but oh, the girls who can ask for love in the lights of union square. central park at dusk buildings above the leafless trees loom high as castles in a dream, while one by one the lamps come out to thread the twilight with a gleam. there is no sign of leaf or bud, a hush is over everything-- silent as women wait for love, the world is waiting for the spring. young love i i cannot heed the words they say, the lights grow far away and dim, amid the laughing men and maids my eyes unbidden seek for him. i hope that when he smiles at me he does not guess my joy and pain, for if he did, he is too kind to ever look my way again. ii i have a secret in my heart no ears have ever heard, and still it sings there day by day most like a caged bird. and when it beats against the bars, i do not set it free, for i am happier to know it only sings for me. iii i wrote his name along the beach, i love the letters so. far up it seemed and out of reach, for still the tide was low. but oh, the sea came creeping up, and washed the name away, and on the sand where it had been a bit of sea-grass lay. a bit of sea-grass on the sand, dropped from a mermaid's hair-- ah, had she come to kiss his name and leave a token there? iv what am i that he should love me, he who stands so far above me, what am i? i am like a cowslip turning toward the sky, where a planet's golden burning breaks the cowslip's heart with yearning, what am i that he should love me, what am i? v o dreams that flock about my sleep, i pray you bring my love to me, and let me think i hear his voice again ring free. and if you care to please me well, and live to-morrow in my mind, let him who was so cold before, to-night seem kind. vi i plucked a daisy in the fields, and there beneath the sun i let its silver petals fall one after one. i said, "he loves me, loves me not," and oh, my heart beat fast, the flower was kind, it let me say "he loves me," last. i kissed the little leafless stem, but oh, my poor heart knew the words the flower had said to me, they were not true. vii i sent my love a letter, and if he loves me not, he shall not find my love for him in any line or dot. but if he loves me truly, he'll find it hidden deep, as dawn gleams red thro' chilly clouds to eyes awaked from sleep. viii the world is cold and gray and wet, and i am heavy-hearted, yet when i am home and look to see the place my letters wait for me, if i should find one letter there, i think i should not greatly care if it were rainy or were fair, for all the world would suddenly seem like a festival to me. ix i hid three words within my heart, that longed to fly to him, at dawn they woke me with a start, they sang till day was dim. and now at last i let them fly, as little birds should do, and he will know the first is "i", the others "love" and "you". x across the twilight's violet his curtained window glimmers gold; oh happy light that round my love can fold. oh happy book within his hand, oh happy page he glorifies, oh happy little word beneath his eyes. but oh, thrice happy, happy i who love him more than songs can tell, for in the heaven of his heart i dwell. sonnets and lyrics primavera mia as kings who see their little life-day pass, take off the heavy ermine and the crown, so had the trees that autumn-time laid down their golden garments on the faded grass, when i, who watched the seasons in the glass of mine own thoughts, saw all the autumn's brown leap into life and don a sunny gown of leafage such as happy april has. great spring came singing upward from the south; for in my heart, far carried on the wind, your words like winged seeds took root and grew, and all the world caught music from your mouth; i saw the light as one who had been blind, and knew my sun and song and spring were you. soul's birth when you were born, beloved, was your soul new made by god to match your body's flower, and were they both at one same precious hour sent forth from heaven as a perfect whole? or had your soul since dim creation burned, a star in some still region of the sky, that leaping earthward, left its place on high and to your little new-born body yearned? no words can tell in what celestial hour god made your soul and gave it mortal birth, nor in the disarray of all the stars is any place so sweet that such a flower might linger there until thro' heaven's bars, it heard god's voice that bade it down to earth. love and death shall we, too, rise forgetful from our sleep, and shall my soul that lies within your hand remember nothing, as the blowing sand forgets the palm where long blue shadows creep when winds along the darkened desert sweep? or would it still remember, tho' it spanned a thousand heavens, while the planets fanned the vacant ether with their voices deep? soul of my soul, no word shall be forgot, nor yet alone, beloved, shall we see the desolation of extinguished suns, nor fear the void wherethro' our planet runs, for still together shall we go and not fare forth alone to front eternity. for the anniversary of john keats' death (february , ) at midnight when the moonlit cypress trees have woven round his grave a magic shade, still weeping the unfinished hymn he made, there moves fresh maia like a morning breeze blown over jonquil beds when warm rains cease. and stooping where her poet's head is laid, selene weeps while all the tides are stayed and swaying seas are darkened into peace. but they who wake the meadows and the tides have hearts too kind to bid him wake from sleep who murmurs sometimes when his dreams are deep, startling the quiet land where he abides, and charming still, sad-eyed persephone with visions of the sunny earth and sea. silence (to eleonora duse) we are anhungered after solitude, deep stillness pure of any speech or sound, soft quiet hovering over pools profound, the silences that on the desert brood, above a windless hush of empty seas, the broad unfurling banners of the dawn, a faery forest where there sleeps a faun; our souls are fain of solitudes like these. o woman who divined our weariness, and set the crown of silence on your art, from what undreamed-of depth within your heart have you sent forth the hush that makes us free to hear an instant, high above earth's stress, the silent music of infinity? the return i turned the key and opened wide the door to enter my deserted room again, where thro' the long hot months the dust had lain. was it not lonely when across the floor no step was heard, no sudden song that bore my whole heart upward with a joyous pain? were not the pictures and the volumes fain to have me with them always as before? but giorgione's venus did not deign to lift her lids, nor did the subtle smile of mona lisa deepen. madeleine still wept against the glory of her hair, nor did the lovers part their lips the while, but kissed unheeding that i watched them there. fear i am afraid, oh i am so afraid! the cold black fear is clutching me to-night as long ago when they would take the light and leave the little child who would have prayed, frozen and sleepless at the thought of death. my heart that beats too fast will rest too soon; i shall not know if it be night or noon,-- yet shall i struggle in the dark for breath? will no one fight the terror for my sake, the heavy darkness that no dawn will break? how can they leave me in that dark alone, who loved the joy of light and warmth so much, and thrilled so with the sense of sound and touch,-- how can they shut me underneath a stone? anadyomene the wide, bright temple of the world i found, and entered from the dizzy infinite that i might kneel and worship thee in it; leaving the singing stars their ceaseless round of silver music sound on orbed sound, for measured spaces where the shrines are lit, and men with wisdom or with little wit implore the gods that mercy may abound. ah, aphrodite, was it not from thee my summons came across the endless spaces? mother of love, turn not thy face from me now that i seek for thee in human faces; answer my prayer or set my spirit free again to drift along the starry places. galahad in the castle of the maidens (to the maiden with the hidden face in abbey's painting) the other maidens raised their eyes to him who stumbled in before them when the fight had left him victor, with a victor's right. i think his eyes with quick hot tears grew dim; he scarcely saw her swaying white and slim, and trembling slightly, dreaming of his might, nor knew he touched her hand, as strangely light as a wan wraith's beside a river's rim. the other maidens raised their eyes to see and only she has hid her face away, and yet i ween she loved him more than they, and very fairly fashioned was her face. yet for love's shame and sweet humility, she dared not meet him with their queenlike grace. to an aeolian harp the winds have grown articulate in thee, and voiced again the wail of ancient woe that smote upon the winds of long ago: the cries of trojan women as they flee, the quivering moan of pale andromache, now lifted loud with pain and now brought low. it is the soul of sorrow that we know, as in a shell the soul of all the sea. so sometimes in the compass of a song, unknown to him who sings, thro' lips that live, the voiceless dead of long-forgotten lands proclaim to us their heaviness and wrong in sweeping sadness of the winds that give thy strings no rest from weariless wild hands. to erinna was time not harsh to you, or was he kind, o pale erinna of the perfect lyre, that he has left no word of singing fire whereby you waked the dreaming lesbian wind, and kindled night along the lyric shore? o girl whose lips erato stooped to kiss, do you go sorrowing because of this in fields where poets sing forevermore? or are you glad and is it best to be a silent music men have never heard, a dream in all our souls that we may say: "her voice had all the rapture of the sea, and all the clear cool quiver of a bird deep in a forest at the break of day"? to cleis "i have a fair daughter with a form like a golden flower, cleis, the beloved." sapphic fragment. when the dusk was wet with dew, cleis, did the muses nine listen in a silent line while your mother sang to you? did they weep or did they smile when she crooned to still your cries, she, a muse in human guise, who forsook her lyre awhile? did you feel her wild heart beat? did the warmth of all the sun thro' your little body run when she kissed your hands and feet? did your fingers, babywise, touch her face and touch her hair, did you think your mother fair, could you bear her burning eyes? are the songs that soothed your fears vanished like a vanished flame, save the line where shines your name starlike down the graying years? cleis speaks no word to me, for the land where she has gone lieth mute at dusk and dawn like a windless tideless sea. paris in spring the city's all a-shining beneath a fickle sun, a gay young wind's a-blowing, the little shower is done. but the rain-drops still are clinging and falling one by one-- oh it's paris, it's paris, and spring-time has begun. i know the bois is twinkling in a sort of hazy sheen, and down the champs the gray old arch stands cold and still between. but the walk is flecked with sunlight where the great acacias lean, oh it's paris, it's paris, and the leaves are growing green. the sun's gone in, the sparkle's dead, there falls a dash of rain, but who would care when such an air comes blowing up the seine? and still ninette sits sewing beside her window-pane, when it's paris, it's paris, and spring-time's come again. madeira from the sea out of the delicate dream of the distance an emerald emerges veiled in the violet folds of the air of the sea; softly the dream grows awakening--shimmering white of a city, splashes of crimson, the gay bougainvillea, the palms. high in the infinite blue of its heaven a quiet cloud lingers, lost and forgotten of winds that have fallen asleep, fallen asleep to the tune of a portuguese song in a garden. city vignettes i dawn the greenish sky glows up in misty reds, the purple shadows turn to brick and stone, the dreams wear thin, men turn upon their beds, and hear the milk-cart jangle by alone. ii dusk the city's street, a roaring blackened stream walled in by granite, thro' whose thousand eyes a thousand yellow lights begin to gleam, and over all the pale untroubled skies. iii rain at night the street-lamps shine in a yellow line down the splashy, gleaming street, and the rain is heard now loud now blurred by the tread of homing feet. by the sea beside an ebbing northern sea while stars awaken one by one, we walk together, i and he. he woos me with an easy grace that proves him only half sincere; a light smile flickers on his face. to him love-making is an art, and as a flutist plays a flute, so does he play upon his heart a music varied to his whim. he has no use for love of mine, he would not have me answer him. to hide my eyes within the night i watch the changeful lighthouse gleam alternately with red and white. my laughter smites upon my ears, so one who cries and wakes from sleep knows not it is himself he hears. what if my voice should let him know the mocking words were all a sham, and lips that laugh could tremble so? what if i lost the power to lie, and he should only hear his name in one low, broken cry? on the death of swinburne he trod the earth but yesterday, and now he treads the stars. he left us in the april time he praised so often in his rhyme, he left the singing and the lyre and went his way. he drew new music from our tongue, a music subtly wrought, and moulded words to his desire, as wind doth mould a wave of fire; from strangely fashioned harps slow golden tones he wrung. i think the singing understands that he who sang is still, and iseult cries that he is dead,-- does not dolores bow her head and fragoletta weep and wring her little hands? new singing now the singer hears to lyre and lute and harp; catullus waits to welcome him, and thro' the twilight sweet and dim, sappho's forgotten songs are falling on his ears. triolets i love looked back as he took his flight, and lo, his eyes were filled with tears. was it for love of lost delight love looked back as he took his flight? only i know while day grew night, turning still to the vanished years, love looked back as he took his flight, and lo, his eyes were filled with tears. ii (written in a copy of "la vita nuova". for m. c. s.) if you were lady beatrice and i the florentine, i'd never waste my time like this-- if you were lady beatrice i'd woo and then demand a kiss, nor weep like dante here, i ween, if you were lady beatrice and i the florentine. iii (written in a copy of "the poems of sappho".) beyond the dim hesperides, the girl who sang them long ago could never dream that over seas, beyond the dim hesperides, the wind would blow such songs as these-- i wonder now if she can know, beyond the dim hesperides, the girl who sang them long ago? iv dead leaves upon the stream and dead leaves on the air-- all of my lost hopes seem dead leaves upon the stream; i watch them in a dream, going i know not where, dead leaves upon the stream and dead leaves on the air. vox corporis the beast to the beast is calling, and the soul bends down to wait; like the stealthy lord of the jungle, the white man calls his mate. the beast to the beast is calling, they rush through the twilight sweet, but the soul is a wary hunter, he will not let them meet. a ballad of two knights two knights rode forth at early dawn a-seeking maids to wed, said one, "my lady must be fair, with gold hair on her head." then spake the other knight-at-arms: "i care not for her face, but she i love must be a dove for purity and grace." and each knight blew upon his horn and went his separate way, and each knight found a lady-love before the fall of day. but she was brown who should have had the shining yellow hair-- i ween the knights forgot their words or else they ceased to care. for he who wanted purity brought home a wanton wild, and when each saw the other knight i ween that each knight smiled. christmas carol the kings they came from out the south, all dressed in ermine fine, they bore him gold and chrysoprase, and gifts of precious wine. the shepherds came from out the north, their coats were brown and old, they brought him little new-born lambs-- they had not any gold. the wise-men came from out the east, and they were wrapped in white; the star that led them all the way did glorify the night. the angels came from heaven high, and they were clad with wings; and lo, they brought a joyful song the host of heaven sings. the kings they knocked upon the door, the wise-men entered in, the shepherds followed after them to hear the song begin. and mary held the little child and sat upon the ground; she looked up, she looked down, she looked all around. the angels sang thro' all the night until the rising sun, but little jesus fell asleep before the song was done. the faery forest the faery forest glimmered beneath an ivory moon, the silver grasses shimmered against a faery tune. beneath the silken silence the crystal branches slept, and dreaming thro' the dew-fall the cold white blossoms wept. a fantasy her voice is like clear water that drips upon a stone in forests far and silent where quiet plays alone. her thoughts are like the lotus abloom by sacred streams beneath the temple arches where quiet sits and dreams. her kisses are the roses that glow while dusk is deep in persian garden closes where quiet falls asleep. a minuet of mozart's across the dimly lighted room the violin drew wefts of sound, airily they wove and wound and glimmered gold against the gloom. i watched the music turn to light, but at the pausing of the bow, the web was broken and the glow was drowned within the wave of night. twilight dreamily over the roofs the cold spring rain is falling, out in the lonely tree a bird is calling, calling. slowly over the earth the wings of night are falling; my heart like the bird in the tree is calling, calling, calling. the prayer my answered prayer came up to me, and in the silence thus spake he: "o you who prayed for me to come, your greeting is but cold and dumb." my heart made answer: "you are fair, but i have prayed too long to care. why came you not when all was new, and i had died for joy of you." two songs for a child i grandfather's love they said he sent his love to me, they wouldn't put it in my hand, and when i asked them where it was they said i couldn't understand. i thought they must have hidden it, i hunted for it all the day, and when i told them so at night they smiled and turned their heads away. they say that love is something kind, that i can never see or touch. i wish he'd sent me something else, i like his cough-drops twice as much. ii the kind moon i think the moon is very kind to take such trouble just for me. he came along with me from home to keep me company. he went as fast as i could run; i wonder how he crossed the sky? i'm sure he hasn't legs and feet or any wings to fly. yet here he is above their roof; perhaps he thinks it isn't right for me to go so far alone, tho' mother said i might. on the tower under the leaf of many a fable lies the truth for those who look for it. jami. on the tower (a play in one act.) the knight. the lady. voices of men and women on the ground at the foot of the tower. the voice of the knight's page. the top of a high battlemented tower of a castle. a stone ledge, which serves as a seat, extends part way around the parapet. small clouds float by in the blue sky, and occasionally a swallow passes. entrance r. from an unseen stairway which is supposed to extend around the outside of the tower. the lady (unseen). oh do not climb so fast, for i am faint with looking down the tower to where the earth lies dreaming in the sun. i fear to fall. the knight (unseen). lean on me, love, my love, and look not down. l. call me not "love", call me your conquered foe, that now, since you have battered down her gates, gives you the keys that lock the highest tower and mounts with you to prove her homage true; oh bid me go no farther lest i fall, my foot has slipped upon the rain-worn stones, why are the stairs so narrow and so steep? let us go back, my lord. k. are you afraid, who were so dauntless till the walls gave way? courage, my sweet. i would that i could climb a thousand times by wind-swept stairs like these, that lead so near to heaven. l. sir, you may, you are a knight and very valorous; i am a woman. i shall never come this way but once. (the knight and the lady appear on the top of the tower.) k. kiss me at last, my love. l. oh, my sweet lord, i am too tired to kiss. look how the earth is like an emerald, with rivers veined and flawed with fallow fields. k. (lifting her veil) then i kiss you, a thousand thousand kisses for all the days ere i had won to you beyond the walls and gates you barred so close. call me at last your love, your castle's lord. l. (after a pause) i love you. (she kisses him. her veil blows away like a white butterfly over the parapet. faint cries and laughter from men and women under the tower.) men and women. the veil, the lady's veil! (the knight takes the lady in his arms.) l. my lord, i pray you loose me from your arms lest that my people see how much we love. k. may they not see us? all of them have loved. l. but you have been an enemy, my lord, with walls between us and with moss-grown moats, now on a sudden must i kiss your mouth? i who was taught before i learned to speak that all my house was hostile unto yours, now can i put my head against your breast here in the sight of all who choose to come? k. are we not past the caring for their eyes and nearer to the heaven than to earth? look up and see. l. i only see your face. (she touches his hair with her hands. murmuring under the tower.) k. why came we here in all the noon-day light with only darting swallows over us to make a speck of darkness on the sun? let us go down where walls will shut us round. your castle has a hundred quiet halls, a hundred chambers, where the shadows lie on things put by, forgotten long ago. forgotten lutes with strings that time has slackened, we two shall draw them close and bid them sing-- forgotten games, forgotten books still open where you had laid them by at vesper-time, and your embroidery, whereon half-worked weeps amor wounded by a rose's thorn. shall i not see the room in which you slept, palpitant still and breathing of your thoughts, where maiden dreams adown the ways of sleep swept noiselessly with damosels and knights to tourneys where the trumpet made no sound, blow as he might, the scarlet trumpeter, and were the dreams not sometimes brimmed with tears that waked you when the night was loneliest? will you not bring me to your oratory where prayers arose like little birds set free still upward, upward without sound of flight? shall i not find your turrets toward the north, where you defied white winter armed for war; your southern casements where the sun blows in between the leaf-bent boughs the wind has lifted? shall we not see the sunrise toward the east, watch dawn by dawn the rose of day unfolding its golden-hearted beauty sovereignly; and toward the west look quietly at evening? shall i not see all these and all your treasures? in carven coffers hidden in the dark have you not laid a sapphire lit with flame and amethysts set round with deep-wrought gold, perhaps a ruby? l. all my gems are yours and all my chambers curtained from the sun. my lord shall see them all, in time, in time. (the sun begins to sink.) k. shall i not see them now? to-day, to-night? l. how could i show you in one day, my lord, my castle and my treasures and my tower? let all the days to come suffice for this since all the past days made them what they are. you will not be impatient, my sweet lord. some of the halls have long been locked and barred, and some have secret doors and hard to find till suddenly you touch them unawares, and down a sable way runs silver light. we two will search together for the keys, but not to-day. let us sit here to-day, since all is yours and always will be yours. (the stars appear faintly one by one.) k. (after a pause.) i grow a little drowsy with the dusk. l. (singing.) there was a man that loved a maid, (sleep and take your rest) over her lips his kiss was laid, over her heart, his breast. (the knight sleeps.) all of his vows were sweet to hear, sweet was his kiss to take; why was her breast so quick to fear, why was her heart, to break? why was the man so glad to woo? (sleep and take your rest) why were the maiden's words so few---- (she sees that he is asleep, and slipping off her long cloak-like outer garment, she pillows his head upon it against the parapet, and half kneeling at his feet she sings very softly:) i love you, i love you, i love you, i am the flower at your feet, the birds and the stars are above you, my place is more sweet. the birds and the stars are above you, they envy the flower in the grass, for i, only i, while i love you can die as you pass. (light clouds veil the stars, growing denser constantly. the castle bell rings for vespers, and rising, the lady moves to a corner of the parapet and kneels there.) l. ave maria! gratia plena, dominus---- voice of the page (from the foot of the tower.) my lord, my lord, they call for you at court! (the knight wakes. it is now quite dark.) there is a tourney toward; your enemy has challenged you. my lord, make haste to come! (the knight rises and gropes his way toward the stairs.) k. i will make haste. await me where you are. (to himself.) there was a lady on this tower with me---- (he glances around hurriedly but does not see her in the darkness.) page. my lord has far to ride before the dawn! k. (to himself.) why should i tarry? (to the page.) bring my horse and shield! (he descends. as the noise of his footfall on the stairs dies away, the lady gropes toward the stairway, then turns suddenly, and going to the ledge where they have sat, she throws herself over the parapet.) curtain. [end of helen of troy and other poems.] sara teasdale sara teasdale was born in st. louis, missouri, where she attended a school that was founded by the grandfather of another great poet from st. louis--t. s. eliot. she later associated herself more with new york city. her first book of poems was "sonnets to duse" ( ), but "helen of troy" ( ) was the true launch of her career, followed by "rivers to the sea" ( ), "love songs" ( ), "flame and shadow" ( ) and more. her final volume, "strange victory", is considered by many to be predictive of her suicide. it is interesting to note that in teasdale's collected works, about half of the poems in this volume--some more justly than others--have been excluded, and most of the rest have been slightly changed. most of the poems from this volume which were selected to be included in "love songs" also had some minor changes. this edition preserves the original readings, but they are not to be considered authoritative. the golden fleece and the heroes who lived before achilles by padraic colum contents part i. the voyage to colchis i. the youth jason ii. king pelias iii. the golden fleece iv. the assembling of the heroes and the building of the ship v. the argo vi. polydeuces' victory and heracles' loss vii. king phineus viii. king phineus's counsel; the landing in lemnos ix. the lemnian maidens x. the departure from lemnos xi. the passage of the symplegades xii. the mountain caucasus part ii. the return to greece i. king Æetes ii. medea the sorceress iii. the winning of the golden fleece iv. the slaying of apsyrtus v. medea comes to circe vi. in the land of the phaeacians vii. they come to the desert land viii. the carrying of the argo ix. near to iolcus again part iii. the heroes of the quest i. atalanta the huntress ii. peleus and his bride from the sea iii. theseus and the minotaur iv. the life and labors of heracles v. admetus vi. how orpheus the minstrel went down to the world of the dead vii. jason and medea part i. the voyage to colchis i. the youth jason a man in the garb of a slave went up the side of that mountain that is all covered with forest, the mountain pelion. he carried in his arms a little child. when it was full noon the slave came into a clearing of the forest so silent that it seemed empty of all life. he laid the child down on the soft moss, and then, trembling with the fear of what might come before him, he raised a horn to his lips and blew three blasts upon it. then he waited. the blue sky was above him, the great trees stood away from him, and the little child lay at his feet. he waited, and then he heard the thud-thud of great hooves. and then from between the trees he saw coming toward him the strangest of all beings, one who was half man and half horse; this was chiron the centaur. chiron came toward the trembling slave. greater than any horse was chiron, taller than any man. the hair of his head flowed back into his horse's mane, his great beard flowed over his horse's chest; in his man's hand he held a great spear. not swiftly he came, but the slave could see that in those great limbs of his there was speed like to the wind's. the slave fell upon his knees. and with eyes that were full of majesty and wisdom and limbs that were full of strength and speed, the king-centaur stood above him. "o my lord," the slave said, "i have come before thee sent by Æson, my master, who told me where to come and what blasts to blow upon the horn. and Æson, once king of iolcus, bade me say to thee that if thou dost remember his ancient friendship with thee thou wilt, perchance, take this child and guard and foster him, and, as he grows, instruct him with thy wisdom." "for Æson's sake i will rear and foster this child," said chiron the king-centaur in a deep voice. the child lying on the moss had been looking up at the four-footed and two-handed centaur. now the slave lifted him up and placed him in the centaur's arms. he said: "Æson bade me tell thee that the child's name is jason. he bade me give thee this ring with the great ruby in it that thou mayst give it to the child when he is grown. by this ring with its ruby and the images engraved on it Æson may know his son when they meet after many years and many changes. and another thing Æson bade me say to thee, o my lord chiron: not presumptuous is he, but he knows that this child has the regard of the immortal goddess hera, the wife of zeus." chiron held Æson's son in his arms, and the little child put hands into his great beard. then the centaur said, "let Æson know that his son will be reared and fostered by me, and that, when they meet again, there will be ways by which they will be known to each other." saying this chiron the centaur, holding the child in his arms, went swiftly toward the forest arches; then the slave took up the horn and went down the side of the mountain pelion. he came to where a horse was hidden, and he mounted and rode, first to a city, and then to a village that was beyond the city. all this was before the famous walls of troy were built; before king priam had come to the throne of his father and while he was still known, not as priam, but as podarces. and the beginning of all these happenings was in iolcus, a city in thessaly. cretheus founded the city and had ruled over it in days before king priam was born. he left two sons, Æson and pelias. Æson succeeded his father. and because he was a mild and gentle man, the men of war did not love Æson; they wanted a hard king who would lead them to conquests. pelias, the brother of Æson, was ever with the men of war; he knew what mind they had toward Æson and he plotted with them to overthrow his brother. this they did, and they brought pelias to reign as king in iolcus. the people loved Æson; and they feared pelias. and because the people loved him and would be maddened by his slaying, pelias and the men of war left him living. with his wife, alcimide, and his infant son, Æson went from the city, and in a village that was at a distance from iolcus he found a hidden house and went to dwell in it. Æson would have lived content there were it not that he was fearful for jason, his infant son. jason, he knew, would grow into a strong and a bold youth, and pelias, the king, would be made uneasy on his account. pelias would slay the son, and perhaps would slay the father for the son's sake when his memory would come to be less loved by the people. Æson thought of such things in his hidden house, and he pondered on ways to have his son reared away from iolcus and the dread and the power of king pelias. he had for a friend one who was the wisest of all creatures chiron the centaur; chiron who was half man and half horse; chiron who had lived and was yet to live measureless years. chiron had fostered heracles, and it might be that he would not refuse to foster jason, Æson's child. away in the fastnesses of mount pelion chiron dwelt; once Æson had been with him and had seen the centaur hunt with his great bow and his great spears. and Æson knew a way that one might come to him; chiron himself had told him of the way. now there was a slave in his house who had been a huntsman and who knew all the ways of the mountain pelion. Æson talked with this slave one day, and after he had talked with him he sat for a long time over the cradle of his sleeping infant. and then he spoke to alcimide, his wife, telling her of a parting that made her weep. that evening the slave came in and Æson took the child from the arms of the mournful-eyed mother and put him in the slave's arms. also he gave him a horn and a ring with a great ruby in it and mystic images engraved on its gold. then when the ways were dark the slave mounted a horse, and, with the child in his arms, rode through the city that king pelias ruled over. in the morning he came to that mountain that is all covered with forest, the mountain pelion. and that evening he came back to the village and to Æson's hidden house, and he told his master how he had prospered. Æson was content thereafter although he was lonely and although his wife was lonely in their childlessness. but the time came when they rejoiced that their child had been sent into an unreachable place. for messengers from king pelias came inquiring about the boy. they told the king's messengers that the child had strayed off from his nurse, and that whether he had been slain by a wild beast or had been drowned in the swift river anaurus they did not know. the years went by and pelias felt secure upon the throne he had taken from his brother. once he sent to the oracle of the gods to ask of it whether he should be fearful of anything. what the oracle answered was this: that king pelias had but one thing to dread--the coming of a half-shod man. the centaur nourished the child jason on roots and fruits and honey; for shelter they had a great cave that chiron had lived in for numberless years. when he had grown big enough to leave the cave chiron would let jason mount on his back; with the child holding on to his great mane he would trot gently through the ways of the forest. jason began to know the creatures of the forest and their haunts. sometimes chiron would bring his great bow with him; then jason, on his back, would hold the quiver and would hand him the arrows. the centaur would let the boy see him kill with a single arrow the bear, the boar, or the deer. and soon jason, running beside him, hunted too. no heroes were ever better trained than those whose childhood and youth had been spent with chiron the king-centaur. he made them more swift of foot than any other of the children of men. he made them stronger and more ready with the spear and bow. jason was trained by chiron as heracles just before him had been trained, and as achilles was to be trained afterward. moreover, chiron taught him the knowledge of the stars and the wisdom that had to do with the ways of the gods. once, when they were hunting together, jason saw a form at the end of an alley of trees--the form of a woman it was--of a woman who had on her head a shining crown. never had jason dreamt of seeing a form so wondrous. not very near did he come, but he thought he knew that the woman smiled upon him. she was seen no more, and jason knew that he had looked upon one of the immortal goddesses. all day jason was filled with thought of her whom he had seen. at night, when the stars were out, and when they were seated outside the cave, chiron and jason talked together, and chiron told the youth that she whom he had seen was none other than hera, the wife of zeus, who had for his father Æson and for himself an especial friendliness. so jason grew up upon the mountain and in the forest fastnesses. when he had reached his full height and had shown himself swift in the hunt and strong with the spear and bow, chiron told him that the time had come when he should go back to the world of men and make his name famous by the doing of great deeds. and when chiron told him about his father Æson--about how he had been thrust out of the kingship by pelias, his uncle a great longing came upon jason to see his father and a fierce anger grew up in his heart against pelias. then the time came when he bade good-by to chiron his great instructor; the time came when he went from the centaur's cave for the last time, and went through the wooded ways and down the side of the mountain pelion. he came to the river, to the swift anaurus, and he found it high in flood. the stones by which one might cross were almost all washed over; far apart did they seem in the flood. now as he stood there pondering on what he might do there came up to him an old woman who had on her back a load of brushwood. "wouldst thou cross?" asked the old woman. "wouldst thou cross and get thee to the city of iolcus, jason, where so many things await thee?" greatly was the youth astonished to hear his name spoken by this old woman, and to hear her give the name of the city he was bound for. "wouldst thou cross the anaurus?" she asked again. "then mount upon my back, holding on to the wood i carry, and i will bear thee over the river." jason smiled. how foolish this old woman was to think that she could bear him across the flooded river! she came near him and she took him in her arms and lifted him up on her shoulders. then, before he knew what she was about to do, she had stepped into the water. from stone to stepping-stone she went, jason holding on to the wood that she had drawn to her shoulders. she left him down upon the bank. as she was lifting him down one of his feet touched the water; the swift current swept away a sandal. he stood on the bank knowing that she who had carried him across the flooded river had strength from the gods. he looked upon her, and behold! she was transformed. instead of an old woman there stood before him one who had on a golden robe and a shining crown. around her was a wondrous light--the light of the sun when it is most golden. then jason knew that she who had carried him across the broad anaurus was the goddess whom he had seen in the ways of the forest--hera, great zeus's wife. "go into iolcus, jason," said great hera to him, "go into iolcus, and in whatever chance doth befall thee act as one who has the eyes of the immortals upon him." she spoke and she was seen no more. then jason went on his way to the city that cretheus, his grandfather, had founded and that his father Æson had once ruled over. he came into that city, a tall, great-limbed, unknown youth, dressed in a strange fashion, and having but one sandal on. ii. king pelias that day king pelias, walking through the streets of his city, saw coming toward him a youth who was half shod. he remembered the words of the oracle that bade him beware of a half-shod man, and straightway he gave orders to his guards to lay hands upon the youth. but the guards wavered when they went toward him, for there was something about the youth that put them in awe of him. he came with the guards, however, and he stood before the king's judgment seat. fearfully did pelias look upon him. but not fearfully did the youth look upon the king. with head lifted high he cried out, "thou art pelias, but i do not salute thee as king. know that i am jason, the son of Æson from whom thou hast taken the throne and scepter that were rightfully his." king pelias looked to his guards. he would have given them a sign to destroy the youth's life with their spears, but behind his guards he saw a threatening multitude--the dwellers of the city of iolcus; they gathered around, and pelias knew that he had become more and more hated by them. and from the multitude a cry went up, "Æson, Æson! may Æson come back to us! jason, son of Æson! may nothing evil befall thee, brave youth!" then pelias knew that the youth might not be slain. he bent his head while he plotted against him in his heart. then he raised his eyes, and looking upon jason he said, "o goodly youth, it well may be that thou art the son of Æson, my brother. i am well pleased to see thee here. i have had hopes that i might be friends with Æson, and thy coming here may be the means to the renewal of our friendship. we two brothers may come together again. i will send for thy father now, and he will be brought to meet thee in my royal palace. go with my guards and with this rejoicing people, and in a little while thou and i and thy father Æson will sit at a feast of friends." so pelias said, and jason went with the guards and the crowd of people, and he came to the palace of the king and he was brought within. the maids led him to the bath and gave him new robes to wear. dressed in these jason looked a prince indeed. but all that while king pelias remained on his judgment seat with his crowned head bent down. when he raised his head his dark brows were gathered together and his thin lips were very close. he looked to the swords and spears of his guards, and he made a sign to the men to stand close to him. then he left the judgment seat and he went to the palace. iii. the golden fleece they brought jason into a hall where Æson, his father, waited. very strange did this old and grave-looking man appear to him. but when Æson spoke, jason remembered even without the sight of the ruby ring the tone of his father's voice and he clasped him to him. and his father knew him even without the sight of the ruby ring which jason had upon his finger. then the young man began to tell of the centaur and of his life upon the mountain pelion. as they were speaking together pelias came to where they stood, pelias in the purple robe of a king and with the crown upon his head. Æson tightly clasped jason as if he had become fearful for his son. pelias smilingly took the hand of the young man and the hand of his brother, and he bade them both welcome to his palace. then, walking between them, the king brought the two into the feasting hall. the youth who had known only the forest and the mountainside had to wonder at the beauty and the magnificence of all he saw around him. on the walls were bright pictures; the tables were of polished wood, and they had vessels of gold and dishes of silver set upon them; along the walls were vases of lovely shapes and colors, and everywhere there were baskets heaped with roses white and red. the king's guests were already in the hall, young men and elders, and maidens went amongst them carrying roses which they strung into wreaths for the guests to put upon their heads. a soft-handed maiden gave jason a wreath of roses and he put it on his head as he sat down at the king's table. when he looked at all the rich and lovely things in that hall, and when he saw the guests looking at him with friendly eyes, jason felt that he was indeed far away from the dim spaces of the mountain forest and from the darkness of the centaur's cave. rich food and wine such as he had never dreamt of tasting were brought to the tables. he ate and drank, and his eyes followed the fair maidens who went through the hall. he thought how glorious it was to be a king. he heard pelias speak to Æson, his father, telling him that he was old and that he was weary of ruling; that he longed to make friends, and that he would let no enmity now be between him and his brother. and he heard the king say that he, jason, was young and courageous, and that he would call upon him to help to rule the land, and that, in a while, jason would bear full sway over the kingdom that cretheus had founded. so pelias spoke to Æson as they both sat together at the king's high table. but jason, looking on them both, saw that the eyes that his father turned on him were full of warnings and mistrust. after they had eaten king pelias made a sign, and a cupbearer bringing a richly wrought cup came and stood before the king. the king stood up, holding the cup in his hands, and all in the hall waited silently. then pelias put the cup into jason's hands and he cried out in a voice that was heard all through the hall, "drink from this cup, o nephew jason! drink from this cup, o man who will soon come to rule over the kingdom that cretheus founded!" all in the hall stood up and shouted with delight at that speech. but the king was not delighted with their delight, jason saw. he took the cup and he drank the rich wine; pride grew in him; he looked down the hall and he saw faces all friendly to him; he felt as a king might feel, secure and triumphant. and then he heard king pelias speaking once more. "this is my nephew jason, reared and fostered in the centaur's cave. he will tell you of his life in the forest and the mountains, his life that was like to the life of the half gods." then jason spoke to them, telling them of his life on the mountain pelion. when he had spoken, pelias said: "i was bidden by the oracle to beware of the man whom i should see coming toward me half shod. but, as you all see, i have brought the half-shod man to my palace and my feasting hall, so little do i dread the anger of the gods. "and i dread it little because i am blameless. this youth, the son of my brother, is strong and courageous, and i rejoice in his strength and courage, for i would have him take my place and reign over you. ali, that i were as young as he is now! ali, that i had been reared and fostered as he was reared and fostered by the wise centaur and under the eyes of the immortals! then would i do that which in my youth i often dreamed of doing! then would i perform a deed that would make my name and the name of my city famous throughout all greece! then would i bring from far colchis, the famous fleece of gold that king Æetes keeps guard over!" he finished speaking, and all in the hall shouted out, "the golden fleece, the golden fleece from colchis!" jason stood up, and his father's hand gripped him. but he did not heed the hold of his father's hand, for "the golden fleece, the golden fleece!" rang in his ears, and before his eyes were the faces of those who were all eager for the sight of the wonder that king Æetes kept guard over. then said jason, "thou hast spoken well, o king pelias! know, and know all here assembled, that i have heard of the golden fleece and of the dangers that await on any one who should strive to win it from king Æetes's care. but know, too, that i would strive to win the fleece and bring it to iolcus, winning fame both for myself and for the city." when he had spoken he saw his father's stricken eyes; they were fixed upon him. but he looked from them to the shining eyes of the young men who were even then pressing around where he stood. "jason, jason!" they shouted. "the golden fleece for iolcus!" "king pelias knows that the winning of the golden fleece is a feat most difficult," said jason. "but if he will have built for me a ship that can make the voyage to far colchis, and if he will send throughout all greece the word of my adventuring so that all the heroes who would win fame might come with me, and if ye, young heroes of iolcus, will come with me, i will peril my life to win the wonder that king Æetes keeps guard over." he spoke and those in the hall shouted again and made clamor around him. but still his father sat gazing at him with stricken eyes. king pelias stood up in the hall and holding up his scepter he said, "o my nephew jason, and o friends assembled here, i promise that i will have built for the voyage the best ship that ever sailed from a harbor in greece. and i promise that i will send throughout all greece a word telling of jason's voyage so that all heroes desirous of winning fame may come to help him and to help all of you who may go with him to win from the keeping of king Æetes the famous fleece of gold." so king pelias said, but jason, looking to the king from his father's stricken eyes, saw that he had been led by the king into the acceptance of the voyage so that he might fare far from iolcus, and perhaps lose his life in striving to gain the wonder that king Æetes kept guarded. by the glitter in pelias's eyes he knew the truth. nevertheless jason would not take back one word that he had spoken; his heart was strong within him, and he thought that with the help of the bright-eyed youths around and with the help of those who would come to him at the word of the voyage, he would bring the golden fleece to iolcus and make famous for all time his own name. iv. the assembling of the heroes and the building of the ship first there came the youths castor and polydeuces. they came riding on white horses, two noble-looking brothers. from sparta they came, and their mother was leda, who, after the twin brothers, had another child born to her--helen, for whose sake the sons of many of jason's friends were to wage war against the great city of troy. these were the first heroes who came to iolcus after the word had gone forth through greece of jason's adventuring in quest of the golden fleece. and then there came one who had both welcome and reverence from jason; this one came without spear or bow, bearing in his hands a lyre only. he was orpheus, and he knew all the ways of the gods and all the stories of the gods; when he sang to his lyre the trees would listen and the beasts would follow him. it was chiron who had counseled orpheus to go with jason; chiron the centaur had met him as he was wandering through the forests on the mountain pelion and had sent him down into iolcus. then there came two men well skilled in the handling of ships--tiphys and nauplius. tiphys knew all about the sun and winds and stars, and all about the signs by which a ship might be steered, and nauplius had the love of poseidon, the god of the sea. afterward there came, one after the other, two who were famous for their hunting. no two could be more different than these two were. the first was arcas. he was dressed in the skin of a bear; he had red hair and savage-looking eyes, and for arms he carried a mighty bow with bronze-tipped arrows. the folk were watching an eagle as he came into the city, an eagle that was winging its way far, far up in the sky. arcas drew his bow, and with one arrow he brought the eagle down. the other hunter was a girl, atalanta. tall and brighthaired was atalanta, swift and good with the bow. she had dedicated herself to artemis, the guardian of the wild things, and she had vowed that she would remain unwedded. all the heroes welcomed atalanta as a comrade, and the maiden did all the things that the young men did. there came a hero who was less youthful than castor or polydeuces; he was a man good in council named nestor. afterward nestor went to the war against troy, and then he was the oldest of the heroes in the camp of agamemnon. two brothers came who were to be special friends of jason's--peleus and telamon. both were still youthful and neither had yet achieved any notable deed. afterward they were to be famous, but their sons were to be even more famous, for the son of telamon was strong aias, and the son of peleus was great achilles. another who came was admetus; afterward he became a famous king. the god apollo once made himself a shepherd and he kept the flocks of king admetus. and there came two brothers, twins, who were a wonder to all who beheld them. zetes and calais they were named; their mother was oreithyia, the daughter of erechtheus, king of athens, and their father was boreas, the north wind. these two brothers had on their ankles wings that gleamed with golden scales; their black hair was thick upon their shoulders, and it was always being shaken by the wind. with zetes and calais there came a youth armed with a great sword whose name was theseus. theseus's father was an unknown king; he had bidden the mother show their son where his sword was hidden. under a great stone the king had hidden it before theseus was born. before he had grown out of his boyhood theseus had been able to raise the stone and draw forth his father's sword. as yet he had done no great deed, but he was resolved to win fame and to find his unknown father. on the day that the messengers had set out to bring through greece the word of jason's going forth in quest of the golden fleece the woodcutters made their way up into the forests of mount pelion; they began to fell trees for the timbers of the ship that was to make the voyage to far colchis. great timbers were cut and brought down to pagasae, the harbor of iolcus. on the night of the day he had helped to bring them down jason had a dream. he dreamt that she whom he had seen in the forest ways and afterward by the river anaurus appeared to him. and in his dream the goddess bade him rise early in the morning and welcome a man whom he would meet at the city's gate--a tall and gray-haired man who would have on his shoulders tools for the building of a ship. he went to the city's gate and he met such a man. argus was his name. he told jason that a dream had sent him to the city of iolcus. jason welcomed him and lodged him in the king's palace, and that day the word went through the city that the building of the great ship would soon be begun. but not with the timbers brought from mount pelion did argus begin. walking through the palace with jason he noted a great beam in the roof. that beam, he said, had been shown him in his dream; it was from an oak tree in dodona, the grove of zeus. a sacred power was in the beam, and from it the prow of the ship should be fashioned. jason had them take the beam from the roof of the palace; it was brought to where the timbers were, and that day the building of the great ship was begun. then all along the waterside came the noise of hammering; in the street where the metalworkers were came the noise of beating upon metals as the smiths fashioned out of bronze armor for the heroes and swords and spears. every day, under the eyes of argus the master, the ship that had in it the beam from zeus's grove was built higher and wider. and those who were building the ship often felt going through it tremors as of a living creature. when the ship was built and made ready for the voyage a name was given to it--the argo it was called. and naming themselves from the ship the heroes called themselves the argonauts. all was ready for the voyage, and now jason went with his friends to view the ship before she was brought into the water. argus the master was on the ship, seeing to it that the last things were being done before argo was launched. very grave and wise looked argus--argus the builder of the ship. and wonderful to the heroes the ship looked now that argus, for their viewing, had set up the mast with the sails and had even put the oars in their places. wonderful to the heroes argo looked with her long oars and her high sails, with her timbers painted red and gold and blue, and with a marvelous figure carved upon her prow. all over the ship jason's eyes went. he saw a figure standing by the mast; for a moment he looked on it, and then the figure became shadowy. but jason knew that he had looked upon the goddess whom he had seen in the ways of the forest and had seen afterward by the rough anaurus. then mast and sails were taken down and the oars were left in the ship, and the argo was launched into the water. the heroes went back to the palace of king pelias to feast with the king's guests before they took their places on the ship, setting out on the voyage to far colchis. when they came into the palace they saw that another hero had arrived. his shield was hung in the hall; the heroes all gathered around, amazed at the size and the beauty of it. the shield shone all over with gold. in its center was the figure of fear--of fear that stared backward with eyes burning as with fire. the mouth was open and the teeth were shown. and other figures were wrought around the figure of fear--strife and pursuit and flight; tumult and panic and slaughter. the figure of fate was there dragging a dead man by the feet; on her shoulders fate had a garment that was red with the blood of men. around these figures were heads of snakes, heads with black jaws and glittering eyes, twelve heads such as might affright any man. and on other parts of the shield were shown the horses of ares, the grim god of war. the figure of ares himself was shown also. he held a spear in his hand, and he was urging the warriors on. around the inner rim of the shield the sea was shown, wrought in white metal. dolphins swam in the sea, fishing for little fishes that were shown there in bronze. around the rim chariots were racing along with wheels running close together; there were men fighting and women watching from high towers. the awful figure of the darkness of death was shown there, too, with mournful eyes and the dust of battles upon her shoulders. the outer rim of the shield showed the stream of ocean, the stream that encircles the world; swans were soaring above and swimming on its surface. all in wonder the heroes gazed on the great shield, telling each other that only one man in all the world could carry it--heracles the son of zeus. could it be that heracles had come amongst them? they went into the feasting hall and they saw one there who was tall as a pine tree, with unshorn tresses of hair upon his head. heracles indeed it was! he turned to them a smiling face with smiling eyes. heracles! they all gathered around the strongest hero in the world, and he took the hand of each in his mighty hand. v. the argo the heroes went the next day through the streets of iolcus down to where the ship lay. the ways they went through were crowded; the heroes were splendid in their appearance, and jason amongst them shone like a star. the people praised him, and one told the other that it would not be long until they would win back to iolcus, for this band of heroes was strong enough, they said, to take king Æetes's city and force him to give up to them the famous fleece of gold. many of the bright-eyed youths of iolcus went with the heroes who had come from the different parts of greece. as they marched past a temple a priestess came forth to speak to jason; iphias was her name. she had a prophecy to utter about the voyage. but iphias was very old, and she stammered in her speech to jason. what she said was not heard by him. the heroes went on, and ancient iphias was left standing there as the old are left by the young. the heroes went aboard the argo. they took their seats as at an assembly. then jason faced them and spoke to them all. "heroes of the quest," said jason, "we have come aboard the great ship that argus has built, and all that a ship needs is in its place or is ready to our hands. all that we wait for now is the coming of the morning's breeze that will set us on our way for far colchis. "one thing we have first to do--that is, to choose a leader who will direct us all, one who will settle disputes amongst ourselves and who will make treaties between us and the strangers that we come amongst. we must choose such a leader now." jason spoke, and some looked to him and some looked to heracles. but heracles stood up, and, stretching out his hand, said: "argonauts! let no one amongst you offer the leadership to me. i will not take it. the hero who brought us together and made all things ready for our going--it is he and no one else who should be our leader in this voyage." so heracles said, and the argonauts all stood up and raised a cry for jason. then jason stepped forward, and he took the hand of each argonaut in his hand, and he swore that he would lead them with all the mind and all the courage that he possessed. and he prayed the gods that it would be given to him to lead them back safely with the golden fleece glittering on the mast of the argo. they drew lots for the benches they would sit at; they took the places that for the length of the voyage they would have on the ship. they made sacrifice to the gods and they waited for the breeze of the morning that would help them away from iolcus. and while they waited Æson, the father of jason, sat at his own hearth, bowed and silent in his grief. alcimide, his wife, sat near him, but she was not silent; she lamented to the women of iolcus who were gathered around her. "i did not go down to the ship," she said, "for with my grief i would not be a bird of ill omen for the voyage. by this hearth my son took farewell of me--the only son i ever bore. from the doorway i watched him go down the street of the city, and i heard the people shout as he went amongst them, they glorying in my son's splendid appearance. ah, that i might live to see his return and to hear the shout that will go up when the people look on jason again! but i know that my life will not be spared so long; i will not look on my son when he comes back from the dangers he will run in the quest of the golden fleece." then the women of iolcus asked her to tell them of the golden fleece, and alcimide told them of it and of the sorrows that were upon the race of aeolus. cretheus, the father of Æson, and pelias, was of the race of aeolus, and of the race of aeolus, too, was athamas, the king who ruled in thebes at the same time that cretheus ruled in iolcus. and the first children of athamas were phrixus and helle. "ah, phrixus and ah, helle," alcimide lamented, "what griefs you have brought on the race of aeolus! and what griefs you yourselves suffered! the evil that athamas, your father, did you lives to be a curse to the line of aeolus! "athamas was wedded first to nephele, the mother of phrixus and helle, the youth and maiden. but athamas married again while the mother of these children was still living, and ino, the new queen, drove nephele and her children out of the king's palace. "and now was nephele most unhappy. she had to live as a servant, and her children were servants to the servants of the palace. they were clad in rags and had little to eat, and they were beaten often by the servants who wished to win the favor of the new queen. "but although they wore rags and had menial tasks to do, phrixus and helle looked the children of a queen. the boy was tall, and in his eyes there often came the flash of power, and the girl looked as if she would grow into a lovely maiden. and when athamas, their father, would meet them by chance he would sigh, and queen ino would know by that sigh that he had still some love for them in his heart. afterward she would have to use all the power she possessed to win the king back from thinking upon his children. "and now queen ino had children of her own. she knew that the people reverenced the children of nephele and cared nothing for her children. and because she knew this she feared that when athamas died phrixus and helle, the children of nephele, would be brought to rule in thebes. then she and her children would be made to change places with them. "this made queen ino think on ways by which she could make phrixus and helle lose their lives. she thought long upon this, and at last a desperate plan came into her mind. "when it was winter she went amongst the women of the countryside, and she gave them jewels and clothes for presents. then she asked them to do secretly an unheard-of thing. she asked the women to roast over their fires the grains that had been left for seed. this the women did. then spring came on, and the men sowed in the fields the grain that had been roasted over the fires. no shoots grew up as the spring went by. in summer there was no waving greenness in the fields. autumn came, and there was no grain for the reaping. then the men, not knowing what had happened, went to king athamas and told him that there would be famine in the land. "the king sent to the temple of artemis to ask how the people might be saved from the famine. and the guardians of the temple, having taken gold from queen ino, told them that there would be worse and worse famine and that all the people of thebes would die of hunger unless the king was willing to make a great sacrifice. "when the king asked what sacrifice he should make he was told by the guardians of the temple that he must sacrifice to the goddess his two children, phrixus and helle. those who were around the king, to save themselves from famine after famine, clamored to have the children sacrificed. athamas, to save his people, consented to the sacrifice. "they went toward the king's palace. they found helle by the bank of the river washing clothes. they took her and bound her. they found phrixus, half naked, digging in a field, and they took him, too, and bound him. that night they left brother and sister in the same prison. helle wept over phrixus, and phrixus wept to think that he was not able to do anything to save his sister. "the servants of the palace went to nephele, and they mocked at her, telling her that her children would be sacrificed on the morrow. nephele nearly went wild in her grief. and then, suddenly, there came into her mind the thought of a creature that might be a helper to her and to her children. "this creature was a ram that had wings and a wonderful fleece of gold. the god of the sea, poseidon, had sent this wonderful ram to athamas and nephele as a marriage gift. and the ram had since been kept in a special fold. "to that fold nephele went. she spent the night beside the ram praying for its help. the morning came and the children were taken from their prison and dressed in white, and wreaths were put upon their heads to mark them as things for sacrifice. they were led in a procession to the temple of artemis. behind that procession king athamas walked, his head bowed in shame. "but queen ino's head was not bowed; rather she carried it high, for her thought was all upon her triumph. soon phrixus and helle would be dead, and then, whatever happened, her own children would reign after athamas in thebes. "phrixus and helle, thinking they were taking their last look at the sun, went on. and even then nephele, holding the horns of the golden ram, was making her last prayer. the sun rose and as it did the ram spread out its great wings and flew through the air. it flew to the temple of artemis. down beside the altar came the golden ram, and it stood with its horns threatening those who came. all stopped in surprise. still the ram stood with threatening head and great golden wings spread out. then phrixus ran from those who were holding him and laid his hands upon the ram. he called to helle and she, too, came to the golden creature. phrixus mounted on the ram and he pulled helle up beside him. then the golden ram flew upward. up, up, it went, and with the children upon its back it became like a star in the day-lit sky. "then queen ino, seeing the children saved by the golden ram, shrieked and fled away from that place. athamas ran after her. as she ran and as he followed hatred for her grew up within him. ino ran on and on until she came to the cliffs that rose over the sea. fearing athamas who came behind her she plunged down. but as she fell she was changed by poseidon, the god of the sea. she became a seagull. athamas, who followed her, was changed also; he became the sea eagle that, with beak and talons ever ready to strike, flies above the sea. "and the golden ram with wings outspread flew on and on. over the sea it flew while the wind whistled around the children. on and on they went, and the children saw only the blue sea beneath them. then poor helle, looking downward, grew dizzy. she fell off the golden ram before her brother could take hold of her. down she fell, and still the ram flew on and on. she was drowned in that sea. the people afterward named it in memory of her, calling it 'hellespont'--'helle's sea.' "on and on the ram flew. over a wild and barren country it flew and toward a river. upon that river a white city was built. down the ram flew, and alighting on the ground, stood before the gate of that city. it was the city of aea, in the land of colchis. "the king was in the street of the city, and he joined with the crowd that gathered around the strange golden creature that had a youth upon its back. the ram folded its wings and then the youth stood beside it. he spoke to the people, and then the king--Æetes was his name--spoke to him, asking him from what place he had come, and what was the strange creature upon whose back he had flown. "to the king and to the people phrixus told his story, weeping to tell of helle and her fall. then king Æetes brought him into the city, and he gave him a place in the palace, and for the golden ram he had a special fold made. "soon after the ram died, and then king Æetes took its golden fleece and hung it upon an oak tree that was in a place dedicated to ares, the god of war. phrixus wed one of the daughters of the king, and men say that afterward he went back to thebes, his own land. "and as for the golden fleece it became the greatest of king Æetes's treasures. well indeed does he guard it, and not with armed men only, but with magic powers. very strong and very cunning is king Æetes, and a terrible task awaits those who would take away from him that fleece of gold." so alcimide spoke, sorrowfully telling to the women the story of the golden fleece that her son jason was going in quest of. so she spoke, and the night waned, and the morning of the sailing of the argo came on. and when the argonauts beheld the dawn upon the high peaks of pelion they arose and poured out wine in offering to zeus, the highest of the gods. then argo herself gave forth a strange cry, for the beam from dodona that had been formed into her prow had endued her with life. she uttered a strange cry, and as she did the heroes took their places at the benches, one after the other, as had been arranged by lot, and tiphys, the helmsman, went to the steering place. to the sound of orpheus's lyre they smote with oars the rushing sea water, and the surge broke over the oar blades. the sails were let out and the breeze came into them, piping shrilly, and the fishes came darting through the green sea, great and small, and followed them, gamboling along the watery paths. and chiron, the king-centaur, came down from the mountain pelion, and standing with his feet in the foam cried out, "good speed, o argonauts, good speed, and a sorrowless return." the beginning of things orpheus sang to his lyre, orpheus the minstrel, who knew the ways and the stories of the gods; out in the open sea on the first morning of the voyage orpheus sang to them of the beginning of things. he sang how at first earth and heaven and sea were all mixed and mingled together. there was neither light nor darkness then, but only a dimness. this was chaos. and from chaos came forth night and erebus. from night was born aether, the upper air, and from night and erebus wedded there was born day. and out of chaos came earth, and out of earth came the starry heaven. and from heaven and earth wedded there were born the titan gods and goddesses--oceanus, coeus, crius, hyperion, iapetus; theia, rhea, themis, mnemosyne, gold-crowned phoebe, and lovely tethys. and then heaven and earth had for their child cronos, the most cunning of all. cronos wedded rhea, and from cronos and rhea were born the gods who were different from the titan gods. but heaven and earth had other children--cottus, briareus, and gyes. these were giants, each with fifty heads and a hundred arms. and heaven grew fearful when he looked on these giant children, and he hid them away in the deep places of the earth. cronos hated heaven, his father. he drove heaven, his father, and earth, his mother, far apart. and far apart they stay, for they have never been able to come near each other since. and cronos married to rhea had for children hestia, demeter, hera, aidoneus, and poseidon, and these all belonged to the company of the deathless gods. cronos was fearful that one of his sons would treat him as he had treated heaven, his father. so when another child was born to him and his wife rhea he commanded that the child be given to him so that he might swallow him. but rhea wrapped a great stone in swaddling clothes and gave the stone to cronos. and cronos swallowed the stone, thinking to swallow his latest-born child. that child was zeus. earth took zeus and hid him in a deep cave and those who minded and nursed the child beat upon drums so that his cries might not be heard. his nurse was adrastia; when he was able to play she gave him a ball to play with. all of gold was the ball, with a dark-blue spiral around it. when the boy zeus would play with this ball it would make a track across the sky, flaming like a star. hyperion the titan god wed theia the titan goddess, and their children were hellos, the bright sun, and selene, the clear moon. and coeus wed phoebe, and their children were leto, who is kind to gods and men, and asteria of happy name, and hecate, whom zeus honored above all. now the gods who were the children of cronos and rhea went up unto the mountain olympus, and there they built their shining palaces. but the titan gods who were born of heaven and earth went up to the mountain othrys, and there they had their thrones. between the olympians and the titan gods of othrys a war began. neither side might prevail against the other. but now zeus, grown up to be a youth, thought of how he might help the olympians to overthrow the titan gods. he went down into the deep parts of the earth where the giants cottus, briareus, and gyes had been hidden by their father. cronos had bound them, weighing them down with chains. but now zeus loosed them and the hundred-armed giants in their gratitude gave him the lightning and showed him how to use the thunderbolt. zeus would have the giants fight against the titan gods. but although they had mighty strength cottus, briareus, and gyes had no fire of courage in their hearts. zeus thought of a way to give them this courage; he brought the food and drink of the gods to them, ambrosia and nectar, and when they had eaten and drunk their spirits grew within the giants, and they were ready to make war upon the titan gods. "sons of earth and heaven," said zeus to the hundred-armed giants, "a long time now have the dwellers on olympus been striving with the titan gods. do you lend your unconquerable might to the gods and help them to overthrow the titans." cottus, the eldest of the giants, answered, "divine one, through your devising we are come back again from the murky gloom of the mid earth and we have escaped from the hard bonds that cronos laid upon us. our minds are fixed to aid you in the war against the titan gods." so the hundred-armed giants said, and thereupon zeus went and he gathered around him all who were born of cronos and rhea. cronos himself hid from zeus. then the giants, with their fifty heads growing from their shoulders and their hundred hands, went forth against the titan gods. the boundless sea rang terribly and the earth crashed loudly; wide heaven was shaken and groaned, and high olympus reeled from its foundation. holding huge rocks in their hands the giants attacked the titan gods. then zeus entered the war. he hurled the lightning; the bolts flew thick and fast from his strong hand, with thunder and lightning and flame. the earth crashed around in burning, the forests crackled with fire, the ocean seethed. and hot flames wrapped the earth-born titans all around. three hundred rocks, one upon another, did cottus, briareus, and gyes hurl upon the titans. and when their ranks were broken the giants seized upon them and held them for zeus. but some of the titan gods, seeing that the strife for them was vain, went over to the side of zeus. these zeus became friendly with. but the other titans he bound in chains and he hurled them down to tartarus. as far as earth is from heaven so is tartarus from earth. a brazen anvil falling down from heaven to earth nine days and nine nights would reach the earth upon the tenth day. and again, a brazen anvil falling from earth nine nights and nine days would reach tartarus upon the tenth night. around tartarus runs a fence of bronze and night spreads in a triple line all about it, as a necklace circles the neck. there zeus imprisoned the titan gods who had fought against him; they are hidden in the misty gloom, in a dank place, at the ends of the earth. and they may not go out, for poseidon fixed gates of bronze upon their prison, and a wall runs all round it. there cottus, briareus, and gyes stay, guarding them. and there, too, is the home of night. night and day meet each other at that place, as they pass a threshold of bronze. they draw near and they greet one another, but the house never holds them both together, for while one is about to go down into the house, the other is leaving through the door. one holds light in her hand and the other holds in her arms sleep. there the children of dark night have their dwellings--sleep, and death, his brother. the sun never shines upon these two. sleep may roam over the wide earth, and come upon the sea, and he is kindly to men. but death is not kindly, and whoever he seizes upon, him he holds fast. there, too, stands the hall of the lord of the underworld, aidoneus, the brother of zeus. zeus gave him the underworld to be his dominion when he shared amongst the olympians the world that cronos had ruled over. a fearful hound guards the hall of aidoneus: cerberus he is called; he has three heads. on those who go within that hall cerberus fawns, but on those who would come out of it he springs and would devour them. not all the titans did zeus send down to tartarus. those of them who had wisdom joined him, and by their wisdom zeus was able to overcome cronos. then cronos went to live with the friendly titan gods, while zeus reigned over olympus, becoming the ruler of gods and men. so orpheus sang, orpheus who knew the ways and the histories of the gods. vi. polydeuces' victory and heracles' loss all the places that the argonauts came nigh to and went past need not be told--meliboea, where they escaped a stormy beach; homole, from where they were able to look on ossa and holy olympus; lemnos, the island that they were to return to; the unnamed country where the earth-born men abide, each having six arms, two growing from his shoulders, and four fitting close to his terrible sides; and then the mountain of the bears, where they climbed, to make sacrifice there to rhea, the mighty mother of the gods. afterward, for a whole day, no wind blew and the sail of the argo hung slack. but the heroes swore to each other that they would make their ship go as swiftly as if the storm-footed steeds of poseidon were racing to overtake her. mightily they labored at the oars, and no one would be first to leave his rower's bench. and then, just as the breeze of the evening came up, and just as the rest of the heroes were leaning back, spent with their labor, the oar that heracles still pulled at broke, and half of it was carried away by the waves. heracles sat there in ill humor, for he did not know what to do with his unlaboring hands. all through the night they went on with a good breeze filling their sails, and next day they came to the mouth of the river cius. there they landed so that heracles might get himself an oar. no sooner did they set their feet upon the shore than the hero went off into the forest, to pull up a tree that he might shape into an oar. where they had landed was near to the country of the bebrycians, a rude people whose king was named amycus. now while heracles was away from them this king came with his followers, huge, rude men, all armed with clubs, down to where the argonauts were lighting their fires on the beach. he did not greet them courteously, asking them what manner of men they were and whither they were bound, nor did he offer them hospitality. instead, he shouted at them insolently: "listen to something that you rovers had better know. i am amycus, and any stranger that comes to this land has to get into a boxing bout with me. that's the law that i have laid down. unless you have one amongst you who can stand up to me you won't be let go back to your ship. if you don't heed my law, look out, for something's going to happen to you." so he shouted, that insolent king, and his followers raised their clubs and growled approval of what their master said. but the argonauts were not dismayed at the words of amycus. one of them stepped toward the bebrycians. he was polydeuces, good at boxing. "offer us no violence, king," said polydeuces. "we are ready to obey the law that you have laid down. willingly do i take up your challenge, and i will box a bout with you." the argonauts cheered when they saw polydeuces, the good boxer, step forward, and when they heard what he had to say. amycus turned and shouted to his followers, and one of them brought up two pairs of boxing gauntlets--of rough cowhide they were. the argonauts feared that polydeuces' hands might have been made numb with pulling at the oar, and some of them went to him, and took his hands and rubbed them to make them supple; others took from off his shoulders his beautifully colored mantle. amycus straightway put on his gauntlets and threw off his mantle; he stood there amongst his followers with his great arms crossed, glowering at the argonauts as a wild beast might glower. and when the two faced each other amycus seemed like one of the earthborn men, dark and hugely shaped, while helen's brother stood there light and beautiful. polydeuces was like that star whose beams are lovely at evening-tide. like the wave that breaks over a ship and gives the sailors no respite amycus came on at polydeuces. he pushed in upon him, thinking to bear him down and overwhelm him. but as the skillful steersman keeps the ship from being overwhelmed by the monstrous wave, so polydeuces, all skill and lightness, baffled the rushes of amycus. at last amycus, standing on the tips of his toes and rising high above him, tried to bring down his great fist upon the head of polydeuces. the hero swung aside and took the blow on his shoulder. then he struck his blow. it was a strong one, and under it the king of the bebrycians staggered and fell down. "you see," said polydeuces, "that we keep your law." the argonauts shouted, but the rude bebrycians raised their clubs to rush upon them. then would the heroes have been hard pressed, and forced, perhaps, to get back to the argo. but suddenly heracles appeared amongst them, coming up from the forest. he carried a pine tree in his hands with all its branches still upon it, and seeing this mighty-statured man appear with the great tree in his hands, the bebrycians hurried off, carrying their fallen king with them. then the argonauts gathered around polydeuces, saluted him as their champion, and put a crown of victory upon his head. heracles, meanwhile, lopped off the branches of the pine tree and began to fashion it into an oar. the fires were lighted upon the shore, and the thoughts of all were turned to supper. then young hylas, who used to sit by heracles and keep bright the hero's arms and armor, took a bronze vessel and went to fetch water. never was there a boy so beautiful as young hylas. he had golden curls that tumbled over his brow. he had deep blue eyes and a face that smiled at every glance that was given him, at every word that was said to him. now as he walked through the flowering grasses, with his knees bare, and with the bright vessel swinging in his hand, he looked most lovely. heracles had brought the boy with him from the country of the dryopians; he would have him sit beside him on the bench of the argo, and the ill humors that often came upon him would go at the words and the smile of hylas. now the spring that hylas was going toward was called pegae, and it was haunted by the nymphs. they were dancing around it when they heard hylas singing. they stole softly off to watch him. hidden behind trees the nymphs saw the boy come near, and they felt such love for him that they thought they could never let him go from their sight. they stole back to their spring, and they sank down below its clear surface. then came hylas singing a song that he had heard from his mother. he bent down to the spring, and the brimming water flowed into the sounding bronze of the pitcher. then hands came out of the water. one of the nymphs caught hylas by the elbow; another put her arms around his neck, another took the hand that held the vessel of bronze. the pitcher sank down to the depths of the spring. the hands of the nymphs clasped hylas tighter, tighter; the water bubbled around him as they drew him down. down, down they drew him, and into the cold and glimmering cave where they live. there hylas stayed. but although the nymphs kissed him and sang to him, and showed him lovely things, hylas was not content to be there. where the argonauts were the fires burned, the moon arose, and still hylas did not return. then they began to fear lest a wild beast had destroyed the boy. one went to heracles and told him that young hylas had not come back, and that they were fearful for him. heracles flung down the pine tree that he was fashioning into an oar, and he dashed along the way that hylas had gone as if a gadfly were stinging him. "hylas, hylas," he cried. but hylas, in the cold and glimmering cave that the nymphs had drawn him into, did not hear the call of his friend heracles. all the argonauts went searching, calling as they went through the island, "hylas, hylas, hylas!" but only their own calls came back to them. the morning star came up, and tiphys, the steersman, called to them from the argo. and when they came to the ship tiphys told them that they would have to go aboard and make ready to sail from that place. they called to heracles, and heracles at last came down to the ship. they spoke to him, saying that they would have to sail away. heracles would not go on board. "i will not leave this island," he said, "until i find young hylas or learn what has happened to him." then jason arose to give the command to depart. but before the words were said telamon stood up and faced him. "jason," he said angrily, "you do not bid heracles come on board, and you would have the argo leave without him. you would leave heracles here so that he may not be with us on the quest where his glory might overshadow your glory, jason." jason said no word, but he sat back on his bench with head bowed. and then, even as telamon said these angry words, a strange figure rose up out of the waves of the sea. it was the figure of a man, wrinkled and old, with seaweed in his beard and his hair. there was a majesty about him, and the argonauts all knew that this was one of the immortals--he was nereus, the ancient one of the sea. "to heracles, and to you, the rest of the argonauts, i have a thing to say," said the ancient one, nereus. "know, first, that hylas has been taken by the nymphs who love him and who think to win his love, and that he will stay forever with them in their cold and glimmering cave. for hylas seek no more. and to you, heracles, i will say this: go aboard the argo again; the ship will take you to where a great labor awaits you, and which, in accomplishing, you will work out the will of zeus. you will know what this labor is when a spirit seizes on you." so the ancient one of the sea said, and he sank back beneath the waves. heracles went aboard the argo once more, and he took his place on the bench, the new oar in his hand. sad he was to think that young hylas who used to sit at his knee would never be there again. the breeze filled the sail, the argonauts pulled at the oars, and in sadness they watched the island where young hylas had been lost to them recede from their view. vii. king phineus said tiphys, the steersman: "if we could enter the sea of pontus, we could make our way across that sea to colchis in a short time. but the passage into the sea of pontus is most perilous, and few mortals dare even to make approach to it." said jason, the chieftain of the host: "the dangers of the passage, tiphys, we have spoken of, and it may be that we shall have to carry argo overland to the sea of pontus. but you, tiphys, have spoken of a wise king who is hereabouts, and who might help us to make the dangerous passage. speak again to us, and tell us what the dangers of the passage are, and who the king is who may be able to help us to make these dangers less." then said tiphys, the steersman of the argo: "no ship sailed by mortals has as yet gone through the passage that brings this sea into the sea of pontus. in the way are the rocks that mariners call the clashers. these rocks are not fixed as rocks should be, but they rush one against the other, dashing up the sea, and crushing whatever may be between. yea, if argo were of iron, and if she were between these rocks when they met, she would be crushed to bits. i have sailed as far as that passage, but seeing the clashers strike together i turned back my ship, and journeyed as far as the sea of pontus overland. "but i have been told of one who knows how a ship may be taken through the passage that the clashers make so perilous. he who knows is a king hereabouts, phineus, who has made himself as wise as the gods. to no one has phineus told how the passage may be made, but knowing what high favor has been shown to us, the argonauts, it may be that he will tell us." so tiphys said, and jason commanded him to steer the argo toward the city where ruled phineus, the wise king. to salmydessus, then, where phineus ruled, tiphys steered the argo. they left heracles with tiphys aboard to guard the ship, and, with the rest of the heroes, jason went through the streets of the city. they met many men, but when they asked any of them how they might come to the palace of king phineus the men turned fearfully away. they found their way to the king's palace. jason spoke to the servants and bade them tell the king of their coming. the servants, too, seemed fearful, and as jason and his comrades were wondering what there was about him that made men fearful at his name, phineus, the king, came amongst them. were it not that he had a purple border to his robe no one would have known him for the king, so miserable did this man seem. he crept along, touching the walls, for the eyes in his head were blind and withered. his body was shrunken, and when he stood before them leaning on his staff he was like to a lifeless thing. he turned his blinded eyes upon them, looking from one to the other as if he were searching for a face. then his sightless eyes rested upon zetes and calais, the sons of boreas, the north wind. a change came into his face as it turned upon them. one would think that he saw the wonder that these two were endowed with--the wings that grew upon their ankles. it was awhile before he turned his face from them; then he spoke to jason and said: "you have come to have counsel with one who has the wisdom of the gods. others before you have come for such counsel, but seeing the misery that is visible upon me they went without asking for counsel: i would strive to hold you here for a while. stay, and have sight of the misery the gods visit upon those who would be as wise as they. and when you have seen the thing that is wont to befall me, it may be that help will come from you for me." then phineus, the blind king, left them, and after a while the heroes were brought into a great hall, and they were invited to rest themselves there while a banquet was being prepared for them. the hall was richly adorned, but it looked to the heroes as if it had known strange happenings; rich hangings were strewn upon the ground, an ivory chair was overturned, and the dais where the king sat had stains upon it. the servants who went through the hall making ready the banquet were white-faced and fearful. the feast was laid on a great table, and the heroes were invited to sit down to it. the king did not come into the hall before they sat down, but a table with food was set before the dais. when the heroes had feasted, the king came into the hall. he sat at the table, blind, white-faced, and shrunken, and the argonauts all turned their faces to him. said phineus, the blind king: "you see, o heroes, how much my wisdom avails me. you see me blind and shrunken, who tried to make myself in wisdom equal to the gods. and yet you have not seen all. watch now and see what feasts phineus, the wise king, has to delight him." he made a sign, and the white-faced and trembling servants brought food and set it upon the table that was before him. the king bent forward as if to eat, and they saw that his face was covered with the damp of fear. he took food from the dish and raised it to his mouth. as he did, the doors of the hall were flung open as if by a storm. strange shapes flew into the hall and set themselves beside the king. and when the argonauts looked upon them they saw that these were terrible and unsightly shapes. they were things that had the wings and claws of birds and the heads of women. black hair and gray feathers were mixed upon them; they had red eyes, and streaks of blood were upon their breasts and wings. and as the king raised the food to his mouth they flew at him and buffeted his head with their wings, and snatched the food from his hands. then they devoured or scattered what was upon the table, and all the time they screamed and laughed and mocked. "ah, now ye see," phineus panted, "what it is to have wisdom equal to the wisdom of the gods. now ye all see my misery. never do i strive to put food to my lips but these foul things, the harpies, the snatchers, swoop down and scatter or devour what i would eat. crumbs they leave me that my life may not altogether go from me, but these crumbs they make foul to my taste and my smell." and one of the harpies perched herself on the back of the king's throne and looked upon the heroes with red eyes. "hah," she screamed, "you bring armed men into your feasting hall, thinking to scare us away. never, phineus, can you scare us from you! always you will have us, the snatchers, beside you when you would still your ache of hunger. what can these men do against us who are winged and who can travel through the ways of the air?" so said the unsightly harpy, and the heroes drew together, made fearful by these awful shapes. all drew back except zetes and calais, the sons of the north wind. they laid their hands upon their swords. the wings on their shoulders spread out and the wings at their heels trembled. phineus, the king, leaned forward and panted: "by the wisdom i have i know that there are two amongst you who can save me. o make haste to help me, ye who can help me, and i will give the counsel that you argonauts have come to me for, and besides i will load down your ship with treasure and costly stuffs. oh, make haste, ye who can help me!" hearing the king speak like this, the harpies gathered together and gnashed with their teeth, and chattered to one another. then, seeing zetes and calais with their hands upon their swords, they rose up on their wings and flew through the wide doors of the hall. the king cried out to zetes and calais. but the sons of the north wind had already risen with their wings, and they were after the harpies, their bright swords in their hands. on flew the harpies, screeching and gnashing their teeth in anger and dismay, for now they felt that they might be driven from salmydessus, where they had had such royal feasts. they rose high in the air and flew out toward the sea. but high as the harpies rose, the sons of the north wind rose higher. the harpies cried pitiful cries as they flew on, but zetes and calais felt no pity for them, for they knew that these dread snatchers, with the stains of blood upon their breasts and wings, had shown pity neither to phineus nor to any other. on they flew until they came to the island that is called the floating island. there the harpies sank down with wearied wings. zetes and calais were upon them now, and they would have cut them to pieces with their bright swords, if the messenger of zeus, iris, with the golden wings, had not come between. "forbear to slay the harpies, sons of boreas," cried iris warningly, "forbear to slay the harpies that are the hounds of zeus. let them cower here and hide themselves, and i, who come from zeus, will swear the oath that the gods most dread, that they will never again come to salmydessus to trouble phineus, the king." the heroes yielded to the words of iris. she took the oath that the gods most dread--the oath by the water of styx--that never again would the harpies show themselves to phineus. then zetes and calais turned back toward the city of salmydessus. the island that they drove the harpies to had been called the floating island, but thereafter it was called the island of turning. it was evening when they turned back, and all night long the argonauts and king phineus sat in the hall of the palace and awaited the return of zetes and calais, the sons of the north wind. viii. king phineus's counsel; the landing in lemnos they came into king phineus's hall, their bright swords in their hands. the argonauts crowded around them and king phineus raised his head and stretched out his thin hands to them. and zetes and calais told their comrades and told the king how they had driven the harpies down to the floating island, and how iris, the messenger of zeus, had sworn the great oath that was by the water of styx that never again would the snatchers show themselves in the palace. then a great golden cup brimming with wine was brought to the king. he stood holding it in his trembling hands, fearful even then that the harpies would tear the cup out of his hands. he drank--long and deeply he drank--and the dread shapes of the snatchers did not appear. down amongst the heroes he came and he took into his the hands of zetes and calais, the sons of the north wind. "o heroes greater than any kings," he said, "ye have delivered me from the terrible curse that the gods had sent upon me. i thank ye, and i thank ye all, heroes of the quest. and the thanks of phineus will much avail you all." clasping the hands of zetes and calais he led the heroes through hall after hall of his palace and down into his treasure chamber. there he bestowed upon the banishers of the harpies crowns and arm rings of gold and richly-colored garments and brazen chests in which to store the treasure that he gave. and to jason he gave an ivory-hilted and golden-cased sword, and on each of the voyagers he bestowed a rich gift, not forgetting the heroes who had remained on the argo, heracles and tiphys. they went back to the great hall, and a feast was spread for the king and for the argonauts. they ate from rich dishes and they drank from flowing wine cups. phineus ate and drank as the heroes did, and no dread shapes came before him to snatch from him nor to buffet him. but as jason looked upon the man who had striven to equal the gods in wisdom, and noted his blinded eyes and shrunken face, he resolved never to harbor in his heart such presumption as phineus had harbored. when the feast was finished the king spoke to jason, telling him how the argo might be guided through the symplegades, the dread passage into the sea of pontus. he told them to bring their ship near to the clashing rocks. and one who had the keenest sight amongst them was to stand at the prow of the ship holding a pigeon in his hands. as the rocks came together he was to loose the pigeon. if it found a space to fly through they would know that the argo could make the passage, and they were to steer straight toward where the pigeon had flown. but if it fluttered down to the sea, or flew back to them, or became lost in the clouds of spray, they were to know that the argo might not make that passage. then the heroes would have to take their ship overland to where they might reach the sea of pontus. that day they bade farewell to phineus, and with the treasures he had bestowed upon them they went down to the argo. to heracles and tiphys they gave the presents that the king had sent them. in the morning they drew the argo out of the harbor of salmydessus, and set sail again. but not until long afterward did they come to the symplegades, the passage that was to be their great trial. for they landed first in a country that was full of woods, where they were welcomed by a king who had heard of the voyagers and of their quest. there they stayed and hunted for many days in the woods. and there a great loss befell the argonauts, for tiphys, as he went through the woods, was bitten by a snake and died. he who had braved so many seas and so many storms lost his life away from the ship. the argonauts made a tomb for him on the shore of that land--a great pile of stones, in which they fixed upright his steering oar. then they set sail again, and nauplius was made the steersman of the ship. the course was not so clear to nauplius as it had been to tiphys. the steersman did not find his bearings, and for many days and nights the argo was driven on a backward course. they came to an island that they knew to be that island of lemnos that they had passed on the first days of the voyage, and they resolved to rest there for a while, and then to press on for the passage into the sea of pontus. they brought the argo near the shore. they blew trumpets and set the loudest-voiced of the heroes to call out to those upon the island. but no answer came to them, and all day the argo lay close to the island. there were hidden people watching them, people with bows in their hands and arrows laid along the bowstrings. and the people who thus threatened the unknowing argonauts were women and young girls. there were no men upon the island of lemnos. years before a curse had fallen upon the people of that island, putting strife between the men and the women. and the women had mastered the men and had driven them away from lemnos. since then some of the women had grown old, and the girls who were children when their fathers and brothers had been banished were now of an age with atalanta, the maiden who went with the argonauts. they chased the wild beasts of the island, and they tilled the fields, and they kept in good repair the houses that were built before the banishing of the men. the older women served those who were younger, and they had a queen, a girl whose name was hypsipyle. the women who watched with bows in their hands would have shot their arrows at the argonauts if hypsipyle's nurse, polyxo, had not stayed them. she forbade them to shoot at the strangers until she had brought to them the queen's commands. she hastened to the palace and she found the young queen weaving at a loom. she told her about the ship and the strangers on board the ship, and she asked the queen what word she should bring to the guardian maidens. "before you give a command, hypsipyle," said polyxo, the nurse, "consider these words of mine. we, the elder women, are becoming ancient now; in a few years we will not be able to serve you, the younger women, and in a few years more we will have gone into the grave and our places will know us no more. and you, the younger women, will be becoming strengthless, and no more will be you able to hunt in the woods nor to till the fields, and a hard old age will be before you. "the ship that is beside our shore may have come at a good time. those on board are goodly heroes. let them land in lemnos, and stay if they will. let them wed with the younger women so that there may be husbands and wives, helpers and helpmeets, again in lemnos." hypsipyle, the queen, let the shuttle fall from her hands and stayed for a while looking full into polyxo's face. had her nurse heard her say something like this out of her dreams, she wondered? she bade the nurse tell the guardian maidens to let the heroes land in safety, and that she herself would put the crown of king thoas, her father, upon her head, and go down to the shore to welcome them. and now the argonauts saw people along the shore and they caught sight of women's dresses. the loudest-voiced amongst them shouted again, and they heard an answer given in a woman's voice. they drew up the argo upon the shore, and they set foot upon the land of lemnos. jason stepped forth at the head of his comrades, and he was met by hypsipyle, her father's crown upon her head, at the head of her maidens. they greeted each other, and hypsipyle bade the heroes come with them to their town that was called myrine and to the palace that was there. wonderingly the argonauts went, looking on women's forms and faces and seeing no men. they came to the palace and went within. hypsipyle mounted the stone throne that was king thoas's and the four maidens who were her guards stood each side of her. she spoke to the heroes in greeting and bade them stay in peace for as long as they would. she told them of the curse that had fallen upon the people of lemnos, and of how the menfolk had been banished. jason, then, told the queen what voyage he and his companions were upon and what quest they were making. then in friendship the argonauts and the women of lemnos stayed together--all the argonauts except heracles, and he, grieving still for hylas, stayed aboard the argo. ix. the lemnian maidens and now the argonauts were no longer on a ship that was being dashed on by the sea and beaten upon by the winds. they had houses to live in; they had honey-tasting things to eat, and when they went through the island each man might have with him one of the maidens of lemnos. it was a change that was welcome to the wearied voyagers. they helped the women in the work of the fields; they hunted the beasts with them, and over and over again they were surprised at how skillfully the women had ordered all affairs. everything in lemnos was strange to the argonauts, and they stayed day after day, thinking each day a fresh adventure. sometimes they would leave the fields and the chase, and this hero or that hero, with her who was his friend amongst the lemnian maidens, would go far into that strange land and look upon lakes that were all covered with golden and silver water lilies, or would gather the blue flowers from creepers that grew around dark trees, or would hide themselves so that they might listen to the quick-moving birds that sang in the thickets. perhaps on their way homeward they would see the argo in the harbor, and they would think of heracles who was aboard, and they would call to him. but the ship and the voyage they had been on now seemed far away to them, and the quest of the golden fleece seemed to them a story they had heard and that they had thought of, but that they could never think on again with all that fervor. when jason looked on hypsipyle he saw one who seemed to him to be only childlike in size. greatly was he amazed at the words that poured forth from her as she stood at the stone throne of king thoas--he was amazed as one is amazed at the rush of rich notes that comes from the throat of a little bird; all that she said was made lightning-like by her eyes--her eyes that were not clear and quiet like the eyes of the maidens he had seen in iolcus, but that were dark and burning. her mouth was heavy and this heavy mouth gave a shadow to her face that, but for it, was all bright and lovely. hypsipyle spoke two languages--one, the language of the mothers of the women of lemnos, which was rough and harsh, a speech to be flung out to slaves, and the other the language of greece, which their fathers had spoken, and which hypsipyle spoke in a way that made it sound like strange music. she spoke and walked and did all things in a queenlike way, and jason could see that, for all her youth and childlike size, hypsipyle was one who was a ruler. from the moment she took his hand it seemed that she could not bear to be away from him. where he walked, she walked too; where he sat she sat before him, looking at him with her great eyes while she laughed or sang. like the perfume of strange flowers, like the savor of strange fruit was hypsipyle to jason. hours and hours he would spend sitting beside her or watching her while she arrayed herself in white or in brightly colored garments. not to the chase and not into the fields did jason go, nor did he ever go with the others into the lemnian land; all day he sat in the palace with her, watching her, or listening to her singing, or to the long, fierce speeches that she used to make to her nurse or to the four maidens who attended her. in the evening they would gather in the hall of the palace, the argonauts and the lemnian maidens who were their comrades. there were dances, and always jason and hypsipyle danced together. all the lemnian maidens sang beautifully, but none of them had any stories to tell. and when the argonauts would have stories told, the lemnian maidens would forbid any tale that was about a god or a hero; only stories that were about the goddesses or about some maiden would they let be told. orpheus, who knew the histories of the gods, would have told them many stories, but the only story of his that they would come from the dance to listen to was a story of the goddesses, of demeter and her daughter persephone. demeter and persephone i once when demeter was going through the world, giving men grain to be sown in their fields, she heard a cry that came to her from across high mountains and that mounted up to her from the sea. demeter's heart shook when she heard that cry, for she knew that it came to her from her daughter, from her only child, young persephone. she stayed not to bless the fields in which the grain was being sown, but she hurried, hurried away, to sicily and to the fields of enna, where she had left persephone. all enna she searched, and all sicily, but she found no trace of persephone, nor of the maidens whom persephone had been playing with. from all whom she met she begged for tidings, but although some had seen maidens gathering flowers and playing together, no one could tell demeter why her child had cried out nor where she had since gone to. there were some who could have told her. one was cyane, a water nymph. but cyane, before demeter came to her, had been changed into a spring of water. and now, not being able to speak and tell demeter where her child had gone to and who had carried her away, she showed in the water the girdle of persephone that she had caught in her hands. and demeter, finding the girdle of her child in the spring, knew that she had been carried off by violence. she lighted a torch at etna's burning mountain, and for nine days and nine nights she went searching for her through the darkened places of the earth. then, upon a high and a dark hill, the goddess demeter came face to face with hecate, the moon. hecate, too, had heard the cry of persephone; she had sorrow for demeter's sorrow: she spoke to her as the two stood upon that dark, high hill, and told her that she should go to helios for tidings--to bright helios, the watcher for the gods, and beg helios to tell her who it was who had carried off by violence her child persephone. demeter came to helios. he was standing before his shining steeds, before the impatient steeds that draw the sun through the course of the heavens. demeter stood in the way of those impatient steeds; she begged of helios who sees all things upon the earth to tell her who it was had carried off by violence, persephone, her child. and helios, who may make no concealment, said: "queenly demeter, know that the king of the underworld, dark aidoneus, has carried off persephone to make her his queen in the realm that i never shine upon." he spoke, and as he did, his horses shook their manes and breathed out fire, impatient to be gone. helios sprang into his chariot and went flashing away. demeter, knowing that one of the gods had carried off persephone against her will, and knowing that what was done had been done by the will of zeus, would go no more into the assemblies of the gods. she quenched the torch that she had held in her hands for nine days and nine nights; she put off her robe of goddess, and she went wandering over the earth, uncomforted for the loss of her child. and no longer did she appear as a gracious goddess to men; no longer did she give them grain; no longer did she bless their fields. none of the things that it had pleased her once to do would demeter do any longer. ii persephone had been playing with the nymphs who are the daughters of ocean--phaeno, ianthe, melita, ianeira, acast--in the lovely fields of enna. they went to gather flowers--irises and crocuses, lilies, narcissus, hyacinths and roseblooms--that grow in those fields. as they went, gathering flowers in their baskets, they had sight of pergus, the pool that the white swans come to sing in. beside a deep chasm that had been made in the earth a wonder flower was growing--in color it was like the crocus, but it sent forth a perfume that was like the perfume of a hundred flowers. and persephone thought as she went toward it that having gathered that flower she would have something much more wonderful than her companions had. she did not know that aidoneus, the lord of the underworld, had caused that flower to grow there so that she might be drawn by it to the chasm that he had made. as persephone stooped to pluck the wonder flower, aidoneus, in his chariot of iron, dashed up through the chasm, and grasping the maiden by the waist, set her beside him. only cyane, the nymph, tried to save persephone, and it was then that she caught the girdle in her hands. the maiden cried out, first because her flowers had been spilled, and then because she was being reft away. she cried out to her mother, and her cry went over high mountains and sounded up from the sea. the daughters of ocean, affrighted, fled and sank down into the depths of the sea. in his great chariot of iron that was drawn by black steeds aidoneus rushed down through the chasm he had made. into the underworld he went, and he dashed across the river styx, and he brought his chariot up beside his throne. and on his dark throne he seated persephone, the fainting daughter of demeter. iii no more did the goddess demeter give grain to men; no more did she bless their fields: weeds grew where grain had been growing, and men feared that in a while they would famish for lack of bread. she wandered through the world, her thought all upon her child, persephone, who had been taken from her. once she sat by a well by a wayside, thinking upon the child that she might not come to and who might not come to her. she saw four maidens come near; their grace and their youth reminded her of her child. they stepped lightly along, carrying bronze pitchers in their hands, for they were coming to the well of the maiden beside which demeter sat. the maidens thought when they looked upon her that the goddess was some ancient woman who had a sorrow in her heart. seeing that she was so noble and so sorrowful-looking, the maidens, as they drew the clear water into their pitchers, spoke kindly to her. "why do you stay away from the town, old mother?" one of the maidens said. "why do you not come to the houses? we think that you look as if you were shelterless and alone, and we should like to tell you that there are many houses in the town where you would be welcomed." demeter's heart went out to the maidens, because they looked so young and fair and simple and spoke out of such kind hearts. she said to them: "where can i go, dear children? my people are far away, and there are none in all the world who would care to be near me." said one of the maidens: "there are princes in the land who would welcome you in their houses if you would consent to nurse one of their young children. but why do i speak of other princes beside celeus, our father? in his house you would indeed have a welcome. but lately a baby has been born to our mother, metaneira, and she would greatly rejoice to have one as wise as you mind little demophoon." all the time that she watched them and listened to their voices demeter felt that the grace and youth of the maidens made them like persephone. she thought that it would ease her heart to be in the house where these maidens were, and she was not loath to have them go and ask of their mother to have her come to nurse the infant child. swiftly they ran back to their home, their hair streaming behind them like crocus flowers; kind and lovely girls whose names are well remembered--callidice and cleisidice, demo and callithoe. they went to their mother and they told her of the stranger-woman whose name was doso. she would make a wise and a kind nurse for little demophoon, they said. their mother, metaneira, rose up from the couch she was sitting on to welcome the stranger. but when she saw her at the doorway, awe came over her, so majestic she seemed. metaneira would have her seat herself on the couch but the goddess took the lowliest stool, saying in greeting: "may the gods give you all good, lady." "sorrow has set you wandering from your good home," said metaneira to the goddess, "but now that you have come to this place you shall have all that this house can bestow if you will rear up to youth the infant demophoon, child of many hopes and prayers." the child was put into the arms of demeter; she clasped him to her breast, and little demophoon looked up into her face and smiled. then demeter's heart went out to the child and to all who were in the household. he grew in strength and beauty in her charge. and little demophoon was not nourished as other children are nourished, but even as the gods in their childhood were nourished. demeter fed him on ambrosia, breathing on him with her divine breath the while. and at night she laid him on the hearth, amongst the embers, with the fire all around him. this she did that she might make him immortal, and like to the gods. but one night metaneira looked out from the chamber where she lay, and she saw the nurse take little demophoön and lay him in a place on the hearth with the burning brands all around him. then metaneira started up, and she sprang to the hearth, and she snatched the child from beside the burning brands. "demophoön, my son," she cried, "what would this stranger-woman do to you, bringing bitter grief to me that ever i let her take you in her arms?" then said demeter: "foolish indeed are you mortals, and not able to foresee what is to come to you of good or of evil." "foolish indeed are you, metaneira, for in your heedlessness you have cut off this child from an immortality like to the immortality of the gods themselves. for he had lain in my bosom and had become dear to me and i would have bestowed upon him the greatest gift that the divine ones can bestow, for i would have made him deathless and unaging. all this, now, has gone by. honor he shall have indeed, but demophoon will know age and death." the seeming old age that was upon her had fallen from demeter; beauty and stature were hers, and from her robe there came a heavenly fragrance. there came such light from her body that the chamber shone. metaneira remained trembling and speechless, unmindful even to take up the child that had been laid upon the ground. it was then that his sisters heard demophoon wail; one ran from her chamber and took the child in her arms; another kindled again the fire upon the hearth, and the others made ready to bathe and care for the infant. all night they cared for him, holding him in their arms and at their breasts, but the child would not be comforted, becauses the nurses who handled him now were less skillful than was the goddess-nurse. and as for demeter, she left the house of celeus and went upon her way, lonely in her heart, and unappeased. and in the world that she wandered through, the plow went in vain through the ground; the furrow was sown without any avail, and the race of men saw themselves near perishing for lack of bread. but again demeter came near the well of the maiden. she thought of the daughters of celeus as they came toward the well that day, the bronze pitchers in their hands, and with kind looks for the stranger--she thought of them as she sat by the well again. and then she thought of little demophoon, the child she had held at her breast. no stir of living was in the land near their home, and only weeds grew in their fields. as she sat there and looked around her there came into demeter's heart a pity for the people in whose house she had dwelt. she rose up and she went to the house of celeus. she found him beside his house measuring out a little grain. the goddess went to him and she told him that because of the love she bore his household she would bless his fields so that the seed he had sown in them would come to growth. celeus rejoiced, and he called all the people together, and they raised a temple to demeter. she went through the fields and blessed them, and the seed that they had sown began to grow. and the goddess for a while dwelt amongst that people, in her temple at eleusis. iv but still she kept away from the assemblies of the gods. zeus sent a messenger to her, iris with the golden wings, bidding her to olympus. demeter would not join the olympians. then, one after the other, the gods and goddesses of olympus came to her; none were able to make her cease from grieving for persephone, or to go again into the company of the immortal gods. and so it came about that zeus was compelled to send a messenger down to the underworld to bring persephone back to the mother who grieved so much for the loss of her. hermes was the messenger whom zeus sent. through the darkened places of the earth hermes went, and he came to that dark throne where the lord aidoneus sat, with persephone beside him. then hermes spoke to the lord of the underworld, saying that zeus commanded that persephone should come forth from the underworld that her mother might look upon her. then persephone, hearing the words of zeus that might not be gainsaid, uttered the only cry that had left her lips since she had sent out that cry that had reached her mother's heart. and aidoneus, hearing the command of zeus that might not be denied, bowed his dark, majestic head. she might go to the upperworld and rest herself in the arms of her mother, he said. and then he cried out: "ah, persephone, strive to feel kindliness in your heart toward me who carried you off by violence and against your will. i can give to you one of the great kingdoms that the olympians rule over. and i, who am brother to zeus, am no unfitting husband for you, demeter's child." so aidoneus, the dark lord of the underworld said, and he made ready the iron chariot with its deathless horses that persephone might go up from his kingdom. beside the single tree in his domain aidoneus stayed the chariot. a single fruit grew on that tree, a bright pomegranate fruit. persephone stood up in the chariot and plucked the fruit from the tree. then did aidoneus prevail upon her to divide the fruit, and, having divided it, persephone ate seven of the pomegranate seeds. it was hermes who took the whip and the reins of the chariot. he drove on, and neither the sea nor the water-courses, nor the glens nor the mountain peaks stayed the deathless horses of aidoneus, and soon the chariot was brought near to where demeter awaited the coming of her daughter. and when, from a hilltop, demeter saw the chariot approaching, she flew like a wild bird to clasp her child. persephone, when she saw her mother's dear eyes, sprang out of the chariot and fell upon her neck and embraced her. long and long demeter held her dear child in her arms, gazing, gazing upon her. suddenly her mind misgave her. with a great fear at her heart she cried out: "dearest, has any food passed your lips in all the time you have been in the underworld?" she had not tasted food in all the time she was there, persephone said. and then, suddenly, she remembered the pomegranate that aidoneus had asked her to divide. when she told that she had eaten seven seeds from it demeter wept, and her tears fell upon persephone's face. "ah, my dearest," she cried, "if you had not eaten the pomegranate seeds you could have stayed with me, and always we should have been together. but now that you have eaten food in it, the underworld has a claim upon you. you may not stay always with me here. again you will have to go back and dwell in the dark places under the earth and sit upon aidoneus's throne. but not always you will be there. when the flowers bloom upon the earth you shall come up from the realm of darkness, and in great joy we shall go through the world together, demeter and persephone." and so it has been since persephone came back to her mother after having eaten of the pomegranate seeds. for two seasons of the year she stays with demeter, and for one season she stays in the underworld with her dark lord. while she is with her mother there is springtime upon the earth. demeter blesses the furrows, her heart being glad because her daughter is with her once more. the furrows become heavy with grain, and soon the whole wide earth has grain and fruit, leaves and flowers. when the furrows are reaped, when the grain has been gathered, when the dark season comes, persephone goes from her mother, and going down into the dark places, she sits beside her mighty lord aidoneus and upon his throne. not sorrowful is she there; she sits with head unbowed, for she knows herself to be a mighty queen. she has joy, too, knowing of the seasons when she may walk with demeter, her mother, on the wide places of the earth, through fields of flowers and fruit and ripening grain. such was the story that orpheus told--orpheus who knew the histories of the gods. a day came when the heroes, on their way back from a journey they had made with the lemnian maidens, called out to heracles upon the argo. then heracles, standing on the prow of the ship, shouted angrily to them. terrible did he seem to the lemnian maidens, and they ran off, drawing the heroes with them. heracles shouted to his comrades again, saying that if they did not come aboard the argo and make ready for the voyage to colchis, he would go ashore and carry them to the ship, and force them again to take the oars in their hands. not all of what heracles said did the argonauts hear. that evening the men were silent in hypsipyle's hall, and it was atalanta, the maiden, who told the evening's story. atalanta's race there are two atalantas, she said; she herself, the huntress, and another who is noted for her speed of foot and her delight in the race--the daughter of schoeneus, king of boeotia, atalanta of the swift foot. so proud was she of her swiftness that she made a vow to the gods that none would be her husband except the youth who won past her in the race. youth after youth came and raced against her, but atalanta, who grew fleeter and fleeter of foot, left each one of them far behind her. the youths who came to the race were so many and the clamor they made after defeat was so great, that her father made a law that, as he thought, would lessen their number. the law that he made was that the youth who came to race against atalanta and who lost the race should lose his life into the bargain. after that the youths who had care for their lives stayed away from boeotia. once there came a youth from a far part of greece into the country that atalanta's father ruled over. hippomenes was his name. he did not know of the race, but having come into the city and seeing the crowd of people, he went with them to the course. he looked upon the youths who were girded for the race, and he heard the folk say amongst themselves, "poor youths, as mighty and as high-spirited as they look, by sunset the life will be out of each of them, for atalanta will run past them as she ran past the others." then hippomenes spoke to the folk in wonder, and they told him of atalanta's race and of what would befall the youths who were defeated in it. "unlucky youths," cried hippomenes, "how foolish they are to try to win a bride at the price of their lives." then, with pity in his heart, he watched the youths prepare for the race. atalanta had not yet taken her place, and he was fearful of looking upon her. "she is a witch," he said to himself, "she must be a witch to draw so many youths to their deaths, and she, no doubt, will show in her face and figure the witch's spirit." but even as he said this, hippomenes saw atalanta. she stood with the youths before they crouched for the first dart in the race. he saw that she was a girl of a light and a lovely form. then they crouched for the race; then the trumpets rang out, and the youths and the maiden darted like swallows over the sand of the course. on came atalanta, far, far ahead of the youths who had started with her. over her bare shoulders her hair streamed, blown backward by the wind that met her flight. her fair neck shone, and her little feet were like flying doves. it seemed to hippomenes as he watched her that there was fire in her lovely body. on and on she went as swift as the arrow that the scythian shoots from his bow. and as he watched the race he was not sorry that the youths were being left behind. rather would he have been enraged if one came near overtaking her, for now his heart was set upon winning her for his bride, and he cursed himself for not having entered the race. she passed the last goal mark and she was given the victor's wreath of flowers. hippomenes stood and watched her and he did not see the youths who had started with her--they had thrown themselves on the ground in their despair. then wild, as though he were one of the doomed youths, hippomenes made his way through the throng and came before the black-bearded king of boeotia. the king's brows were knit, for even then he was pronouncing doom upon the youths who had been left behind in the race. he looked upon hippomenes, another youth who would make the trial, and the frown became heavier upon his face. but hippomenes saw only atalanta. she came beside her father; the wreath was upon her head of gold, and her eyes were wide and tender. she turned her face to him, and then she knew by the wildness that was in his look that he had come to enter the race with her. then the flush that was on her face died away, and she shook her head as if she were imploring him to go from that place. the dark-bearded king bent his brows upon him and said, "speak, o youth, speak and tell us what brings you here." then cried hippomenes as if his whole life were bursting out with his words: "why does this maiden, your daughter, seek an easy renown by conquering weakly youths in the race? she has not striven yet. here stand i, one of the blood of poseidon, the god of the sea. should i be defeated by her in the race, then, indeed, might atalanta have something to boast of." atalanta stepped forward and said: "do not speak of it, youth. indeed i think that it is some god, envious of your beauty and your strength, who sent you here to strive with me and to meet your doom. ah, think of the youths who have striven with me even now! think of the hard doom that is about to fall upon them! you venture your life in the race, but indeed i am not worthy of the price. go hence, o stranger youth, go hence and live happily, for indeed i think that there is some maiden who loves you well." "nay, maiden," said hippomenes, "i will enter the race and i will venture my life on the chance of winning you for my bride. what good will my life and my spirit be to me if they cannot win this race for me?" she drew away from him then and looked upon him no more, but bent down to fasten the sandals upon her feet. and the black-bearded king looked upon hippomenes and said, "face, then, this race to-morrow. you will be the only one who will enter it. but bethink thee of the doom that awaits thee at the end of it." the king said no more, and hippomenes went from him and from atalanta, and he came again to the place where the race had been run. he looked across the sandy course with its goal marks, and in his mind he saw again atalanta's swift race. he would not meet doom at the hands of the king's soldiers, he knew, for his spirit would leave him with the greatness of the effort he would make to reach the goal before her. and he thought it would be well to die in that effort and on that sandy place that was so far from his own land. even as he looked across the sandy course now deserted by the throng, he saw one move across it, coming toward him with feet that did not seem to touch the ground. she was a woman of wonderful presence. as hippomenes looked upon her he knew that she was aphrodite, the goddess of beauty and of love. "hippomenes," said the immortal goddess, "the gods are mindful of you who are sprung from one of the gods, and i am mindful of you because of your own worth. i have come to help you in your race with atalanta, for i would not have you slain, nor would i have that maiden go unwed. give your greatest strength and your greatest swiftness to the race, and behold! here are wonders that will prevent the fleet-footed atalanta from putting all her spirit into the race." and then the immortal goddess held out to hippomenes a branch that had upon it three apples of shining gold. "in cyprus," said the goddess, "where i have come from, there is a tree on which these golden apples grow. only i may pluck them. i have brought them to you, hippomenes. keep them in your girdle, and in the race you will find out what to do with them, i think." so aphrodite said, and then she vanished, leaving a fragrance in the air and the three shining apples in the hands of hippomenes. long he looked upon their brightness. they were beside him that night, and when he arose in the dawn he put them in his girdle. then, before the throng, he went to the place of the race. when he showed himself beside atalanta, all around the course were silent, for they all admired hippomenes for his beauty and for the spirit that was in his face; they were silent out of compassion, for they knew the doom that befell the youths who raced with atalanta. and now schoeneus, the black-bearded king, stood up, and he spoke to the throng, saying, "hear me all, both young and old: this youth, hippomenes, seeks to win the race from my daughter, winning her for his bride. now, if he be victorious and escape death i will give him my dear child, atalanta, and many fleet horses besides as gifts from me, and in honor he shall go back to his native land. but if he fail in the race, then he will have to share the doom that has been meted out to the other youths who raced with atalanta hoping to win her for a bride." then hippomenes and atalanta crouched for the start. the trumpets were sounded and they darted off. side by side with atalanta, hippomenes went. her flying hair touched his breast, and it seemed to him that they were skimming the sandy course as if they were swallows. but then atalanta began to draw away from him. he saw her ahead of him, and then he began to hear the words of cheer that came from the throng "bend to the race, hippomenes! go on, go on! use your strength to the utmost." he bent himself to the race, but further and further from him atalanta drew. then it seemed to him that she checked her swiftness a little to look back at him. he gained on her a little. and then his hand touched the apples that were in his girdle. as it touched them it came into his mind what to do with the apples. he was not far from her now, but already her swiftness was drawing her further and further away. he took one of the apples into his hand and tossed it into the air so that it fell on the track before her. atalanta saw the shining apple. she checked her speed and stooped in the race to pick it up. and as she stooped hippomenes darted past her, and went flying toward the goal that now was within his sight. but soon she was beside him again. he looked, and he saw that the goal marks were far, far ahead of him. atalanta with the flying hair passed him, and drew away and away from him. he had not speed to gain upon her now, he thought, so he put his strength into his hand and he flung the second of the shining apples. the apple rolled before her and rolled off the course. atalanta turned off the course, stooped and picked up the apple. then did hippomenes draw all his spirit into his breast as he raced on. he was now nearer to the goal than she was. but he knew that she was behind him, going lightly where he went heavily. and then she was beside him, and then she went past him. she paused in her speed for a moment and she looked back on him. as he raced on, his chest seemed weighted down and his throat was crackling dry. the goal marks were far away still, but atalanta was nearing them. he took the last of the golden apples into his hand. perhaps she was now so far that the strength of his throw would not be great enough to bring the apple before her. but with all the strength he could put into his hand he flung the apple. it struck the course before her feet and then went bounding wide. atalanta swerved in her race and followed where the apple went. hippomenes marvelled that he had been able to fling it so far. he saw atalanta stoop to pick up the apple, and he bounded on. and then, although his strength was failing, he saw the goal marks near him. he set his feet between them and then fell down on the ground. the attendants raised him up and put the victor's wreath upon his head. the concourse of people shouted with joy to see him victor. but he looked around for atalanta and he saw her standing there with the golden apples in her hands. "he has won," he heard her say, "and i have not to hate myself for bringing a doom upon him. gladly, gladly do i give up the race, and glad am i that it is this youth who has won the victory from me." she took his hand and brought him before the king. then schoeneus, in the sight of all the rejoicing people, gave atalanta to hippomenes for his bride, and he bestowed upon him also a great gift of horses. with his dear and hard-won bride, hippomenes went to his own country, and the apples that she brought with her, the golden apples of aphrodite, were reverenced by the people. x. the departure from lemnos a day came when heracles left the argo and went on the lemnian land. he gathered the heroes about him, and they, seeing heracles come amongst them, clamored to go to hunt the wild bulls that were inland from the sea. so, for once, the heroes left the lemnian maidens who were their friends. jason, too, left hypsipyle in the palace and went with heracles. and as they went, heracles spoke to each of the heroes, saying that they were forgetting the fleece of gold that they had sailed to gain. jason blushed to think that he had almost let go out of his mind the quest that had brought him from iolcus. and then he thought upon hypsipyle and of how her little hand would stay in his, and his own hand became loose upon the spear so that it nearly fell from him. how could he, he thought, leave hypsipyle and this land of lemnos behind? he heard the clear voice of atalanta as she, too, spoke to the argonauts. what heracles said was brave and wise, said atalanta. forgetfulness would cover their names if they stayed longer in lemnos--forgetfulness and shame, and they would come to despise themselves. leave lemnos, she cried, and draw argo into the sea, and depart for colchis. all day the argonauts stayed by themselves, hunting the bulls. on their way back from the chase they were met by lemnian maidens who carried wreaths of flowers for them. very silent were the heroes as the maidens greeted them. heracles went with jason to the palace, and hypsipyle, seeing the mighty stranger coming, seated herself, not on the couch where she was wont to sit looking into the face of jason, but on the stone throne of king thoas, her father. and seated on that throne she spoke to jason and to heracles as a queen might speak. in the hall that night the heroes and the lemnian maidens who were with them were quiet. a story was told; castor began it and polydeuces ended it. and the story that helen's brothers told was: the golden maid epimetheus the titan had a brother who was the wisest of all beings--prometheus called the foreseer. but epimetheus himself was slow-witted and scatter-brained. his wise brother once sent him a message bidding him beware of the gifts that zeus might send him. epimetheus heard, but he did not heed the warning, and thereby he brought upon the race of men troubles and cares. prometheus, the wise titan, had saved men from a great trouble that zeus would have brought upon them. also he had given them the gift of fire. zeus was the more wroth with men now because fire, stolen from him, had been given them; he was wroth with the race of titans, too, and he pondered in his heart how he might injure men, and how he might use epimetheus, the mindless titan, to further his plan. while he pondered there was a hush on high olympus, the mountain of the gods. then zeus called upon the artisan of the gods, lame hephaestus, and he commanded him to make a being out of clay that would have the likeness of a lovely maiden. with joy and pride hephaestus worked at the task that had been given him, and he fashioned a being that had the likeness of a lovely maiden, and he brought the thing of his making before the gods and the goddesses. all strove to add a grace or a beauty to the work of hephaestus. zeus granted that the maiden should see and feel. athene dressed her in garments that were as lovely as flowers. aphrodite, the goddess of love, put a charm on her lips and in her eyes. the graces put necklaces around her neck and set a golden crown upon her head. the hours brought her a girdle of spring flowers. then the herald of the gods gave her speech that was sweet and flowing. all the gods and goddesses had given gifts to her, and for that reason the maiden of hephaestus's making was called pandora, the all-endowed. she was lovely, the gods knew; not beautiful as they themselves are, who have a beauty that awakens reverence rather than love, but lovely, as flowers and bright waters and earthly maidens are lovely. zeus smiled to himself when he looked upon her, and he called to hermes who knew all the ways of the earth, and he put her into the charge of hermes. also he gave hermes a great jar to take along; this jar was pandora's dower. epimetheus lived in a deep-down valley. now one day, as he was sitting on a fallen pillar in the ruined place that was now forsaken by the rest of the titans, he saw a pair coming toward him. one had wings, and he knew him to be hermes, the messenger of the gods. the other was a maiden. epimetheus marveled at the crown upon her head and at her lovely garments. there was a glint of gold all around her. he rose from where he sat upon the broken pillar and he stood to watch the pair. hermes, he saw, was carrying by its handle a great jar. in wonder and delight he looked upon the maiden. epimetheus had seen no lovely thing for ages. wonderful indeed was this golden maid, and as she came nearer the charm that was on her lips and in her eyes came to the earth-born one, and he smiled with more and more delight. hermes came and stood before him. he also smiled, but his smile had something baleful in it. he put the hands of the golden maid into the great soft hand of the titan, and he said, "o epimetheus, father zeus would be reconciled with thee, and as a sign of his good will he sends thee this lovely goddess to be thy companion." oh, very foolish was epimetheus the earth-born one! as he looked upon the golden maid who was sent by zeus he lost memory of the wars that zeus had made upon the titans and the elder gods; he lost memory of his brother chained by zeus to the rock; he lost memory of the warning that his brother, the wisest of all beings, had sent him. he took the hands of pandora, and he thought of nothing at all in all the world but her. very far away seemed the voice of hermes saying, "this jar, too, is from olympus; it has in it pandora's dower." the jar stood forgotten for long, and green plants grew over it while epimetheus walked in the garden with the golden maid, or watched her while she gazed on herself in the stream, or searched in the untended places for the fruits that the elder gods would eat, when they feasted with the titans in the old days, before zeus had come to his power. and lost to epimetheus was the memory of his brother now suffering upon the rock because of the gift he had given to men. and pandora, knowing nothing except the brightness of the sunshine and the lovely shapes and colors of things and the sweet taste of the fruits that epimetheus brought to her, could have stayed forever in that garden. but every day epimetheus would think that the men and women of the world should be able to talk to him about this maiden with the wonderful radiance of gold, and with the lovely garments, and the marvelous crown. and one day he took pandora by the hand, and he brought her out of that deep-lying valley, and toward the homes of men. he did not forget the jar that hermes had left with her. all things that belonged to the golden maid were precious, and epimetheus took the jar along. the race of men at the time were simple and content. their days were passed in toil, but now, since prometheus had given them fire, they had good fruits of their toil. they had well-shaped tools to dig the earth and to build houses. their homes were warmed with fire, and fire burned upon the altars that were upon their ways. greatly they reverenced prometheus, who had given them fire, and greatly they reverenced the race of the titans. so when epimetheus came amongst them, tall as a man walking with stilts, they welcomed him and brought him and the golden maid to their hearths. and epimetheus showed pandora the wonderful element that his brother had given to men, and she rejoiced to see the fire, clapping her hands with delight. the jar that epimetheus brought he left in an open place. in carrying it up the rough ways out of the valley epimetheus may have knocked the jar about, for the lid that had been tight upon it now fitted very loosely. but no one gave heed to the jar as it stood in the open space where epimetheus had left it. at first the men and women looked upon the beauty of pandora, upon her lovely dresses, and her golden crown and her girdle of flowers, with wonder and delight. epimetheus would have every one admire and praise her. the men would leave off working in the fields, or hammering on iron, or building houses, and the women would leave off spinning or weaving, and come at his call, and stand about and admire the golden maid. but as time went by a change came upon the women: one woman would weep, and another would look angry, and a third would go back sullenly to her work when pandora was admired or praised. once the women were gathered together, and one who was the wisest amongst them said: "once we did not think about ourselves, and we were content. but now we think about ourselves, and we say to ourselves that we are harsh and ill-favored indeed compared to the golden maid that the titan is so enchanted with. and we hate to see our own men praise and admire her, and often, in our hearts, we would destroy her if we could." "that is true," the women said. and then a young woman cried out in a most yearnful voice, "o tell us, you who are wise, how can we make ourselves as beautiful as pandora!" then said that woman who was thought to be wise, "this golden maid is lovely to look upon because she has lovely apparel and all the means of keeping herself lovely. the gods have given her the ways, and, so her skin remains fair, and her hair keeps its gold, and her lips are ever red and her eyes shining. and i think that the means that she has of keeping lovely are all in that jar that epimetheus brought with her." when the woman who was thought to be wise said this, those around her were silent for a while. but then one arose and another arose, and they stood and whispered together, one saying to the other that they should go to the place where the jar had been left by epimetheus, and that they should take out of it the salves and the charms and the washes that would leave them as beautiful as pandora. so the women went to that place. on their way they stopped at a pool and they bent over to see themselves mirrored in it, and they saw themselves with dusty and unkempt hair, with large and knotted hands, with troubled eyes, and with anxious mouths. they frowned as they looked upon their images, and they said in harsh voices that in a while they would have ways of making themselves as lovely as the golden maid. and as they went on they saw pandora. she was playing in a flowering field, while epimetheus, high as a man upon stilts, went gathering the blossoms of the bushes for her. they went on, and they came at last to the place where epimetheus had left the jar that held pandora's dower. a great stone jar it was; there was no bird, nor flower, nor branch painted upon it. it stood high as a woman's shoulder. and as the women looked on it they thought that there were things enough in it to keep them beautiful for all the days of their lives. but each one thought that she should not be the last to get her hands into it. once the lid had been fixed tightly down on the jar. but the lid was shifted a little now. as the hands of the women grasped it to take off the lid the jar was cast down, and the things that were inside spilled themselves forth. they were black and gray and red; they were crawling and flying things. and, as the women looked, the things spread themselves abroad or fastened themselves upon them. the jar, like pandora herself, had been made and filled out of the ill will of zeus. and it had been filled, not with salves and charms and washes, as the women had thought, but with cares and troubles. before the women came to it one trouble had already come forth from the jar--self-thought that was upon the top of the heap. it was self-thought that had afflicted the women, making them troubled about their own looks, and envious of the graces of the golden maid. and now the others spread themselves out--sickness and war and strife between friends. they spread themselves abroad and entered the houses, while epimetheus, the mindless titan, gathered flowers for pandora, the golden maid. lest she should weary of her play he called to her. he would take her into the houses of men. as they drew near to the houses they saw a woman seated on the ground, weeping; her husband had suddenly become hard to her and had shut the door on her face. they came upon a child crying because of a pain that he could not understand. and then they found two men struggling, their strife being on account of a possession that they had both held peaceably before. in every house they went to epimetheus would say, "i am the brother of prometheus, who gave you the gift of fire." but instead of giving them a welcome the men would say, "we know nothing about your relation to prometheus. we see you as a foolish man upon stilts." epimetheus was troubled by the hard looks and the cold words of the men who once had reverenced him. he turned from the houses and went away. in a quiet place he sat down, and for a while he lost sight of pandora. and then it seemed to him that he heard the voice of his wise and suffering brother saying, "do not accept any gift that zeus may send you." he rose up and he hurried away from that place, leaving pandora playing by herself. there came into his scattered mind regret and fear. as he went on he stumbled. he fell from the edge of a cliff, and the sea washed away the body of the mindless brother of prometheus. not everything had been spilled out of the jar that had been brought with pandora into the world of men. a beautiful, living thing was in that jar also. this was hope. and this beautiful, living thing had got caught under the rim of the jar and had not come forth with the others. one day a weeping woman found hope under the rim of pandora's jar and brought this living thing into the house of men. and now because of hope they could see an end to their troubles. and the men and women roused themselves in the midst of their afflictions and they looked toward gladness. hope, that had been caught under the rim of the jar, stayed behind the thresholds of their houses. as for pandora, the golden maid, she played on, knowing only the brightness of the sunshine and the lovely shapes of things. beautiful would she have seemed to any being who saw her, but now she had strayed away from the houses of men and epimetheus was not there to look upon her. then hephaestus, the lame artisan of the gods, left down his tools and went to seek her. he found pandora, and he took her back to olympus. and in his brazen house she stays, though sometimes at the will of zeus she goes down into the world of men. when polydeuces had ended the story that castor had begun, heracles cried out: "for the argonauts, too, there has been a golden maid--nay, not one, but a golden maid for each. out of the jar that has been with her ye have taken forgetfulness of your honor. as for me, i go back to the argo lest one of these golden maids should hold me back from the labors that make great a man." so heracles said, and he went from hypsipyle's hall. the heroes looked at each other, and they stood up, and shame that they had stayed so long away from the quest came over each of them. the maidens took their hands; the heroes unloosed those soft hands and turned away from them. hypsipyle left the throne of king thoas and stood before jason. there was a storm in all her body; her mouth was shaken, and a whole life's trouble was in her great eyes. before she spoke jason cried out: "what heracles said is true, o argonauts! on the quest of the golden fleece our lives and our honors depend. to colchis--to colchis must we go!" he stood upright in the hall, and his comrades gathered around him. the lemnian maidens would have held out their arms and would have made their partings long delayed, but that a strange cry came to them through the night. well did the argonauts know that cry--it was the cry of the ship, of argo herself. they knew that they must go to her now or stay from the voyage for ever. and the maidens knew that there was something in the cry of the ship that might not be gainsaid, and they put their hands before their faces, and they said no other word. then said hypsipyle, the queen, "i, too, am a ruler, jason, and i know that there are great commands that we have to obey. go, then, to the argo. ah, neither i nor the women of lemnos will stay your going now. but to-morrow speak to us from the deck of the ship and bid us farewell. do not go from us in the night, jason." jason and the argonauts went from hypsipyle's hall. the maidens who were left behind wept together. all but hypsipyle. she sat on the throne of king thoas and she had polyxo, her nurse, tell her of the ways of jason's voyage as he had told of them, and of all that he would have to pass through. when the other lemnian women slept she put her head upon her nurse's, knees and wept; bitterly hypsipyle wept, but softly, for she would not have the others hear her weeping. by the coming of the morning's light the argonauts had made all ready for their sailing. they were standing on the deck when the light came, and they saw the lemnian women come to the shore. each looked at her friend aboard the argo, and spoke, and went away. and last, hypsipyle, the queen, came. "farewell, hypsipyle," jason said to her, and she, in her strange way of speaking, said: "what you told us i have remembered--how you will come to the dangerous passage that leads into the sea of pontus, and how by the flight of a pigeon you will know whether or not you may go that way. o jason, let the dove you fly when you come to that dangerous place be hypsipyle's." she showed a pigeon held in her hands. she loosed it, and the pigeon alighted on the ship, and stayed there on pink feet, a white-feathered pigeon. jason took up the pigeon and held it in his hands, and the argo drew swiftly away from the lemnian land. xi. the passage of the symplegades they came near salmydessus, where phineus, the wise king, ruled, and they sailed past it; they sighted the pile of stones, with the oar upright upon it that they had raised on the seashore over the body of tiphys, the skillful steersman whom they had lost; they sailed on until they heard a sound that grew more and more thunderous, and then the heroes said to each other, "now we come to the symplegades and the dread passage into the sea of pontus." it was then that jason cried out: "ah, when pelias spoke of this quest to me, why did i not turn my head away and refuse to be drawn into it? since we came near the dread passage that is before us i have passed every night in groans. as for you who have come with me, you may take your ease, for you need care only for your own lives. but i have to care for you all, and to strive to win for you all a safe return to greece. ah, greatly am i afflicted now, knowing to what a great peril i have brought you!" so jason said, thinking to make trial of the heroes. they, on their part, were not dismayed, but shouted back cheerful words to him. then he said: "o friends of mine, by your spirit my spirit is quickened. now if i knew that i was being borne down into the black gulfs of hades, i should fear nothing, knowing that you are constant and faithful of heart." as he said this they came into water that seethed all around the ship. then into the hands of euphemus, a youth of iolcus, who was the keenest-eyed amongst the argonauts, jason put the pigeon that hypsipyle had given him. he bade him stand by the prow of the argo, ready to loose the pigeon as the ship came nigh that dreadful gate of rock. they saw the spray being dashed around in showers; they saw the sea spread itself out in foam; they saw the high, black rocks rush together, sounding thunderously as they met. the caves in the high rocks rumbled as the sea surged into them, and the foam of the dashing waves spurted high up the rocks. jason shouted to each man to grip hard on the oars. the argo dashed on as the rocks rushed toward each other again. then there was such noise that no man's voice could be heard above it. as the rocks met, euphemus loosed the pigeon. with his keen eyes he watched her fly through the spray. would she, not finding an opening to fly through, turn back? he watched, and meanwhile the argonauts gripped hard on the oars to save the ship from being dashed on the rocks. the pigeon fluttered as though she would sink down and let the spray drown her. and then euphemus saw her raise herself and fly forward. toward the place where she had flown he pointed. the rowers gave a loud cry, and jason called upon them to pull with might and main. the rocks were parting asunder, and to the right and left broad pontus was seen by the heroes. then suddenly a huge wave rose before them, and at the sight of it they all uttered a cry and bent their heads. it seemed to them that it would dash down on the whole ship's length and overwhelm them all. but nauplius was quick to ease the ship, and the wave rolled away beneath the keel, and at the stern it raised the argo and dashed her away from the rocks. they felt the sun as it streamed upon them through the sundered rocks. they strained at the oars until the oars bent like bows in their hands. the ship sprang forward. surely they were now in the wide sea of pontus! the argonauts shouted. they saw the rocks behind them with the sea fowl screaming upon them. surely they were in the sea of pontus--the sea that had never been entered before through the rocks wandering. the rocks no longer dashed together; each remained fixed in its place, for it was the will of the gods that these rocks should no more clash together after a mortal's ship had passed between them. they were now in the sea of pontus, the sea into which flowed the river that colchis was upon--the river phasis. and now above jason's head the bird of peaceful days, the halcyon, fluttered, and the argonauts knew that this was a sign from the gods that the voyage would not any more be troublous. xii. the mountain caucasus they rested in the harbor of thynias, the desert island, and sailing from there they came to the land of the mariandyni, a people who were constantly at war with the bebrycians; there the hero polydeuces was welcomed as a god. twelve days afterward they passed the mouth of the river callichorus; then they came to the mouth of that river that flows through the land of the amazons, the river thermodon. fourteen days from that place brought them to the island that is filled with the birds of ares, the god of war. these birds dropped upon the heroes heavy, pointed feathers that would have pierced them as arrows if they had not covered themselves with their shields; then by shouting, and by striking their shields with their spears, they raised such a clamor as drove the birds away. they sailed on, borne by a gentle breeze, until a gulf of the sea opened before them, and lo! a mountain that they knew bore some mighty name. orpheus, looking on its peak and its crags, said, "lo, now! we, the argonauts, are looking upon the mountain that is named caucasus!" when he declared the name the heroes all stood up and looked on the mountain with awe. and in awe they cried out a name, and that name was "prometheus!" for upon that mountain the titan god was held, his limbs bound upon the hard rocks by fetters of bronze. even as the argonauts looked toward the mountain a great shadow fell upon their ship, and looking up they saw a monstrous bird flying. the beat of the bird's wings filled out the sail and drove the argo swiftly onward. "it is the bird sent by zeus," orpheus said. "it is the vulture that every day devours the liver of the titan god." they cowered down on the ship as they heard that word--all the argonauts save heracles; he stood upright and looked out toward where the bird was flying. then, as the bird came near to the mountain, the argonauts heard a great cry of anguish go up from the rocks. "it is prometheus crying out as the bird of zeus flies down upon him," they said to one another. again they cowered down on the ship, all save heracles, who stayed looking toward where the great vulture had flown. the night came and the argonauts sailed on in silence, thinking in awe of the titan god and of the doom that zeus had inflicted upon him. then, as they sailed on under the stars, orpheus told them of prometheus, of his gift to men, and of the fearful punishment that had been meted out to him by zeus. prometheus the gods more than once made a race of men: the first was a golden race. very close to the gods who dwell on olympus was this golden race; they lived justly although there were no laws to compel them. in the time of the golden race the earth knew only one season, and that season was everlasting spring. the men and women of the golden race lived through a span of life that was far beyond that of the men and women of our day, and when they died it was as though sleep had become everlasting with them. they had all good things, and that without labor, for the earth without any forcing bestowed fruits and crops upon them. they had peace all through their lives, this golden race, and after they had passed away their spirits remained above the earth, inspiring the men of the race that came after them to do great and gracious things and to act justly and kindly to one another. after the golden race had passed away, the gods made for the earth a second race--a silver race. less noble in spirit and in body was this silver race, and the seasons that visited them were less gracious. in the time of the silver race the gods made the seasons--summer and spring, and autumn and winter. they knew parching heat, and the bitter winds of winter, and snow and rain and hail. it was the men of the silver race who first built houses for shelter. they lived through a span of life that was longer than our span, but it was not long enough to give wisdom to them. children were brought up at their mothers' sides for a hundred years, playing at childish things. and when they came to years beyond a hundred they quarreled with one another, and wronged one another, and did not know enough to give reverence to the immortal gods. then, by the will of zeus, the silver race passed away as the golden race had passed away. their spirits stay in the underworld, and they are called by men the blessed spirits of the underworld. and then there was made the third race--the race of bronze. they were a race great of stature, terrible and strong. their armor was of bronze, their swords were of bronze, their implements were of bronze, and of bronze, too, they made their houses. no great span of life was theirs, for with the weapons that they took in their terrible hands they slew one another. thus they passed away, and went down under the earth to hades, leaving no name that men might know them by. then the gods created a fourth race--our own: a race of iron. we have not the justice that was amongst the men of the golden race, nor the simpleness that was amongst the men of the silver race, nor the stature nor the great strength that the men of the bronze race possessed. we are of iron that we may endure. it is our doom that we must never cease from labor and that we must very quickly grow old. but miserable as we are to-day, there was a time when the lot of men was more miserable. with poor implements they had to labor on a hard ground. there was less justice and kindliness amongst men in those days than there is now. once it came into the mind of zeus that he would destroy the fourth race and leave the earth to the nymphs and the satyrs. he would destroy it by a great flood. but prometheus, the--titan god who had given aid to zeus against the other titans--prometheus, who was called the foreseer--could not consent to the race of men being destroyed utterly, and he considered a way of saving some of them. to a man and a woman, deucalion and pyrrha, just and gentle people, he brought word of the plan of zeus, and he showed them how to make a ship that would bear them through what was about to be sent upon the earth. then zeus shut up in their cave all the winds but the wind that brings rain and clouds. he bade this wind, the south wind, sweep over the earth, flooding it with rain. he called upon poseidon and bade him to let the sea pour in upon the land. and poseidon commanded the rivers to put forth all their strength, and sweep dykes away, and overflow their banks. the clouds and the sea and the rivers poured upon the earth. the flood rose higher and higher, and in the places where the pretty lambs had played the ugly sea calves now gambolled; men in their boats drew fishes out of the tops of elm trees, and the water nymphs were amazed to come on men's cities under the waves. soon even the men and women who had boats were overwhelmed by the rise of water--all perished then except deucalion and pyrrha, his wife; them the waves had not overwhelmed, for they were in a ship that prometheus had shown them how to build. the flood went down at last, and deucalion and pyrrha climbed up to a high and a dry ground. zeus saw that two of the race of men had been left alive. but he saw that these two were just and kindly, and had a right reverence for the gods. he spared them, and he saw their children again peopling the earth. prometheus, who had saved them, looked on the men and women of the earth with compassion. their labor was hard, and they wrought much to gain little. they were chilled at night in their houses, and the winds that blew in the daytime made the old men and women bend double like a wheel. prometheus thought to himself that if men and women had the element that only the gods knew of--the element of fire--they could make for themselves implements for labor; they could build houses that would keep out the chilling winds, and they could warm themselves at the blaze. but the gods had not willed that men should have fire, and to go against the will of the gods would be impious. prometheus went against the will of the gods. he stole fire from the altar of zeus, and he hid it in a hollow fennel stalk, and he brought it to men. then men were able to hammer iron into tools, and cut down forests with axes, and sow grain where the forests had been. then were they able to make houses that the storms could not overthrow, and they were able to warm themselves at hearth fires. they had rest from their labor at times. they built cities; they became beings who no longer had heads and backs bent but were able to raise their faces even to the gods. and zeus spared the race of men who had now the sacred element of fire. but he knew that prometheus had stolen this fire even from his own altar and had given it to men. and he thought on how he might punish the great titan god for his impiety. he brought back from the underworld the giants that he had put there to guard the titans that had been hurled down to tartarus. he brought back gyes, cottus, and briareus, and he commanded them to lay hands upon prometheus and to fasten him with fetters to the highest, blackest crag upon caucasus. and briareus, cottus, and gyes seized upon the titan god, and carried him to caucasus, and fettered him with fetters of bronze to the highest, blackest crag--with fetters of bronze that may not be broken. there they have left the titan stretched, under the sky, with the cold winds blowing upon him, and with the sun streaming down on him. and that his punishment might exceed all other punishments zeus had sent a vulture to prey upon him--a vulture that tears at his liver each day. and yet prometheus does not cry out that he has repented of his gift to man; although the winds blow upon him, and the sun streams upon him, and the vulture tears at his liver, prometheus will not cry out his repentance to heaven. and zeus may not utterly destroy him. for prometheus the foreseer knows a secret that zeus would fain have him disclose. he knows that even as zeus overthrew his father and made himself the ruler in his stead, so, too, another will overthrow zeus. and one day zeus will have to have the fetters broken from around the limbs of prometheus, and will have to bring from the rock and the vulture, and into the council of the olympians, the unyielding titan god. when the light of the morning came the argo was very near to the mountain caucasus. the voyagers looked in awe upon its black crags. they saw the great vulture circling over a high rock, and from beneath where the vulture circled they heard a weary cry. then heracles, who all night had stood by the mast, cried out to the argonauts to bring the ship near to a landing place. but jason would not have them go near; fear of the wrath of zeus was strong upon him; rather, he bade the argonauts put all their strength into their rowing, and draw far off from that forbidden mountain. heracles, not heeding what jason ordered, declared that it was his purpose to make his way up to the black crag, and, with his shield and his sword in his hands, slay the vulture that preyed upon the liver of prometheus. then orpheus in a clear voice spoke to the argonauts. "surely some spirit possesses heracles," he said. "despite all we do or say he will make his way to where prometheus is fettered to the rock. do not gainsay him in this! remember what nereus, the ancient one of the sea, declared! did nereus not say that a great labor awaited heracles, and that in the doing of it he should work out the will of zeus? stay him not! how just it would be if he who is the son of zeus freed from his torments the much-enduring titan god!" so orpheus said in his clear, commanding voice. they drew near to the mountain caucasus. then heracles, gripping the sword and shield that were the gifts of the gods, sprang out on the landing place. the argonauts shouted farewell to him. but he, filled as he was with an overmastering spirit, did not heed their words. a strong breeze drove them onward; darkness came down, and the argo went on through the night. with the morning light those who were sleeping were awakened by the cry of nauplius--"lo! the phasis, and the utmost bourne of the sea!" they sprang up, and looked with many strange feelings upon the broad river they had come to. here was the phasis emptying itself into the sea of pontus! up that river was colchis and the city of king Æetes, the end of their voyage, the place where was kept the golden fleece! quickly they let down the sail; they lowered the mast and they laid it along the deck; strongly they grasped the oars; they swung the argo around, and they entered the broad stream of the phasis. up the river they went with the mountain caucasus on their left hand, and on their right the groves and gardens of aea, king Æetes's city. as they went up the stream, jason poured from a golden cup an offering to the gods. and to the dead heroes of that country the argonauts prayed for good fortune to their enterprise. it was jason's counsel that they should not at once appear before king Æetes, but visit him after they had seen the strength of his city. they drew their ship into a shaded backwater, and there they stayed while day grew and faded around them. night came, and the heroes slept upon the deck of argo. many things came back to them in their dreams or through their half-sleep: they thought of the lemnian maidens they had parted from; of the clashing rocks they had passed between; of the look in the eyes of heracles as he raised his face to the high, black peak of caucasus. they slept, and they thought they saw before them the golden fleece; darkness surrounded it; it seemed to the dreaming argonauts that the darkness was the magic power that king Æetes possessed. part ii. the return to greece i. king Æetes they had come into a country that was the strangest of all countries, and amongst a people that were the strangest of all peoples. they were in the land, this people said, before the moon had come into the sky. and it is true that when the great king of egypt had come so far, finding in all other places men living on the high hills and eating the acorns that grew on the oaks there, he found in colchis the city of aea with a wall around it and with pillars on which writings were graven. that was when egypt was called the morning land. and many of the magicians of egypt who had come with king sesostris stayed in that city of aea, and they taught people spells that could stay the moon in her going and coming, in her rising and setting. priests of the moon ruled the city of aea until king Æetes came. Æetes had no need of their magic, for helios, the bright sun, was his father, as he thought. also, hephaestus, the artisan of the gods, was his friend, and hephaestus made for him many wonderful things to be his protection. medea, too, his wise daughter, knew the secrets taught by those who could sway the moon. but Æetes once was made afraid by a dream that he had: he dreamt that a ship had come up the phasis, and then, sailing on a mist, had rammed his palace that was standing there in all its strength and beauty until it had fallen down. on the morning of the night that he had had this dream Æetes called medea, his wise daughter, and he bade her go to the temple of hecate, the moon, and search out spells that might destroy those who came against his city. that morning the argonauts, who had passed the night in the backwater of the river, had two youths come to them. they were in a broken ship, and they had one oar only. when jason, after giving them food and fresh garments, questioned them, he found out that these youths were of the city of aea, and that they were none others than the sons of phrixus--of phrixus who had come there with the golden ram. and the youths, phrontis and melas, were as amazed as was jason when they found out whose ship they had come aboard. for jason was the grandson of cretheus, and cretheus was the brother of athamas, their grandfather. they had ventured from aea, where they had been reared, thinking to reach the country of athamas and lay claim to his possessions. but they had been wrecked at a place not far from the mouth of the phasis, and with great pain and struggle they had made their way back. they were fearful of aea and of their uncle king Æetes, and they would gladly go with jason and the argonauts back to greece. they would help jason, they said, to persuade Æetes to give the golden fleece peaceably to them. their mother was the daughter of Æetes--chalciope, whom the king had given in marriage to phrixus, his guest. a council of the argonauts was held, and it was agreed that jason should go with two comrades to king Æetes, phrontis and melas going also. they were to ask the king to give them the golden fleece and to offer him a recompense. jason took peleus and telamon with him. as they came to the city a mist fell, and jason and his comrades with the sons of phrixus went through the city without being seen. they came before the palace of king Æetes. then phrontis and melas were some way behind. the mist lifted, and before the heroes was the wonder of the palace in the bright light of the morning. vines with broad leaves and heavy clusters of fruit grew from column to column, the columns holding a gallery up. and under the vines were the four fountains that hephaestus had made for king Æetes. they gushed out into golden, silver, bronze, and iron basins. and one fountain gushed out clear water, and another gushed out milk; another gushed out wine; and another oil. on each side of the courtyard were the palace buildings; in one king Æetes lived with apsyrtus, his son, and in the other chalciope and medea lived with their handmaidens. medea was passing from her father's house. the mist lifted suddenly and she saw three strangers in the palace courtyard. one had a crimson mantle on; his shoulders were such as to make him seem a man that a whole world could not overthrow, and his eyes had all the sun's light in them. amazed, medea stood looking upon jason, wondering at his bright hair and gleaming eyes and at the lightness and strength of the hand that he had raised. and then a dove flew toward her: it was being chased by a hawk, and medea saw the hawk's eyes and beak. as the dove lighted upon her shoulder she threw her veil around it, and the hawk dashed itself against a column. and as medea, trembling, leaned against the column she heard a cry from her sister, who was within. for now phrontis and melas had come up, and chalciope who was spinning by the door saw them and cried out. all the servants rushed out. seeing chalciope's sons there they, too, uttered loud cries, and made such commotion that apsyrtus and then king Æetes came out of the palace. jason saw king Æetes. he was old and white, but he had great green eyes, and the strength of a leopard was in all he did. and jason looked upon apsyrtus too; the son of Æetes looked like a phoenician merchant, black of beard and with rings in his ears, with a hooked nose and a gleam of copper in his face. phrontis and melas went from their mother's embrace and made reverence to king Æetes. then they spoke of the heroes who were with them, of jason and his two comrades. Æetes bade all enter the palace; baths were made ready for them, and a banquet was prepared. after the banquet, when they all sat together, Æetes addressing the eldest of chalciope's sons, said: "sons of phrixus, of that man whom i honored above all men who came to my halls, speak now and tell me how it is that you have come back to aea so soon, and who they are, these men who come with you?" Æetes, as he spoke, looked sharply upon phrontis and melas, for he suspected them of having returned to aea, bringing these armed men with them, with an evil intent. phrontis looked at the king, and said: "Æetes, our ship was driven upon the island of ares, where it was almost broken upon the rocks. that was on a murky night, and in the morning the birds of ares shot their sharp feathers upon us. we pulled away from that place, and thereafter we were driven by the winds back to the mouth of the phasis. there we met with these heroes who were friendly to us. who they are, what they have come to your city for, i shall now tell you. "a certain king, longing to drive one of these heroes from his land, and hoping that the race of cretheus might perish utterly, led him to enter a most perilous adventure. he came here upon a ship that was made by the command of hera, the wife of zeus, a ship more wonderful than mortals ever sailed in before. with him there came the mightiest of the heroes of greece. he is jason, the grandson of cretheus, and he has come to beg that you will grant him freely the famous fleece of gold that phrixus brought to aea. "but not without recompense to you would he take the fleece. already he has heard of your bitter foes, the sauromatae. he with his comrades would subdue them for you. and if you would ask of the names and the lineage of the heroes who are with jason i shall tell you. this is peleus and this is telamon; they are brothers, and they are sons of aeacus, who was of the seed of zeus. and all the other heroes who have come with them are of the seed of the gods." so phrontis said, but the king was not placated by what he said. he thought that the sons of chalciope had returned to aea bringing these warriors with them so that they might wrest the kingship from him, or, failing that, plunder the city. Æetes's heart was filled with wrath as he looked upon them, and his eyes shone as a leopard's eyes. "begone from my sight," he cried, "robbers that ye are! tricksters! if you had not eaten at my table, assuredly i should have had your tongues cut out for speaking falsehoods about the blessed gods, saying that this one and that of your companions was of their divine race." telamon and peleus strode forward with angry hearts; they would have laid their hands upon king Æetes only jason held them back. and then speaking to the king in a quiet voice, jason said: "bear with us, king Æetes, i pray you. we have not come with such evil intent as you think. ah, it was the evil command of an evil king that sent me forth with these companions of mine across dangerous gulfs of the sea, and to face your wrath and the armed men you can bring against us. we are ready to make great recompense for the friendliness you may show to us. we will subdue for you the sauromatae, or any other people that you would lord it over." but Æetes was not made friendly by jason's words. his heart was divided as to whether he should summon his armed men and have them slain upon the spot, or whether he should put them into danger by the trial he would make of them. at last he thought that it would be better to put them to the trial that he had in mind, slaying them afterward if need be. and then he spoke to jason, saying: "strangers to colchis, it may be true what my nephews have said. it may be that ye are truly of the seed of the immortals. and it may be that i shall give you the golden fleece to bear away after i have made trial of you." as he spoke medea, brought there by his messenger so that she might observe the strangers, came into the chamber. she entered softly and she stood away from her father and the four who were speaking with him. jason looked upon her, and even although his mind was filled with the thought of bending king Æetes to his will, he saw what manner of maiden she was, and what beauty and what strength was hers. she had a dark face that was made very strange by her crown of golden hair. her eyes, like her father's, were wide and full of light, and her lips were so full and red that they made her mouth like an opening rose. but her brows were always knit as if there was some secret anger within her. "with brave men i have no quarrel," said Æetes "i will make a trial of your bravery, and if your bravery wins through the trial, be very sure that you will have the golden fleece to bring back in triumph to iolcus. "but the trial that i would make of you is hard for a great hero even. know that on the plain of ares yonder i have two fire-breathing bulls with feet of brass. these bulls were once conquered by me; i yoked them to a plow of adamant, and with them i plowed the field of ares for four plow-gates. then i sowed the furrows, not with the seed that demeter gives, but with teeth of a dragon. and from the dragon's teeth that i sowed in the field of ares armed men sprang up. i slew them with my spear as they rose around me to slay me. if you can accomplish this that i accomplished in days gone by i shall submit to you and give you the golden fleece. but if you cannot accomplish what i once accomplished you shall go from my city empty-handed; for it is not right that a brave man should yield aught to one who cannot show himself as brave." so Æetes said. then jason, utterly confounded, cast his eyes upon the ground. he raised them to speak to the king, and as he did he found the strange eyes of medea upon him. with all the courage that was in him he spoke: "i will dare this contest, monstrous as it is. i will face this doom. i have come far, and there is nothing else for me to do but to yoke your fire-breathing bulls to the plow of adamant, and plow the furrows in the field of ares, and struggle with the earth-born men." as he said this he saw the eyes of medea grow wide as with fear. then Æetes, said, "go back to your ship and make ready for the trial." jason, with peleus and telamon, left the chamber, and the king smiled grimly as he saw them go. phrontis and melas went to where their mother was. but medea stayed, and Æetes looked upon her with his great leopard's eyes. "my daughter, my wise medea," he said, "go, put spells upon the moon, that hecate may weaken that man in his hour of trial." medea turned away from her father's eyes, and went to her chamber. ii. medea the sorceress she turned away from her father's eyes and she went into her own chamber. for a long time she stood there with her hands clasped together. she heard the voice of chalciope lamenting because Æetes had taken a hatred to her sons and might strive to destroy them. she heard the voice of her sister lamenting, but medea thought that the cause that her sister had for grieving was small compared with the cause that she herself had. she thought on the moment when she had seen jason for the first time--in the courtyard as the mist lifted and the dove flew to her; she thought of him as he lifted those bright eyes of his; then she thought of his voice as he spoke after her father had imposed the dreadful trial upon him. she would have liked then to have cried out to him, "o youth, if others rejoice at the doom that you go to, i do not rejoice." still her sister lamented. but how great was her own grief compared to her sister's! for chalciope could try to help her sons and could lament for the danger they were in and no one would blame her. but she might not strive to help jason nor might she lament for the danger he was in. how terrible it would be for a maiden to help a stranger against her father's design! how terrible it would be for a woman of colchis to help a stranger against the will of the king! how terrible it would be for a daughter to plot against king Æetes in his own palace! and then medea hated aea, her city. she hated the furious people who came together in the assembly, and she hated the brazen bulls that hephaestus had given her father. and then she thought that there was nothing in aea except the furious people and the fire-breathing bulls. o how pitiful it was that the strange hero and his friends should have come to such a place for the sake of the golden fleece that was watched over by the sleepless serpent in the grove of ares! still chalciope lamented. would chalciope come to her and ask her, medea, to help her sons? if she should come she might speak of the strangers, too, and of the danger they were in. medea went to her couch and lay down upon it. she longed for her sister to come to her or to call to her. but chalciope stayed in her own chamber. medea, lying upon her couch, listened to her sister's laments. at last she went near where chalciope was. then shame that she should think so much about the stranger came over her. she stood there without moving; she turned to go back to the couch, and then trembled so much that she could not stir. as she stood between her couch and her sister's chamber she heard the voice of chalciope calling to her. she went into the chamber where her sister stood. chalciope flung her arms around her. "swear," said she to medea, "swear by hecate, the moon, that you will never speak of something i am going to ask you." medea swore that she would never speak of it. chalciope spoke of the danger her sons were in. she asked medea to devise a way by which they could escape with the stranger from aea. "in aea and in colchis," she said, "there will be no safety for my sons henceforth." and to save phrontis and melas, she said, medea would have to save the strangers also. surely she knew of a charm that would save the stranger from the brazen bulls in the contest on the morrow! so chalciope came to the very thing that was in medea's mind. her heart bounded with joy and she embraced her. "chalciope," she said, "i declare that i am your sister, indeed--aye, and your daughter, too, for did you not care for me when i was an infant? i will strive to save your sons. i will strive to save the strangers who came with your sons. send one to the strangers--send him to the leader of the strangers, and tell him that i would see him at daybreak in the temple of hecate." when medea said this chalciope embraced her again. she was amazed to see how medea's tears were flowing. "chalciope," she said, "no one will know the dangers that i shall go through to save them." swiftly then chalciope went from the chamber. but medea stayed there with her head bowed and the blush of shame on her face. she thought that already she had deceived her sister, making her think that it was phrontis and melas and not jason that was in her mind to save. and she thought on how she would have to plot against her father and against her own people, and all for the sake of a stranger who would sail away without thought of her, without the image of her in his mind. jason, with peleus and telamon, went back to the argo. his comrades asked how he had fared, and when he spoke to them of the fire-breathing bulls with feet of brass, of the dragon's teeth that had to be sown, and of the earth-born men that had to be overcome, the argonauts were greatly cast down, for this task, they thought, was one that could not be accomplished. he who stood before the fire-breathing bulls would perish on the moment. but they knew that one amongst them must strive to accomplish the task. and if jason held back, peleus, telamon, theseus, castor, polydeuces, or any one of the others would undertake it. but jason would not hold back. on the morrow, he said, he would strive to yoke the fire-breathing, brazen-footed bulls to the plow of adamant. if he perished the argonauts should then do what they thought was best--make other trials to gain the golden fleece, or turn their ship and sail back to greece. while they were speaking, phrontis, chalciope's son, came to the ship. the argonauts welcomed him, and in a while he began to speak of his mother's sister and of the help she could give. they grew eager as he spoke of her, all except rough arcas, who stood wrapped in his bear's skin. "shame on us," rough arcas cried, "shame on us if we have come here to crave the help of girls! speak no more of this! let us, the argonauts, go with swords into the city of aea, and slay this king, and carry off the fleece of gold." some of the argonauts murmured approval of what arcas said. but orpheus silenced him and them, for in his prophetic mind orpheus saw something of the help that medea would give them. it would be well, orpheus said, to take help from this wise maiden; jason should go to her in the temple of hecate. the argonauts agreed to this; they listened to what phrontis told them about the brazen bulls, and the night wore on. when darkness came upon the earth; when, at sea, sailors looked to the bear arid the stars of orion; when, in the city, there was no longer the sound of barking dogs nor of men's voices, medea went from the palace. she came to a path; she followed it until it brought her into the part of the grove that was all black with the shadow that oak trees made. she raised up her hands and she called upon hecate, the moon. as she did, there was a blaze as from torches all around, and she saw horrible serpents stretching themselves toward her from the branches of the trees. medea shrank back in fear. but again she called upon hecate. and now there was a howling as from the hounds of hades all around her. fearful, indeed, medea grew as the howling came near her; almost she turned to flee. but she raised her hands again and called upon hecate. then the nymphs who haunted the marsh and the river shrieked, and at those shrieks medea crouched down in fear. she called upon hecate, the moon, again. she saw the moon rise above the treetops, and then the hissing and shrieking and howling died away. holding up a goblet in her hand medea poured out a libation of honey to hecate, the moon. and then she went to where the moon made a brightness upon the ground. there she saw a flower that rose above the other flowers--a flower that grew from two joined stalks, and that was of the color of a crocus. medea cut the stalks with a brazen knife, and as she did there came a deep groan out of the earth. this was the promethean flower. it had come out of the earth first when the vulture that tore at prometheus's liver had let fall to earth a drop of his blood. with a caspian shell that she had brought with her medea gathered the dark juice of this flower--the juice that went to make her most potent charm. all night she went through the grove gathering the juice of secret herbs; then she mingled them in a phial that she put away in her girdle. she went from that grove and along the river. when the sun shed its first rays upon snowy caucasus she stood outside the temple of hecate. she waited, but she had not long to wait, for, like the bright star sirius rising out of ocean, soon she saw jason coming toward her. she made a sign to him, and he came and stood beside her in the portals of the temple. they would have stood face to face if medea did not have her head bent. a blush had come upon her face, and jason seeing it, and seeing how her head was bent, knew how grievous it was to her to meet and speak to a stranger in this way. he took her hand and he spoke to her reverently, as one would speak to a priestess. "lady," he said, "i implore you by hecate and by zeus who helps all strangers and suppliants to be kind to me and to the men who have come to your country with me. without your help i cannot hope to prevail in the grievous trial that has been laid upon me. if you will help us, medea, your name will be renowned throughout all greece. and i have hopes that you will help us, for your face and form show you to be one who can be kind and gracious." the blush of shame had gone from medea's face and a softer blush came over her as jason spoke. she looked upon him and she knew that she could hardly live if the breath of the brazen bulls withered his life or if the earth-born men slew him. she took the charm from out her girdle; ungrudgingly she put it into jason's hands. and as she gave him the charm that she had gained with such danger, the fear and trouble that was around her heart melted as the dew melts from around the rose when it is warmed by the first light of the morning. then they spoke standing close together in the portal of the temple. she told him how he should anoint his body all over with the charm; it would give him, she said, boundless and untiring strength, and make him so that the breath of the bulls could not wither him nor the horns of the bulls pierce him. she told him also to sprinkle his shield and his sword with the charm. and then they spoke of the dragon's teeth and of the earth-born men who would spring from them. medea told jason that when they arose out of the earth he was to cast a great stone amongst them. the earth-born men would struggle about the stone, and they would slay each other in the contest. her dark and delicate face was beautiful. jason looked upon her, and it came into his mind that in colchis there was something else of worth besides the golden fleece. and he thought that after he had won the fleece there would be peace between the argonauts and king Æetes, and that he and medea might sit together in the king's hall. but when he spoke of being joined in friendship with her father, medea cried: "think not of treaties nor of covenants. in greece such are regarded, but not here. ah, do not think that the king, my father, will keep any peace with you! when you have won the fleece you must hasten away. you must not tarry in aea." she said this and her cheeks were wet with tears to think that he should go so soon, that he would go so far, and that she would never look upon him again. she bent her head again and she said: "tell me about your own land; about the place of your father, the place where you will live when you win back from colchis." then jason told her of icolus; he told her how it was circled by mountains not so lofty as her caucasus; he told her of the pasture lands of iolcus with their flocks of sheep; he told her of the mountain pelion where he had been reared by chiron, the ancient centaur; he told her of his father who lingered out his life in waiting for his return. medea said: "when you go back to iolcus do not forget me, medea. i shall remember you, jason, even in my father's despite. and it will be my hope that some rumor of you will come to me like some messenger-bird. if you forget me may some blast of wind sweep me away to iolcus, and may i sit in your hall an unknown and an unexpected guest!" then they parted; medea went swiftly back to the palace, and jason, turning to the river, went to where the argo was moored. the heroes embraced and questioned him; he told them of medea's counsel and he showed them the charm she had given him. that savage man arcas scoffed at medea's counsel and medea's charm, saying that the argonauts had become poor-spirited indeed when they had to depend upon a girl's help. jason bathed in the river; then he anointed himself with the charm; he sprinkled his spear and shield and sword with it. he came to arcas who sat upon his bench, still nursing his anger, and he held the spear toward him. arcas took up his heavy sword and he hewed at the butt of the spear. the edge of the sword turned. the blade leaped back in his hand as if it had been struck against an anvil. and jason, feeling within him a boundless and tireless strength, laughed aloud. iii. the winning of the golden fleece they took the ship out of the backwater and they brought her to a wharf in the city. at a place that was called "the ram's couch" they fastened the argo. then they marched to the field of ares, where the king and the colchian people were. jason, carrying his shield and spear, went before the king. from the king's hand he took the gleaming helmet that held the dragon's teeth. this he put into the hands of theseus, who went with him. then with the spear and shield in his hands, with his sword girt across his shoulders, and with his mantle stripped off, jason looked across the field of ares. he saw the plow that he was to yoke to the bulls; he saw the yoke of bronze near it; he saw the tracks of the bulls' hooves. he followed the tracks until he came to the lair of the fire-breathing bulls. out of that lair, which was underground, smoke and fire belched. he set his feet firmly upon the ground and he held his shield before him. he awaited the onset of the bulls. they came clanging up with loud bellowing, breathing out fire. they lowered their heads, and with mighty, iron-tipped horns they came to gore and trample him. medea's charm had made him strong; medea's charm had made his shield impregnable. the rush of the bulls did not overthrow him. his comrades shouted to see him standing firmly there, and in wonder the colchians gazed upon him. all round him, as from a furnace, there came smoke and fire. the bulls roared mightily. grasping the horns of the bull that was upon his right hand, jason dragged him until he had brought him beside the yoke of bronze. striking the brazen knees of the bull suddenly with his foot he forced him down. then he smote the other bull as it rushed upon him, and it too he forced down upon its knees. castor and polydeuces held the yoke to him. jason bound it upon the necks of the bulls. he fastened the plow to the yoke. then he took his shield and set it upon his back, and grasping the handles of the plow he started to make the furrow. with his long spear he drove the bulls before him as with a goad. terribly they raged, furiously they breathed out fire. beside jason theseus went holding the helmet that held the dragon's teeth. the hard ground was torn up by the plow of adamant, and the clods groaned as they were cast up. jason flung the teeth between the open sods, often turning his head in fear that the deadly crop of the earth-born men were rising behind him. by the time that a third of the day was finished the field of ares had been plowed and sown. as yet the furrows were free of the earth-born men. jason went down to the river and filled his helmet full of water and drank deeply. and his knees that were stiffened with the plowing he bent until they were made supple again. he saw the field rising into mounds. it seemed that there were graves all over the field of ares. then he saw spears and shields and helmets rising up out of the earth. then armed warriors sprang up, a fierce battle cry upon their lips. jason remembered the counsel of medea. he raised a boulder that four men could hardly raise and with arms hardened by the plowing he cast it. the colchians shouted to see such a stone cast by the hands of one man. right into the middle of the earth-born men the stone came. they leaped upon it like hounds, striking at one another as they came together. shield crashed on shield, spear rang upon spear as they struck at each other. the earth-born men, as fast as they arose, went down before the weapons in the hands of their brethren. jason rushed upon them, his sword in his hand. he slew some that had risen out of the earth only as far as the shoulders; he slew others whose feet were still in the earth; he slew others who were ready to spring upon him. soon all the earth-born men were slain, and the furrows ran with their dark blood as channels run with water in springtime. the argonauts shouted loudly for jason's victory. king Æetes rose from his seat that was beside the river and he went back to the city. the colchians followed him. day faded, and jason's contest was ended. but it was not the will of Æetes that the strangers should be let depart peaceably with the golden fleece that jason had won. in the assembly place, with his son apsyrtus beside him, and with the furious colchians all around him, the king stood: on his breast was the gleaming corselet that ares had given him, and on his head was that golden helmet with its four plumes that made him look as if he were truly the son of helios, the sun. lightnings flashed from his great eyes; he spoke fiercely to the colchians, holding in his hand his bronze-topped spear. he would have them attack the strangers and burn the argo. he would have the sons of phrixus slain for bringing them to aea. there was a prophecy, he declared, that would have him be watchful of the treachery of his own offspring: this prophecy was being fulfilled by the children of chalciope; he feared, too, that his daughter, medea, had aided the strangers. so the king spoke, and the colchians, hating all strangers, shouted around him. word of what her father had said was brought to medea. she knew that she would have to go to the argonauts and bid them flee hastily from aea. they would not go, she knew, without the golden fleece; then she, medea, would have to show them how to gain the fleece. then she could never again go back to her father's palace, she could never again sit in this chamber and talk to her handmaidens, and be with chalciope, her sister. forever afterward she would be dependent on the kindness of strangers. medea wept when she thought of all this. and then she cut off a tress of her hair and she left it in her chamber as a farewell from one who was going afar. into the chamber where chalciope was she whispered farewell. the palace doors were all heavily bolted, but medea did not have to pull back the bolts. as she chanted her magic song the bolts softly drew back, the doors softly opened. swiftly she went along the ways that led to the river. she came to where fires were blazing and she knew that the argonauts were there. she called to them, and phrontis, chalciope's son, heard the cry and knew the voice. to jason he spoke, and jason quickly went to where medea stood. she clasped jason's hand and she drew him with her. "the golden fleece," she said, "the time has come when you must pluck the golden fleece off the oak in the grove of ares." when she said these words all jason's being became taut like the string of a bow. it was then the hour when huntsmen cast sleep from their eyes--huntsmen who never sleep away the end of the night, but who are ever ready to be up and away with their hounds before the beams of the sun efface the track and the scent of the quarry. along a path that went from the river medea drew jason. they entered a grove. then jason saw something that was like a cloud filled with the light of the rising sun. it hung from a great oak tree. in awe he stood and looked upon it, knowing that at last he looked upon the golden fleece. his hand let slip medea's hand and he went to seize the fleece. as he did he heard a dreadful hiss. and then he saw the guardian of the golden fleece. coiled all around the tree, with outstretched neck and keen and sleepless eyes, was a deadly serpent. its hiss ran all through the grove and the birds that were wakening up squawked in terror. like rings of smoke that rise one above the other, the coils of the serpent went around the tree--coils covered by hard and gleaming scales. it uncoiled, stretched itself, and lifted its head to strike. then medea dropped on her knees before it, and began to chant her magic song. as she sang, the coils around the tree grew slack. like a dark, noiseless wave the serpent sank down on the ground. but still its jaws were open, and those dreadful jaws threatened jason. medea, with a newly cut spray of juniper dipped in a mystic brew, touched its deadly eyes. and still she chanted her magic song. the serpent's jaws closed; its eyes became deadened; far through the grove its length was stretched out. then jason took the golden fleece. as he raised his hands to it, its brightness was such as to make a flame on his face. medea called to him. he strove to gather it all up in his arms; medea was beside him, and they went swiftly on. they came to the river and down to the place where the argo was moored. the heroes who were aboard started up, astonished to see the fleece that shone as with the lightning of zeus. over medea jason cast it, and he lifted her aboard the argo. "o friends," he cried, "the quest on which we dared the gulfs of the sea and the wrath of kings is accomplished, thanks to the help of this maiden. now may we return to greece; now have we the hope of looking upon our fathers and our friends once more. and in all honor will we bring this maiden with us, medea, the daughter of king Æetes." then he drew his sword and cut the hawsers of the ship, calling upon the heroes to drive the argo on. there was a din and a strain and a splash of oars, and away from aea the argo dashed. beside the mast medea stood; the golden fleece had fallen at her feet, and her head and face were covered by her silver veil. iv. the slaying of apsyrtus that silver veil was to be splashed with a brother's blood, and the argonauts, because of that calamity, were for a long time to be held back from a return to their native land. now as they went down the river they saw that dangers were coming swiftly upon them. the chariots of the colchians were upon the banks. jason saw king Æetes in his chariot, a blazing torch lighting his corselet and his helmet. swiftly the argo went, but there were ships behind her, and they went swiftly too. they came into the sea of pontus, and phrontis, the son of phrixus, gave counsel to them. "do not strive to make the passage of the symplegades," he said. "all who live around the sea of pontus are friendly to king Æetes they will be warned by him, and they will be ready to slay us and take the argo. let us journey up the river ister, and by that way we can come to the thrinacian sea that is close to your land." the argonauts thought well of what phrontis said; into the waters of the ister the ship was brought. many of the colchian ships passed by the mouth of the river, and went seeking the argo toward the passage of the symplegades. but the argonauts were on a way that was dangerous for them. for apsyrtus had not gone toward the symplegades seeking the argo. he had led his soldiers overland to the river ister at a place that was at a distance above its mouth. there were islands in the river at that place, and the soldiers of apsyrtus landed on the islands, while apsyrtus went to the kings of the people around and claimed their support. the argo came and the heroes found themselves cut off. they could not make their way between the islands that were filled with the colchian soldiers, nor along the banks that were lined with men friendly to king Æetes. argo was stayed. apsyrtus sent for the chiefs; he had men enough to overwhelm them, but he shrank from a fight with the heroes, and he thought that he might gain all he wanted from them without a struggle. theseus and peleus went to him. apsyrtus would have them give up the golden fleece; he would have them give up medea and the sons of phrixus also. theseus and peleus appealed to the judgment of the kings who supported apsyrtus. Æetes, they said, had no more claim on the golden fleece. he had promised it to jason as a reward for tasks that he had imposed. the tasks had been accomplished and the fleece, no matter in what way it was taken from the grove of ares, was theirs. so theseus and peleus said, and the kings who supported apsyrtus gave judgment for the argonauts. but medea would have to be given to her brother. if that were done the argo would be let go on her course, apsyrtus said, and the golden fleece would be left with them. apsyrtus said, too, that he would not take medea back to the wrath of her father; if the argonauts gave her up she would be let stay on the island of artemis and under the guardianship of the goddess. the chiefs brought apsyrtus's words back. there was a council of the argonauts, and they agreed that they should leave medea on the island of artemis. but grief and wrath took hold of medea when she heard of this resolve. almost she would burn the argo. she went to where jason stood, and she spoke again of all she had done to save his life and win the golden fleece for the argonauts. jason made her look on the ships and the soldiers that were around them; he showed her how these could overwhelm the argonauts and slay them all. with all the heroes slain, he said, medea would come into the hands of apsyrtus, who then could leave her on the island of artemis or take her back to the wrath of her father. but medea would not consent to go nor could jason's heart consent to let her go. then these two made a plot to deceive apsyrtus. "i have not been of the council that agreed to give you up to him," jason said. "after you have been left there i will take you off the island of artemis secretly. the colchians and the kings who support them, not knowing that you have been taken off and hidden on the argo, will let us pass." this medea and jason planned to do, and it was an ill thing, for it was breaking the covenant that the chiefs had entered with apsyrtus. medea then was left by the argonauts on the island of artemis. now apsyrtus had been commanded by his father to bring her back to aea; he thought that when she had been left by the argonauts he could force her to come with him. so he went over to the island. jason, secretly leaving his companions, went to the island from the other side. before the temple of artemis jason and apsyrtus came face to face. both men, thinking they had been betrayed to their deaths, drew their swords. then, before the vestibule of the temple and under the eyes of medea, jason and apsyrtus fought. jason's sword pierced the son of Æetes as he fell apsyrtus cried out bitter words against medea, saying that it was on her account that he had come on his death. and as he fell the blood of her brother splashed medea's silver veil. jason lifted medea up and carried her to the argo. they hid the maiden under the fleece of gold and they sailed past the ships of the colchians. when darkness came they were far from the island of artemis. it was then that they heard a loud wailing, and they knew that the colchians had discovered that their prince had been slain. the colchians did not pursue them. fearing the wrath of Æetes they made settlements in the lands of the kings who had supported a apsyrtus; they never went back to aea; they called themselves apsyrtians henceforward, naming themselves after the prince they had come with. they had escaped the danger that had hemmed them in, but the argonauts, as they sailed on, were not content; covenants had been broken, and blood had been shed in a bad cause. and as they went on through the darkness the voice of the ship was heard; at the sound of that voice fear and sorrow came upon the voyagers, for they felt that it had a prophecy of doom. castor and polydeuces went to the front of the ship; holding up their hands, they prayed. then they heard the words that the voice uttered: in the night as they went on the voice proclaimed the wrath of zeus on account of the slaying of apsyrtus. what was their doom to be? it was that the argonauts would have to wander forever over the gulfs of the sea unless medea had herself cleansed of her brother's blood. there was one who could cleanse medea--circe, the daughter of helios and perse. the voice urged the heroes to pray to the immortal gods that the way to the island of circe be shown to them. v. medea comes to circe they sailed up the river ister until they came to the eridanus, that river across which no bird can fly. leaving the eridanus they entered the rhodanus, a river that rises in the extreme north, where night herself has her habitation. and voyaging up this river they came to the stormy lakes. a mist lay upon the lakes night and day; voyaging through them the argonauts at last brought out their ship upon the sea of ausonia. it was zetes and calais, the sons of the north wind, who brought the argo safely along this dangerous course. and to zetes and calais iris, the messenger of the gods, appeared and revealed to them where circe's island lay. deep blue water was all around that island, and on its height a marble house was to be seen. but a strange haze covered everything as with a veil. as the argonauts came near they saw what looked to them like great dragonflies; they came down to the shore, and then the heroes saw that they were maidens in gleaming dresses. the maidens waved their hands to the voyagers, calling them to come on the island. strange beasts came up to where the maidens were and made whimpering cries. the argonauts would have drawn the ship close and would have sprung upon the island only that medea cried out to them. she showed them the beasts that whimpered around the maidens, and then, as the argonauts looked upon them, they saw that these were not beasts of the wild. there was something strange and fearful about them; the heroes gazed upon them with troubled eyes. they brought the ship near, but they stayed upon their benches, holding the oars in their hands. medea sprang to the island; she spoke to the maidens so that they shrank away; then the beasts came and whimpered around her. "forbear to land here, o argonauts," medea cried, "for this is the island where men are changed into beasts." she called to jason to come; only jason would she have come upon the island. they went swiftly toward the marble house, and the beasts followed them, looking up at jason and medea with pitiful human eyes. they went into the marble house of circe, and as suppliants they seated themselves at the hearth. circe stood at her loom, weaving her many-colored threads. swiftly she turned to the suppliants; she looked for something strange in them, for just before they came the walls of her house dripped with blood and the flame ran over and into her pot, burning up all the magic herbs she was brewing. she went toward where they sat, medea with her face hidden by her hands, and jason, with his head bent,--holding with its point in the ground the sword with which he had slain the son of Æetes when medea took her hands away from before her face, circe knew that, like herself, this maiden was of the race of helios. medea spoke to her, telling her first of the voyage of the heroes and of their toils; telling her then of how she had given help to jason against the will of Æetes her father; telling her then, fearfully, of the slaying of apsyrtus. she covered her face with her robe as she spoke of it. and then she told circe she had come, warned by the judgment of zeus, to ask of circe, the daughter of helios, to purify her from the stain of her brother's blood. like all the children of helios, circe had eyes that were wide and full of life, but she had stony lips--lips that were heavy and moveless. bright golden hair hung smoothly along each of her sides. first she held a cup to them that was filled with pure water, and jason and medea drank from that cup. then circe stayed by the hearth; she burnt cakes in the flame, and all the while she prayed to zeus to be gentle with these suppliants. she brought both to the seashore. there she washed medea's body and her garments with the spray of the sea. medea pleaded with circe to tell her of the life she foresaw for her, but circe would not speak of it. she told medea that one day she would meet a woman who knew nothing about enchantments but who had much human wisdom. she was to ask of her what she was to do in her life or what she was to leave undone. and whatever this woman out of her wisdom told her, that medea was to regard. once more circe offered them the cup filled with clear water, and when they had drunken of it she left them upon the seashore. as she went toward her marble house the strange beasts followed circe, whimpering as they went. jason and medea went aboard the argo, and the heroes drew away from circe's island. vi. in the land of the phaeacians wearied were the heroes now. they would have fain gone upon the island of circe to rest there away from the oars and the sound of the sea. but the wisest of them, looking upon the beasts that were men transformed, held the argo far off the shore. then jason and medea came aboard, and with heavy hearts and wearied arms they turned to the open sea again. no longer had they such high hearts as when they drove the argo between the clashers and into the sea of pontus. now their heads drooped as they went on, and they sang such songs as slaves sing in their hopeless labor. orpheus grew fearful for them now. for orpheus knew that they were drawing toward a danger. there was no other way for them, he knew, but past the island anthemoessa in the tyrrhenian sea where the sirens were. once they had been nymphs and had tended persephone before she was carried off by aidoneus to be his queen in the underworld. kind they had been, but now they were changed, and they cared only for the destruction of men. all set around with rocks was the island where they were. as the argo came near, the sirens, ever on the watch to draw mariners to their destruction, saw them and came to the rocks and sang to them, holding each other's hands. they sang all together their lulling song. that song made the wearied voyagers long to let their oars go with the waves, and drift, drift to where the sirens were. bending down to them the sirens, with soft hands and white arms, would lift them to soft resting places. then each of the sirens sang a clear, piercing song that called to each of the voyagers. each man thought that his own name was in that song. "o how well it is that you have come near," each one sang, "how well it is that you have come near where i have awaited you, having all delight prepared for you!" orpheus took up his lyre as the sirens began to sing. he sang to the heroes of their own toils. he sang of them, how, gaunt and weary as they were, they were yet men, men who were the strength of greece, men who had been fostered by the love and hope of their country. they were the winners of the golden fleece and their story would be told forever. and for the fame that they had won men would forego all rest and all delight. why should they not toil, they who were born for great labors and to face dangers that other men might not face? soon hands would be stretched out to them--the welcoming hands of the men and women of their own land. so orpheus sang, and his voice and the music of his lyre prevailed above the sirens' voices. men dropped their oars, but other men remained at their benches, and pulled steadily, if wearily, on. only one of the argonauts, butes, a youth of iolcus, threw himself into the water and swam toward the rocks from which the sirens sang. but an anguish that nearly parted their spirits from their bodies was upon them as they went wearily on. toward the end of the day they beheld another island--an island that seemed very fair; they longed to land and rest themselves there and eat the fruits of the island. but orpheus would not have them land. the island, he said, was thrinacia. upon that island the cattle of the sun pastured, and if one of the cattle perished through them their return home might not be won. they heard the lowing of the cattle through the mist, and a deep longing for the sight of their own fields, with a white house near, and flocks and herds at pasture, came over the heroes. they came near the island of thrinacia, and they saw the cattle of the sun feeding by the meadow streams; not one of them was black; all were white as milk, and the horns upon their heads were golden. they saw the two nymphs who herded the kine--phaethusa and lampetia, one with a staff of silver and the other with a staff of gold. driven by the breeze that came over the thrinacian sea the argonauts came to the land of the phaeacians. it was a good land as they saw when they drew near; a land of orchards and fresh pastures, with a white and sun-lit city upon the height. their spirits came back to them as they drew into the harbor; they made fast the hawsers, and they went upon the ways of the city. and then they saw everywhere around them the dark faces of colchian soldiers. these were the men of king Æetes, and they had come overland to the phaeacian city, hoping to cut off the argonauts. jason, when he saw the soldiers, shouted to those who had been left on the argo, and they drew out of the harbor, fearful lest the colchians should grapple with the ship and wrest from them the fleece of gold. then jason made an encampment upon the shore, and the captain of the colchians went here and there, gathering together his men. medea left jason's side and hastened through the city. to the palace of alcinous, king of the phaeacians, she went. within the palace she found arete, the queen. and arete was sitting by her hearth, spinning golden and silver threads. arete was young at that time, as young as medea, and as yet no child had been born to her. but she had the clear eyes of one who understands, and who knows how to order things well. stately, too, was arete, for she had been reared in the house of a great king. medea came to her, and fell upon her knees before her, and told her how she had fled from the house of her father, king Æetes. she told arete, too, how she had helped jason to win the golden fleece, and she told her how through her her brother had been led to his death. as she told this part of her story she wept and prayed at the knees of the queen. arete was greatly moved by medea's tears and prayers. she went to alcinous in his garden, and she begged of him to save the argonauts from the great force of the colchians that had come to cut them off. "the golden fleece," said arete, "has been won by the tasks that jason performed. if the colchians should take medea, it would be to bring her back to aea and to a bitter doom. and the maiden," said the queen, "has broken my heart by her prayers and tears." king alcinous said: "Æetes is strong, and although his kingdom is far from ours, he can bring war upon us." but still arete pleaded with him to protect medea from the colchians. alcinous went within; he raised up medea from where she crouched on the floor of the palace, and he promised her that the argonauts would be protected in his city. then the king mounted his chariot; medea went with him, and they came down to the seashore where the heroes had made their encampment. the argonauts and the colchians were drawn up against each other, and the colchians far outnumbered the wearied heroes. alcinous drove his chariot between the two armies. the colchians prayed him to have the strangers make surrender to them. but the king drove his chariot to where the heroes stood, and he took the hand of each, and received them as his guests. then the colchians knew that they might not make war upon the heroes. they drew off. the next day they marched away. it was a rich land that they had come to. once aristaeus dwelt there, the king who discovered how to make bees store up their honey for men and how to make the good olive grow. macris, his daughter, tended dionysus, the son of zeus, when hermes brought him of the flame, and moistened his lips with honey. she tended him in a cave in the phaeacian land, and ever afterward the phaeacians were blessed with all good things. now as the heroes marched to the palace of king alcinous the people came to meet them, bringing them sheep and calves and jars of wine and honey. the women brought them fresh garments; to medea they gave fine linen and golden ornaments. amongst the phaeacians who loved music and games and the telling of stories the heroes stayed for long. there were dances, and to the phaeacians who honored him as a god, orpheus played upon his lyre. and every day, for the seven days that they stayed amongst them, the phaeacians brought rich presents to the heroes. and medea, looking into the clear eyes of queen arete, knew that she was the woman of whom circe had prophesied, the woman who knew nothing of enchantments, but who had much human wisdom. she was to ask of her what she was to do in her life and what she was to leave undone. and what this woman told her medea was to regard. arete told her that she was to forget all the witcheries and enchantments that she knew, and that she was never to practice against the life of any one. this she told medea upon the shore, before jason lifted her aboard the argo. vii. they come to the desert land and now with sail spread wide the argo went on, and the heroes rested at the oars. the wind grew stronger. it became a great blast, and for nine days and nine nights the ship was driven fearfully along. the blast drove them into the gulf of libya, from whence there is no return for ships. on each side of the gulf there are rocks and shoals, and the sea runs toward the limitless sand. on the top of a mighty tide the argo was lifted, and she was flung high up on the desert sands. a flood tide such as might not come again for long left the argonauts on the empty libyan land. and when they came forth and saw that vast level of sand stretching like a mist away into the distance, a deadly fear came over each of them. no spring of water could they descry; no path; no herdsman's cabin; over all that vast land there was silence and dead calm. and one said to the other: "what land is this? whither have we come? would that the tempest had overwhelmed us, or would that we had lost the ship and our lives between the clashing rocks at the time when we were making our way into the sea of pontus." and the helmsman, looking before him, said with a breaking heart: "out of this we may not come, even should the breeze blow from the land, for all around us are shoals and sharp rocks--rocks that we can see fretting the water, line upon line. our ship would have been shattered far from the shore if the tide had not borne her far up on the sand. but now the tide rushes back toward the sea, leaving only foam on which no ship can sail to cover the sand. and so all hope of our return is cut off." he spoke with tears flowing upon his cheeks, and all who had knowledge of ships agreed with what the helmsman had said. no dangers that they had been through were as terrible as this. hopelessly, like lifeless specters, the heroes strayed about the endless strand. they embraced each other and they said farewell as they laid down upon the sand that might blow upon them and overwhelm them in the night. they wrapped their heads in their cloaks, and, fasting, they laid themselves down. jason crouched beside the ship, so troubled that his life nearly went from him. he saw medea huddled against a rock and with her hair streaming on the sand. he saw the men who, with all the bravery of their lives, had come with him, stretched on the desert sand, weary and without hope. he thought that they, the best of men, might die in this desert with their deeds all unknown; he thought that he might never win home with medea, to make her his queen in iolcus. he lay against the side of the ship, his cloak wrapped around his head. and there death would have come to him and to the others if the nymphs of the desert had been unmindful of these brave men. they came to jason. it was midday then, and the fierce rays of the sun were scorching all libya. they drew off the cloak that wrapped his head; they stood near him, three nymphs girded around with goatskins. "why art thou so smitten with despair?" the nymphs said to jason. "why art thou smitten with despair, thou who hast wrought so much and hast won so much? up! arouse thy comrades! we are the solitary nymphs, the warders of the land of libya, and we have come to show a way of escape to you, the argonauts. "look around and watch for the time when poseidon's great horse shall be unloosed. then make ready to pay recompense to the mother that bore you all. what she did for you all, that you all must do for her; by doing it you will win back to the land of greece." jason heard them say these words and then he saw them no more; the nymphs vanished amongst the desert mounds. then jason rose up. he did not know what to make out of what had been told him, but there was courage now and hope in his heart. he shouted; his voice was like the roar of a lion calling to his mate. at his shout his comrades roused themselves; all squalid with the dust of the desert the argonauts stood around him. "listen, comrades, to me," jason said, "while i speak of a strange thing that has befallen me. while i lay by the side of our ship three nymphs came before me. with light hands they drew away the cloak that wrapped my head. they declared themselves to be the solitary nymphs, the warders, of libya. very strange were the words they said to me. when poseidon's great horse shall be unloosed, they said, we were to make the mother of us all a recompense, doing for her what she had done for us all. this the nymphs told me to say, but i cannot understand the meaning of their words." there were some there who would not have given heed to jason's words, deeming them words without meaning. but even as he spoke a wonder came before their eyes. out of the far-off sea a great horse leaped. vast he was of size and he had a golden mane. he shook the spray of the sea off his sides and mane. past them he trampled and away toward the horizon, leaving great tracks in the sand. then nestor spoke rejoicingly. "behold the great horse! it is the horse that the desert nymphs spoke of, poseidon's horse. even now has the horse been unloosed, and now is the time to do what the nymphs bade us do. "who but argo is the mother of us all? she has carried us. now we must make her a recompense and carry her even as she carried us. with untiring shoulders we must bear argo across this great desert. "and whither shall we bear her? whither but along the tracks that poseidon's horse has left in the sand! poseidon's horse will not go under the earth--once again he will plunge into the sea!" so nestor said and the argonauts saw truth in his saying. hope came to them again--the hope of leaving that desert and coming to the sea. surely when they came to the sea again, and spread the sail and held the oars in their hands, their sacred ship would make swift course to their native land! viii. the carrying out of the argo with the terrible weight of the ship upon their shoulders the argonauts made their way across the desert, following the tracks of poseidon's golden-maned horse. like a rounded serpent that drags with pain its length along, they went day after day across that limitless land. a day came when they saw the great tracks of the horse no more. a wind had come up and had covered them with sand. with the mighty weight of the ship upon their shoulders, with the sun beating upon their heads, and with no marks on the desert to guide them, the heroes stood there, and it seemed to them that the blood must gush up and out of their hearts. then zetes and calais, sons of the north wind, rose up upon their wings to strive to get sight of the sea. up, up, they soared. and then as a man sees, or thinks he sees, at the month's beginning, the moon through a bank of clouds, zetes and calais, looking over the measureless land, saw the gleam of water. they shouted to the argonauts; they marked the way for them, and wearily, but with good hearts, the heroes went upon the way. they came at last to the shore of what seemed to be a wide inland sea. they set argo down from off their over-wearied shoulders and they let her keel take water once more. all salt and brackish was that water; they dipped their hands into and tasted the salt. orpheus was able to name the water they had come to; it was that lake that was called after triton, the son of nereus, the ancient one of the sea. they set up an altar and they made sacrifices in thanksgiving to the gods. they had come to water at last, but now they had to seek for other water--for the sweet water that they could drink. all around them they looked, but they saw no sign of a spring. and then they felt a wind blow upon them--a wind that had in it not the dust of the desert but the fragrance of growing things. toward where that wind blew from they went. as they went on they saw a great shape against the sky; they saw mountainous shoulders bowed. orpheus bade them halt and turn their faces with reverence toward that great shape: for this was atlas the titan, the brother of prometheus, who stood there to hold up the sky on his shoulders. then they were near the place that the fragrance had blown from: there was a garden there; the only fence that ran around it was a lattice of silver. "surely there are springs in the garden," the argonauts said. "we will enter this fair garden now and slake our thirst." orpheus bade them walk reverently, for all around them, he said, was sacred ground. this garden was the garden of the hesperides that was watched over by the daughters of the evening land. the argonauts looked through the silver lattice; they saw trees with lovely fruit, and they saw three maidens moving through the garden with watchful eyes. in this garden grew the tree that had the golden apples that zeus gave to hera as a wedding gift. they saw the tree on which the golden apples grew. the maidens went to it and then looked watchfully all around them. they saw the faces of the argonauts looking through the silver lattice and they cried out, one to the other, and they joined their hands around the tree. but orpheus called to them, and the maidens understood the divine speech of orpheus. he made the daughters of the evening land know that they who stood before the lattice were men who reverenced the gods, who would not strive to enter the forbidden garden. the maidens came toward them. beautiful as the singing of orpheus was their utterance, but what they said was a complaint and a lament. their lament was for the dragon ladon, that dragon with a hundred heads that guarded sleeplessly the tree that had the golden apples. now that dragon was slain. with arrows that had been dipped in the poison of the hydra's blood their dragon, ladon, had been slain. the daughters of the evening land sang of how a mortal had come into the garden that they watched over. he had a great bow, and with his arrow he slew the dragon that guarded the golden apples. the golden apples he had taken away; they had come back to the tree they had been plucked from, for no mortal might keep them in his possession. so the maidens sang hespere, eretheis, and aegle--and they complained that now, unhelped by the hundred-headed dragon, they had to keep guard over the tree. the argonauts knew of whom they told the tale--heracles, their comrade. would that heracles were with them now! the hesperides told them of heracles--of how the springs in the garden dried up because of his plucking the golden apples. he came out of the garden thirsting. nowhere could he find a spring of water. to yonder great rock he went. he smote it with his foot and water came out in full floe.. then he, leaning on his hands and with his chest upon the ground, drank and drank from the water that flowed from the rifted rock. the argonauts looked to where the rock stood. they caught the sound of water. they carried medea over. and then, company after company, all huddled together, they stooped down and drank their fill of the clear good water. with lips wet with the water they cried to each other, "heracles! although he is not with us, in very truth heracles has saved his comrades from deadly thirst!" they saw his footsteps printed upon the rocks, and they followed them until they led to the sand where no footsteps stay. heracles! how glad his comrades would have been if they could have had sight of him then! but it was long ago before he had sailed with them--that heracles had been here. still hearing their complaint they turned back to the lattice, to where the daughters of the evening land stood. the daughters of the evening land bent their heads to listen to what the argonauts told one another, and, seeing them bent to listen, orpheus told a story about one who had gone across the libyan desert, about one who was a hero like unto heracles. the story of perseus beyond where atlas stands there is a cave where the strange women, the ancient daughters of phorcys, live. they have been gray from their birth. they have but one eye and one tooth between them, and they pass the eye and the tooth, one to the other, when they would see or eat. they are called the graiai, these two sisters. up to the cave where they lived a youth once came. he was beardless, and the garb he wore was torn and travel-stained, but he had shapeliness and beauty. in his leathern belt there was an exceedingly bright sword; this sword was not straight like the swords we carry, but it was hooked like a sickle. the strange youth with the bright, strange sword came very quickly and very silently up to the cave where the graiai lived and looked over a high boulder into it. one was sitting munching acorns with the single tooth. the other had the eye in her hand. she was holding it to her forehead and looking into the back of the cave. these two ancient women, with their gray hair falling over them like thick fleeces, and with faces that were only forehead and cheeks and nose and mouth, were strange creatures truly. very silently the youth stood looking at them. "sister, sister," cried the one who was munching acorns, "sister, turn your eye this way. i heard the stir of something." the other turned, and with the eye placed against her forehead looked out to the opening of the cave. the youth drew back behind the boulder. "sister, sister, there is nothing there," said the one with the eye. then she said: "sister, give me the tooth for i would eat my acorns. take the eye and keep watch." the one who was eating held out the tooth, and the one who was watching held out the eye. the youth darted into the cave. standing between the eyeless sisters, he took with one hand the tooth and with the other the eye. "sister, sister, have you taken the eye?" "i have not taken the eye. have you taken the tooth?" "i have not taken the tooth." "some one has taken the eye, and some one has taken the tooth." they stood together, and the youth watched their blinking faces as they tried to discover who had come into the cave, and who had taken the eye and the tooth. then they said, screaming together: "who ever has taken the eye and the tooth from the graiai, the ancient daughters of phorcys, may mother night smother him." the youth spoke. "ancient daughters of phorcys," he said, "graiai, i would not rob from you. i have come to your cave only to ask the way to a place." "ah, it is a mortal, a mortal," screamed the sisters. "well, mortal, what would you have from the graiai?" "ancient graiai," said the youth, "i would have you tell me, for you alone know, where the nymphs dwell who guard the three magic treasures--the cap of darkness, the shoes of flight, and the magic pouch." "we will not tell you, we will not tell you that," screamed the two ancient sisters. "i will keep the eye and the tooth," said the youth, "and i will give them to one who will help me." "give me the eye and i will tell you," said one. "give me the tooth and i will tell you," said the other. the youth put the eye in the hand of one and the tooth in the hand of the other, but he held their skinny hands in his strong hands until they should tell him where the nymphs dwelt who guarded the magic treasures. the gray ones told him. then the youth with the bright sword left the cave. as he went out he saw on the ground a shield of bronze, and he took it with him. to the other side of where atlas stands he went. there he came upon the nymphs in their valley. they had long dwelt there, hidden from gods and men, and they were startled to see a stranger youth come into their hidden valley. they fled away. then the youth sat on the ground, his head bent like a man who is very sorrowful. the youngest and the fairest of the nymphs came to him at last. "why have you come, and why do you sit here in such great trouble, youth?" said she. and then she said: "what is this strange sickle-sword that you wear? who told you the way to our dwelling place? what name have you?" "i have come here," said the youth, and he took the bronze shield upon his knees and began to polish it, "i have come here because i want you, the nymphs who guard them, to give to me the cap of darkness and the shoes of flight and the magic pouch. i must gain these things; without them i must go to my death. why i must gain them you will know from my story." when he said that he had come for the three magic treasures that they guarded, the kind nymph was more startled than she and her sisters had been startled by the appearance of the strange youth in their hidden valley. she turned away from him. but she looked again and she saw that he was beautiful and brave looking. he had spoken of his death. the nymph stood looking at him pitifully, and the youth, with the bronze shield laid beside his knees and the strange hooked sword lying across it, told her his story. "i am perseus," he said, "and my grandfather, men say, is king in argos. his name is acrisius. before i was born a prophecy was made to him that the son of danae, his daughter, would slay him. acrisius was frightened by the prophecy, and when i was born he put my mother and myself into a chest, and he sent us adrift upon the waves of the sea. "i did not know what a terrible peril i was in, for i was an infant newly born. my mother was so hopeless that she came near to death. but the wind and the waves did not destroy us: they brought us to a shore; a shepherd found the chest, and he opened it and brought my mother and myself out of it alive. the land we had come to was seriphus. the shepherd who found the chest and who rescued my mother and myself was the brother of the king. his name was dictys. "in the shepherd's wattled house my mother stayed with me, a little infant, and in that house i grew from babyhood to childhood, and from childhood to boyhood. he was a kind man, this shepherd dictys. his brother polydectes had put him away from the palace, but dictys did not grieve for that, for he was happy minding his sheep upon the hillside, and he was happy in his little but of wattles and clay. "polydectes, the king, was seldom spoken to about his brother, and it was years before he knew of the mother and child who had been brought to live in dictys's hut. but at last he heard of us, for strange things began to be said about my mother--how she was beautiful, and how she looked like one who had been favored by the gods. then one day when he was hurting, polydectes the king came to the but of dictys the shepherd. "he saw danae, my mother, there. by her looks he knew that she was a king's daughter and one who had been favored by the gods. he wanted her for his wife. but my mother hated this harsh and overbearing king, and she would not wed with him. often he came storming around the shepherd's hut, and at last my mother had to take refuge from him in a temple. there she became the priestess of the goddess. "i was taken to the palace of polydectes, and there i was brought up. the king still stormed around where my mother was, more and more bent on making her marry him. if she had not been in the temple where she was under the protection of the goddess he would have wed her against her will. "but i was growing up now, and i was able to give some protection to my mother. my arm was a strong one, and polydectes knew that if he wronged my mother in any way, i had the will and the power to be deadly to him. one day i heard him say before his princes and his lords that he would wed, and would wed one who was not danae, i was overjoyed to hear him say this. he asked the lords and the princes to come to the wedding feast; they declared they would, and they told him of the presents they would bring. "then king polydectes turned to me and he asked me to come to the wedding feast. i said i would come. and then, because i was young and full of the boast of youth, and because the king was now ceasing to be a terror to me, i said that i would bring to his wedding feast the head of the gorgon. "the king smiled when he heard me say this, but he smiled not as a good man smiles when he hears the boast of youth. he smiled, and he turned to the princes and lords, and he said 'perseus will come, and he will bring a greater gift than any of you, for he will bring the head of her whose gaze turns living creatures into stone.' "when i heard the king speak so grimly about my boast the fearfulness of the thing i had spoken of doing came over me. i thought for an instant that the gorgon's head appeared before me, and that i was then and there turned into stone. "the day of the wedding feast came. i came and i brought no gift. i stood with my head hanging for shame. then the princes and the lords came forward, and they showed the great gifts of horses that they had brought. i thought that the king would forget about me and about my boast. and then i heard him call my name. 'perseus,' he said, 'perseus, bring before us now the gorgon's head that, as you told us, you would bring for the wedding gift.' "the princes and lords and people looked toward me, and i was filled with a deeper shame. i had to say that i had failed to bring a present. then that harsh and overbearing king shouted at me. 'go forth,' he said, 'go forth and fetch the present that you spoke of. if you do not bring it remain forever out of my country, for in seriphus we will have no empty boasters.' the lords and the princes applauded what the king said; the people were sad for me and sad for my mother, but they might not do anything to help me, so just and so due to me did the words of the king seem. there was no help for it, and i had to go from the country of seriphus, leaving my mother at the mercy of polydectes. "i bade good-by to my sorrowful mother and i went from seriphus--from that land that i might not return to without the gorgon's head. i traveled far from that country. one day i sat down in a lonely place and prayed to the gods that my strength might be equal to the will that now moved in me--the will to take the gorgon's head, and take from my name the shame of a broken promise, and win back to seriphus to save my mother from the harshness of the king. "when i looked up i saw one standing before me. he was a youth, too, but i knew by the way he moved, and i knew by the brightness of his face and eyes, that he was of the immortals. i raised my hands in homage to him, and he came near me. 'perseus,' he said, 'if you have the courage to strive, the way to win the gorgon's head will be shown you.' i said that i had the courage to strive, and he knew that i was making no boast. "he gave me this bright sickle-sword that i carry. he told me by what ways i might come near enough to the gorgons without being turned into stone by their gaze. he told me how i might slay the one of the three gorgons who was not immortal, and how, having slain her, i might take her head and flee without being torn to pieces by her sister gorgons. "then i knew that i should have to come on the gorgons from the air. i knew that having slain the one that could be slain i should have to fly with the speed of the wind. and i knew that that speed even would not save me--i should have to be hidden in my flight. to win the head and save myself i would need three magic things--the shoes of flight and the magic pouch, and the dogskin cap of hades that makes its wearer invisible. "the youth said: 'the magic pouch and the shoes of flight and the dogskin cap of hades are in the keeping of the nymphs whose dwelling place no mortal knows. i may not tell you where their dwelling place is. but from the gray ones, from the ancient daughters of phorcys who live in a cave near where atlas stands, you may learn where their dwelling place is.' "thereupon he told me how i might come to the graiai, and how i might get them to tell me where you, the nymphs, had your dwelling. the one who spoke to me was hermes, whose dwelling is on olympus. by this sickle-sword that he gave me you will know that i speak the truth." perseus ceased speaking, and she who was the youngest and fairest of the nymphs came nearer to him. she knew that he spoke truthfully, and besides she had pity for the youth. "but we are the keepers of the magic treasures," she said, "and some one whose need is greater even than yours may some time require them from us. but will you swear that you will bring the magic treasures back to us when you have slain the gorgon and have taken her head?" perseus declared that he would bring the magic treasures back to the nymphs and leave them once more in their keeping. then the nymph who had compassion for him called to the others. they spoke together while perseus stayed far away from them, polishing his shield of bronze. at last the nymph who had listened to him came back, the others following her. they brought to perseus and they put into his hands the things they had guarded--the cap made from dogskin that had been brought up out of hades, a pair of winged shoes, and a long pouch that he could hang across his shoulder. and so with the shoes of flight and the cap of darkness and the magic pouch, perseus went to seek the gorgons. the sickle-sword that hermes gave him was at his side, and on his arm he held the bronze shield that was now well polished. he went through the air, taking a way that the nymphs had shown him. he came to oceanus that was the rim around the world. he saw forms that were of living creatures all in stone, and he knew that he was near the place where the gorgons had their lair. then, looking upon the surface of his polished shield, he saw the gorgons below him. two were covered with hard serpent scales; they had tusks that were long and were like the tusks of boars, and they had hands of gleaming brass and wings of shining gold. still looking upon the shining surface of his shield perseus went down and down. he saw the third sister--she who was not immortal. she had a woman's face and form, and her countenance was beautiful, although there was something deadly in its fairness. the two scaled and winged sisters were asleep, but the third, medusa, was awake, and she was tearing with her hands a lizard that had come near her. upon her head was a tangle of serpents all with heads raised as though they were hissing. still looking into the mirror of his shield perseus came down and over medusa. he turned his head away from her. then, with a sweep of the sickle-sword he took her head off. there was no scream from the gorgon, but the serpents upon her head hissed loudly. still with his face turned from it he lifted up the head by its tangle of serpents. he put it into the magic pouch. he rose up in the air. but now the gorgon sisters were awake. they had heard the hiss of medusa's serpents, and now they looked upon her headless body. they rose up on their golden wings, and their brazen hands were stretched out to tear the one who had slain medusa. as they flew after him they screamed aloud. although he flew like the wind the gorgon sisters would have overtaken him if he had been plain to their eyes. but the dogskin cap of hades saved him, for the gorgon sisters did not know whether he was above or below them, behind or before them. on perseus went, flying toward where atlas stood. he flew over this place, over libya. drops of blood from medusa's head fell down upon the desert. they were changed and became the deadly serpents that are on these sands and around these rocks. on and on perseus flew toward atlas and toward the hidden valley where the nymphs who were again to guard the magic treasures had their dwelling place. but before he came to the nymphs perseus had another adventure. in ethopia, which is at the other side of libya, there ruled a king whose name was cepheus. this king had permitted his queen to boast that she was more beautiful than the nymphs of the sea. in punishment for the queen's impiety and for the king's folly poseidon sent a monster out of the sea to waste that country. every year the monster came, destroying more and more of the country of ethopia. then the king asked of an oracle what he should do to save his land and his people. the oracle spoke of a dreadful thing that he would have to do--he would have to sacrifice his daughter, the beautiful princess andromeda. the king was forced by his savage people to take the maiden andromeda and chain her to a rock on the seashore, leaving her there for the monster to devour her, satisfying himself with that prey. perseus, flying near, heard the maiden's laments. he saw her lovely body bound with chains to the rock. he came near her, taking the cap of darkness off his head. she saw him, and she bent her head in shame, for she thought that he would think that it was for some dreadful fault of her own that she had been left chained in that place. her father had stayed near. perseus saw him, and called to him, and bade him tell why the maiden was chained to the rock. the king told perseus of the sacrifice that he had been forced to make. then perseus came near the maiden, and he saw how she looked at him with pleading eyes. then perseus made her father promise that he would give andromeda to him for his wife if he should slay the sea monster. gladly cepheus promised this. then perseus once again drew his sickle-sword; by the rock to which andromeda was still chained he waited for sight of the sea monster. it came rolling in from the open sea, a shapeless and unsightly thing. with the shoes of flight upon his feet perseus rose above it. the monster saw his shadow upon the water, and savagely it went to attack the shadow. perseus swooped down as an eagle swoops down; with his sickle-sword he attacked it, and he struck the hook through the monster's shoulder. terribly it reared up from the sea. perseus rose over it, escaping its wide-opened mouth with its treble rows of fangs. again he swooped and struck at it. its hide was covered all over with hard scales and with the shells of sea things, but perseus's sword struck through it. it reared up again, spouting water mixed with blood. on a rock near the rock that andromeda was chained to perseus alighted. the monster, seeing him, bellowed and rushed swiftly through the water to overwhelm him. as it reared up he plunged the sword again and again into its body. down into the water the monster sank, and water mixed with blood was spouted up from the depths into which it sank. then was andromeda loosed from her chains. perseus, the conqueror, lifted up the fainting maiden and carried her back to the king's palace. and cepheus there renewed his promise to give her in marriage to her deliverer. perseus went on his way. he came to the hidden valley where the nymphs had their dwelling place, and he restored to them the three magic treasures that they had given him--the cap of darkness, the shoes of flight, and the magic pouch. and these treasures are still there, and the hero who can win his way to the nymphs may have them as perseus had them. again he returned to the place where he had found andromeda chained. with face averted he drew forth the gorgon's head from where he had hidden it between the rocks. he made a bag for it out of the horny skin of the monster he had slain. then, carrying his tremendous trophy, he went to the palace of king cepheus to claim his bride. now before her father had thought of sacrificing her to the sea monster he had offered andromeda in marriage to a prince of ethopia--to a prince whose name was phineus. phineus did not strive to save andromeda. but, hearing that she had been delivered from the monster, he came to take her for his wife; he came to cepheus's palace, and he brought with him a thousand armed men. the palace of cepheus was filled with armed men when perseus entered it. he saw andromeda on a raised place in the hall. she was pale as when she was chained to the rock, and when she saw him in the palace she uttered a cry of gladness. cepheus, the craven king, would have let him who had come with the armed bands take the maiden. perseus came beside andromeda and he made his claim. phineus spoke insolently to him, and then he urged one of his captains to strike perseus down. many sprang forward to attack him. out of the bag perseus drew medusa's head. he held it before those who were bringing strife into the hall. they were turned to stone. one of cepheus's men wished to defend perseus: he struck at the captain who had come near; his sword made a clanging sound as it struck this one who had looked upon medusa's head. perseus went from the land of ethopia taking fair andromeda with him. they went into greece, for he had thought of going to argos, to the country that his grandfather ruled over. at this very time acrisius got tidings of danae, and her son, and he knew that they had not perished on the waves of the sea. fearful of the prophecy that told he would be slain by his grandson and fearing that he would come to argos to seek him, acrisius fled out of his country. he came into thessaly. perseus and andromeda were there. now, one day the old king was brought to games that were being celebrated in honor of a dead hero. he was leaning on his staff, watching a youth throw a metal disk, when something in that youth's appearance made him want to watch him more closely. about him there was something of a being of the upper air; it made acrisius think of a brazen tower and of a daughter whom he had shut up there. he moved so that he might come nearer to the disk-thrower. but as he left where he had been standing he came into the line of the thrown disk. it struck the old man on the temple. he fell down dead, and as he fell the people cried out his name--"acrisius, king acrisius!" then perseus knew whom the disk, thrown by his hand, had slain. and because he had slain the king by chance perseus would not go to argos, nor take over the kingdom that his grandfather had reigned over. with andromeda he went to seriphus where his mother was. and in seriphus there still reigned polydectes, who had put upon him the terrible task of winning the gorgon's head. he came to seriphus and he left andromeda in the but of dictys the shepherd. no one knew him; he heard his name spoken of as that of a youth who had gone on a foolish quest and who would never again be heard of. to the temple where his mother was a priestess he came. guards were placed all around it. he heard his mother's voice and it was raised in lament: "walled up here and given over to hunger i shall be made go to polydectes's house and become his wife. o ye gods, have ye no pity for danae, the mother of perseus?" perseus cried aloud, and his mother heard his voice and her moans ceased. he turned around and he went to the palace of polydectes, the king. the king received him with mockeries. "i will let you stay in seriphus for a day," he said, "because i would have you at a marriage feast. i have vowed that danae, taken from the temple where she sulks, will be my wife by to-morrow's sunset." so polydectes said, and the lords and princes who were around him mocked at perseus and flattered the king. perseus went from them then. the next day he came back to the palace. but in his hands now there was a dread thing--the bag made from the hide of the sea monster that had in it the gorgon's head. he saw his mother. she was brought in white and fainting, thinking that she would now have to wed the harsh and overbearing king. then she saw her son, and hope came into her face. the king seeing perseus, said: "step forward, o youngling, and see your mother wed to a mighty man. step forward to witness a marriage, and then depart, for it is not right that a youth that makes promises and does not keep them should stay in a land that i rule over. step forward now, you with the empty hands." but not with empty hands did perseus step forward. he shouted out: "i have brought something to you at last, o king--a present to you and your mocking friends. but you, o my mother, and you, o my friends, avert your faces from what i have brought." saying this perseus drew out the gorgon's head. holding it by the snaky locks he stood before the company. his mother and his friends averted their faces. but polydectes and his insolent friends looked full upon what perseus showed. "this youth would strive to frighten us with some conjuror's trick," they said. they said no more, for they became as stones, and as stone images they still stand in that hall in seriphus. he went to the shepherd's hut, and he brought dictys from it with andromeda. dictys he made king in polydectes's stead. then with danae and andromeda, his mother and his wife, he went from seriphus. he did not go to argos, the country that his grandfather had ruled over, although the people there wanted perseus to come to them, and be king over them. he took the kingdom of tiryns in exchange for that of argos, and there he lived with andromeda, his lovely wife out of ethopia. they had a son named perses who became the parent of the persian people. the sickle-sword that had slain the gorgon went back to hermes, and hermes took medusa's head also. that head hermes's divine sister set upon her shield-medusa's head upon the shield of pallas athene. o may pallas athene guard us all, and bring us out of this land of sands and stone where are the deadly serpents that have come from the drops of blood that fell from the gorgon's head! they turned away from the garden of the daughters of the evening land. the argonauts turned from where the giant shape of atlas stood against the sky and they went toward the tritonian lake. but not all of them reached the argo. on his way back to the ship, nauplius, the helmsman, met his death. a sluggish serpent was in his way--it was not a serpent that would strike at one who turned from it. nauplius trod upon it, and the serpent lifted its head up and bit his foot. they raised him on their shoulders and they hurried back with him. but his limbs became numb, and when they laid him down on the shore of the lake he stayed moveless. soon he grew cold. they dug a grave for nauplius beside the lake, and in that desert land they set up his helmsman's oar in the middle of his tomb of heaped stones. and now like a snake that goes writhing this way and that way and that cannot find the cleft in the rock that leads to its lair, the argo went hither and thither striving to find an outlet from that lake. no outlet could they find and the way of their home-going seemed lost to them again. then orpheus prayed to the son of nereus, to triton, whose name was on that lake, to aid them. then triton appeared. he stretched out his hand and showed them the outlet to the sea. and triton spoke in friendly wise to the heroes, bidding them go upon their way in joy. "and as for labor," he said, "let there be no grieving because of that, for limbs that have youthful vigor should still toil." they took up the oars and they pulled toward the sea, and triton, the friendly immortal, helped them on. he laid hold upon argo's keel and he guided her through the water. the argonauts saw him beneath the water; his body, from his head down to his waist, was fair and great and like to the body of one of the other immortals. but below his body was like a great fish's, forking this way and that. he moved with fins that were like the horns of the new moon. triton helped argo along until they came into the open sea. then he plunged down into the abyss. the heroes shouted their thanks to him. then they looked at each other and embraced each other with joy, for the sea that touched upon the land of greece was open before them. ix. near to iolcus again the sun sank; then that star came that bids the shepherd bring his flock to the fold, that brings the wearied plowman to his rest. but no rest did that star bring to the argonauts. the breeze that filled the sail died down; they furled the sail and lowered the mast; then, once again, they pulled at the oars. all night they rowed, and all day, and again when the next day came on. then they saw the island that is halfway to greece the great and fair island of crete. it was theseus who first saw crete--theseus who was to come to crete upon another ship. they drew the argo near the great island; they wanted water, and they were fain to rest there. minos, the great king, ruled over crete. he left the guarding of the island to one of the race of bronze, to talos, who had lived on after the rest of the bronze men had been destroyed. thrice a day would talos stride around the island; his brazen feet were tireless. now talos saw the argo drawing near. he took up great rocks and he hurled them at the heroes, and very quickly they had to draw their ship out of range. they were wearied and their thirst was consuming them. but still that bronze man stood there ready to sink their ship with the great rocks that he took up in his hands. medea stood forward upon the ship, ready to use her spells against the man of bronze. in body and limbs he was made of bronze and in these he was invulnerable. but beneath a sinew in his ankle there was a vein that ran up to his neck and that was covered by a thin skin. if that vein were broken talos would perish. medea did not know about this vein when she stood forward upon the ship to use her spells against him. upon a cliff of crete, all gleaming, stood that huge man of bronze. then, as she was ready to fling her spells against him, medea thought upon the words that arete, the wise queen, had given her that she was not to use spells and not to practice against the life of any one. but she knew that there was no impiety in using spells and practicing against talos, for zeus had already doomed all his race. she stood upon the ship, and with her magic song she enchanted him. he whirled round and round. he struck his ankle against a jutting stone. the vein broke, and that which was the blood of the bronze man flowed out of him like molten lead. he stood towering upon the cliff. like a pine upon a mountaintop that the woodman had left half hewn through and that a mighty wind pitches against, talos stood upon his tireless feet, swaying to and fro. then, emptied of all his strength, minos's man of bronze fell into the cretan sea. the heroes landed. that night they lay upon the land of crete and rested and refreshed themselves. when dawn came they drew water from a spring, and once more they went on board the argo. a day came when the helmsman said, "to-morrow we shall see the shore of thessaly, and by sunset we shall be in the harbor of pagasae. soon, o voyagers, we shall be back in the city from which we went to gain the golden fleece." then jason brought medea to the front of the ship so that they might watch together for thessaly, the homeland. the mountain pelion came into sight. jason exulted as he looked upon that mountain; again he told medea about chiron, the ancient centaur, and about the days of his youth in the forests of pelion. the argo went on; the sun sank, and darkness came on. never was there darkness such as there was on that night. they called that night afterward the pall of darkness. to the heroes upon the argo it seemed as if black chaos had come over the world again; they knew not whether they were adrift upon the sea or upon the river of hades. no star pierced the darkness nor no beam from the moon. after a night that seemed many nights the dawn came. in the sunrise they saw the land of thessaly with its mountain, its forests, and its fields. they hailed each other as if they had met after a long parting. they raised the mast and unfurled the sail. but not toward pagasae did they go. for now the voice of argo came to them, shaking their hearts: jason and orpheus, castor and polydeuces, zetes and calais, peleus and telamon, theseus, admetus, nestor, and atalanta, heard the cry of their ship. and the voice of argo warned them not to go into the harbor of pagasae. as they stood upon the ship, looking toward iolcus, sorrow came over all the heroes, such sorrow as made their hearts nearly break. for long they stood there in utter numbness. then admetus spoke--admetus who was the happiest of all those who went in quest of the golden fleece. "although we may not go into the harbor of pagasae, nor into the city of iolcus," admetus said, "still we have come to the land of greece. there are other harbors and other cities that we may go into. and in all the places that we go to we will be honored, for we have gone through toils and dangers, and we have brought to greece the famous fleece of gold." so admetus said, and their spirits came back again to the heroes--came back to all of them save jason. the rest had other cities to go to, and fathers and mothers and friends to greet them in other places, but for jason there was only iolcus. medea took his hand, and sorrow for him overcame her. for medea could divine what had happened in iolcus and why it was that the heroes might not go there. it was to corinth that the argo went. creon, the king of corinth, welcomed them and gave great honor to the heroes who had faced such labors and such dangers to bring the world's wonder to greece. the argonauts stayed together until they went to calydon, to hunt the boar that ravaged prince meleagrus's country. after that they separated, each one going to his own land. jason came back to corinth where medea stayed. and in corinth he had tidings of the happenings in iolcus. king pelias now ruled more fearfully in iolcus, having brought down from the mountains more and fiercer soldiers. and Æson, jason's father, and alcimide, his mother, were now dead, having been slain by king pelias. this jason heard from men who came into corinth from thessaly. and because of the great army that pelias had gathered there, jason might not yet go into iolcus, either to exact a vengeance, or to show the people the golden fleece that he had gone so far to gain. part iii. the heroes of the quest i. atalanta the huntress i they came once more together, the heroes of the quest, to hunt a boar in calydon--jason and peleus came, telamon, theseus, and rough arcas, nestor and helen's brothers polydeuces and castor. and, most noted of all, there came the arcadian huntress maid, atalanta. beautiful they all thought her when they knew her aboard the argo. but even more beautiful atalanta seemed to the heroes when she came amongst them in her hunting gear. her lovely hair hung in two bands across her shoulders, and over her breast hung an ivory quiver filled with arrows. they said that her face with its wide and steady eyes was maidenly for a boy's, and boyish for a maiden's face. swiftly she moved with her head held high, and there was not one amongst the heroes who did not say, "oh, happy would that man be whom atalanta the unwedded would take for her husband!" all the heroes said it, but the one who said it most feelingly was the prince of calydon, young meleagrus. he more than the other heroes felt the wonder of atalanta's beauty. now the boar they had come to hunt was a monster boar. it had come into calydon and it was laying waste the fields and orchards and destroying the people's cattle and horses. that boar had been sent into calydon by an angry divinity. for when oeneus, the king of the country, was making sacrifice to the gods in thanksgiving for a bounteous harvest, he had neglected to make sacrifice to the goddess of the wild things, artemis. in her anger artemis had sent the monster boar to lay waste oeneus's realm. it was a monster boar indeed--one as huge as a bull, with tusks as great as an elephant's; the bristles on its back stood up like spear points, and the hot breath of the creature withered the growth on the ground. the boar tore up the corn in the fields and trampled down the vines with their clusters and heavy bunches of grapes; also it rushed against the cattle and destroyed them in the fields. and no hounds the huntsmen were able to bring could stand before it. and so it came to pass that men had to leave their farms and take refuge behind the walls of the city because of the ravages of the boar. it was then that the rulers of calydon sent for the heroes of the quest to join with them in hunting the monster. calydon itself sent prince meleagrus and his two uncles, plexippus and toxeus. they were brothers to meleagrus's mother, althæa. now althæa was a woman who had sight to see mysterious things, but who had also a wayward and passionate heart. once, after her son meleagrus was born, she saw the three fates sitting by her hearth. they were spinning the threads of her son's life, and as they spun they sang to each other, "an equal span of life we give to the newborn child, and to the billet of wood that now rests above the blaze of the fire." hearing what the fates sang and understanding it althæa had sprung up from her bed, had seized the billet of wood, and had taken it out of the fire before the flames had burnt into it. that billet of wood lay in her chest, hidden away. and meleagrus nor any one else save althæa knew of it, nor knew that the prince's life would last only for the space it would be kept from the burning. on the day of the hunting he appeared as the strongest and bravest of the youths of calydon. and he knew not, poor meleagrus, that the love for atalanta that had sprung into his heart was to bring to the fire the billet of wood on which his life depended. ii as atalanta went, the bow in her hands, prince meleagrus pressed behind her. then came jason and peleus, telamon, theseus and nestor. behind them came meleagrus's dark-browed uncles, plexippus and toxeus. they came to a forest that covered the side of a mountain. huntsmen had assembled here with hounds held in leashes and with nets to hold the rushing quarry. and when they had all gathered together they went through the forest on the track of the monster boar. it was easy to track the boar, for it had left a broad trail through the forest. the heroes and the huntsmen pressed on. they came to a marshy covert where the boar had its lair. there was a thickness of osiers and willows and tall bullrushes, making a place that it was hard for the hunters to go through. they roused the boar with the blare of horns and it came rushing out. foam was on its tusks, and its eyes had in them the blaze of fire. on the boar came, breaking down the thicket in its rush. but the heroes stood steadily with the points of their spears toward the monster. the hounds were loosed from their leashes and they dashed toward the boar. the boar slashed them with its tusks and trampled them into the ground. jason flung his spear. the spear went wide of the mark. another, arcas, cast his, but the wood, not the point of the spear, struck the boar, rousing it further. then its eyes flamed, and like a great stone shot from a catapult the boar rushed on the huntsmen who were stationed to the right. in that rush it flung two youths prone upon the ground. then might nestor have missed his going to troy and his part in that story, for the boar swerved around and was upon him in an instant. using his spear as a leaping pole he vaulted upward and caught the branches of a tree as the monster dashed the spear down in its rush. in rage the beast tore at the trunk of the tree. the heroes might have been scattered at this moment, for telamon had fallen, tripped by the roots of a tree, and peleus had had to throw himself upon him to pull him out of the way of danger, if polydeuces and castor had not dashed up to their aid. they came riding upon high white horses, spears in their hands. the brothers cast their spears, but neither spear struck the monster boar. then the boar turned and was for drawing back into the thicket. they might have lost it then, for its retreat was impenetrable. but before it got clear away atalanta put an arrow to the string, drew the bow to her shoulder, and let the arrow fly. it struck the boar, and a patch of blood was seen upon its bristles. prince meleagrus shouted out, "o first to strike the monster! honor indeed shall you receive for this, arcadian maid." his uncles were made wroth by this speech, as was another, the arcadian, rough arcas. arcas dashed forward, holding in his hands a two-headed axe. "heroes and huntsmen," he cried, "you shall see how a man's strokes surpass a girl's." he faced the boar, standing on tiptoe with his axe raised for the stroke. meleagrus's uncles shouted to encourage him. but the boar's tusks tore him before arcas's axe fell, and the arcadian was trampled upon the ground. the boar, roused again by atalanta's arrow, turned on the hunters. jason hurled a spear again. it swerved and struck a hound and pinned it to the ground. then, speaking the name of atalanta, meleagrus sprang before the heroes and the huntsmen. he had two spears in his hands. the first missed and stuck quivering in the ground. but the second went right through the back of the monster boar. it whirled round and round, spouting out blood and foam. meleagrus pressed on, and drove his hunting knife through the shoulders of the monster. his uncles, plexippus and toxeus, were the first to come to where the monster boar was lying outstretched. "it is well, the deed you have done, boy," said one; "it is well that none of the strangers to our country slew the boar. now will the head and tusks of the monster adorn our hall, and men will know that the arms of our house can well protect this land." but one word only did meleagrus say, and that word was the name, "atalanta." the maiden came and meleagrus, his spear upon the head, said, "take, o fair arcadian, the spoil of the chase. all know that it was you who inflicted the first wound upon the boar." plexippus and toxeus tried to push him away, as if meleagrus was still a boy under their tutoring. he shouted to them to stand off, and then he hacked out the terrible tusks and held them toward atalanta. she would have taken them, for she, who had never looked lovingly upon a youth, was moved by the beauty and the generosity of prince meleagrus. she would have taken from him the spoil of the chase. but as she held out her arms meleagrus's uncles struck them with the poles of their spears. heavy marks were made on the maiden's white arms. madness then possessed meleagrus, and he took up his spear and thrust it, first into the body of plexippus and then into the body of toxeus. his thrusts were terrible, for he was filled with the fierceness of the hunt, and his uncles fell down in death. then a great horror came over all the heroes. they raised up the bodies of plexippus and toxeus and carried them on their spears away from the place of the hunting and toward the temple of the gods. meleagrus crouched down upon the ground in horror of what he had done. atalanta stood beside him, her hand upon his head. iii althæa was in the temple making sacrifice to the gods. she saw men come in carrying across their spears the bodies of two men. she looked and she saw that the dead men were her two brothers, plexippus and toxeus. then she beat her breast and she filled the temple with the cries of her lamentation. "who has slain my brothers? who has slain my brothers?" she kept crying out. then she was told that her son meleagrus had slain her brothers. she had no tears to shed then, and in a hard voice she asked, "why did my son slay plexippus and toxeus, his uncles?" the one who was wroth with atalanta, arcas the arcadian, came to her and told her that her brothers had been slain because of a quarrel about the girl atalanta. "my brothers have been slain because a girl bewitched my son; then accursed be that son of mine," althæa cried. she took off the gold-fringed robe of a priestess, and she put on a black robe of mourning. her brothers, the only sons of her father, had been slain, and for the sake of a girl. the image of atalanta came before her, and she felt she could punish dreadfully her son. but her son was not there to punish; he was far away, and the girl for whose sake he had killed plexippus and toxeus was with him. the rage she had went back into her heart and made her truly mad. "i gave meleagrus life when i might have let it go from him with the burning billet of wood," she cried, "and now he has taken the lives of my brothers." and then her thought went to the billet of wood that was hidden in the chest. back to her house she went, and when she went within she saw a fire of pine knots burning upon the hearth. as she looked upon their burning a scorching pain went through her. but she went from the hearth, nevertheless, and into the inner room. there stood the chest that she had not opened for years. she opened it now, and out of it she took the billet of wood that had on it the mark of the burning. she brought it to the hearth fire. four times she went to throw it into the fire, and four times she stayed her hand. the fire was before her, but it was in her too. she saw the images of her brothers lying dead, and, saying that he who had slain them should lose his life, she threw the billet of wood into the fire of pine knots. straightway it caught fire and began to burn. and althæa cried, "let him die, my son, and let naught remain; let all perish with my brothers, even the kingdom that oeneus, my husband, founded." then she turned away and remained stiffly standing by the hearth, the life withered up within her. her daughters came and tried to draw her away, but they could not--her two daughters, gorge and deianira. meleagrus was crouching upon the ground with atalanta watching beside him. now he stood up, and taking her hand he said, "let me go with you to the temple of the gods where i shall strive to make atonement for the deed i have done to-day." she went with him. but even as they came to the street of the city a sharp and a burning pain seized upon meleagrus. more and more burning it grew, and weaker and weaker he became. he could not have moved further if it had not been for the aid of atalanta. jason and peleus lifted him across the threshold and carried him into the temple of the gods. they laid him down with his head upon atalanta's lap. the pain within him grew fiercer and fiercer, but at last it died down as the burning billet of wood sank down into the ashes. the heroes of the quest stood around, all overcome with woe. in the street they heard the lamentations for plexippus and toxeus, for prince meleagrus, and for the passing of the kingdom founded by oeneus. atalanta left the temple, and attended by the two brothers on the white horses, polydeuces and castor, she went back to arcady. ii. peleus and his bride from the sea i prince peleus came on his ship to a bay on the coast of thessaly. his painted ship lay between two great rocks, and from its poop he saw a sight that enchanted him. out from the sea, riding on a dolphin, came a lovely maiden. and by the radiance of her face and limbs peleus knew her for one of the immortal goddesses. now peleus had borne himself so nobly in all things that he had won the favor of the gods themselves. zeus, who is highest amongst the gods, had made this promise to peleus he would honor him as no one amongst the sons of men had been honored before, for he would give him an immortal goddess to be his bride. she who came out of the sea went into a cave that was overgrown with vines and roses. peleus looked into the cave and he saw her sleeping upon skins of the beasts of the sea. his heart was enchanted by the sight, and he knew that his life would be broken if he did not see this goddess day after day. so he went back to his ship and he prayed: "o zeus, now i claim the promise that you once made to me. let it be that this goddess come with me, or else plunge my ship and me beneath the waves of the sea." and when peleus said this he looked over the land and the water for a sign from zeus. even then the goddess sleeping in the cave had dreams such as had never before entered that peaceful resting place of hers. she dreamt that she was drawn away from the deep and the wide sea. she dreamt that she was brought to a place that was strange and unfree to her. and as she lay in the cave, sleeping, tears that might never come into the eyes of an immortal lay around her heart. but peleus, standing on his painted ship, saw a rainbow touch upon the sea. he knew by that sign that iris, the messenger of zeus, had come down through the air. then a strange sight came before his eyes. out of the sea rose the head of a man; wrinkled and bearded it was, and the eyes were very old. peleus knew that he who was there before him was nereus, the ancient one of the sea. said old nereus: "thou hast prayed to zeus, and i am here to speak an answer to thy prayer. she whom you have looked upon is thetis, the goddess of the sea. very loath will she be to take zeus's command and wed with thee. it is her desire to remain in the sea, unwedded, and she has refused marriage even with one of the immortal gods." then said peleus, "zeus promised me an immortal bride. if thetis may not be mine i cannot wed any other, goddess or mortal maiden." "then thou thyself wilt have to master thetis," said nereus, the wise one of the sea. "if she is mastered by thee, she cannot go back to the sea. she will strive with all her strength and all her wit to escape from thee; but thou must hold her no matter what she does, and no matter how she shows herself. when thou hast seen her again as thou didst see her at first, thou wilt know that thou hast mastered her." and when he had said this to peleus, nereus, the ancient one of the sea, went under the waves. ii with his hero's heart beating more than ever it had beaten yet, peleus went into the cave. kneeling beside her he looked down upon the goddess. the dress she wore was like green and silver mail. her face and limbs were pearly, but through them came the radiance that belongs to the immortals. he touched the hair of the goddess of the sea, the yellow hair that was so long that it might cover her all over. as he touched her hair she started up, wakening suddenly out of her sleep. his hands touched her hands and held them. now he knew that if he should loose his hold upon her she would escape from him into the depths of the sea, and that thereafter no command from the immortals would bring her to him. she changed into a white bird that strove to bear itself away. peleus held to its wings and struggled with the bird. she changed and became a tree. around the trunk of the tree peleus clung. she changed once more, and this time her form became terrible: a spotted leopard she was now, with burning eyes; but peleus held to the neck of the fierce-appearing leopard and was not affrighted by the burning eyes. then she changed and became as he had seen her first--a lovely maiden, with the brow of a goddess, and with long yellow hair. but now there was no radiance in her face or in her limbs. she looked past peleus, who held her, and out to the wide sea. "who is he," she cried, "who has been given this mastery over me?" then said the hero: "i am peleus, and zeus has given me the mastery over thee. wilt thou come with me, thetis? thou art my bride, given me by him who is highest amongst the gods, and if thou wilt come with me, thou wilt always be loved and reverenced by me." "unwillingly i leave the sea," she cried, "unwillingly i go with thee, peleus." but life in the sea was not for her any more now that she was mastered. she went to peleus's ship and she went to phthia, his country. and when the hero and the sea goddess were wedded the immortal gods and goddesses came to their hall and brought the bride and the bridegroom wondrous gifts. the three sisters who are called the fates came also. these wise and ancient women said that the son born of the marriage of peleus and thetis would be a man greater than peleus himself. iii now although a son was born to her, and although this son had something of the radiance of the immortals about him, thetis remained forlorn and estranged. nothing that her husband did was pleasing to her. prince peleus was in fear that the wildness of the sea would break out in her, and that some great harm would be wrought in his house. one night he wakened suddenly. he saw the fire upon his hearth and he saw a figure standing by the fire. it was thetis, his wife. the fire was blazing around something that she held in her hands. and while she stood there she was singing to herself a strange-sounding song. and then he saw what thetis held in her hands and what the fire was blazing around; it was the child, achilles. prince peleus sprang from the bed and caught thetis around the waist and lifted her and the child away from the blazing fire. he put them both upon the bed, and he took from her the child that she held by the heel. his heart was wild within him, for the thought that wildness had come over his wife, and that she was bent upon destroying their child. but thetis looked on him from under those goddess brows of hers and she said to him: "by the divine power that i still possess i would have made the child invulnerable; but the heel by which i held him has not been endued by the fire and in that place some day he may be stricken. all that the fire covered is invulnerable, and no weapon that strikes there can destroy his life. his heel i cannot now make invulnerable, for now the divine power is gone out of me." when she said this thetis looked full upon her husband, and never had she seemed so unforgiving as she was then. all the divine radiance that had remained with her was gone from her now, and she seemed a white-faced and bitter-thinking woman. and when peleus saw that such a great bitterness faced him he fled from his house. he traveled far from his own land, and first he went to the help of heracles, who was then in the midst of his mighty labors. heracles was building a wall around a city. peleus labored, helping him to raise the wall for king laomedon. then, one night, as he walked by the wall he had helped to build, he heard voices speaking out of the earth. and one voice said: "why has peleus striven so hard to raise a wall that his son shall fight hard to overthrow?" no voice replied. the wall was built, and peleus departed. the city around which the wall was built was the great city of troy. in whatever place he went peleus was followed by the hatred of the people of the sea, and above all by the hatred of the nymph who is called psamathe. far, far from his own country he went, and at last he came to a country of bright valleys that was ruled over by a kindly king--by ceyx, who was called the son of the morning star. bright of face and kindly and peaceable in all his ways was this king, and kindly and peaceable was the land that he ruled over. and when prince peleus went to him to beg for his protection, and to beg for unfurrowed fields where he might graze his cattle, ceyx raised him up from where he knelt. "peaceable and plentiful is the land," he said, "and all who come here may have peace and a chance to earn their food. live where you will, o stranger, and take the unfurrowed fields by the seashore for pasture for your cattle." peace came into peleus's heart as he looked into the untroubled face of ceyx, and as he looked over the bright valleys of the land he had come into. he brought his cattle to the unfurrowed fields by the seashore and he left herdsmen there to tend them. and as he walked along these bright valleys he thought upon his wife and upon his son achilles, and there were gentle feelings in his breast. but then he thought upon the enmity of psamathe, the woman of the sea, and great trouble came over him again. he felt he could not stay in the palace of the kindly king. he went where his herdsmen camped and he lived with them. but the sea was very near and its sound tormented him, and as the days went by, peleus, wild looking and shaggy, became more and more unlike the hero whom once the gods themselves had honored. one day as he was standing near the palace having speech with the king, a herdsman ran to him and cried out: "peleus, peleus, a dread thing has happened in the unfurrowed fields." and when he had got his breath the herdsman told of the thing that had happened. they had brought the herd down to the sea. suddenly, from the marshes where the sea and land came together, a monstrous beast rushed out upon the herd; like a wolf this beast was, but with mouth and jaws that were more terrible than a wolf's even. the beast seized upon the cattle. yet it was not hunger that made it fierce, for the beasts that it killed it tore, but did not devour. tit rushed on and on, killing and tearing more and more of the herd. "soon," said the herdsman, "it will have destroyed all in the herd, and then it will not spare to destroy the other flocks and herds that are in the land." peleus was stricken to hear that his herd was being destroyed, but more stricken to know that the land of a friendly king would be ravaged, and ravaged on his account. for he knew that the terrible beast that had come from where the sea and the land joined had been sent by psamathe. he went up on the tower that stood near the king's palace. he was able to look out on the sea and able to look over all the land. and looking across the bright valleys he saw the dread beast. he saw it rush through his own mangled cattle and fall upon the herds of the kindly king. he looked toward the sea and he prayed to psamathe to spare the land that he had come to. but, even as he prayed, he knew that psamathe would not harken to him. then he made a prayer to thetis, to his wife who had seemed so unforgiving. he prayed her to deal with psamathe so that the land of ceyx would not be altogether destroyed. as he looked from the tower he saw the king come forth with arms in his hands for the slaying of the terrible beast. peleus felt fear for the life of the kindly king. down from the tower he came, and taking up his spear he went with ceyx. soon, in one of the brightest of the valleys, they came upon the beast; they came between it and a herd of silken-coated cattle. seeing the men it rushed toward them with blood and foam upon its jaws. then peleus knew that the spears they carried would be of little use against the raging beast. his only thought was to struggle with it so that the king might be able to save himself. again he lifted up his hands and prayed to thetis to draw away psamathe's enmity. the beast rushed toward them; but suddenly it stopped. the bristles upon its body seemed to stiffen. the gaping jaws became fixed. the hounds that were with them dashed upon the beast, but then fell back with yelps of disappointment. and when peleus and ceyx came to where it stood they found that the monstrous beast had been turned into stone. and a stone it remains in that bright valley, a wonder to all the men of ceyx's land. the country was spared the ravages of the beast. and the heart of peleus was uplifted to think that thetis had harkened to his prayer and had prevailed upon psamathe to forego her enmity. not altogether unforgiving was his wife to him. that day he went from the land of the bright valleys, from the land ruled over by the kindly ceyx, and he came back to rugged phthia, his own country. when he came near his hall he saw two at the doorway awaiting him. thetis stood there, and the child achilles was by her side. the radiance of the immortals was in her face no longer, but there was a glow there, a glow of welcome for the hero peleus. and thus peleus, long tormented by the enmity of the sea-born ones, came back to the wife he had won from the sea. iii. theseus and the minotaur i thereafter theseus made up his mind to go in search of his father, the unknown king, and medea, the wise woman, counseled him to go to athens. after the hunt in calydon he set forth. on his way he fought with and slew two robbers who harassed countries and treated people unjustly. the first was sinnias. he was a robber who slew men cruelly by tying them to strong branches of trees and letting the branches fly apart. on him theseus had no mercy. the second was a robber also, procrustes: he had a great iron bed on which he made his captives lie; if they were too long for that bed he chopped pieces off them, and if they were too short he stretched out their bodies with terrible racks. on him, likewise, theseus had no mercy; he slew procrustes and gave liberty to his captives. the king of athens at the time was named Ægeus. he was father of theseus, but neither theseus nor he knew that this was so. aethra was his mother, and she was the daughter of the king of troezen. before theseus was born his father left a great sword under a stone, telling aethra that the boy was to have the sword when he was able to move that stone away. king Ægeus was old and fearful now: there were wars and troubles in the city; besides, there was in his palace an evil woman, a witch, to whom the king listened. this woman heard that a proud and fearless young man had come into athens, and she at once thought to destroy him. so the witch spoke to the fearful king, and she made him believe that this stranger had come into athens to make league with his enemies and destroy him. such was her power over Ægeus that she was able to persuade him to invite the stranger youth to a feast in the palace, and to give him a cup that would have poison in it. theseus came to the palace. he sat down to the banquet with the king. but before the cup was brought something moved him to stand up and draw forth the sword that he carried. fearfully the king looked upon the sword. then he saw the heavy ivory hilt with the curious carving on it, and he knew that this was the sword that he had once laid under the stone near the palace of the king of troezen. he questioned theseus as to how he had come by the sword, and theseus told him how aethra his mother, had shown him where it was hidden, and how he had been able to take it from under the stone before he was grown a youth. more and more Ægeus questioned him, and he came to know that the youth before him was his son indeed. he dashed down the cup that had been brought to the table, and he shook all over with the thought of how near he had been to a terrible crime. the witch-woman watched all that passed; mounting on a car drawn by dragons she made flight from athens. and now the people of the city, knowing that it was he who had slain the robbers sinnias and procrustes, rejoiced to have theseus amongst them. when he appeared as their prince they rejoiced still more. soon he was able to bring to an end the wars in the city and the troubles that afflicted athens. ii the greatest king in the world at that time was minos, king of crete. minos had sent his son to athens to make peace and friendship between his kingdom and the kingdom of king Ægeus. but the people of athens slew the son of king minos, and because Ægeus had not given him the protection that a king should have given a stranger come upon such an errand he was deemed to have some part in the guilt of his slaying. minos, the great king, was wroth, and he made war on athens, wreaking great destruction upon the country and the people. moreover, the gods themselves were wroth with athens; they punished the people with famine, making even the rivers dry up. the athenians went to the oracle and asked apollo what they should do to have their guilt taken away. apollo made answer that they should make peace with minos and fulfill all his demands. all this theseus now heard, learning for the first time that behind the wars and troubles in athens there was a deed of evil that Ægeus, his father, had some guilt in. the demands that king minos made upon athens were terrible. he demanded that the athenians should send into crete every year seven youths and seven maidens as a price for the life of his son. and these youths and maidens were not to meet death merely, nor were they to be reared in slavery they were to be sent that a monster called the minotaur might devour them. youths and maidens had been sent, and for the third time the messengers of king minos were coming to athens. the tribute for the minotaur was to be chosen by lot. the fathers and mothers were in fear and trembling, for each man and woman thought that his or her son or daughter would be taken for a prey for the minotaur. they came together, the people of athens, and they drew the lots fearfully. and on the throne above them all sat their pale-faced king, Ægeus, the father of theseus. before the first lot was drawn theseus turned to all of them and said, "people of athens, it is not right that your children should go and that i, who am the son of king Ægeus, should remain behind. surely, if any of the youths of athens should face the dread monster of crete, i should face it. there is one lot that you may leave undrawn. i will go to crete." his father, on hearing the speech of theseus, came down from his throne and pleaded with him, begging him not to go. but the will of theseus was set; he would go with the others and face the minotaur. and he reminded his father of how the people had complained, saying that if Ægeus had done the duty of a king, minos's son would not have been slain and the tribute to the minotaur would have not been demanded. it was the passing about of such complaints that had led to the war and troubles that theseus found on his coming to athens. also theseus told his father and told the people that he had hope in his hands--that the hands that were strong enough to slay sinnias and procrustes, the giant robbers, would be strong enough to slay the dread monster of crete. his father at last consented to his going. and theseus was able to make the people willing to believe that he would be able to overcome the minotaur, and so put an end to the terrible tribute that was being exacted from them. with six other youths and seven maidens theseus went on board of the ship that every year brought to crete the grievous tribute. this ship always sailed with black sails. but before it sailed this time king Ægeus gave to nausitheus, the master of the ship, a white sail to take with him. and he begged theseus, that in case he should be able to overcome the monster, to hoist the white sail he had given. theseus promised he would do this. his father would watch for the return of the ship, and if the sail were black he would know that the minotaur had dealt with his son as it had dealt with the other youths who had gone from athens. and if the sail were white Ægeus would have indeed cause to rejoice. iii and now the black-sailed ship had come to crete, and the youths and maidens of athens looked from its deck on knossos, the marvelous city that daedalus the builder had built for king minos. and they saw the palace of the king, the red and black palace in which was the labyrinth, made also by daedalus, where the dread minotaur was hidden. in fear they looked upon the city and the palace. but not in fear did theseus look, but in wonder at the magnificence of it all--the harbor with its great steps leading up into the city, the far-spreading palace all red and black, and the crowds of ships with their white and red sails. they were brought through the city of knossos to the palace of the king. and there theseus looked upon minos. in a great red chamber on which was painted the sign of the axe, king minos sat. on a low throne he sat, holding in his hand a scepter on which a bird was perched. not in fear, but steadily, did theseus look upon the king. and he saw that minos had the face of one who has thought long upon troublesome things, and that his eyes were strangely dark and deep. the king noted that the eyes of theseus were upon him, and he made a sign with his head to an attendant and the attendant laid his hand upon him and brought theseus to stand beside the king. minos questioned him as to who he was and what lands he had been in, and when he learned that theseus was the son of Ægeus, the king of athens, he said the name of his son who had been slain, "androgeus, androgeus," over and over again, and then spoke no more. while he stood there beside the king there came into the chamber three maidens; one of them, theseus knew, was the daughter of minos. not like the maidens of greece were the princess and her two attendants: instead of having on flowing garments and sandals and wearing their hair bound, they had on dresses of gleaming material that were tight at the waists and bell-shaped; the hair that streamed on their shoulders was made wavy; they had on high shoes of a substance that shone like glass. never had theseus looked upon maidens who were so strange. they spoke to the king in the strange cretan language; then minos's daughter made reverence to her father, and they went from the chamber. theseus watched them as they went through a long passage, walking slowly on their high-heeled shoes. through the same passage the youths and maidens of athens were afterward brought. they came into a great hall. the walls were red and on them were paintings in black--pictures of great bulls with girls and slender youths struggling with them. it was a place for games and shows, and theseus stood with the youths and maidens of athens and with the people of the palace and watched what was happening. they saw women charming snakes; then they saw a boxing match, and afterward they all looked on a bout of wrestling. theseus looked past the wrestlers and he saw, at the other end of the hall, the daughter of king minos and her two attendant maidens. one broad-shouldered and bearded man--overthrew all the wrestlers who came to grips with him. he stood there boastfully, and theseus was made angry by the man's arrogance. then, when no other wrestler would come against him, he turned to leave the arena. but theseus stood in his way and pushed him back. the boastful man laid hands upon him and pulled him into the arena. he strove to throw theseus as he had thrown the others; but he soon found that the youth from greece was a wrestler, too, and that he would have to strive hard to overthrow him. more eagerly than they had watched anything else the people of the palace and the youths and maidens of athens watched the bout between theseus and the lordly wrestler. those from athens who looked upon him now thought that they had never seen theseus look so tall and so conquering before; beside the slender, dark-haired people of crete he looked like a statue of one of the gods. very adroit was the cretan wrestler, and theseus had to use all his strength to keep upon his feet; but soon he mastered the tricks that the wrestler was using against him. then the cretan left aside his tricks and began to use all his strength to throw theseus. steadily theseus stood and the cretan wrestler was spent and gasping in the effort to throw him. then theseus made him feel his grip. he bent him backward, and then, using all his strength suddenly, forced him to the ground. all were filled with wonder at the strength and power of this youth from overseas. food and wine were given the youths and maidens of athens, and they with theseus were let wander through the grounds of the palace. but they could make no escape, for guards followed them and the way to the ships was filled with strangers who would not let them pass. they talked to each other about the minotaur, and there was fear in every word they said. but theseus went from one to the other, telling them that perhaps there was a way by which he could come to the monster and destroy it. and the youths and maidens, remembering how he had overthrown the lordly wrestler, were comforted a little, thinking that theseus might indeed be able to destroy the minotaur and so save all of them. iv theseus was awakened by some one touching him. he arose and he saw a dark-faced servant, who beckoned to him. he left the little chamber where he had been sleeping, and then he saw outside one who wore the strange dress of the cretans. when theseus looked full upon her he saw that she was none other than the daughter of king minos. "i am ariadne," she said, "and, o youth from greece, i have come to save you from the dread minotaur." he looked upon ariadne's strange face with its long, dark eyes, and he wondered how this girl could think that she could save him and save the youths and maidens of athens from the minotaur. her hand rested upon his arm, and she led him into the chamber where minos had sat. it was lighted now by many little lamps. "i will show the way of escape to you," said ariadne. then theseus looked around, and he saw that none of the other youths and maidens were near them, and he looked on ariadne again, and he saw that the strange princess had been won to help him, and to help him only. "who will show the way of escape to the others?" asked theseus. "ah," said the princess ariadne, "for the others there is no way of escape." "then," said theseus, "i will not leave the youths and maidens of athens who came with me to crete to be devoured by the minotaur." "ah, theseus," said ariadne, "they cannot escape the minotaur. one only may escape, and i want you to be that one. i saw you when you wrestled with deucalion, our great wrestler, and since then i have longed to save you." "i have come to slay the minotaur," said theseus, "and i cannot hold my life as my own until i have slain it." said ariadne, "if you could see the minotaur, theseus, and if you could measure its power, you would know that you are not the one to slay it. i think that only talos, that giant who was all of bronze, could have slain the minotaur." "princess," said theseus, "can you help me to come to the minotaur and look upon it so that i can know for certainty whether this hand of mine can slay the monster?" "i can help you to come to the minotaur and look upon it," said ariadne. "then help me, princess," cried theseus; "help me to come to the minotaur and look upon it, and help me, too, to get back the sword that i brought with me to crete." "your sword will not avail you against the minotaur," said ariadne; "when you look upon the monster you will know that it is not for your hand to slay." "oh, but bring me my sword, princess," cried theseus, and his hands went out to her in supplication. "i will bring you your sword," said she. she took up a little lamp and went through a doorway, leaving theseus standing by the low throne in the chamber of minos. then after a little while she came back, bringing with her theseus's great ivory-hilted sword. "it is a great sword," she said; "i marked it before because it is your sword, theseus. but even this great sword will not avail against the minotaur." "show me the way to come to the minotaur, o ariadne," cried theseus. he knew that she did not think that he would deem himself able to strive with the minotaur, and that when he looked upon the dread monster he would return to her and then take the way of his escape. she took his hand and led him from the chamber of minos. she was not tall, but she stood straight and walked steadily, and theseus saw in her something of the strange majesty that he had seen in minos the king. they came to high bronze gates that opened into a vault. "here," said ariadne, "the labyrinth begins. very devious is the labyrinth, built by daedalus, in which the minotaur is hidden, and without the clue none could find a way through the passages. but i will give you the clue so that you may look upon the minotaur and then come back to me. theseus, now i put into your hand the thread that will guide you through all the windings of the labyrinth. and outside the place where the minotaur is you will find another thread to guide you back." a cone was on the ground and it had a thread fastened to it. ariadne gave theseus the thread and the cone to wind it around. the thread as he held it and wound it around the cone would bring him through all the windings and turnings of the labyrinth. she left him, and theseus went on. winding the thread around the cone he went along a wide passage in the vault. he turned and came into a passage that was very long. he came to a place in this passage where a door seemed to be, but within the frame of the doorway there was only a blank wall. but below that doorway there was a flight of six steps, and down these steps the thread led him. on he went, and he crossed the marks that he himself had made in the dust, and he thought he must have come back to the place where he had parted from ariadne. he went on, and he saw before him a flight of steps. the thread did not lead up the steps; it led into the most winding of passages. so sudden were the turnings in it that one could not see three steps before one. he was dazed by the turnings of this passage, but still he went on. he went up winding steps and then along a narrow wall. the wall overhung a broad flight of steps, and theseus had to jump to them. down the steps he went and into a wide, empty hall that had doorways to the right hand and to the left hand. here the thread had its end. it was fastened to a cone that lay on the ground, and beside this cone was another--the clue that was to bring him back. now theseus, knowing he was in the very center of the labyrinth, looked all around for sight of the minotaur. there was no sight of the monster here. he went to all the doors and pushed at them, and some opened and some remained fast. the middle door opened. as it did theseus felt around him a chilling draft of air. that chilling draft was from the breathing of the monster. theseus then saw the minotaur. it lay on the ground, a strange, bull-faced thing. when the thought came to theseus that he would have to fight that monster alone and in that hidden and empty place all delight left him; he grew like a stone; he groaned, and it seemed to him that he heard the voice of ariadne calling him back. he could find his way back through the labyrinth and come to her. he stepped back, and the door closed on the minotaur, the dread monster of crete. in an instant theseus pushed the door again. he stood within the hall where the minotaur was, and the heavy door shut behind him. he looked again on that dark, bull-faced thing. it reared up as a horse rears and theseus saw that it would crash down on him and tear him with its dragon claws. with a great bound he went far away from where the monster crashed down. then theseus faced it: he saw its thick lips and its slobbering mouth; he saw that its skin was thick and hard. he drew near the monster, his sword in his hand. he struck at its eyes, and his sword made a great dint. but no blood came, for the minotaur was a bloodless monster. from its mouth and nostrils came a draft that covered him with a chilling slime. then it rushed upon him and overthrew him, and theseus felt its terrible weight upon him. but he thrust his sword upward, and it reared up again, screaming with pain. theseus drew himself away, and then he saw it searching around and around, and he knew he had made it sightless. then it faced him; all the more fearful it was because from its wounds no blood came. anger flowed into theseus when he saw the monster standing frightfully before him; he thought of all the youths and maidens that this bloodless thing had destroyed, and all the youths and maidens that it would destroy if he did not slay it now. angrily he rushed upon it with his great sword. it clawed and tore him, and it opened wide its most evil mouth as if to draw him into it. but again he sprang at it; he thrust his great sword through its neck, and he left his sword there. with the last of his strength he pulled open the heavy door and he went out from the hall where the minotaur was. he picked up the thread and he began to wind it as he had wound the other thread on his way down. on he went, through passage after passage, through chamber after chamber. his mind was dizzy, and he had little thought for the way he was going. his wounds and the chill that the monster had breathed into him and his horror of the fearful and bloodless thing made his mind almost forsake him. he kept the thread in his hand and he wound it as he went on through the labyrinth. he stumbled and the thread broke. he went on for a few steps and then he went back to find the thread that had fallen out of his hands. in an instant he was in a part of the labyrinth that he had not been in before. he walked a long way, and then he came on his own footmarks as they crossed themselves in the dust. he pushed open a door and came into the air. he was now by the outside wall of the palace, and he saw birds flying by him. he leant against the wall of the palace, thinking that he would strive no more to find his way through the labyrinth. v that day the youths and maidens of athens were brought through the labyrinth and to the hall where the minotaur was. they went through the passages weeping and lamenting. some cried out for theseus, and some said that theseus had deserted them. the heavy door was opened. then those who were with the youths and maidens saw the minotaur lying stark and stiff with theseus's sword through its neck. they shouted and blew trumpets and the noise of their trumpets filled the labyrinth. then they turned back, bringing the youths and maidens with them, and a whisper went through the whole palace that the minotaur had been slain. the youths and maidens were lodged in the chamber where minos gave his judgments. vi theseus, wearied and overcome, fell into a deep sleep by the wall of the palace. he awakened with a feeling that the claw of the minotaur was upon him. there were stars in the sky above the high palace wall, and he saw a dark-robed and ancient man standing beside him. theseus knew that this was daedalus, the builder of the palace and the labyrinth. daedalus called and a slim youth came icarus, the son of daedalus. minos had set father and son apart from the rest of the palace, and theseus had come near the place where they were confined. icarus came and brought him to a winding stairway and showed him a way to go. a dark-faced servant met and looked him full in the face. then, as if he knew that theseus was the one whom he had been searching for, he led him into a little chamber where there were three maidens. one started up and came to him quickly, and theseus again saw ariadne. she hid him in the chamber of the palace where her singing birds were, and she would come and sit beside him, asking about his own country and telling him that she would go with him there. "i showed you how you might come to the minotaur," she said, "and you went there and you slew the monster, and now i may not stay in my father's palace." and theseus thought all the time of his return, and of how he might bring the youths and maidens of athens back to their own people. for ariadne, that strange princess, was not dear to him as medea was dear to jason, or atalanta the huntress to young meleagrus. one sunset she led him to a roof of the palace and she showed him the harbor with the ships, and she showed him the ship with the black sail that had brought him to knossos. she told him she would take him aboard that ship, and that the youths and maidens of athens could go with them. she would bring to the master of the ship the seal of king minos, and the master, seeing it, would set sail for whatever place theseus desired to go. then did she become dear to theseus because of her great kindness, and he kissed her eyes and swore that he would not go from the palace unless she would come with him to his own country. the strange princess smiled and wept as if she doubted what he said. nevertheless, she led him from the roof and down into one of the palace gardens. he waited there, and the youths and maidens of athens were led into the garden, all wearing cloaks that hid their forms and faces. young icarus led them from the grounds of the palace and down to the ships. and ariadne went with them, bringing with her the seal of her father, king minos. and when they came on board of the black-sailed ship they showed the seal to the master, nausitheus, and the master of the ship let the sail take the breeze of the evening, and so theseus went away from crete. vii to the island of naxos they sailed. and when they reached that place the master of the ship, thinking that what had been done was not in accordance with the will of king minos, stayed the ship there. he waited until other ships came from knossos. and when they came they brought word that minos would not slay nor demand back theseus nor the youths and maidens of athens. his daughter, ariadne, he would have back, to reign with him over crete. then ariadne left the black-sailed ship, and went back to crete from naxos. theseus let the princess go, although he might have struggled to hold her. but more strange than dear did ariadne remain to theseus. and all this time his father, Ægeus, stayed on the tower of his palace, watching for the return of the ship that had sailed for knossos. the life of the king wasted since the departure of theseus, and now it was but a thread. every day he watched for the return of the ship, hoping against hope that theseus would return alive to him. then a ship came into the harbor. it had black sails. Ægeus did not know that theseus was aboard of it, and that theseus in the hurry of his flight and in the sadness of his parting from ariadne had not thought of taking out the white sail that his father had given to nausitheus. joyously theseus sailed into the harbor, having slain the minotaur and lifted for ever the tribute put upon athens. joyously he sailed into the harbor, bringing back to their parents the youths and maidens of athens. but the king, his father, saw the black sails on his ship, and straightway the thread of his life broke, and he died on the roof of the tower which he had built to look out on the sea. theseus landed on the shore of his own country. he had the ship drawn up on the beach and he made sacrifices of thanksgiving to the gods. then he sent messengers to the city to announce his return. they went toward the city, these joyful messengers, but when they came to the gate they heard the sounds of mourning and lamentation. the mourning and the lamentation were for the death of the king, theseus's father. they hurried back and they came to theseus where he stood on the beach. they brought a wreath of victory for him, but as they put it into his hand they told him of the death of his father. then theseus left the wreath on the ground, and he wept for the death of Ægeus--of Ægeus, the hero, who had left the sword under the stone for him before he was born. the men and women who came to the beach wept and laughed as they clasped in their arms the children brought back to them. and theseus stood there, silent and bowed; the memory of his last moments with his father, of his fight with the minotaur, of his parting with ariadne--all flowed back upon him. he stood there with head bowed, the man who might not put upon his brows the wreath of victory that had been brought to him. viii there had come into the city a youth of great valor whose name was peirithous: from a far country he had come, filled with a desire of meeting theseus, whose fame had come to him. the youth was in athens at the time theseus returned. he went down to the beach with the townsfolk, and he saw theseus standing alone with his head bowed down. he went to him and he spoke, and theseus lifted his head and he saw before him a young man of strength and beauty. he looked upon him, and the thought of high deeds came into his mind again. he wanted this young man to be his comrade in dangers and upon quests. and peirithous looked upon theseus, and he felt that he was greater and nobler than he had thought. they became friends and sworn brothers, and together they went into far countries. now there was in epirus a savage king who had a very fair daughter. he had named this daughter persephone, naming her thus to show that she was held as fast by him as that other persephone was held who ruled in the underworld. no man might see her, and no man might wed her. but peirithous had seen the daughter of this king, and he desired above all things to take her from her father and make her his wife. he begged theseus to help him enter that king's palace and carry off the maiden. so they came to epirus, theseus and peirithous, and they entered the king's palace, and they heard the bay of the dread hound that was there to let no one out who had once come within the walls. suddenly the guards of the savage king came upon them, and they took theseus and peirithous and they dragged them down into dark dungeons. two great chairs of stone were there, and theseus and peirithous were left seated in them. and the magic powers that were in the chairs of stone were such that the heroes could not lift themselves out of them. there they stayed, held in the great stone chairs in the dungeons of that savage king. then it so happened that heracles came into the palace of the king. the harsh king feasted heracles and abated his savagery before him. but he could not forbear boasting of how he had trapped the heroes who had come to carry off persephone. and he told how they could not get out of the stone chairs and how they were held captive in his dark dungeon. heracles listened, his heart full of pity for the heroes from greece who had met with such a harsh fate. and when the king mentioned that one of the heroes was theseus, heracles would feast no more with him until he had promised that the one who had been his comrade on the argo would be let go. the king said he would give theseus his liberty if heracles would carry the stone chair on which he was seated out of the dungeon and into the outer world. then heracles went down into the dungeon. he found the two heroes in the great chairs of stone. but one of them, peirithous, no longer breathed. heracles took the great chair of stone that theseus was seated in, and he carried it up, up, from the dungeon and out into the world. it was a heavy task even for heracles. he broke the chair in pieces, and theseus stood up, released. thereafter the world was before theseus. he went with heracles, and in the deeds that heracles was afterward to accomplish theseus shared. iv. the life and labors of heracles i heracles was the son of zeus, but he was born into the family of a mortal king. when he was still a youth, being overwhelmed by a madness sent upon him by one of the goddesses, he slew the children of his brother iphicles. then, coming to know what he had done, sleep and rest went from him: he went to delphi, to the shrine of apollo, to be purified of his crime. at delphi, at the shrine of apollo, the priestess purified him, and when she had purified him she uttered this prophecy: "from this day forth thy name shall be, not alcides, but heracles. thou shalt go to eurystheus, thy cousin, in mycenæ, and serve him in all things. when the labors he shall lay upon thee are accomplished, and when the rest of thy life is lived out, thou shalt become one of the immortals." heracles, on hearing these words, set out for mycenæ. he stood before his cousin who hated him; he, a towering man, stood before a king who sat there weak and trembling. and heracles said, "i have come to take up the labors that you will lay upon me; speak now, eurystheus, and tell me what you would have me do." eurystheus, that weak king, looking on the young man who stood as tall and as firm as one of the immortals, had a heart that was filled with hatred. he lifted up his head and he said with a frown: "there is a lion in nemea that is stronger and more fierce than any lion known before. kill that lion, and bring the lion's skin to me that i may know that you have truly performed your task." so eurystheus said, and heracles, with neither shield nor arms, went forth from the king's palace to seek and to combat the dread lion of nemea. he went on until he came into a country where the fences were overthrown and the fields wasted and the houses empty and fallen. he went on until he came to the waste around that land: there he came on the trail of the lion; it led up the side of a mountain, and heracles, without shield or arms, followed the trail. he heard the roar of the lion. looking up he saw the beast standing at the mouth of a cavern, huge and dark against the sunset. the lion roared three times, and then it went within the cavern. around the mouth were strewn the bones of creatures it had killed and carried there. heracles looked upon them when he came to the cavern. he went within. far into the cavern he went, and then he came to where he saw the lion. it was sleeping. heracles viewed the terrible bulk of the lion, and then he looked upon his own knotted hands and arms. he remembered that it was told of him that, while still a child of eight months, he had strangled a great serpent that had come to his cradle to devour him. he had grown and his strength had grown too. so he stood, measuring his strength and the size of the lion. the breath from its mouth and nostrils came heavily to him as the beast slept, gorged with its prey. then the lion yawned. heracles sprang on it and put his great hands upon its throat. no growl came out of its mouth, but the great eyes blazed while the terrible paws tore at heracles. against the rock heracles held the beast; strongly he held it, choking it through the skin that was almost impenetrable. terribly the lion struggled; but the strong hands of the hero held around its throat until it struggled no more. then heracles stripped off that impenetrable skin from the lion's body; he put it upon himself for a cloak. then, as he went through the forest, he pulled up a young oak tree and trimmed it and made a club for himself. with the lion's skin over him--that skin that no spear or arrow could pierce--and carrying the club in his hand he journeyed on until he came to the palace of king eurystheus. the king, seeing coming toward him a towering man all covered with the hide of a monstrous lion, ran and hid himself in a great jar. he lifted the lid up to ask the servants what was the meaning of this terrible appearance. and the servants told him that it was heracles come back with the skin of the lion of nemea. on hearing this eurystheus hid himself again. he would not speak with heracles nor have him come near him, so fearful was he. but heracles was content to be left alone. he sat down in the palace and feasted himself. the servants came to the king; eurystheus lifted the lid of the jar and they told him how heracles was feasting and devouring all the goods in the palace. the king flew into a rage, but still he was fearful of having the hero before him. he issued commands through his heralds ordering heracles to go forth at once and perform the second of his tasks. it was to slay the great water snake that made its lair in the swamps of lerna. heracles stayed to feast another day, and then, with the lion's skin across his shoulders and the great club in his hands, he started off. but this time he did not go alone; the boy iolaus went with him. heracles and iolaus went on until they came to the vast swamp of lerna. right in the middle of the swamp was the water snake that was called the hydra. nine heads it had, and it raised them up out of the water as the hero and his companion came near. they could not cross the swamp to come to the monster, for man or beast would sink and be lost in it. the hydra remained in the middle of the swamp belching mud at the hero and his companion. then heracles took up his bow and he shot flaming arrows at its heads. it grew into such a rage that it came through the swamp to attack him. heracles swung his club. as the hydra came near he knocked head after head off its body. but for every head knocked off two grew upon the hydra. and as he struggled with the monster a huge crab came out of the swamp, and gripping heracles by the foot tried to draw him in. then heracles cried out. the boy iolaus came; he killed the crab that had come to the hydra's aid. then heracles laid hands upon the hydra and drew it out of the swamp. with his club he knocked off a head and he had iolaus put fire to where it had been, so that two heads might not grow in that place. the life of the hydra was in its middle head; that head he had not been able to knock off with his club. now, with his hands he tore it off, and he placed this head under a great stone so that it could not rise into life again. the hydra's life was now destroyed. heracles dipped his arrows into the gall of the monster, making his arrows deadly; no thing that was struck by these arrows afterward could keep its life. again he came to eurystheus's palace, and eurystheus, seeing him, ran again and hid himself in the jar. heracles ordered the servants to tell the king that he had returned and that the second labor was accomplished. eurystheus, hearing from the servants that heracles was mild in his ways, came out of the jar. insolently he spoke. "twelve labors you have to accomplish for me," said he to heracles, "and eleven yet remain to be accomplished." "how?" said heracles. "have i not performed two of the labors? have i not slain the lion of nemea and the great water snake of lerna?" "in the killing of the water snake you were helped by iolaus," said the king, snapping out his words and looking at heracles with shifting eyes. "that labor cannot be allowed you." heracles would have struck him to the ground. but then he remembered that the crime that he had committed in his madness would have to be expiated by labors performed at the order of this man. he looked full upon eurystheus and he said, "tell me of the other labors, and i will go forth from mycenæ and accomplish them." then eurystheus bade him go and make clean the stables of king augeias. heracles came into that king's country. the smell from the stables was felt for miles around. countless herds of cattle and goats had been in the stables for years, and because of the uncleanness and the smell that came from it the crops were withered all around. heracles told the king that he would clean the stables if he were given one tenth of the cattle and the goats for a reward. the king agreed to this reward. then heracles drove the cattle and the goats out of the stables; he broke through the foundations and he made channels for the two rivers alpheus and peneius. the waters flowed through the stables, and in a day all the uncleanness was washed away. then heracles turned the rivers back into their own courses. he was not given the reward he had bargained for, however. he went back to mycenæ with the tale of how he had cleaned the stables. "ten labors remain for me to do now," he said. "eleven," said eurystheus. "how can i allow the cleaning of king augeias's stables to you when you bargained for a reward for doing it?" then while heracles stood still, holding himself back from striking him, eurystheus ran away and hid himself in the jar. through his heralds he sent word to heracles, telling him what the other labors would be. he was to clear the marshes of stymphalus of the maneating birds that gathered there; he was to capture and bring to the king the golden-horned deer of coryneia; he was also to capture and bring alive to myceaæ the boar of erymanthus. heracles came to the marshes of stymphalus. the growth of jungle was so dense that he could not cut his way through to where the man-eating birds were; they sat upon low bushes within the jungle, gorging themselves upon the flesh they had carried there. for days heracles tried to hack his way through. he could not get to where the birds were. then, thinking he might not be able to accomplish this labor, he sat upon the ground in despair. it was then that one of the immortals appeared to him; for the first and only time he was given help from the gods. it was athena who came to him. she stood apart from heracles, holding in her hands brazen cymbals. these she clashed together. at the sound of this clashing the stymphalean birds rose up from the low bushes behind the jungle. heracles shot at them with those unerring arrows of his. the maneating birds fell, one after the other, into the marsh. then heracles went north to where the coryneian deer took her pasture. so swift of foot was she that no hound nor hunter had ever been able to overtake her. for the whole of a year heracles kept golden horns in chase, and at last, on the side of the mountain artemision, he caught her. artemis, the goddess of the wild things, would have punished heracles for capturing the deer, but the hero pleaded with her, and she relented and agreed to let him bring the deer to mycenæ and show her to king eurystheus. and artemis took charge of golden horns while heracles went off to capture the erymanthean boar. he came to the city of psophis, the inhabitants of which were in deadly fear because of the ravages of the boar. heracles made his way up the mountain to hunt it. now on this mountain a band of centaurs lived, and they, knowing him since the time he had been fostered by chiron, welcomed heracles. one of them, pholus, took heracles to the great house where the centaurs had their wine stored. seldom did the centaurs drink wine; a draft of it made them wild, and so they stored it away, leaving it in the charge of one of their band. heracles begged pholus to give him a draft of wine; after he had begged again and again the centaur opened one of his great jars. heracles drank wine and spilled it. then the centaurs that were without smelt the wine and came hammering at the door, demanding the drafts that would make them wild. heracles came forth to drive them away. they attacked him. then he shot at them with his unerring arrows and he drove them away. up the mountain and away to far rivers the centaurs raced, pursued by heracles with his bow. one was slain, pholus, the centaur who had entertained him. by accident heracles dropped a poisoned arrow on his foot. he took the body of pholus up to the top of the mountain and buried the centaur there. afterward, on the snows of erymanthus, he set a snare for the boar and caught him there. upon his shoulders he carried the boar to myceaæ and he led the deer by her golden horns. when eurystheus bad looked upon them the boar was slain, but the deer was loosed and she fled back to the mountain artemision. king eurystheus sat hidden in the great jar, and he thought of more terrible labors he would make heracles engage in. now he would send him oversea and make him strive with fierce tribes and more dread monsters. when he had it all thought out he had heracles brought before him and he told him of these other labors. he was to go to savage thrace and there destroy the man-eating horses of king diomedes; afterward he was to go amongst the dread women, the amazons, daughters of ares, the god of war, and take from their queen, hippolyte, the girdle that ares had given her; then he was to go to crete and take from the keeping of king minos the beautiful bull that poseidon had given him; afterward he was to go to the island of erytheia and take away from geryoneus, the monster that had three bodies instead of one, the herd of red cattle that the two-headed hound orthus kept guard over; then he was to go to the garden of the hesperides, and from that garden he was to take the golden apples that zeus had given to hera for a marriage gift--where the garden of the hesperides was no mortal knew. so heracles set out on a long and perilous quest. first he went to thrace, that savage land that was ruled over by diomedes, son of ares, the war god. heracles broke into the stable where the horses were; he caught three of them by their heads, and although they kicked and bit and trampled he forced them out of the stable and down to the seashore, where his companion, abderus, waited for him. the screams of the fierce horses were heard by the men of thrace, and they, with their king, came after heracles. he left the horses in charge of abderus while he fought the thracians and their savage king. heracles shot his deadly arrows amongst them, and then he fought with their king. he drove them from the seashore, and then he came back to where he had left abderus with the fierce horses. they had thrown abderus upon the ground, and they were trampling upon him. heracles drew his bow and he shot the horses with the unerring arrows that were dipped with the gall of the hydra he had slain. screaming, the horses of king diomedes raced toward the sea, but one fell and another fell, and then, as it came to the line of the foam, the third of the fierce horses fell. they were all slain with the unerring arrows. then heracles took up the body of his companion and he buried it with proper rights, and over it he raised a column. afterward, around that column a city that bore the name of heracles's friend was built. then toward the euxine sea he went. there, where the river themiscyra flows into the sea he saw the abodes of the amazons. and upon the rocks and the steep place he saw the warrior women standing with drawn bows in their hands. most dangerous did they seem to heracles. he did not know how to approach them; he might shoot at them with his unerring arrows, but when his arrows were all shot away, the amazons, from their steep places, might be able to kill him with the arrows from their bows. while he stood at a distance, wondering what he might do, a horn was sounded and an amazon mounted upon a white stallion rode toward him. when the warrior-woman came near she cried out, "heracles, the queen hippolyte permits you to come amongst the amazons. enter her tent and declare to the queen what has brought you amongst the never-conquered amazons." heracles came to the tent of the queen. there stood tall hippolyte with an iron crown upon her head and with a beautiful girdle of bronze and iridescent glass around her waist. proud and fierce as a mountain eagle looked the queen of the amazons: heracles did not know in what way he might conquer her. outside the tent the amazons stood; they struck their shields with their spears, keeping up a continuous savage din. "for what has heracles come to the country of the amazons?" queen hippolyte asked. "for the girdle you wear," said heracles, and he held his hands ready for the struggle. "is it for the girdle given me by ares, the god of war, that you have come, braving the amazons, heracles?" asked the queen. "for that," said heracles. "i would not have you enter into strife with the amazons," said queen hippolyte. and so saying she drew off the girdle of bronze and iridescent glass, and she gave it into his hands. heracles took the beautiful girdle into his hands. fearful he was that some piece of guile was being played upon him, but then he looked into the open eyes of the queen and he saw that she meant no guile. he took the girdle and he put it around his great brows; then he thanked hippolyte and he went from the tent. he saw the amazons standing on the rocks and the steep places with bows bent; unchallenged he went on, and he came to his ship and he sailed away from that country with one more labor accomplished. the labor that followed was not dangerous. he sailed over sea and he came to crete, to the land that king minos ruled over. and there he found, grazing in a special pasture, the bull that poseidon had given king minos. he laid his hands upon the bull's horns and he struggled with him and he overthrew him. then he drove the bull down to the seashore. his next labor was to take away the herd of red cattle that was owned by the monster geryoneus. in the island of erytheia, in the middle of the stream of ocean, lived the monster, his herd guarded by the two-headed hound orthus--that hound was the brother of cerberus, the three-headed hound that kept guard in the underworld. mounted upon the bull given minos by poseidon, heracles fared across the sea. he came even to the straits that divide europe from africa, and there he set up two pillars as a memorial of his journey--the pillars of heracles that stand to this day. he and the bull rested there. beyond him stretched the stream of ocean; the island of erytheia was there, but heracles thought that the bull would not be able to bear him so far. and there the sun beat upon him, and drew all strength away from him, and he was dazed and dazzled by the rays of the sun. he shouted out against the sun, and in his anger he wanted to strive against the sun. then he drew his bow and shot arrows upward. far, far out of sight the arrows of heracles went. and the sun god, helios, was filled with admiration for heracles, the man who would attempt the impossible by shooting arrows at him; then did helios fling down to heracles his great golden cup. down, and into the stream of ocean fell the great golden cup of helios. it floated there wide enough to hold all the men who might be in a ship. heracles put the bull of minos into the cup of helios, and the cup bore them away, toward the west, and across the stream of ocean. thus heracles came to the island of erytheia. all over the island straggled the red cattle of geryoneus, grazing upon the rich pastures. heracles, leaving the bull of minos in the cup, went upon the island; he made a club for himself out of a tree and he went toward the cattle. the hound orthus bayed and ran toward him; the two-headed hound that was the brother of cerberus sprang at heracles with poisonous foam upon his jaws. heracles swung his club and struck the two heads off the hound. and where the foam of the hound's jaws dropped down a poisonous plant sprang up. heracles took up the body of the hound, and swung it around and flung it far out into the ocean. then the monster geryoneus came upon him. three bodies he had instead of one; he attacked heracles by hurling great stones at him. heracles was hurt by the stones. and then the monster beheld the cup of helios, and he began to hurl stones at the golden thing, and it seemed that he might sink it in the sea, and leave heracles without a way of getting from the island. heracles took up his bow and he shot arrow after arrow at the monster, and he left him dead in the deep grass of the pastures. then he rounded up the red cattle, the bulls and the cows, and he drove them down to the shore and into the golden cup of helios where the bull of minos stayed. then back across the stream of ocean the cup floated, and the bull of crete and the cattle of geryoneus were brought past sicily and through the straits called the hellespont. to thrace, that savage land, they came. then heracles took the cattle out, and the cup of helios sank in the sea. through the wild lands of thrace he drove the herd of geryoneus and the bull of minos, and he came into myceaæ once more. but he did not stay to speak with eurystheus. he started off to find the garden of the hesperides, the daughters of the evening land. long did he search, but he found no one who could tell him where the garden was. and at last he went to chiron on the mountain pelion, and chiron told heracles what journey he would have to make to come to the hesperides, the daughters of the evening land. far did heracles journey; weary he was when he came to where atlas stood, bearing the sky upon his weary shoulders. as he came near he felt an undreamt-of perfume being wafted toward him. so weary was he with his journey and all his toils that he would fain sink down and dream away in that evening land. but he roused himself, and he journeyed on toward where the perfume came from. over that place a star seemed always about to rise. he came to where a silver lattice fenced a garden that was full of the quiet of evening. golden bees hummed through the air, and there was the sound of quiet waters. how wild and laborious was the world he had come from, heracles thought! he felt that it would be hard for him to return to that world. he saw three maidens. they stood with wreaths upon their heads and blossoming branches in their hands. when the maidens saw him they came toward him crying out: "o man who has come into the garden of the hesperides, go not near the tree that the sleepless dragon guards!" then they went and stood by a tree as if to keep guard over it. all around were trees that bore flowers and fruit, but this tree had golden apples amongst its bright green leaves. then he saw the guardian of the tree. beside its trunk a dragon lay, and as heracles came near the dragon showed its glittering scales and its deadly claws. the apples were within reach, but the dragon, with its glittering scales and claws, stood in the way. heracles shot an arrow; then a tremor went through ladon, the sleepless dragon; it screamed and then lay stark. the maidens cried in their grief; heracles went to the tree, and he plucked the golden apples and he put them into the pouch he carried. down on the ground sank the hesperides, the daughters of the evening land, and he heard their laments as he went from the enchanted garden they had guarded. back from the ends of the earth came heracles, back from the place where atlas stood holding the sky upon his weary shoulders. he went back through asia and libya and egypt, and he came again to myceaæ and to the palace of eurystheus. he brought to the king the herd of geryoneus; he brought to the king the bull of minos; he brought to the king the girdle of hippolyte; he brought to the king the golden apples of the hesperides. and king eurystheus, with his thin white face, sat upon his royal throne and he looked over all the wonderful things that the hero had brought him. not pleased was eurystheus; rather was he angry that one he hated could win such wonderful things. he took into his hands the golden apples of the hesperides. but this fruit was not for such as he. an eagle snatched the branch from his hand, and the eagle flew and flew until it came to where the daughters of the evening land wept in their garden. there the eagle let fall the branch with the golden apples, and the maidens set it back upon the tree, and behold! it grew as it had been growing before heracles plucked it. the next day the heralds of eurystheus came to heracles and they told him of the last labor that he would have to set out to accomplish--this time he would have to go down into the underworld, and bring up from king aidoneus's realm cerberus, the three-headed hound. heracles put upon him the impenetrable lion's skin and set forth once more. this might indeed be the last of his life's labors: cerberus was not an earthly monster, and he who would struggle with cerberus in the underworld would have the gods of the dead against him. but heracles went on. he journeyed to the cave tainaron, which was an entrance to the underworld. far into that dismal cave he went, and then down, down, until he came to acheron, that dim river that has beyond it only the people of the dead. cerberus bayed at him from the place where the dead cross the river. knowing that he was no shade, the hound sprang at heracles, but he could neither bite nor tear through that impenetrable lion's skin. heracles held him by the neck of his middle head so that cerberus was neither able to bite nor tear nor bellow. then to the brink of acheron came persephone, queen of the underworld. she declared to heracles that the gods of the dead would not strive against him if he promised to bring cerberus back to the underworld, carrying the hound downward again as he carried him upward. this heracles promised. he turned around and he carried cerberus, his hands around the monster's neck while foam dripped from his jaws. he carried him on and upward toward the world of men. out through a cave that was in the land of troezen heracles came, still carrying cerberus by the neck of his middle head. from troezen to myceaæ the hero went and men fled before him at the sight of the monster that he carried. on he went toward the king's palace. eurystheus was seated outside his palace that day, looking at the great jar that he had often hidden in, and thinking to himself that heracles would never appear to affright him again. then heracles appeared. he called to eurystheus, and when the king looked up he held the hound toward him. the three heads grinned at eurystheus; he gave a cry and scrambled into the jar. but before his feet touched the bottom of it eurystheus was dead of fear. the jar rolled over, and heracles looked upon the body that was all twisted with fright. then he turned around and made his way back to the underworld. on the brink of acheron he loosed cerberus, and the bellow of the three-headed hound was heard again. ii it was then that heracles was given arms by the gods the sword of hermes, the bow of apollo, the shield made by hephaestus; it was then that heracles joined the argonauts and journeyed with them to the edge of the caucasus, where, slaying the vulture that preyed upon prometheus's liver, he, at the will of zeus, liberated the titan. thereafter zeus and prometheus were reconciled, and zeus, that neither might forget how much the enmity between them had cost gods and men, had a ring made for prometheus to wear; that ring was made out of the fetter that had been upon him, and in it was set a fragment of the rock that the titan had been bound to. the argonauts had now won back to greece. but before he saw any of them he had been in oichalia, and had seen the maiden iole. the king of oichalia had offered his daughter iole in marriage to the hero who could excel himself and his sons in shooting with arrows. heracles saw iole, the blue-eyed and childlike maiden, and he longed to take her with him to some place near the garden of the hesperides. and iole looked on him, and he knew that she wondered to see him so tall and so strongly knit even as he wondered to see her so childlike and delicate. then the contest began. the king and his sons shot wonderfully well, and none of the heroes who stood before heracles had a chance of winning. then heracles shot his arrows. no matter how far away they moved the mark, heracles struck it and struck the very center of it. the people wondered who this great archer might be. and then a name was guessed at and went around--heracles! when the king heard the name of heracles he would not let him strive in the contest any more. for the maiden iole would not be given as a prize to one who had been mad and whose madness might afflict him again. so the king said, speaking in judgment in the market place. rage came on heracles when he heard this judgment given. he would not let his rage master him lest the madness that was spoken of should come with his rage. so he left the city of oichalia declaring to the king and the people that he would return. it was then that, wandering down to crete, he heard of the argonauts being near. and afterward he heard of them being in calydon, hunting the boar that ravaged oeneus's country. to calydon heracles went. the heroes had departed when he came into the country, and all the city was in grief for the deaths of prince meleagrus and his two uncles. on the steps of the temple where meleagrus and his uncles had been brought heracles saw deianira, meleagrus's sister. she was pale with her grief, this tall woman of the mountains; she looked like a priestess, but also like a woman who could cheer camps of men with her counsel, her bravery, and her good companionship; her hair was very dark and she had dark eyes. straightway she became friends with heracles; and when they saw each other for a while they loved each other. and heracles forgot iole, the childlike maiden whom he had seen in oichalia. he made himself a suitor for deianira, and those who protected her were glad of heracles's suit, and they told him they would give him the maiden to marry as soon as the mourning for prince meleagrus and his uncles was over. heracles stayed in calydon, happy with deianira, who had so much beauty, wisdom, and bravery. but then a dreadful thing happened in calydon; by an accident, while using his strength unthinkingly, heracles killed a lad who was related to deianira. he might not marry her now until he had taken punishment for slaying one who was close to her in blood. as a punishment for the slaying it was judged that heracles should be sold into slavery for three years. at the end of his three years' slavery he could come back to calydon and wed deianira. and so heracles and deianira were parted. he was sold as a slave in lydia; the one who bought him was a woman, a widow named omphale. to her house heracles went, carrying his armor and wearing his lion's skin. and omphale laughed to see this tall man dressed in a lion's skin coming to her house to do a servant's tasks for her. she and all in her house kept up fun with heracles. they would set him to do housework, to carry water, and set vessels on the tables, and clear the vessels away. omphale set him to spin with a spindle as the women did. and often she would put on heracles's lion skin and go about dragging his club, while he, dressed in woman's garb, washed dishes and emptied pots. but he would lose patience with these servant's tasks, and then omphale would let him go away and perform some great exploit. often he went on long journeys and stayed away for long times. it was while he was in slavery to omphale that he liberated theseus from the dungeon in which he was held with peirithous, and it was while he still was in slavery that he made his journey to troy. at troy he helped to repair for king laomedon the great walls that years before apollo and poseidon had built around the city. as a reward for this labor he was offered the princess hesione in marriage; she was the daughter of king laomedon, and the sister of priam, who was then called, not priam but podarces. he helped to repair the wall, and two of the argonauts were there to aid him: one was peleus and the other was telamon. peleus did not stay for long: telamon stayed, and to reward telamon heracles withdrew his own claim for the hand of the princess hesione. it was not hard on heracles to do this, for his thoughts were ever upon deianira. but telamon rejoiced, for he loved hesione greatly. on the day they married heracles showed the two an eagle in the sky. he said it was sent as an omen to them--an omen for their marriage. and in memory of that omen telamon named his son "aias"; that is, "eagle." then the walls of troy were repaired and heracles turned toward lydia, omphale's home. not long would he have to serve omphale now, for his three years' slavery was nearly over. soon he would go back to calydon and wed deianira. as he went along the road to lydia he thought of all the pleasantries that had been made in omphale's house and he laughed at the memory of them. lydia was a friendly country, and even though he had been in slavery heracles had had his good times there. he was tired with the journey and made sleepy with the heat of the sun, and when he came within sight of omphale's house he lay down by the side of the road, first taking off his armor, and laying aside his bow, his quiver, and his shield. he wakened up to see two men looking down upon him; he knew that these were the cercopes, robbers who waylaid travelers upon this road. they were laughing as they looked down on him, and heracles saw that they held his arms and his armor in their hands. they thought that this man, for all his tallness, would yield to them when he saw that they had his arms and his armor. but heracles sprang up, and he caught one by the waist and the other by the neck, and he turned them upside down and tied them together by the heels. now he held them securely and he would take them to the town and give them over to those whom they had waylaid and robbed. he hung them by their heels across his shoulders and marched on. but the robbers, as they were being bumped along, began to relate pleasantries and mirthful tales to each other, and heracles, listening, had to laugh. and one said to the other, "o my brother, we are in the position of the frogs when the mice fell upon them with such fury." and the other said, "indeed nothing can save us if zeus does not send an ally to us as he sent an ally to the frogs." and the first robber said, "who began that conflict, the frogs or the mice?" and thereupon the second robber, his head reaching down to heracles's waist, began: the battle of the frogs and mice a warlike mouse came down to the brink of a pond for no other reason than to take a drink of water. up to him hopped a frog. speaking in the voice of one who had rule and authority, the frog said: "stranger to our shore, you may not know it, but i am puff jaw, king of the frogs. i do not speak to common mice, but you, as i judge, belong to the noble and kingly sort. tell me your race. if i know it to be a noble one i shall show you my kingly friendship." the mouse, speaking haughtily, said: "i am crumb snatcher, and my race is a famous one. my father is the heroic bread nibbler, and he married quern licker, the lovely daughter of a king. like all my race i am a warrior who has never been wont to flinch in battle. moreover, i have been brought up as a mouse of high degree, and figs and nuts, cheese and honeycakes is the provender that i have been fed on." now this reply of crumb snatcher pleased the kingly frog greatly. "come with me to my abode, illustrious crumb snatcher," said he, "and i shall show you such entertainment as may be found in the house of a king." but the mouse looked sharply at him. "how may i get to your house?" he asked. "we live in different elements, you and i. we mice want to be in the driest of dry places, while you frogs have your abodes in the water." "ah," answered puff jaw, "you do not know how favored the frogs are above all other creatures. to us alone the gods have given the power to live both in the water and on the land. i shall take you to my land palace that is the other side of the pond." "how may i go there with you?" asked crumb snatcher the mouse, doubtfully. "upon my back," said the frog. "up now, noble crumb snatcher. and as we go i will show you the wonders of the deep." he offered his back and crumb snatcher bravely mounted. the mouse put his forepaws around the frog's neck. then puff jaw swam out. crumb snatcher at first was pleased to feel himself moving through the water. but as the dark waves began to rise his mighty heart began to quail. he longed to be back upon the land. he groaned aloud. "how quickly we get on," cried puff jaw; "soon we shall be at my land palace." heartened by this speech, crumb snatcher put his tail into the water and worked it as a steering oar. on and on they went, and crumb snatcher gained heart for the adventure. what a wonderful tale he would have to tell to the clans of the mice! but suddenly, out of the depths of the pond, a water snake raised his horrid head. fearsome did that head seem to both mouse and frog. and forgetful of the guest that he carried upon his back, puff jaw dived down into the water. he reached the bottom of the pond and lay on the mud in safety. but far from safety was crumb snatcher the mouse. he sank and rose, and sank again. his wet fur weighed him down. but before he sank for the last time he lifted up his voice and cried out and his cry was heard at the brink of the pond: "ah, puff jaw, treacherous frog! an evil thing you have done, leaving me to drown in the middle of the pond. had you faced me on the land i should have shown you which of us two was the better warrior. now i must lose my life in the water. but i tell you my death shall not go unavenged--the cowardly frogs will be punished for the ill they have done to me who am the son of the king of the mice." then crumb snatcher sank for the last time. but lick platter, who was at the brink of the pond, had heard his words. straightway this mouse rushed to the hole of bread nibbler and told him of the death of his princely son. bread nibbler called out the clans of the mice. the warrior mice armed themselves, and this was the grand way of their arming: first, the mice put on greaves that covered their forelegs. these they made out of bean shells broken in two. for shield, each had a lamp's centerpiece. for spears they had the long bronze needles that they had carried out of the houses of men. so armed and so accoutered they were ready to war upon the frogs. and bread nibbler, their king, shouted to them: "fall upon the cowardly frogs, and leave not one alive upon the bank of the pond. henceforth that bank is ours, and ours only. forward!" and, on the other side, puff jaw was urging the frogs to battle. "let us take our places on the edge of the pond," he said, "and when the mice come amongst us, let each catch hold of one and throw him into the pond. thus we will get rid of these dry bobs, the mice." the frogs applauded the speech of their king, and straightway they went to their armor and their weapons. their legs they covered with the leaves of mallow. for breastplates they had the leaves of beets. cabbage leaves, well cut, made their strong shields. they took their spears from the pond side--deadly pointed rushes they were, and they placed upon their heads helmets that were empty snail shells. so armed and so accoutered they were ready to meet the grand attack of the mice. when the robber came to this part of the story heracles halted his march, for he was shaking with laughter. the robber stopped in his story. heracles slapped him on the leg and said: "what more of the heroic exploits of the mice?" the second robber said, "i know no more, but perhaps my brother at the other side of you can tell you of the mighty combat between them and the frogs." then heracles shifted the first robber from his back to his front, and the first robber said: "i will tell you what i know about the heroical combat between the frogs and the mice." and thereupon he began: the gnats blew their trumpets. this was the dread signal for war. bread nibbler struck the first blow. he fell upon loud crier the frog, and overthrew him. at this loud crier's friend, reedy, threw down spear and shield and dived into the water. this seemed to presage victory for the mice. but then water larker, the most warlike of the frogs, took up a great pebble and flung it at ham nibbler who was then pursuing reedy. down fell ham nibbler, and there was dismay in the ranks of the mice. then cabbage climber, a great-hearted frog, took up a clod of mud and flung it full at a mouse that was coming furiously upon him. that mouse's helmet was knocked off and his forehead was plastered with the clod of mud, so that he was well-nigh blinded. it was then that victory inclined to the frogs. bread nibbler again came into the fray. he rushed furiously upon puff jaw the king. leeky, the trusted friend of puff jaw, opposed bread nibbler's onslaught. mightily he drove his spear at the king of the mice. but the point of the spear broke upon bread nibbler's shield, and then leeky was overthrown. bread nibbler came upon puff jaw, and the two great kings faced each other. the frogs and the mice drew aside, and there was a pause in the combat. bread nibbler the mouse struck puff jaw the frog terribly upon the toes. puff jaw drew out of the battle. now all would have been lost for the frogs had not zeus, the father of the gods, looked down upon the battle. "dear, dear," said zeus, "what can be done to save the frogs? they will surely be annihilated if the charge of yonder mouse is not halted." for the father of the gods, looking down, saw a warrior mouse coming on in the most dreadful onslaught of the whole battle. slice snatcher was the name of this warrior. he had come late into the field. he waited to split a chestnut in two and to put the halves upon his paws. then, furiously dashing amongst the frogs, he cried out that he would not leave the ground until he had destroyed the race, leaving the bank of the pond a playground for the mice and for the mice alone. to stop the charge of slice snatcher there was nothing for zeus to do but to hurl the thunderbolt that is the terror of gods and men. frogs and mice were awed by the thunder and the flame. but still the mice, urged on by slice snatcher, did not hold back from their onslaught upon the frogs. now would the frogs have been utterly destroyed; but, as they dashed on, the mice encountered a new and a dreadful army. the warriors in these ranks had mailed backs and curving claws. they had bandy legs and long-stretching arms. they had eyes that looked behind them. they came on sideways. these were the crabs, creatures until now unknown to the mice. and the crabs had been sent by zeus to save the race of the frogs from utter destruction. coming upon the mice they nipped their paws. the mice turned around and they nipped their tails. in vain the boldest of the mice struck at the crabs with their sharpened spears. not upon the hard shells on the backs of the crabs did the spears of the mice make any dint. on and on, on their queer feet and with their terrible nippers, the crabs went. bread nibbler could not rally them any more, and slice snatcher ceased to speak of the monument of victory that the mice would erect upon the bank of the pond. with their heads out of the water they had retreated to, the frogs watched the finish of the battle. the mice threw down their spears and shields and fled from the battleground. on went the crabs as if they cared nothing for their victory, and the frogs came out of the water and sat upon the bank and watched them in awe. heracles had laughed at the diverting tale that the robbers had told him; he could not bring them then to a place where they would meet with captivity or death. he let them loose upon the highway, and the robbers thanked him with high-flowing speeches, and they declared that if they should ever find him sleeping by the roadway again they would let him lie. saying this they went away, and heracles, laughing as he thought upon the great exploits of the frogs and mice, went on to omphale's house. omphale, the widow, received him mirthfully, and then set him to do tasks in the kitchen while she sat and talked to him about troy and the affairs of king laomedon. and afterward she put on his lion's skin, and went about in the courtyard dragging the heavy club after her. mirthfully and pleasantly she made the rest of his time in lydia pass for heracles, and the last day of his slavery soon came, and he bade good-by to omphale, that pleasant widow, and to lydia, and he started off for calydon to claim his bride deianira. beautiful indeed deianira looked now that she had ceased to mourn for her brother, for the laughter that had been under her grief always now flashed out even while she looked priestess-like and of good counsel; her dark eyes shone like stars, and her being had the spirit of one who wanders from camp to camp, always greeting friends and leaving friends behind her. heracles and deianira wed, and they set out for tiryns, where a king had left a kingdom to heracles. they came to the river evenus. heracles could have crossed the river by himself, but he could not cross it at the part he came to, carrying deianira. he and she went along the river, seeking a ferry that might take them across. they wandered along the side of the river, happy with each other, and they came to a place where they had sight of a centaur. heracles knew this centaur. he was nessus, one of the centaurs whom he had chased up the mountain the time when he went to hunt the erymanthean boar. the centaurs knew him, and nessus spoke to heracles as if he had friendship for him. he would, he said, carry heracles's bride across the river. then heracles crossed the river, and he waited on the other side for nessus and deianira. nessus went to another part of the river to make his crossing. then heracles, upon the other bank, heard screams--the screams of his wife, deianira. he saw that the centaur was savagely attacking her. then heracles leveled his bow and he shot at nessus. arrow after arrow he shot into the centaur's body. nessus loosed his hold on deianira, and he lay down on the bank of the river, his lifeblood streaming from him. then nessus, dying, but with his rage against heracles unabated, thought of a way by which the hero might be made to suffer for the death he had brought upon him. he called to deianira, and she, seeing he could do her no more hurt, came close to him. he told her that in repentance for his attack upon her he would bestow a great gift upon her. she was to gather up some of the blood that flowed from him; his blood, the centaur said, would be a love philter, and if ever her husband's love for her waned it would grow fresh again if she gave to him something from her hands that would have this blood upon it. deianira, who had heard from heracles of the wisdom of the centaurs, believed what nessus told her. she took a phial and let the blood pour into it. then nessus plunged into the river and died there as heracles came up to where deianira stood. she did not speak to him about the centaur's words to her, nor did she tell him that she had hidden away the phial that had nessus's blood in it. they crossed the river at another point and they came after a time to tiryns and to the kingdom that had been left to heracles. there heracles and deianira lived, and a son who was named hyllos was born to them. and after a time heracles was led into a war with eurytus--eurytus who was king of oichalia. word came to deianira that oichalia was taken by heracles, and that the king and his daughter iole were held captive. deianira knew that heracles had once tried to win this maiden for his wife, and she feared that the sight of iole would bring his old longing back to him. she thought upon the words that nessus had said to her, and even as she thought upon them messengers came from heracles to ask her to send him a robe--a beautifully woven robe that she had--that he might wear it while making a sacrifice. deianira took down the robe; through this robe, she thought, the blood of the centaur could touch heracles and his love for her would revive. thinking this she poured nessus's blood over the robe. heracles was in oichalia when the messengers returned to him. he took the robe that deianira sent, and he went to a mountain that overlooked the sea that he might make the sacrifice there. iole went with him. then he put on the robe that deianira had sent. when it touched his flesh the robe burst into flame. heracles tried to tear it off, but deeper and deeper into his flesh the flames went. they burned and burned and none could quench them. then heracles knew that his end was near. he would die by fire, and knowing that he piled up a great heap of wood and he climbed upon it. there he stayed with the flaming robe burning into him, and he begged of those who passed to fire the pile that his end might come more quickly. none would fire the pile. but at last there came that way a young warrior named philoctetes, and heracles begged of him to fire the pile. philoctetes, knowing that it was the will of the gods that heracles should die that way, lighted the pile. for that heracles bestowed upon him his great bow and his unerring arrows. and it was this bow and these arrows, brought from philoctetes, that afterward helped to take priam's city. the pile that heracles stood upon was fired. high up, above the sea, the pile burned. all who were near that burning fled--all except iole, that childlike maiden. she stayed and watched the flames mount up and up. they wrapped the sky, and the voice of heracles was heard calling upon zeus. then a great chariot came and heracles was borne away to olympus. thus, after many labors, heracles passed away, a mortal passing into an immortal being in a great burning high above the sea. v. admetus i it happened once that zeus would punish apollo, his son. then he banished him from olympus, and he made him put off his divinity and appear as a mortal man. and as a mortal apollo sought to earn his bread amongst men. he came to the house of king admetus and took service with him as his herdsman. for a year apollo served the young king, minding his herds of black cattle. admetus did not know that it was one of the immortal gods who was in his house and in his fields. but he treated him in friendly wise, and apollo was happy whilst serving admetus. afterward people wondered at admetus's ever-smiling face and ever-radiant being. it was the god's kindly thought of him that gave him such happiness. and when apollo was leaving his house and his fields he revealed himself to admetus, and he made a promise to him that when the god of the underworld sent death for him he would have one more chance of baffling death than any mortal man. that was before admetus sailed on the argo with jason and the companions of the quest. the companionship of admetus brought happiness to many on the voyage, but the hero to whom it gave the most happiness was heracles. and often heracles would have admetus beside him to tell him about the radiant god apollo, whose bow and arrows heracles had been given. after that voyage and after the hunt in calydon admetus went back to his own land. there he wed that fair and loving woman, alcestis. he might not wed her until he had yoked lions and leopards to the chariot that drew her. this was a feat that no hero had been able to accomplish. with apollo's aid he accomplished it. thereafter admetus, having the love of alcestis, was even more happy than he had been before. one day as he walked by fold and through pasture field he saw a figure standing beside his herd of black cattle. a radiant figure it was, and admetus knew that this was apollo come to him again. he went toward the god and he made reverence and began to speak to him. but apollo turned to admetus a face that was without joy. "what years of happiness have been mine, o apollo, through your friendship for me," said admetus. "ah, as i walked my pasture land today it came into my mind how much i loved this green earth and the blue sky! and all that i know of love and happiness has come to me through you." but still apollo stood before him with a face that was without joy. he spoke and his voice was not that clear and vibrant voice that he had once in speaking to admetus. "admetus, admetus," he said, "it is for me to tell you that you may no more look on the blue sky nor walk upon the green earth. it is for me to tell you that the god of the underworld will have you come to him. admetus, admetus, know that even now the god of the underworld is sending death for you." then the light of the world went out for admetus, and he heard himself speaking to apollo in a shaking voice: "o apollo, apollo, thou art a god, and surely thou canst save me! save me now from this death that the god of the underworld is sending for me!" but apollo said, "long ago, admetus, i made a bargain with the god of the underworld on thy behalf. thou hast been given a chance more than any mortal man. if one will go willingly in thy place with death, thou canst still live on. go, admetus. thou art well loved, and it may be that thou wilt find one to take thy place." then apollo went up unto the mountaintop and admetus stayed for a while beside the cattle. it seemed to him that a little of the darkness had lifted from the world. he would go to his palace. there were aged men and women there, servants and slaves, and one of them would surely be willing to take the king's place and go with death down to the underworld. so admetus thought as he went toward the palace. and then he came upon an ancient woman who sat upon stones in the courtyard, grinding corn between two stones. long had she been doing that wearisome labor. admetus had known her from the first time he had come into that courtyard as a little child, and he had never seen aught in her face but a heavy misery. there she was sitting as he had first known her, with her eyes bleared and her knees shaking, and with the dust of the courtyard and the husks of the corn in her matted hair. he went to her and spoke to her, and he asked her to take the place of the king and go with death. but when she heard the name of death horror came into the face of the ancient woman, and she cried out that she would not let death come near her. then admetus left her, and he came upon another, upon a sightless man who held out a shriveled hand for the food that the servants of the palace might bestow upon him. admetus took the man's shriveled hand, and he asked him if he would not take the king's place and go with death that was coming for him. the sightless man, with howls and shrieks, said he would not go. then admetus went into the palace and into the chamber where his bed was, and he lay down upon the bed and he lamented that he would have to go with death that was coming for him from the god of the underworld, and he lamented that none of the wretched ones around the palace would take his place. a hand was laid upon him. he looked up and he saw his tall and grave-eyed wife, alcestis, beside him. alcestis spoke to him slowly and gravely. "i have heard what you have said, o my husband," said she. "one should go in your place, for you are the king and have many great affairs to attend to. and if none other will go, i, alcestis, will go in your place, admetus." it had seemed to admetus that ever since he had heard the words of apollo that heavy footsteps were coming toward him. now the footsteps seemed to stop. it was not so terrible for him as before. he sprang up, and he took the hands of alcestis and he said, "you, then, will take my place?" "i will go with death in your place, admetus," alcestis said. then, even as admetus looked into her face, he saw a pallor come upon her; her body weakened and she sank down upon the bed. then, watching over her, he knew that not he but alcestis would go with death. and the words he had spoken he would have taken back--the words that had brought her consent to go with death in his place. paler and weaker alcestis grew. death would soon be here for her. no, not here, for he would not have death come into the palace. he lifted alcestis from the bed and he carried her from the palace. he carried her to the temple of the gods. he laid her there upon the bier and waited there beside her. no more speech came from her. he went back to the palace where all was silent--the servants moved about with heads bowed, lamenting silently for their mistress. ii as admetus was coming back from the temple he heard a great shout; he looked up and saw one standing at the palace doorway. he knew him by his lion's skin and his great height. this was heracles--heracles come to visit him, but come at a sad hour. he could not now rejoice in the company of heracles. and yet heracles might be on his way from the accomplishment of some great labor, and it would not be right to say a word that might turn him away from his doorway; he might have much need of rest and refreshment. thinking this admetus went up to heracles and took his hand and welcomed him into his house. "how is it with you, friend admetus?" heracles asked. admetus would only say that nothing was happening in his house and that heracles, his hero-companion, was welcome there. his mind was upon a great sacrifice, he said, and so he would not be able to feast with him. the servants brought heracles to the bath, and then showed him where a feast was laid for him. and as for admetus, he went within the chamber, and knelt beside the bed on which alcestis had lain, and thought of his terrible loss. heracles, after the bath, put on the brightly colored tunic that the servants of admetus brought him. he put a wreath upon his head and sat down to the feast. it was a pity, he thought, that admetus was not feasting with him. but this was only the first of many feasts. and thinking of what companionship he would have with admetus, heracles left the feasting hall and came to where the servants were standing about in silence. "why is the house of admetus so hushed to-day?" heracles asked. "it is because of what is befalling," said one of the servants. "ah, the sacrifice that the king is making," said heracles. "to what god is that sacrifice due?" "to the god of the underworld," said the servant. "death is coming to alcestis the queen where she lies on a bier in the temple of the gods." then the servant told heracles the story of how alcestis had taken her husband's place, going in his stead with death. heracles thought upon the sorrow of his friend, and of the great sacrifice that his wife was making for him. how noble it was of admetus to bring him into his house and give entertainment to him while such sorrow was upon him. and then heracles felt that another labor was before him. "i have dragged up from the underworld," he thought, "the hound that guards those whom death brings down into the realm of the god of the underworld. why should i not strive with death? and what a noble thing it would be to bring back this faithful woman to her house and to her husband! this is a labor that has not been laid upon me, and it is a labor i will undertake." so heracles said to himself. he left the palace of admetus and he went to the temple of the gods. he stood inside the temple and he saw the bier on which alcestis was laid. he looked upon the queen. death had not touched her yet, although she lay so still and so silent. heracles would watch beside her and strive with death for her. heracles watched and death came. when death entered the temple heracles laid hands upon him. death had never been gripped by mortal hands and he strode on as if that grip meant nothing to him. but then he had to grip heracles. in death's grip there was a strength beyond strength. and upon heracles a dreadful sense of loss came as death laid hands upon him a sense of the loss of light and the loss of breath and the loss of movement. but heracles struggled with death although his breath went and his strength seemed to go from him. he held that stony body to him, and the cold of that body went through him, and its stoniness seemed to turn his bones to stone, but still heracles strove with him, and at last he overthrew him and he held death down upon the ground. "now you are held by me, death," cried heracles. "you are held by me, and the god of the underworld will be--made angry because you cannot go about his business--either this business or any other business. you are held by me, death, and you will not be let go unless you promise to go forth from this temple without bringing one with you." and death, knowing that heracles could hold him there, and that the business of the god of the underworld would be left undone if he were held, promised that he would leave the temple without bringing one with him. then heracles took his grip off death, and that stony shape went from the temple. soon a flush came into the face of alcestis as heracles watched over her. soon she arose from the bier on which she had been laid. she called out to admetus, and heracles went to her and spoke to her, telling her that he would bring her back to her husband's house. iii admetus left the chamber where his wife had lain and stood before the door of his palace. dawn was coming, and as he looked toward the temple he saw heracles coming to the palace. a woman came with him. she was veiled, and admetus could not see her features. "admetus," heracles said, when he came before him, "admetus, there is something i would have you do for me. here is a woman whom i am bringing back to her husband. i won her from an enemy. will you not take her into your house while i am away on a journey?" "you cannot ask me to do this, heracles," said admetus. "no woman may come into the house where alcestis, only yesterday, had her life." "for my sake take her into your house," said heracles. "come now, admetus, take this woman by the hand." a pang came to admetus as he looked at the woman who stood beside heracles and saw that she was the same stature as his lost wife. he thought that he could not bear to take her hand. but heracles pleaded with him, and he took her by the hand. "now take her across your threshold, admetus," said heracles. hardly could admetus bear to do this--hardly could he bear to think of a strange woman being in his house and his own wife gone with death. but heracles pleaded with him, and by the hand he held he drew the woman across his threshold. "now raise her veil, admetus," said heracles. "this i cannot do," said admetus. "i have had pangs enough. how can i look upon a woman's face and remind myself that i cannot look upon alcestis's face ever again?" "raise her veil, admetus," said heracles. then admetus raised the veil of the woman he had taken across the threshold of his house. he saw the face of alcestis. he looked again upon his wife brought back from the grip of death by heracles, the son of zeus. and then a deeper joy than he had ever known came to admetus. once more his wife was with him, and admetus the friend of apollo and the friend of heracles had all that he cared to have. vi. how orpheus the minstrel went down to the world of the dead many were the minstrels who, in the early days, went through the world, telling to men the stories of the gods, telling of their wars and their births. of all these minstrels none was so famous as orpheus who had gone with the argonauts; none could tell truer things about the gods, for he himself was half divine. but a great grief came to orpheus, a grief that stopped his singing and his playing upon the lyre. his young wife eurydice was taken from him. one day, walking in the garden, she was bitten on the heel by a serpent, and straightway she went down to the world of the dead. then everything in this world was dark and bitter for the minstrel orpheus; sleep would not come to him, and for him food had no taste. then orpheus said: "i will do that which no mortal has ever done before; i will do that which even the immortals might shrink from doing: i will go down into the world of the dead, and i will bring back to the living and to the light my bride eurydice." then orpheus went on his way to the valley of acherusia which goes down, down into the world of the dead. he would never have found his way to that valley if the trees had not shown him the way. for as he went along orpheus played upon his lyre and sang, and the trees heard his song and they were moved by his grief, and with their arms and their heads they showed him the way to the deep, deep valley of acherusia. down, down by winding paths through that deepest and most shadowy of all valleys orpheus went. he came at last to the great gate that opens upon the world of the dead. and the silent guards who keep watch there for the rulers of the dead were affrighted when they saw a living being, and they would not let orpheus approach the gate. but the minstrel, knowing the reason for their fear, said: "i am not heracles come again to drag up from the world of the dead your three-headed dog cerberus. i am orpheus, and all that my hands can do is to make music upon my lyre." and then he took the lyre in his hands and played upon it. as he played, the silent watchers gathered around him, leaving the gate unguarded. and as he played the rulers of the dead came forth, aidoneus and persephone, and listened to the words of the living man. "the cause of my coming through the dark and fearful ways," sang orpheus, "is to strive to gain a fairer fate for eurydice, my bride. all that is above must come down to you at last, o rulers of the most lasting world. but before her time has eurydice been brought here. i have desired strength to endure her loss, but i cannot endure it. and i come before you, aidoneus and persephone, brought here by love." when orpheus said the name of love, persephone, the queen of the dead, bowed her young head, and bearded aidoneus, the king, bowed his head also. persephone remembered how demeter, her mother, had sought her all through the world, and she remembered the touch of her mother's tears upon her face. and aidoneus remembered how his love for persephone had led him to carry her away from the valley in the upper world where she had been gathering flowers. he and persephone bowed their heads and stood aside, and orpheus went through the gate and came amongst the dead. still upon his lyre he played. tantalus--who, for his crimes, had been condemned to stand up to his neck in water and yet never be able to assuage his thirst--tantalus heard, and for a while did not strive to put his lips toward the water that ever flowed away from him; sisyphus--who had been condemned to roll up a hill a stone that ever rolled back sisyphus heard the music that orpheus played, and for a while he sat still upon his stone. and even those dread ones who bring to the dead the memories of all their crimes and all their faults, even the eumenides had their cheeks wet with tears. in the throng of the newly come dead orpheus saw eurydice. she looked upon her husband, but she had not the power to come near him. but slowly she came when aidoneus called her. then with joy orpheus took her hands. it would be granted them--no mortal ever gained such privilege before to leave, both together, the world of the dead, and to abide for another space in the world of the living. one condition there would be--that on their way up through the valley of acherusia neither orpheus nor eurydice should look back. they went through the gate and came amongst the watchers that are around the portals. these showed them the path that went up through the valley of acherusia. that way they went, orpheus and eurydice, he going before her. up and up through the darkened ways they went, orpheus knowing, that eurydice was behind him, but never looking back upon her. but as he went, his heart was filled with things to tell--how the trees were blossoming in the garden she had left; how the water was sparkling in the fountain; how the doors of the house stood open, and how they, sitting together, would watch the sunlight on the laurel bushes. all these things were in his heart to tell her, to tell her who came behind him, silent and unseen. and now they were nearing the place where the valley of acherusia opened on the world of the living. orpheus looked on the blue of the sky. a white-winged bird flew by. orpheus turned around and cried, "o eurydice, look upon the world that i have won you back to!" he turned to say this to her. he saw her with her long dark hair and pale face. he held out his arms to clasp her. but in that instant she slipped back into the depths of the valley. and all he heard spoken was a single word, "farewell!" long, long had it taken eurydice to climb so far, but in the moment of his turning around she had fallen back to her place amongst the dead. down through the valley of acherusia orpheus went again. again he came before the watchers of the gate. but now he was not looked at nor listened to, and, hopeless, he had to return to the world of the living. the birds were his friends now, and the trees and the stones. the birds flew around him and mourned with him; the trees and stones often followed him, moved by the music of his lyre. but a savage band slew orpheus and threw his severed head and his lyre into the river hebrus. it is said by the poets that while they floated in midstream the lyre gave out some mournful notes and the head of orpheus answered the notes with song. and now that he was no longer to be counted with the living, orpheus went down to the world of the dead, not going now by that steep descent through the valley of acherusia, but going down straightway. the silent watchers let him pass, and he went amongst the dead and saw his eurydice in the throng. again they were together, orpheus and eurydice, and as they went through the place that king aidoneus ruled over, they had no fear of looking back, one upon the other. vii. jason and medea jason and medea, unable to win to iolcus, staved at corinth, at the court of king creon. creon was proud to have jason in his city, but of medea the king was fearful, for he had heard how she had brought about the death of apsyrtus, her brother. medea wearied of this long waiting in the palace of king creon. a longing came upon her to exercise her powers of enchantment. she did not forget what queen arete had said to her--that if she wished to appease the wrath of the gods she should have no more to do with enchantments. she did not forget this, but still there grew in her a longing to use all her powers of enchantment. and jason, at the court of king creon, had his longings, too. he longed to enter iolcus and to show the people the golden fleece that he had won; he longed to destroy pelias, the murderer of his mother and father; above all he longed to be a king, and to rule in the kingdom that cretheus had founded. once jason spoke to medea of his longing. "o jason," medea said, "i have done many things for thee and this thing also i will do. i will go into iolcus, and by my enchantments i will make clear the way for the return of the argo and for thy return with thy comrades-yea, and for thy coming to the kingship, o jason." he should have remembered then the words of queen arete to medea, but the longing that he had for his triumph and his revenge was in the way of his remembering. he said, "o medea, help me in this with all thine enchantments and thou wilt be more dear to me than ever before thou wert." medea then went forth from the palace of king creon and she made more terrible spells than ever she had made in colchis. all night she stayed in a tangled place weaving her spells. dawn came, and she knew that the spells she had woven had not been in vain, for beside her there stood a car that was drawn by dragons. medea the enchantress had never looked on these dragon shapes before. when she looked upon them now she was fearful of them. but then she said to herself, "i am medea, and i would be a greater enchantress and a more cunning woman than i have been, and what i have thought of, that will i carry out." she mounted the car drawn by the dragons, and in the first light of the day she went from corinth. to the places where grew the herbs of magic medea journeyed in her dragon-drawn car--to the mountains ossa, pelion, oethrys, pindus, and olympus; then to the rivers apidanus, enipeus, and peneus. she gathered herbs on the mountains and grasses on the rivers' banks; some she plucked up by the roots and some she cut with the curved blade of a knife. when she had gathered these herbs and grasses she went back to corinth on her dragon-drawn car. then jason saw her; pale and drawn was her face, and her eyes were strange and gleaming. he saw her standing by the car drawn by the dragons, and a terror of medea came into his mind. he went toward her, but in a harsh voice she bade him not come near to disturb the brewing that she was going to begin. jason turned away. as he went toward the palace he saw glauce, king creon's daughter; the maiden was coming from the well and she carried a pitcher of water. he thought how fair glauce looked in the light of the morning, how the wind played with her hair and her garments, and how far away she was from witcheries and enchantments. as for medea, she placed in a heap beside her the magic herbs and grasses she had gathered. then she put them in a bronze pot and boiled them in water from the stream. soon froth came on the boiling, and medea stirred the pot with a withered branch of an apple tree. the branch was withered it was indeed no more than a dry stick, but as she stirred the herbs and grasses with it, first leaves, then flowers, and lastly, bright gleaming apples came on it. and when the pot boiled over and drops from it fell upon the ground, there grew up out of the dry earth soft grasses and flowers. such was the power of renewal that was in the magical brew that medea had made. she filled a phial with the liquid she had brewed, and she scattered the rest in the wild places of the garden. then, taking the phial and the apples that had grown on the withered branch, she mounted the car drawn by the dragons, and she went once more from corinth. on she journeyed in her dragon-drawn car until she came to a place that was near to iolcus. there the dragons descended. they had come to a dark pool. medea, making herself naked, stood in that dark pool. for a while she looked down upon herself, seeing in the dark water her white body and her lovely hair. then she bathed herself in the water. soon a dread change came over her: she saw her hair become scant and gray, and she saw her body become bent and withered. she stepped out of the pool a withered and witchlike woman; when she dressed herself the rich clothes that she had worn before hung loosely upon her, and she looked the more forbidding because of them. she bade the dragons go, and they flew through the air with the empty car. then she hid in her dress the phial with the liquid she had brewed and, the apples that had grown upon the withered branch. she picked up a stick to lean upon, and with the gait of an ancient woman she went hobbling upon the road to iolcus. on the streets of the city the fierce fighting men that pelias had brought down from the mountains showed themselves; few of the men or women of the city showed themselves even in the daytime. medea went through the city and to the palace of king pelias. but no one might enter there, and the guards laid hands upon her and held her. medea did not struggle with them. she drew from the folds of her dress one of the gleaming apples that she carried and she gave it to one of the guards. "it is for king pelias," she said. "give the apple to him and then do with me as the king would have you do." the guards brought the gleaming apple to the king. when he had taken it into his hand and had smelled its fragrance, old trembling pelias asked where the apple had come from. the guards told him it had been brought by an ancient woman who was now outside seated on a stone in the courtyard. he looked on the shining apple and he felt its fragrance and he could not help thinking, old trembling pelias, that this apple might be the means of bringing him back to the fullness of health and courage that he had had before. he sent for the ancient woman who had brought it that she might tell him where it had come from and who it was that had sent it to him. then the guards brought medea before him. she saw an old man, white-faced and trembling, with shaking hands and eyes that looked on her fearfully. "who are you," he asked, "and from whence came the apple that you had them bring me?" medea, standing before him, looked a withered and shrunken beldame, a woman bent with years, but yet with eyes that were bright and living. she came near him and she said: "the apple, o king, came from the garden that is watched over by the daughters of the evening land. he who eats it has a little of the weight of old age taken from him. but things more wonderful even than the shining apples grow in that far garden. there are plants there the juices of which make youthful again all aged and failing things. the apple would bring you a little way toward the vigor of your prime. but the juices i have can bring you to a time more wonderful--back even to the strength and the glory of your youth." when the king heard her say this a light came into his heavy eyes, and his hands caught medea and drew her to him. "who are you?" he cried, "who speak of the garden watched over by the daughters of the evening land? who are you who speak of juices that can bring back one to the strength and glory of his youth?" medea answered: "i am a woman who has known many and great griefs, o king. my griefs have brought me through the world. many have searched for the garden watched over by the daughters of the evening land, but i came to it unthinkingly, and without wanting them i gathered the gleaming apples and took from the plants there the juices that can bring youth back." pelias said: "if you have been able to come by those juices, how is it that you remain in woeful age and decrepitude?" she said: "because of my many griefs, king, i would not renew my life. i would be ever nearer death and the end of all things. but you are a king and have all things you desire at your hand--beauty and state and power. surely if any one would desire it, you would desire to have youth back to you." pelias, when he heard her say this, knew that besides youth there was nothing that he desired. after crimes that had gone through the whole of his manhood he had secured for himself the kingdom that cretheus had founded. but old age had come on him, and the weakness of old age, and the power he had won was falling from his hands. he would be overthrown in his weakness, or else he would soon come to die, and there would be an end then to his name and to his kingship. how fortunate above all kings he would be, he thought, if it could be that some one should come to him with juices that would renew his youth! he looked longingly into the eyes of the ancient-seeming woman before him, and he said: "how is it that you show no gains from the juices that you speak of? you are old and in woeful decrepitude. even if you would not win back to youth you could have got riches and state for that which you say you possess." then medea said: "i have lost so much and have suffered so much that i would not have youth back at the price of facing the years. i would sink down to the quiet of the grave. but i hope for some ease before i die--for the ease that is in king's houses, with good food to eat, and rest, and servants to wait upon one's aged body. these are the things i desire, o pelias, even as you desire youth. you can give me such things, and i have come to you who desire youth eagerly rather than to kings who have a less eager desire for it. to you i will give the juices that bring one back to the strength and the glory of youth." pelias said: "i have only your word for it that you possess these juices. many there are who come and say deceiving things to a king." said medea: "let there be no more words between us, o king. to-morrow i will show you the virtue of the juices i have brought with me. have a great vat prepared--a vat that a man could lay himself in with the water covering him. have this vat filled with water, and bring to it the oldest creature you can get--a ram or a goat that is the oldest of their flock. do this, o king, and you will be shown a thing to wonder at and to be hopeful over." so medea said, and then she turned around and left the king's presence. pelias called to his guards and he bade them take the woman into their charge and treat her considerately. the guards took medea away. then all day the king mused on what had been told him and a wild hope kept beating about his heart. he had the servants prepare a great vat in the lower chambers, and he had his shepherd bring him a ram that was the oldest in the flock. only medea was permitted to come into that chamber with the king; the ways to it were guarded, and all that took place in it was secret. medea was brought to the closed door by her guard. she opened it and she saw the king there and the vat already prepared; she saw a ram tethered near the vat. medea looked upon the king. in the light of the torches his face was white and fierce and his mouth moved gaspingly. she spoke to him quietly, and said: "there is no need for you to hear me speak. you will watch a great miracle, for behold! the ram which is the oldest and feeblest in the flock will become young and invigorated when it comes forth from this vat." she untethered the ram, and with the help of pelias drew it to the vat. this was not hard to do, for the beast was very feeble; its feet could hardly bear it upright, its wool was yellow and stayed only in patches on its shrunken body. easily the beast was forced into the vat. then medea drew the phial out of her bosom and poured into the water some of the brew she had made in creon's garden in corinth. the water in the vat took on a strange bubbling, and the ram sank down. then medea, standing beside the vat, sang an incantation. "o earth," she sang, "o earth who dost provide wise men with potent herbs, o earth help me now. i am she who can drive the clouds; i am she who can dispel the winds; i am she who can break the jaws of serpents with my incantations; i am she who can uproot living trees and rocks; who can make the mountains shake; who can bring the ghosts from their tombs. o earth, help me now." at this strange incantation the mixture in the vat boiled and bubbled more and more. then the boiling and bubbling ceased. up to the surface came the ram. medea helped it to struggle out of the vat, and then it turned and smote the vat with its head. pelias took down a torch and stood before the beast. vigorous indeed was the ram, and its wool was white and grew evenly upon it. they could not tether it again, and when the servants were brought into the chamber it took two of them to drag away the ram. the king was most eager to enter the vat and have medea put in the brew and speak the incantation over it. but medea bade him wait until the morrow. all night the king lay awake, thinking of how he might regain his youth and his strength and be secure and triumphant thereafter. at the first light he sent for medea and he told her that he would have the vat made ready and that he would go into it that night. medea looked upon him, and the helplessness that he showed made her want to work a greater evil upon him, or, if not upon him, upon his house. how soon it would have reached its end, all her plot for the destruction of this king! but she would leave in the king's house a misery that would not have an end so soon. so she said to the king: "i would say the incantation over a beast of the field, but over a king i could not say it. let those of your own blood be with you when you enter the vat that will bring such change to you. have your daughters there. i will give them the juice to mix in the vat, and i will teach them the incantation that has to be said." so she said, and she made pelias consent to having his daughters and not medea in the chamber of the vat. they were sent for and they came before medea, the daughters of king pelias. they were women who had been borne down by the tyranny of their father; they stood before him now, two dim-eyed creatures, very feeble and fearful. to them medea gave the phial that had in it the liquid to mix in the vat; also she taught them the words of the incantation, but she taught them to use these words wrongly. the vat was prepared in the lower chambers; pelias and his daughters went there, and the chamber was guarded, and what happened there was in secret. pelias went into the vat; the brew was thrown into it, and the vat boiled and bubbled as before. pelias sank down in it. over him then his daughters said the magic words as medea had taught them. pelias sank down, but he did not rise again. the hours went past and the morning came, and the daughters of king pelias raised frightened laments. over the sides of the vat the mixture boiled and bubbled, and pelias was to be seen at the bottom with his limbs stiffened in death. then the guards came, and they took king pelias out of the vat and left him in his royal chamber. the word went through the palace that the king was dead. there was a hush in the palace then, but not the hush of grief. one by one servants and servitors stole away from the palace that was hated by all. then there was clatter in the streets as the fierce fighting men from the mountains galloped away with what plunder they could seize. and through all this the daughters of king pelias sat crouching in fear above the body of their father. and medea, still an ancient woman seemingly, went through the crowds that now came on the streets of the city. she told those she went amongst that the son of Æson was alive and would soon be in their midst. hearing this the men of the city formed a council of elders to rule the people until jason's coming. in such way medea brought about the end of king pelias's reign. in triumph she went through the city. but as she was passing the temple her dress was caught and held, and turning around she faced the ancient priestess of artemis, iphias. "thou art Æetes's daughter," iphias said, "who in deceit didst come into iolcus. woe to thee and woe to jason for what thou hast done this day! not for the slaying of pelias art thou blameworthy, but for the misery that thou hast brought upon his daughters by bringing them into the guilt of the slaying. go from the city, daughter of king Ætes; never, never wilt thou come back into it." but little heed did medea pay to the ancient priestess, iphias. still in the guise of an old woman she went through the streets of the city, and out through the gate and along the highway that led from iolcus. to that dark pool she came where she had bathed herself before. but now she did not step into the pool nor pour its water over her shrinking flesh; instead she built up two altars of green sods an altar to youth and an altar to hecate, queen of the witches; she wreathed them with green boughs from the forest, and she prayed before each. then she made herself naked, and she anointed herself with the brew she had made from the magical herbs and grasses. all marks of age and decrepitude left her, and when she stood over the dark pool and looked down on herself she saw that her body was white and shapely as before, and that her hair was soft and lovely. she stayed all night between the tangled wood and the dark pool, and with the first light the car drawn by the scaly dragons came to her. she mounted the car, and she journeyed back to corinth. into jason's mind a fear of medea had come since the hour when he had seen her mount the car drawn by the scaly dragons. he could not think of her any more as the one who had been his companion on the argo. he thought of her as one who could help him and do wonderful things for him, but not as one whom he could talk softly and lovingly to. ah, but if jason had thought less of his kingdom and less of his triumphing with the fleece of gold, medea would not have had the dragons come to her. and now that his love for medea had altered, jason noted the loveliness of another--of glauce, the daughter of creon, the king of corinth. and glauce, who had red lips and the eyes of a child, saw in jason who had brought the golden fleece out of colchis the image of every hero she had heard about in stories. creon, the king, often brought jason and glauce together, for his hope was that the hero would wed his daughter and stay in corinth and strengthen his kingdom. he thought that medea, that strange woman, could not keep a companionship with jason. two were walking in the king's garden, and they were jason and glauce. a shadow fell between them, and when jason looked up he saw medea's dragon car. down flew the dragons, and medea came from the car and stood between jason and the princess. angrily she spoke to him. "i have made the kingdom ready for your return," she said, "but if you would go there you must first let me deal in my own way with this pretty maiden." and so fiercely did medea look upon her that glance shrank back and clung to jason for protection. "o, jason," she cried, "thou didst say that i am such a one as thou didst dream of when in the forest with chiron, before the adventure of the golden fleece drew thee away from the grecian lands. oh, save me now from the power of her who comes in the dragon car." and jason said: "i said all that thou hast said, and i will protect thee, o glauce." and then medea thought of the king's house she had left for jason, and of the brother whom she had let be slain, and of the plot she had carried out to bring jason back to iolcus, and a great fury came over her. in her hand she took foam from the jaws of the dragons, and she cast the foam upon glauce, and the princess fell back into the arms of jason with the dragon foam burning into her. then, seeing in his eyes that he had forgotten all that he owed to her the winning of the golden fleece, and the safety of argo, and the destruction of the power of king pelias seeing in his eyes that jason had forgotten all this, medea went into her dragon-borne car and spoke the words that made the scaly dragons bear her aloft. she flew from corinth, leaving jason in king creon's garden with glauce dying in his arms. he lifted her up and laid her upon a bed, but even as her friends came around her the daughter of king creon died. and jason? for long he stayed in corinth, a famous man indeed, but one sorrowful and alone. but again there grew in him the desire to rule and to have possessions. he called around him again the men whose home was in iolcus--those who had followed him as bright-eyed youths when he first proclaimed his purpose of winning the fleece of gold. he called them around him, and he led them on board the argo. once more they lifted sails, and once more they took the argo into the open sea. toward iolcus they sailed; their passage was fortunate, and in a short time they brought the argo safely into the harbor of pagasae. oh, happy were the crowds that came thronging to see the ship that had the famous fleece of gold upon her masthead, and green and sweet smelling were the garlands that the people brought to wreathe the heads of jason and his companions! jason looked upon the throngs, and he thought that much had gone from him, but he thought that whatever else had gone something remained to him--to be a king and a great ruler over a people. and so jason came back to iolcus. the argo he made a blazing pile of in sacrifice to poseidon, the god of the sea. the golden fleece he hung in the temple of the gods. then he took up the rule of the kingdom that cretheus had founded, and he became the greatest of the kings of greece. and to iolcus there came, year after year, young men who would look upon the gleaming thing that was hung there in the temple of the gods. and as they looked upon it, young man after young man, the thought would come to each that he would make himself strong enough and heroic enough to win for his country something as precious as jason's golden fleece. and for all their lives they kept in mind the words that jason had inscribed upon a pillar that was placed beside the fleece of gold--the words that triton spoke to the argonauts when they were fain to win their way out of the inland sea:-- that is the outlet to the sea, where the deep water lies unmoved and dark; on each side roll white breakers with shining crests; and the way between for your passage out is narrow. but go in joy, and as for labor let there be no grieving that limbs in youthful vigor should still toil. none of cities*** transcribed from the longmans, green, and co. edition by david price, email ccx @coventry.ac.uk tales of troy: ulysses the sacker of cities by andrew lang contents: the boyhood and parents of ulysses how people lived in the time of ulysses the wooing of helen of the fair hands the stealing of helen trojan victories battle at the ships the slaying and avenging of patroclus the cruelty of achilles, and the ransoming of hector how ulysses stole the luck of troy the battles with the amazons and memnon--the death of achilles ulysses sails to seek the son of achilles.--the valour of eurypylus the slaying of paris how ulysses invented the device of the horse of tree the end of troy and the saving of helen the boyhood and parents of ulysses long ago, in a little island called ithaca, on the west coast of greece, there lived a king named laertes. his kingdom was small and mountainous. people used to say that ithaca "lay like a shield upon the sea," which sounds as if it were a flat country. but in those times shields were very large, and rose at the middle into two peaks with a hollow between them, so that ithaca, seen far off in the sea, with her two chief mountain peaks, and a cloven valley between them, looked exactly like a shield. the country was so rough that men kept no horses, for, at that time, people drove, standing up in little light chariots with two horses; they never rode, and there was no cavalry in battle: men fought from chariots. when ulysses, the son of laertes, king of ithaca grew up, he never fought from a chariot, for he had none, but always on foot. if there were no horses in ithaca, there was plenty of cattle. the father of ulysses had flocks of sheep, and herds of swine, and wild goats, deer, and hares lived in the hills and in the plains. the sea was full of fish of many sorts, which men caught with nets, and with rod and line and hook. thus ithaca was a good island to live in. the summer was long, and there was hardly any winter; only a few cold weeks, and then the swallows came back, and the plains were like a garden, all covered with wild flowers--violets, lilies, narcissus, and roses. with the blue sky and the blue sea, the island was beautiful. white temples stood on the shores; and the nymphs, a sort of fairies, had their little shrines built of stone, with wild rose-bushes hanging over them. other islands lay within sight, crowned with mountains, stretching away, one behind the other, into the sunset. ulysses in the course of his life saw many rich countries, and great cities of men, but, wherever he was, his heart was always in the little isle of ithaca, where he had learned how to row, and how to sail a boat, and how to shoot with bow and arrow, and to hunt boars and stags, and manage his hounds. the mother of ulysses was called anticleia: she was the daughter of king autolycus, who lived near parnassus, a mountain on the mainland. this king autolycus was the most cunning of men. he was a master thief, and could steal a man's pillow from under his head, but he does not seem to have been thought worse of for this. the greeks had a god of thieves, named hermes, whom autolycus worshipped, and people thought more good of his cunning tricks than harm of his dishonesty. perhaps these tricks of his were only practised for amusement; however that may be, ulysses became as artful as his grandfather; he was both the bravest and the most cunning of men, but ulysses never stole things, except once, as we shall hear, from the enemy in time of war. he showed his cunning in stratagems of war, and in many strange escapes from giants and man-eaters. soon after ulysses was born, his grandfather came to see his mother and father in ithaca. he was sitting at supper when the nurse of ulysses, whose name was eurycleia, brought in the baby, and set him on the knees of autolycus, saying, "find a name for your grandson, for he is a child of many prayers." "i am very angry with many men and women in the world," said autolycus, "so let the child's name be _a man of wrath_," which, in greek, was odysseus. so the child was called odysseus by his own people, but the name was changed into ulysses, and we shall call him ulysses. we do not know much about ulysses when he was a little boy, except that he used to run about the garden with his father, asking questions, and begging that he might have fruit trees "for his very own." he was a great pet, for his parents had no other son, so his father gave him thirteen pear trees, and forty fig trees, and promised him fifty rows of vines, all covered with grapes, which he could eat when he liked, without asking leave of the gardener. so he was not tempted to steal fruit, like his grandfather. when autolycus gave ulysses his name, he said that he must come to stay with him, when he was a big boy, and he would get splendid presents. ulysses was told about this, so, when he was a tall lad, he crossed the sea and drove in his chariot to the old man's house on mount parnassus. everybody welcomed him, and next day his uncles and cousins and he went out to hunt a fierce wild boar, early in the morning. probably ulysses took his own dog, named argos, the best of hounds, of which we shall hear again, long afterwards, for the dog lived to be very old. soon the hounds came on the scent of a wild boar, and after them the men went, with spears in their hands, and ulysses ran foremost, for he was already the swiftest runner in greece. he came on a great boar lying in a tangled thicket of boughs and bracken, a dark place where the sun never shone, nor could the rain pierce through. then the noise of the men's shouts and the barking of the dogs awakened the boar, and up he sprang, bristling all over his back, and with fire shining from his eyes. in rushed ulysses first of all, with his spear raised to strike, but the boar was too quick for him, and ran in, and drove his sharp tusk sideways, ripping up the thigh of ulysses. but the boar's tusk missed the bone, and ulysses sent his sharp spear into the beast's right shoulder, and the spear went clean through, and the boar fell dead, with a loud cry. the uncles of ulysses bound up his wound carefully, and sang a magical song over it, as the french soldiers wanted to do to joan of arc when the arrow pierced her shoulder at the siege of orleans. then the blood ceased to flow, and soon ulysses was quite healed of his wound. they thought that he would be a good warrior, and gave him splendid presents, and when he went home again he told all that had happened to his father and mother, and his nurse, eurycleia. but there was always a long white mark or scar above his left knee, and about that scar we shall hear again, many years afterwards. how people lived in the time of ulysses when ulysses was a young man he wished to marry a princess of his own rank. now there were at that time many kings in greece, and you must be told how they lived. each king had his own little kingdom, with his chief town, walled with huge walls of enormous stone. many of these walls are still standing, though the grass has grown over the ruins of most of them, and in later years, men believed that those walls must have been built by giants, the stones are so enormous. each king had nobles under him, rich men, and all had their palaces, each with its courtyard, and its long hall, where the fire burned in the midst, and the king and queen sat beside it on high thrones, between the four chief carved pillars that held up the roof. the thrones were made of cedar wood and ivory, inlaid with gold, and there were many other chairs and small tables for guests, and the walls and doors were covered with bronze plates, and gold and silver, and sheets of blue glass. sometimes they were painted with pictures of bull hunts, and a few of these pictures may still be seen. at night torches were lit, and placed in the hands of golden figures of boys, but all the smoke of fire and torches escaped by a hole in the roof, and made the ceiling black. on the walls hung swords and spears and helmets and shields, which needed to be often cleaned from the stains of the smoke. the minstrel or poet sat beside the king and queen, and, after supper he struck his harp, and sang stories of old wars. at night the king and queen slept in their own place, and the women in their own rooms; the princesses had their chambers upstairs, and the young princes had each his room built separate in the courtyard. there were bath rooms with polished baths, where guests were taken when they arrived dirty from a journey. the guests lay at night on beds in the portico, for the climate was warm. there were plenty of servants, who were usually slaves taken in war, but they were very kindly treated, and were friendly with their masters. no coined money was used; people paid for things in cattle, or in weighed pieces of gold. rich men had plenty of gold cups, and gold-hilted swords, and bracelets, and brooches. the kings were the leaders in war and judges in peace, and did sacrifices to the gods, killing cattle and swine and sheep, on which they afterwards dined. they dressed in a simple way, in a long smock of linen or silk, which fell almost to the feet, but was tucked up into a belt round the waist, and worn longer or shorter, as they happened to choose. where it needed fastening at the throat, golden brooches were used, beautifully made, with safety pins. this garment was much like the plaid that the highlanders used to wear, with its belt and brooches. over it the greeks wore great cloaks of woollen cloth when the weather was cold, but these they did not use in battle. they fastened their breastplates, in war, over their smocks, and had other armour covering the lower parts of the body, and leg armour called "greaves"; while the great shield which guarded the whole body from throat to ankles was carried by a broad belt slung round the neck. the sword was worn in another belt, crossing the shield belt. they had light shoes in peace, and higher and heavier boots in war, or for walking across country. the women wore the smock, with more brooches and jewels than the men; and had head coverings, with veils, and mantles over all, and necklaces of gold and amber, earrings, and bracelets of gold or of bronze. the colours of their dresses were various, chiefly white and purple; and, when in mourning, they wore very dark blue, not black. all the armour, and the sword blades and spearheads were made, not of steel or iron, but of bronze, a mixture of copper and tin. the shields were made of several thicknesses of leather, with a plating of bronze above; tools, such as axes and ploughshares, were either of iron or bronze; and so were the blades of knives and daggers. to us the houses and way of living would have seemed very splendid, and also, in some ways, rather rough. the palace floors, at least in the house of ulysses, were littered with bones and feet of the oxen slain for food, but this happened when ulysses had been long from home. the floor of the hall in the house of ulysses was not boarded with planks, or paved with stone: it was made of clay; for he was a poor king of small islands. the cooking was coarse: a pig or sheep was killed, roasted and eaten immediately. we never hear of boiling meat, and though people probably ate fish, we do not hear of their doing so, except when no meat could be procured. still some people must have liked them; for in the pictures that were painted or cut in precious stones in these times we see the half-naked fisherman walking home, carrying large fish. the people were wonderful workers of gold and bronze. hundreds of their golden jewels have been found in their graves, but probably these were made and buried two or three centuries before the time of ulysses. the dagger blades had pictures of fights with lions, and of flowers, inlaid on them, in gold of various colours, and in silver; nothing so beautiful is made now. there are figures of men hunting bulls on some of the gold cups, and these are wonderfully life-like. the vases and pots of earthenware were painted in charming patterns: in short, it was a splendid world to live in. the people believed in many gods, male and female, under the chief god, zeus. the gods were thought to be taller than men, and immortal, and to live in much the same way as men did, eating, drinking, and sleeping in glorious palaces. though they were supposed to reward good men, and to punish people who broke their oaths and were unkind to strangers, there were many stories told in which the gods were fickle, cruel, selfish, and set very bad examples to men. how far these stories were believed is not sure; it is certain that "all men felt a need of the gods," and thought that they were pleased by good actions and displeased by evil. yet, when a man felt that his behaviour had been bad, he often threw the blame on the gods, and said that they had misled him, which really meant no more than that "he could not help it." there was a curious custom by which the princes bought wives from the fathers of the princesses, giving cattle and gold, and bronze and iron, but sometimes a prince got a wife as the reward for some very brave action. a man would not give his daughter to a wooer whom she did not love, even if he offered the highest price, at least this must have been the general rule, for husbands and wives were very fond of each other, and of their children, and husbands always allowed their wives to rule the house, and give their advice on everything. it was thought a very wicked thing for a woman to like another man better than her husband, and there were few such wives, but among them was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. the wooing of helen of the fair hands this was the way in which people lived when ulysses was young, and wished to be married. the worst thing in the way of life was that the greatest and most beautiful princesses might be taken prisoners, and carried off as slaves to the towns of the men who had killed their fathers and husbands. now at that time one lady was far the fairest in the world: namely, helen, daughter of king tyndarus. every young prince heard of her and desired to marry her; so her father invited them all to his palace, and entertained them, and found out what they would give. among the rest ulysses went, but his father had a little kingdom, a rough island, with others near it, and ulysses had not a good chance. he was not tall; though very strong and active, he was a short man with broad shoulders, but his face was handsome, and, like all the princes, he wore long yellow hair, clustering like a hyacinth flower. his manner was rather hesitating, and he seemed to speak very slowly at first, though afterwards his words came freely. he was good at everything a man can do; he could plough, and build houses, and make ships, and he was the best archer in greece, except one, and could bend the great bow of a dead king, eurytus, which no other man could string. but he had no horses, and had no great train of followers; and, in short, neither helen nor her father thought of choosing ulysses for her husband out of so many tall, handsome young princes, glittering with gold ornaments. still, helen was very kind to ulysses, and there was great friendship between them, which was fortunate for her in the end. tyndarus first made all the princes take an oath that they would stand by the prince whom he chose, and would fight for him in all his quarrels. then he named for her husband menelaus, king of lacedaemon. he was a very brave man, but not one of the strongest; he was not such a fighter as the gigantic aias, the tallest and strongest of men; or as diomede, the friend of ulysses; or as his own brother, agamemnon, the king of the rich city of mycenae, who was chief over all other princes, and general of the whole army in war. the great lions carved in stone that seemed to guard his city are still standing above the gate through which agamemnon used to drive his chariot. the man who proved to be the best fighter of all, achilles, was not among the lovers of helen, for he was still a boy, and his mother, thetis of the silver feet, a goddess of the sea, had sent him to be brought up as a girl, among the daughters of lycomedes of scyros, in an island far away. thetis did this because achilles was her only child, and there was a prophecy that, if he went to the wars, he would win the greatest glory, but die very young, and never see his mother again. she thought that if war broke out he would not be found hiding in girl's dress, among girls, far away. so at last, after thinking over the matter for long, tyndarus gave fair helen to menelaus, the rich king of lacedaemon; and her twin sister clytaemnestra, who was also very beautiful, was given to king agamemnon, the chief over all the princes. they all lived very happily together at first, but not for long. in the meantime king tyndarus spoke to his brother icarius, who had a daughter named penelope. she also was very pretty, but not nearly so beautiful as her cousin, fair helen, and we know that penelope was not very fond of her cousin. icarius, admiring the strength and wisdom of ulysses, gave him his daughter penelope to be his wife, and ulysses loved her very dearly, no man and wife were ever dearer to each other. they went away together to rocky ithaca, and perhaps penelope was not sorry that a wide sea lay between her home and that of helen; for helen was not only the fairest woman that ever lived in the world, but she was so kind and gracious and charming that no man could see her without loving her. when she was only a child, the famous prince theseus, who was famous in greek story, carried her away to his own city of athens, meaning to marry her when she grew up, and even at that time, there was a war for her sake, for her brothers followed theseus with an army, and fought him, and brought her home. she had fairy gifts; for instance, she had a great red jewel, called "the star," and when she wore it red drops seemed to fall from it and vanished before they touched and stained her white breast--so white that people called her "the daughter of the swan." she could speak in the very voice of any man or woman, so folk also named her echo, and it was believed that she could neither grow old nor die, but would at last pass away to the elysian plain and the world's end, where life is easiest for men. no snow comes thither, nor great storm, nor any rain; but always the river of ocean that rings round the whole earth sends forth the west wind to blow cool on the people of king rhadamanthus of the fair hair. these were some of the stories that men told of fair helen, but ulysses was never sorry that he had not the fortune to marry her, so fond he was of her cousin, his wife, penelope, who was very wise and good. when ulysses brought his wife home they lived, as the custom was, in the palace of his father, king laertes, but ulysses, with his own hands, built a chamber for penelope and himself. there grew a great olive tree in the inner court of the palace, and its stem was as large as one of the tall carved pillars of the hall. round about this tree ulysses built the chamber, and finished it with close-set stones, and roofed it over, and made close-fastening doors. then he cut off all the branches of the olive tree, and smoothed the trunk, and shaped it into the bed-post, and made the bedstead beautiful with inlaid work of gold and silver and ivory. there was no such bed in greece, and no man could move it from its place, and this bed comes again into the story, at the very end. now time went by, and ulysses and penelope had one son called telemachus; and eurycleia, who had been his father's nurse, took care of him. they were all very happy, and lived in peace in rocky ithaca, and ulysses looked after his lands, and flocks, and herds, and went hunting with his dog argos, the swiftest of hounds. the stealing of helen this happy time did not last long, and telemachus was still a baby, when war arose, so great and mighty and marvellous as had never been known in the world. far across the sea that lies on the east of greece, there dwelt the rich king priam. his town was called troy, or ilios, and it stood on a hill near the seashore, where are the straits of hellespont, between europe and asia; it was a great city surrounded by strong walls, and its ruins are still standing. the kings could make merchants who passed through the straits pay toll to them, and they had allies in thrace, a part of europe opposite troy, and priam was chief of all princes on his side of the sea, as agamemnon was chief king in greece. priam had many beautiful things; he had a vine made of gold, with golden leaves and clusters, and he had the swiftest horses, and many strong and brave sons; the strongest and bravest was named hector, and the youngest and most beautiful was named paris. there was a prophecy that priam's wife would give birth to a burning torch, so, when paris was born, priam sent a servant to carry the baby into a wild wood on mount ida, and leave him to die or be eaten by wolves and wild cats. the servant left the child, but a shepherd found him, and brought him up as his own son. the boy became as beautiful, for a boy, as helen was for a girl, and was the best runner, and hunter, and archer among the country people. he was loved by the beautiful oenone, a nymph--that is, a kind of fairy--who dwelt in a cave among the woods of ida. the greeks and trojans believed in these days that such fair nymphs haunted all beautiful woodland places, and the mountains, and wells, and had crystal palaces, like mermaids, beneath the waves of the sea. these fairies were not mischievous, but gentle and kind. sometimes they married mortal men, and oenone was the bride of paris, and hoped to keep him for her own all the days of his life. it was believed that she had the magical power of healing wounded men, however sorely they were hurt. paris and oenone lived most happily together in the forest; but one day, when the servants of priam had driven off a beautiful bull that was in the herd of paris, he left the hills to seek it, and came into the town of troy. his mother, hecuba, saw him, and looking at him closely, perceived that he wore a ring which she had tied round her baby's neck when he was taken away from her soon after his birth. then hecuba, beholding him so beautiful, and knowing him to be her son, wept for joy, and they all forgot the prophecy that he would be a burning torch of fire, and priam gave him a house like those of his brothers, the trojan princes. the fame of beautiful helen reached troy, and paris quite forgot unhappy oenone, and must needs go to see helen for himself. perhaps he meant to try to win her for his wife, before her marriage. but sailing was little understood in these times, and the water was wide, and men were often driven for years out of their course, to egypt, and africa, and far away into the unknown seas, where fairies lived in enchanted islands, and cannibals dwelt in caves of the hills. paris came much too late to have a chance of marrying helen; however, he was determined to see her, and he made his way to her palace beneath the mountain taygetus, beside the clear swift river eurotas. the servants came out of the hall when they heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet, and some of them took the horses to the stables, and tilted the chariots against the gateway, while others led paris into the hall, which shone like the sun with gold and silver. then paris and his companions were led to the baths, where they were bathed, and clad in new clothes, mantles of white, and robes of purple, and next they were brought before king menelaus, and he welcomed them kindly, and meat was set before them, and wine in cups of gold. while they were talking, helen came forth from her fragrant chamber, like a goddess, her maidens following her, and carrying for her an ivory distaff with violet-coloured wool, which she span as she sat, and heard paris tell how far he had travelled to see her who was so famous for her beauty even in countries far away. then paris knew that he had never seen, and never could see, a lady so lovely and gracious as helen as she sat and span, while the red drops fell and vanished from the ruby called the star; and helen knew that among all the princes in the world there was none so beautiful as paris. now some say that paris, by art magic, put on the appearance of menelaus, and asked helen to come sailing with him, and that she, thinking he was her husband, followed him, and he carried her across the wide waters of troy, away from her lord and her one beautiful little daughter, the child hermione. and others say that the gods carried helen herself off to egypt, and that they made in her likeness a beautiful ghost, out of flowers and sunset clouds, whom paris bore to troy, and this they did to cause war between greeks and trojans. another story is that helen and her bower maiden and her jewels were seized by force, when menelaus was out hunting. it is only certain that paris and helen did cross the seas together, and that menelaus and little hermione were left alone in the melancholy palace beside the eurotas. penelope, we know for certain, made no excuses for her beautiful cousin, but hated her as the cause of her own sorrows and of the deaths of thousands of men in war, for all the greek princes were bound by their oath to fight for menelaus against any one who injured him and stole his wife away. but helen was very unhappy in troy, and blamed herself as bitterly as all the other women blamed her, and most of all oenone, who had been the love of paris. the men were much more kind to helen, and were determined to fight to the death rather than lose the sight of her beauty among them. the news of the dishonour done to menelaus and to all the princes of greece ran through the country like fire through a forest. east and west and south and north went the news: to kings in their castles on the hills, and beside the rivers and on cliffs above the sea. the cry came to ancient nestor of the white beard at pylos, nestor who had reigned over two generations of men, who had fought against the wild folk of the hills, and remembered the strong heracles, and eurytus of the black bow that sang before the day of battle. the cry came to black-bearded agamemnon, in his strong town called "golden mycenae," because it was so rich; it came to the people in thisbe, where the wild doves haunt; and it came to rocky pytho, where is the sacred temple of apollo and the maid who prophesies. it came to aias, the tallest and strongest of men, in his little isle of salamis; and to diomede of the loud war-cry, the bravest of warriors, who held argos and tiryns of the black walls of huge, stones, that are still standing. the summons came to the western islands and to ulysses in ithaca, and even far south to the great island of crete of the hundred cities, where idomeneus ruled in cnossos; idomeneus, whose ruined palace may still be seen with the throne of the king, and pictures painted on the walls, and the king's own draught-board of gold and silver, and hundreds of tablets of clay, on which are written the lists of royal treasures. far north went the news to pelasgian argos, and hellas, where the people of peleus dwelt, the myrmidons; but peleus was too old to fight, and his boy, achilles, dwelt far away, in the island of scyros, dressed as a girl, among the daughters of king lycomedes. to many another town and to a hundred islands went the bitter news of approaching war, for all princes knew that their honour and their oaths compelled them to gather their spearmen, and bowmen, and slingers from the fields and the fishing, and to make ready their ships, and meet king agamemnon in the harbour of aulis, and cross the wide sea to besiege troy town. now the story is told that ulysses was very unwilling to leave his island and his wife penelope, and little telemachus; while penelope had no wish that he should pass into danger, and into the sight of helen of the fair hands. so it is said that when two of the princes came to summon ulysses, he pretended to be mad, and went ploughing the sea sand with oxen, and sowing the sand with salt. then the prince palamedes took the baby telemachus from the arms of his nurse, eurycleia, and laid him in the line of the furrow, where the ploughshare would strike him and kill him. but ulysses turned the plough aside, and they cried that he was not mad, but sane, and he must keep his oath, and join the fleet at aulis, a long voyage for him to sail, round the stormy southern cape of maleia. whether this tale be true or not, ulysses did go, leading twelve black ships, with high beaks painted red at prow and stern. the ships had oars, and the warriors manned the oars, to row when there was no wind. there was a small raised deck at each end of the ships; on these decks men stood to fight with sword and spear when there was a battle at sea. each ship had but one mast, with a broad lugger sail, and for anchors they had only heavy stones attached to cables. they generally landed at night, and slept on the shore of one of the many islands, when they could, for they greatly feared to sail out of sight of land. the fleet consisted of more than a thousand ships, each with fifty warriors, so the army was of more than fifty thousand men. agamemnon had a hundred ships, diomede had eighty, nestor had ninety, the cretans with idomeneus, had eighty, menelaus had sixty; but aias and ulysses, who lived in small islands, had only twelve ships apiece. yet aias was so brave and strong, and ulysses so brave and wise, that they were ranked among the greatest chiefs and advisers of agamemnon, with menelaus, diomede, idomeneus, nestor, menestheus of athens, and two or three others. these chiefs were called the council, and gave advice to agamemnon, who was commander-in-chief. he was a brave fighter, but so anxious and fearful of losing the lives of his soldiers that ulysses and diomede were often obliged to speak to him very severely. agamemnon was also very insolent and greedy, though, when anybody stood up to him, he was ready to apologise, for fear the injured chief should renounce his service and take away his soldiers. nestor was much respected because he remained brave, though he was too old to be very useful in battle. he generally tried to make peace when the princes quarrelled with agamemnon. he loved to tell long stories about his great deeds when he was young, and he wished the chiefs to fight in old-fashioned ways. for instance, in his time the greeks had fought in clan regiments, and the princely men had never dismounted in battle, but had fought in squadrons of chariots, but now the owners of chariots fought on foot, each man for himself, while his squire kept the chariot near him to escape on if he had to retreat. nestor wished to go back to the good old way of chariot charges against the crowds of foot soldiers of the enemy. in short, he was a fine example of the old-fashioned soldier. aias, though so very tall, strong, and brave, was rather stupid. he seldom spoke, but he was always ready to fight, and the last to retreat. menelaus was weak of body, but as brave as the best, or more brave, for he had a keen sense of honour, and would attempt what he had not the strength to do. diomede and ulysses were great friends, and always fought side by side, when they could, and helped each other in the most dangerous adventures. these were the chiefs who led the great greek armada from the harbour of aulis. a long time had passed, after the flight of helen, before the large fleet could be collected, and more time went by in the attempt to cross the sea to troy. there were tempests that scattered the ships, so they were driven back to aulis to refit; and they fought, as they went out again, with the peoples of unfriendly islands, and besieged their towns. what they wanted most of all was to have achilles with them, for he was the leader of fifty ships and , men, and he had magical armour made, men said, for his father, by hephaestus, the god of armour-making and smithy work. at last the fleet came to the isle of scyros, where they suspected that achilles was concealed. king lycomedes received the chiefs kindly, and they saw all his beautiful daughters dancing and playing at ball, but achilles was still so young and slim and so beautiful that they did not know him among the others. there was a prophecy that they could not take troy without him, and yet they could not find him out. then ulysses had a plan. he blackened his eyebrows and beard and put on the dress of a phoenician merchant. the phoenicians were a people who lived near the jews, and were of the same race, and spoke much the same language, but, unlike the jews, who, at that time were farmers in palestine, tilling the ground, and keeping flocks and herds, the phoenicians were the greatest of traders and sailors, and stealers of slaves. they carried cargoes of beautiful cloths, and embroideries, and jewels of gold, and necklaces of amber, and sold these everywhere about the shores of greece and the islands. ulysses then dressed himself like a phoenician pedlar, with his pack on his back: he only took a stick in his hand, his long hair was turned up, and hidden under a red sailor's cap, and in this figure he came, stooping beneath his pack, into the courtyard of king lycomedes. the girls heard that a pedlar had come, and out they all ran, achilles with the rest to watch the pedlar undo his pack. each chose what she liked best: one took a wreath of gold; another a necklace of gold and amber; another earrings; a fourth a set of brooches, another a dress of embroidered scarlet cloth; another a veil; another a pair of bracelets; but at the bottom of the pack lay a great sword of bronze, the hilt studded with golden nails. achilles seized the sword. "this is for me!" he said, and drew the sword from the gilded sheath, and made it whistle round his head. "you are achilles, peleus' son!" said ulysses; "and you are to be the chief warrior of the achaeans," for the greeks then called themselves achaeans. achilles was only too glad to hear these words, for he was quite tired of living among maidens. ulysses led him into the hall where the chiefs were sitting at their wine, and achilles was blushing like any girl. "here is the queen of the amazons," said ulysses--for the amazons were a race of warlike maidens--"or rather here is achilles, peleus' son, with sword in hand." then they all took his hand, and welcomed him, and he was clothed in man's dress, with the sword by his side, and presently they sent him back with ten ships to his home. there his mother, thetis, of the silver feet, the goddess of the sea, wept over him, saying, "my child, thou hast the choice of a long and happy and peaceful life here with me, or of a brief time of war and undying renown. never shall i see thee again in argos if thy choice is for war." but achilles chose to die young, and to be famous as long as the world stands. so his father gave him fifty ships, with patroclus, who was older than he, to be his friend, and with an old man, phoenix, to advise him; and his mother gave him the glorious armour that the god had made for his father, and the heavy ashen spear that none but he could wield, and he sailed to join the host of the achaeans, who all praised and thanked ulysses that had found for them such a prince. for achilles was the fiercest fighter of them all, and the swiftest-footed man, and the most courteous prince, and the gentlest with women and children, but he was proud and high of heart, and when he was angered his anger was terrible. the trojans would have had no chance against the greeks if only the men of the city of troy had fought to keep helen of the fair hands. but they had allies, who spoke different languages, and came to fight for them both from europe and from asia. on the trojan as well as on the greek side were people called pelasgians, who seem to have lived on both shores of the sea. there were thracians, too, who dwelt much further north than achilles, in europe and beside the strait of hellespont, where the narrow sea runs like a river. there were warriors of lycia, led by sarpedon and glaucus; there were carians, who spoke in a strange tongue; there were mysians and men from alybe, which was called "the birthplace of silver," and many other peoples sent their armies, so that the war was between eastern europe, on one side, and western asia minor on the other. the people of egypt took no part in the war: the greeks and islesmen used to come down in their ships and attack the egyptians as the danes used to invade england. you may see the warriors from the islands, with their horned helmets, in old egyptian pictures. the commander-in-chief, as we say now, of the trojans was hector, the son of priam. he was thought a match for any one of the greeks, and was brave and good. his brothers also were leaders, but paris preferred to fight from a distance with bow and arrows. he and pandarus, who dwelt on the slopes of mount ida, were the best archers in the trojan army. the princes usually fought with heavy spears, which they threw at each other, and with swords, leaving archery to the common soldiers who had no armour of bronze. but teucer, meriones, and ulysses were the best archers of the achaeans. people called dardanians were led by aeneas, who was said to be the son of the most beautiful of the goddesses. these, with sarpedon and glaucus, were the most famous of the men who fought for troy. troy was a strong town on a hill. mount ida lay behind it, and in front was a plain sloping to the sea shore. through this plain ran two beautiful clear rivers, and there were scattered here and there what you would have taken for steep knolls, but they were really mounds piled up over the ashes of warriors who had died long ago. on these mounds sentinels used to stand and look across the water to give warning if the greek fleet drew near, for the trojans had heard that it was on its way. at last the fleet came in view, and the sea was black with ships, the oarsmen pulling with all their might for the honour of being the first to land. the race was won by the ship of the prince protesilaus, who was first of all to leap on shore, but as he leaped he was struck to the heart by an arrow from the bow of paris. this must have seemed a good omen to the trojans, and to the greeks evil, but we do not hear that the landing was resisted in great force, any more than that of norman william was, when he invaded england. the greeks drew up all their ships on shore, and the men camped in huts built in front of the ships. there was thus a long row of huts with the ships behind them, and in these huts the greeks lived all through the ten years that the siege of troy lasted. in these days they do not seem to have understood how to conduct a siege. you would have expected the greeks to build towers and dig trenches all round troy, and from the towers watch the roads, so that provisions might not be brought in from the country. this is called "investing" a town, but the greeks never invested troy. perhaps they had not men enough; at all events the place remained open, and cattle could always be driven in to feed the warriors and the women and children. moreover, the greeks for long never seem to have tried to break down one of the gates, nor to scale the walls, which were very high, with ladders. on the other hand, the trojans and allies never ventured to drive the greeks into the sea; they commonly remained within the walls or skirmished just beneath them. the older men insisted on this way of fighting, in spite of hector, who always wished to attack and storm the camp of the greeks. neither side had machines for throwing heavy stones, such as the romans used later, and the most that the greeks did was to follow achilles and capture small neighbouring cities, and take the women for slaves, and drive the cattle. they got provisions and wine from the phoenicians, who came in ships, and made much profit out of the war. it was not till the tenth year that the war began in real earnest, and scarcely any of the chief leaders had fallen. fever came upon the greeks, and all day the camp was black with smoke, and all night shone with fire from the great piles of burning wood, on which the greeks burned their dead, whose bones they then buried under hillocks of earth. many of these hillocks are still standing on the plain of troy. when the plague had raged for ten days, achilles called an assembly of the whole army, to try to find out why the gods were angry. they thought that the beautiful god apollo (who took the trojan side) was shooting invisible arrows at them from his silver bow, though fevers in armies are usually caused by dirt and drinking bad water. the great heat of the sun, too, may have helped to cause the disease; but we must tell the story as the greeks told it themselves. so achilles spoke in the assembly, and proposed to ask some prophet why apollo was angry. the chief prophet was calchas. he rose and said that he would declare the truth if achilles would promise to protect him from the anger of any prince whom the truth might offend. achilles knew well whom calchas meant. ten days before, a priest of apollo had come to the camp and offered ransom for his daughter chryseis, a beautiful girl, whom achilles had taken prisoner, with many others, when he captured a small town. chryseis had been given as a slave to agamemnon, who always got the best of the plunder because he was chief king, whether he had taken part in the fighting or not. as a rule he did not. to achilles had been given another girl, briseis, of whom he was very fond. now when achilles had promised to protect calchas, the prophet spoke out, and boldly said, what all men knew already, that apollo caused the plague because agamemnon would not return chryseis, and had insulted her father, the priest of the god. on hearing this, agamemnon was very angry. he said that he would send chryseis home, but that he would take briseis away from achilles. then achilles was drawing his great sword from the sheath to kill agamemnon, but even in his anger he knew that this was wrong, so he merely called agamemnon a greedy coward, "with face of dog and heart of deer," and he swore that he and his men would fight no more against the trojans. old nestor tried to make peace, and swords were not drawn, but briseis was taken away from achilles, and ulysses put chryseis on board of his ship and sailed away with her to her father's town, and gave her up to her father. then her father prayed to apollo that the plague might cease, and it did cease--when the greeks had cleansed their camp, and purified themselves and cast their filth into the sea. we know how fierce and brave achilles was, and we may wonder that he did not challenge agamemnon to fight a duel. but the greeks never fought duels, and agamemnon was believed to be chief king by right divine. achilles went alone to the sea shore when his dear briseis was led away, and he wept, and called to his mother, the silver-footed lady of the waters. then she arose from the grey sea, like a mist, and sat down beside her son, and stroked his hair with her hand, and he told her all his sorrows. so she said that she would go up to the dwelling of the gods, and pray zeus, the chief of them all, to make the trojans win a great battle, so that agamemnon should feel his need of achilles, and make amends for his insolence, and do him honour. thetis kept her promise, and zeus gave his word that the trojans should defeat the greeks. that night zeus sent a deceitful dream to agamemnon. the dream took the shape of old nestor, and said that zeus would give him victory that day. while he was still asleep, agamemnon was fun of hope that he would instantly take troy, but, when he woke, he seems not to have been nearly so confident, for in place of putting on his armour, and bidding the greeks arm themselves, he merely dressed in his robe and mantle, took his sceptre, and went and told the chiefs about his dream. they did not feel much encouraged, so he said that he would try the temper of the army. he would call them together, and propose to return to greece; but, if the soldiers took him at his word, the other chiefs were to stop them. this was a foolish plan, for the soldiers were wearying for beautiful greece, and their homes, and wives and children. therefore, when agamemnon did as he had said, the whole army rose, like the sea under the west wind, and, with a shout, they rushed to the ships, while the dust blew in clouds from under their feet. then they began to launch their ships, and it seems that the princes were carried away in the rush, and were as eager as the rest to go home. but ulysses only stood in sorrow and anger beside his ship, and never put hand to it, for he felt how disgraceful it was to run away. at last he threw down his mantle, which his herald eurybates of ithaca, a round-shouldered, brown, curly-haired man, picked up, and he ran to find agamemnon, and took his sceptre, a gold-studded staff, like a marshal's baton, and he gently told the chiefs whom he met that they were doing a shameful thing; but he drove the common soldiers back to the place of meeting with the sceptre. they all returned, puzzled and chattering, but one lame, bandy-legged, bald, round-shouldered, impudent fellow, named thersites, jumped up and made an insolent speech, insulting the princes, and advising the army to run away. then ulysses took him and beat him till the blood came, and he sat down, wiping away his tears, and looking so foolish that the whole army laughed at him, and cheered ulysses when he and nestor bade them arm and fight. agamemnon still believed a good deal in his dream, and prayed that he might take troy that very day, and kill hector. thus ulysses alone saved the army from a cowardly retreat; but for him the ships would have been launched in an hour. but the greeks armed and advanced in full force, all except achilles and his friend patroclus with their two or three thousand men. the trojans also took heart, knowing that achilles would not fight, and the armies approached each other. paris himself, with two spears and a bow, and without armour, walked into the space between the hosts, and challenged any greek prince to single combat. menelaus, whose wife paris had carried away, was as glad as a hungry lion when he finds a stag or a goat, and leaped in armour from his chariot, but paris turned and slunk away, like a man when he meets a great serpent on a narrow path in the hills. then hector rebuked paris for his cowardice, and paris was ashamed and offered to end the war by fighting menelaus. if he himself fell, the trojans must give up helen and all her jewels; if menelaus fell, the greeks were to return without fair helen. the greeks accepted this plan, and both sides disarmed themselves to look on at the fight in comfort, and they meant to take the most solemn oaths to keep peace till the combat was lost and won, and the quarrel settled. hector sent into troy for two lambs, which were to be sacrificed when the oaths were taken. in the meantime helen of the fair hands was at home working at a great purple tapestry on which she embroidered the battles of the greeks and trojans. it was just like the tapestry at bayeux on which norman ladies embroidered the battles in the norman conquest of england. helen was very fond of embroidering, like poor mary, queen of scots, when a prisoner in loch leven castle. probably the work kept both helen and mary from thinking of their past lives and their sorrows. when helen heard that her husband was to fight paris, she wept, and threw a shining veil over her head, and with her two bower maidens went to the roof of the gate tower, where king priam was sitting with the old trojan chiefs. they saw her and said that it was small blame to fight for so beautiful a lady, and priam called her "dear child," and said, "i do not blame you, i blame the gods who brought about this war." but helen said that she wished she had died before she left her little daughter and her husband, and her home: "alas! shameless me!" then she told priam the names of the chief greek warriors, and of ulysses, who was shorter by a head than agamemnon, but broader in chest and shoulders. she wondered that she could not see her own two brothers, castor and polydeuces, and thought that they kept aloof in shame for her sin; but the green grass covered their graves, for they had both died in battle, far away in lacedaemon, their own country. then the lambs were sacrificed, and the oaths were taken, and paris put on his brother's armour, helmet, breastplate, shield, and leg-armour. lots were drawn to decide whether paris or menelaus should throw his spear first, and, as paris won, he threw his spear, but the point was blunted against the shield of menelaus. but when menelaus threw his spear it went clean through the shield of paris, and through the side of his breastplate, but only grazed his robe. menelaus drew his sword, and rushed in, and smote at the crest of the helmet of paris, but his bronze blade broke into four pieces. menelaus caught paris by the horsehair crest of his helmet, and dragged him towards the greeks, but the chin- strap broke, and menelaus turning round threw the helmet into the ranks of the greeks. but when menelaus looked again for paris, with a spear in his hand, he could see him nowhere! the greeks believed that the beautiful goddess aphrodite, whom the romans called venus, hid him in a thick cloud of darkness and carried him to his own house, where helen of the fair hands found him and said to him, "would that thou hadst perished, conquered by that great warrior who was my lord! go forth again and challenge him to fight thee face to face." but paris had no more desire to fight, and the goddess threatened helen, and compelled her to remain with him in troy, coward as he had proved himself. yet on other days paris fought well; it seems that he was afraid of menelaus because, in his heart, he was ashamed of himself. meanwhile menelaus was seeking for paris everywhere, and the trojans, who hated him, would have shown his hiding place. but they knew not where he was, and the greeks claimed the victory, and thought that, as paris had the worst of the fight, helen would be restored to them, and they would all sail home. trojan victories the war might now have ended, but an evil and foolish thought came to pandarus, a prince of ida, who fought for the trojans. he chose to shoot an arrow at menelaus, contrary to the sworn vows of peace, and the arrow pierced the breastplate of menelaus through the place where the clasped plates meet, and drew his blood. then agamemnon, who loved his brother dearly, began to lament, saying that if he died, the army would all go home and trojans would dance on the grave of menelaus. "do not alarm all our army," said menelaus, "the arrow has done me little harm;" and so it proved, for the surgeon easily drew the arrow out of the wound. then agamemnon hastened here and there, bidding the greeks arm and attack the trojans, who would certainly be defeated, for they had broken the oaths of peace. but with his usual insolence he chose to accuse ulysses and diomede of cowardice, though diomede was as brave as any man, and ulysses had just prevented the whole army from launching their ships and going home. ulysses answered him with spirit, but diomede said nothing at the moment; later he spoke his mind. he leaped from his chariot, and all the chiefs leaped down and advanced in line, the chariots following them, while the spearmen and bowmen followed the chariots. the trojan army advanced, all shouting in their different languages, but the greeks came on silently. then the two front lines clashed, shield against shield, and the noise was like the roaring of many flooded torrents among the hills. when a man fell he who had slain him tried to strip off his armour, and his friends fought over his body to save the dead from this dishonour. ulysses fought above a wounded friend, and drove his spear through head and helmet of a trojan prince, and everywhere men were falling beneath spears and arrows and heavy stones which the warriors threw. here menelaus speared the man who built the ships with which paris had sailed to greece; and the dust rose like a cloud, and a mist went up from the fighting men, while diomede stormed across the plain like a river in flood, leaving dead bodies behind him as the river leaves boughs of trees and grass to mark its course. pandarus wounded diomede with an arrow, but diomede slew him, and the trojans were being driven in flight, when sarpedon and hector turned and hurled themselves on the greeks; and even diomede shuddered when hector came on, and charged at ulysses, who was slaying trojans as he went, and the battle swayed this way and that, and the arrows fell like rain. but hector was sent into the city to bid the women pray to the goddess athene for help, and he went to the house of paris, whom helen was imploring to go and fight like a man, saying: "would that the winds had wafted me away, and the tides drowned me, shameless that i am, before these things came to pass!" then hector went to see his dear wife, andromache, whose father had been slain by achilles early in the siege, and he found her and her nurse carrying her little boy, hector's son, and like a star upon her bosom lay his beautiful and shining golden head. now, while helen urged paris to go into the fight, andromache prayed hector to stay with her in the town, and fight no more lest he should be slain and leave her a widow, and the boy an orphan, with none to protect him. the army she said, should come back within the walls, where they had so long been safe, not fight in the open plain. but hector answered that he would never shrink from battle, "yet i know this in my heart, the day shall come for holy troy to be laid low, and priam and the people of priam. but this and my own death do not trouble me so much as the thought of you, when you shall be carried as a slave to greece, to spin at another woman's bidding, and bear water from a grecian well. may the heaped up earth of my tomb cover me ere i hear thy cries and the tale of thy captivity." then hector stretched out his hands to his little boy, but the child was afraid when he saw the great glittering helmet of his father and the nodding horsehair crest. so hector laid his helmet on the ground and dandled the child in his arms, and tried to comfort his wife, and said good-bye for the last time, for he never came back to troy alive. he went on his way back to the battle, and paris went with him, in glorious armour, and soon they were slaying the princes of the greeks. the battle raged till nightfall, and in the night the greeks and trojans burned their dead; and the greeks made a trench and wall round their camp, which they needed for safety now that the trojans came from their town and fought in the open plain. next day the trojans were so successful that they did not retreat behind their walls at night, but lit great fires on the plain: a thousand fires, with fifty men taking supper round each of them, and drinking their wine to the music of flutes. but the greeks were much discouraged, and agamemnon called the whole army together, and proposed that they should launch their ships in the night and sail away home. then diomede stood up, and said: "you called me a coward lately. you are the coward! sail away if you are afraid to remain here, but all the rest of us will fight till we take troy town." then all shouted in praise of diomede, and nestor advised them to send five hundred young men, under his own son, thrasymedes, to watch the trojans, and guard the new wall and the ditch, in case the trojans attacked them in the darkness. next nestor counselled agamemnon to send ulysses and aias to achilles, and promise to give back briseis, and rich presents of gold, and beg pardon for his insolence. if achilles would be friends again with agamemnon, and fight as he used to fight, the trojans would soon be driven back into the town. agamemnon was very ready to beg pardon, for he feared that the whole army would be defeated, and cut off from their ships, and killed or kept as slaves. so ulysses and aias and the old tutor of achilles, phoenix, went to achilles and argued with him, praying him to accept the rich presents, and help the greeks. but achilles answered that he did not believe a word that agamemnon said; agamemnon had always hated him, and always would hate him. no; he would not cease to be angry, he would sail away next day with all his men, and he advised the rest to come with him. "why be so fierce?" said tall aias, who seldom spoke. "why make so much trouble about one girl? we offer you seven girls, and plenty of other gifts." then achilles said that he would not sail away next day, but he would not fight till the trojans tried to burn his own ships, and there he thought that hector would find work enough to do. this was the most that achilles would promise, and all the greeks were silent when ulysses delivered his message. but diomede arose and said that, with or without achilles, fight they must; and all men, heavy at heart, went to sleep in their huts or in the open air at their doors. agamemnon was much too anxious to sleep. he saw the glow of the thousand fires of the trojans in the dark, and heard their merry flutes, and he groaned and pulled out his long hair by handfuls. when he was tired of crying and groaning and tearing his hair, he thought that he would go for advice to old nestor. he threw a lion skin, the coverlet of his bed, over his shoulder, took his spear, went out and met menelaus--for he, too, could not sleep--and menelaus proposed to send a spy among the trojans, if any man were brave enough to go, for the trojan camp was all alight with fires, and the adventure was dangerous. therefore the two wakened nestor and the other chiefs, who came just as they were, wrapped in the fur coverlets of their beds, without any armour. first they visited the five hundred young men set to watch the wall, and then they crossed the ditch and sat down outside and considered what might be done. "will nobody go as a spy among the trojans?" said nestor; he meant would none of the young men go. diomede said that he would take the risk if any other man would share it with him, and, if he might choose a companion, he would take ulysses. "come, then, let us be going," said ulysses, "for the night is late, and the dawn is near." as these two chiefs had no armour on, they borrowed shields and leather caps from the young men of the guard, for leather would not shine as bronze helmets shine in the firelight. the cap lent to ulysses was strengthened outside with rows of boars' tusks. many of these tusks, shaped for this purpose, have been found, with swords and armour, in a tomb in mycenae, the town of agamemnon. this cap which was lent to ulysses had once been stolen by his grandfather, autolycus, who was a master thief, and he gave it as a present to a friend, and so, through several hands, it had come to young meriones of crete, one of the five hundred guards, who now lent it to ulysses. so the two princes set forth in the dark, so dark it was that though they heard a heron cry, they could not see it as it flew away. while ulysses and diomede stole through the night silently, like two wolves among the bodies of dead men, the trojan leaders met and considered what they ought to do. they did not know whether the greeks had set sentinels and outposts, as usual, to give warning if the enemy were approaching; or whether they were too weary to keep a good watch; or whether perhaps they were getting ready their ships to sail homewards in the dawn. so hector offered a reward to any man who would creep through the night and spy on the greeks; he said he would give the spy the two best horses in the greek camp. now among the trojans there was a young man named dolon, the son of a rich father, and he was the only boy in a family of five sisters. he was ugly, but a very swift runner, and he cared for horses more than for anything else in the world. dolon arose and said, "if you will swear to give me the horses and chariot of achilles, son of peleus, i will steal to the hut of agamemnon and listen and find out whether the greeks mean to fight or flee." hector swore to give these horses, which were the best in the world, to dolon, so he took his bow and threw a grey wolf's hide over his shoulders, and ran towards the ships of the greeks. now ulysses saw dolon as he came, and said to diomede, "let us suffer him to pass us, and then do you keep driving him with your spear towards the ships, and away from troy." so ulysses and diomede lay down among the dead men who had fallen in the battle, and dolon ran on past them towards the greeks. then they rose and chased him as two greyhounds course a hare, and, when dolon was near the sentinels, diomede cried "stand, or i will slay you with my spear!" and he threw his spear just over dolon's shoulder. so dolon stood still, green with fear, and with his teeth chattering. when the two came up, he cried, and said that his father was a rich man, who would pay much gold, and bronze, and iron for his ransom. ulysses said, "take heart, and put death out of your mind, and tell us what you are doing here." dolon said that hector had promised him the horses of achilles if he would go and spy on the greeks. "you set your hopes high," said ulysses, "for the horses of achilles are not earthly steeds, but divine; a gift of the gods, and achilles alone can drive them. but, tell me, do the trojans keep good watch, and where is hector with his horses?" for ulysses thought that it would be a great adventure to drive away the horses of hector. "hector is with the chiefs, holding council at the tomb of ilus," said dolon; "but no regular guard is set. the people of troy, indeed, are round their watch fires, for they have to think of the safety of their wives and children; but the allies from far lands keep no watch, for their wives and children are safe at home." then he told where all the different peoples who fought for priam had their stations; but, said he, "if you want to steal horses, the best are those of rhesus, king of the thracians, who has only joined us to-night. he and his men are asleep at the furthest end of the line, and his horses are the best and greatest that ever i saw: tall, white as snow, and swift as the wind, and his chariot is adorned with gold and silver, and golden is his armour. now take me prisoner to the ships, or bind me and leave me here while you go and try whether i have told you truth or lies." "no," said diomede, "if i spare your life you may come spying again," and he drew his sword and smote off the head of dolon. they hid his cap and bow and spear where they could find them easily, and marked the spot, and went through the night to the dark camp of king rhesus, who had no watch- fire and no guards. then diomede silently stabbed each sleeping man to the heart, and ulysses seized the dead by the feet and threw them aside lest they should frighten the horses, which had never been in battle, and would shy if they were led over the bodies of dead men. last of all diomede killed king rhesus, and ulysses led forth his horses, beating them with his bow, for he had forgotten to take the whip from the chariot. then ulysses and diomede leaped on the backs of the horses, as they had not time to bring away the chariot, and they galloped to the ships, stopping to pick up the spear, and bow, and cap of dolon. they rode to the princes, who welcomed them, and all laughed for glee when they saw the white horses and heard that king rhesus was dead, for they guessed that all his army would now go home to thrace. this they must have done, for we never hear of them in the battles that followed, so ulysses and diomede deprived the trojans of thousands of men. the other princes went to bed in good spirits, but ulysses and diomede took a swim in the sea, and then went into hot baths, and so to breakfast, for rosy- fingered dawn was coming up the sky. battle at the ships with dawn agamemnon awoke, and fear had gone out of his heart. he put on his armour, and arrayed the chiefs on foot in front of their chariots, and behind them came the spearmen, with the bowmen and slingers on the wings of the army. then a great black cloud spread over the sky, and red was the rain that fell from it. the trojans gathered on a height in the plain, and hector, shining in armour, went here and there, in front and rear, like a star that now gleams forth and now is hidden in a cloud. the armies rushed on each other and hewed each other down, as reapers cut their way through a field of tall corn. neither side gave ground, though the helmets of the bravest trojans might be seen deep in the ranks of the greeks; and the swords of the bravest greeks rose and fell in the ranks of the trojans, and all the while the arrows showered like rain. but at noon-day, when the weary woodman rests from cutting trees, and takes his dinner in the quiet hills, the greeks of the first line made a charge, agamemnon running in front of them, and he speared two trojans, and took their breastplates, which he laid in his chariot, and then he speared one brother of hector and struck another down with his sword, and killed two more who vainly asked to be made prisoners of war. footmen slew footmen, and chariot men slew chariot men, and they broke into the trojan line as fire falls on a forest in a windy day, leaping and roaring and racing through the trees. many an empty chariot did the horses hurry madly through the field, for the charioteers were lying dead, with the greedy vultures hovering above them, flapping their wide wings. still agamemnon followed and slew the hindmost trojans, but the rest fled till they came to the gates, and the oak tree that grew outside the gates, and there they stopped. but hector held his hands from fighting, for in the meantime he was making his men face the enemy and form up in line and take breath, and was encouraging them, for they had retreated from the wall of the greeks across the whole plain, past the hill that was the tomb of ilus, a king of old, and past the place of the wild fig-tree. much ado had hector to rally the trojans, but he knew that when men do turn again they are hard to beat. so it proved, for when the trojans had rallied and formed in line, agamemnon slew a thracian chief who had come to fight for troy before king rhesus came. but the eldest brother of the slain man smote agamemnon through the arm with his spear, and, though agamemnon slew him in turn, his wound bled much and he was in great pain, so he leaped into his chariot and was driven back to the ships. then hector gave the word to charge, as a huntsman cries on his hounds against a lion, and he rushed forward at the head of the trojan line, slaying as he went. nine chiefs of the greeks he slew, and fell upon the spearmen and scattered them, as the spray of the waves is scattered by the wandering wind. now the ranks of the greeks were broken, and they would have been driven among their ships and killed without mercy, had not ulysses and diomede stood firm in the centre, and slain four trojan leaders. the greeks began to come back and face their enemies in line of battle again, though hector, who had been fighting on the trojan right, rushed against them. but diomede took good aim with his spear at the helmet of hector, and struck it fairly. the spear-point did not go through the helmet, but hector was stunned and fell; and, when he came to himself, he leaped into his chariot, and his squire drove him against the pylians and cretans, under nestor and idomeneus, who were on the left wing of the greek army. then diomede fought on till paris, who stood beside the pillar on the hillock that was the tomb of old king ilus, sent an arrow clean through his foot. ulysses went and stood in front of diomede, who sat down, and ulysses drew the arrow from his foot, and diomede stepped into his chariot and was driven back to the ships. ulysses was now the only greek chief that still fought in the centre. the greeks all fled, and he was alone in the crowd of trojans, who rushed on him as hounds and hunters press round a wild boar that stands at bay in a wood. "they are cowards that flee from the fight," said ulysses to himself; "but i will stand here, one man against a multitude." he covered the front of his body with his great shield, that hung by a belt round his neck, and he smote four trojans and wounded a fifth. but the brother of the wounded man drove a spear through the shield and breastplate of ulysses, and tore clean through his side. then ulysses turned on this trojan, and he fled, and ulysses sent a spear through his shoulder and out at his breast, and he died. ulysses dragged from his own side the spear that had wounded him, and called thrice with a great voice to the other greeks, and menelaus and aias rushed to rescue him, for many trojans were round him, like jackals round a wounded stag that a man has struck with an arrow. but aias ran and covered the wounded ulysses with his huge shield till he could climb into the chariot of menelaus, who drove him back to the ships. meanwhile, hector was slaying the greeks on the left of their battle, and paris struck the greek surgeon, machaon, with an arrow; and idomeneus bade nestor put machaon in his chariot and drive him to nestor's hut, where his wound might be tended. meanwhile, hector sped to the centre of the line, where aias was slaying the trojans; but eurypylus, a greek chief, was wounded by an arrow from the bow of paris, and his friends guarded him with their shields and spears. thus the best of the greeks were wounded and out of the battle, save aias, and the spearmen were in flight. meanwhile achilles was standing by the stern of his ship watching the defeat of the greeks, but when he saw machaon being carried past, sorely wounded, in the chariot of nestor, he bade his friend patroclus, whom he loved better than all the rest, to go and ask how machaon did. he was sitting drinking wine with nestor when patroclus came, and nestor told patroclus how many of the chiefs were wounded, and though patroclus was in a hurry nestor began a very long story about his own great deeds of war, done when he was a young man. at last he bade patroclus tell achilles that, if he would not fight himself, he should at least send out his men under patroclus, who should wear the splendid armour of achilles. then the trojans would think that achilles himself had returned to the battle, and they would be afraid, for none of them dared to meet achilles hand to hand. so patroclus ran off to achilles; but, on his way, he met the wounded eurypylus, and he took him to his hut and cut the arrow out of his thigh with a knife, and washed the wound with warm water, and rubbed over it a bitter root to take the pain away. thus he waited for some time with eurypylus, but the advice of nestor was in the end to cause the death of patroclus. the battle now raged more fiercely, while agamemnon and diomede and ulysses could only limp about leaning on their spears; and again agamemnon wished to moor the ships near shore, and embark in the night and run away. but ulysses was very angry with him, and said: "you should lead some other inglorious army, not us, who will fight on till every soul of us perish, rather than flee like cowards! be silent, lest the soldiers hear you speaking of flight, such words as no man should utter. i wholly scorn your counsel, for the greeks will lose heart if, in the midst of battle, you bid them launch the ships." agamemnon was ashamed, and, by diomede's advice, the wounded kings went down to the verge of the war to encourage the others, though they were themselves unable to fight. they rallied the greeks, and aias led them and struck hector full in the breast with a great rock, so that his friends carried him out of the battle to the river side, where they poured water over him, but he lay fainting on the ground, the black blood gushing up from his mouth. while hector lay there, and all men thought that he would die, aias and idomeneus were driving back the trojans, and it seemed that, even without achilles and his men, the greeks were able to hold their own against the trojans. but the battle was never lost while hector lived. people in those days believed in "omens:" they thought that the appearance of birds on the right or left hand meant good or bad luck. once during the battle a trojan showed hector an unlucky bird, and wanted him to retreat into the town. but hector said, "one omen is the best: to fight for our own country." while hector lay between death and life the greeks were winning, for the trojans had no other great chief to lead them. but hector awoke from his faint, and leaped to his feet and ran here and there, encouraging the men of troy. then the most of the greeks fled when they saw him; but aias and idomeneus, and the rest of the bravest, formed in a square between the trojans and the ships, and down on them came hector and aeneas and paris, throwing their spears, and slaying on every hand. the greeks turned and ran, and the trojans would have stopped to strip the armour from the slain men, but hector cried: "haste to the ships and leave the spoils of war. i will slay any man who lags behind!" on this, all the trojans drove their chariots down into the ditch that guarded the ships of the greeks, as when a great wave sweeps at sea over the side of a vessel; and the greeks were on the ship decks, thrusting with very long spears, used in sea fights, and the trojans were boarding the ships, and striking with swords and axes. hector had a lighted torch and tried to set fire to the ship of aias; but aias kept him back with the long spear, and slew a trojan, whose lighted torch fell from his hand. and aias kept shouting: "come on, and drive away hector; it is not to a dance that he is calling his men, but to battle." the dead fell in heaps, and the living ran over them to mount the heaps of slain and climb the ships. hector rushed forward like a sea wave against a great steep rock, but like the rock stood the greeks; still the trojans charged past the beaks of the foremost ships, while aias, thrusting with a spear more than twenty feet long, leaped from deck to deck like a man that drives four horses abreast, and leaps from the back of one to the back of another. hector seized with his hand the stern of the ship of protesilaus, the prince whom paris shot when he leaped ashore on the day when the greeks first landed; and hector kept calling: "bring fire!" and even aias, in this strange sea fight on land, left the decks and went below, thrusting with his spear through the portholes. twelve men lay dead who had brought fire against the ship which aias guarded. the slaying and avenging of patroclus at this moment, when torches were blazing round the ships, and all seemed lost, patroclus came out of the hut of eurypylus, whose wound he had been tending, and he saw that the greeks were in great danger, and ran weeping to achilles. "why do you weep," said achilles, "like a little girl that runs by her mother's side, and plucks at her gown and looks at her with tears in her eyes, till her mother takes her up in her arms? is there bad news from home that your father is dead, or mine; or are you sorry that the greeks are getting what they deserve for their folly?" then patroclus told achilles how ulysses and many other princes were wounded and could not fight, and begged to be allowed to put on achilles' armour and lead his men, who were all fresh and unwearied, into the battle, for a charge of two thousand fresh warriors might turn the fortune of the day. then achilles was sorry that he had sworn not to fight himself till hector brought fire to his own ships. he would lend patroclus his armour, and his horses, and his men; but patroclus must only drive the trojans from the ships, and not pursue them. at this moment aias was weary, so many spears smote his armour, and he could hardly hold up his great shield, and hector cut off his spear-head with the sword; the bronze head fell ringing on the ground, and aias brandished only the pointless shaft. so he shrank back and fire blazed all over his ship; and achilles saw it, and smote his thigh, and bade patroclus make haste. patroclus armed himself in the shining armour of achilles, which all trojans feared, and leaped into the chariot where automedon, the squire, had harnessed xanthus and balius, two horses that were the children, men said, of the west wind, and a led horse was harnessed beside them in the side traces. meanwhile the two thousand men of achilles, who were called myrmidons, had met in armour, five companies of four hundred apiece, under five chiefs of noble names. forth they came, as eager as a pack of wolves that have eaten a great red deer and run to slake their thirst with the dark water of a well in the hills. so all in close array, helmet touching helmet and shield touching shield, like a moving wall of shining bronze, the men of achilles charged, and patroclus, in the chariot led the way. down they came at full speed on the flank of the trojans, who saw the leader, and knew the bright armour and the horses of the terrible achilles, and thought that he had returned to the war. then each trojan looked round to see by what way he could escape, and when men do that in battle they soon run by the way they have chosen. patroclus rushed to the ship of protesilaus, and slew the leader of the trojans there, and drove them out, and quenched the fire; while they of troy drew back from the ships, and aias and the other unwounded greek princes leaped among them, smiting with sword and spear. well did hector know that the break in the battle had come again; but even so he stood, and did what he might, while the trojans were driven back in disorder across the ditch, where the poles of many chariots were broken and the horses fled loose across the plain. the horses of achilles cleared the ditch, and patroclus drove them between the trojans and the wall of their own town, slaying many men, and, chief of all, sarpedon, king of the lycians; and round the body of sarpedon the trojans rallied under hector, and the fight swayed this way and that, and there was such a noise of spears and swords smiting shields and helmets as when many woodcutters fell trees in a glen of the hills. at last the trojans gave way, and the greeks stripped the armour from the body of brave sarpedon; but men say that sleep and death, like two winged angels, bore his body away to his own country. now patroclus forgot how achilles had told him not to pursue the trojans across the plain, but to return when he had driven them from the ships. on he raced, slaying as he went, even till he reached the foot of the wall of troy. thrice he tried to climb it, but thrice he fell back. hector was in his chariot in the gateway, and he bade his squire lash his horses into the war, and struck at no other man, great or small, but drove straight against patroclus, who stood and threw a heavy stone at hector; which missed him, but killed his charioteer. then patroclus leaped on the charioteer to strip his armour, but hector stood over the body, grasping it by the head, while patroclus dragged at the feet, and spears and arrows flew in clouds around the fallen man. at last, towards sunset, the greeks drew him out of the war, and patroclus thrice charged into the thick of the trojans. but the helmet of achilles was loosened in the fight, and fell from the head of patroclus, and he was wounded from behind, and hector, in front, drove his spear clean through his body. with his last breath patroclus prophesied: "death stands near thee, hector, at the hands of noble achilles." but automedon was driving back the swift horses, carrying to achilles the news that his dearest friend was slain. after ulysses was wounded, early in this great battle, he was not able to fight for several days, and, as the story is about ulysses, we must tell quite shortly how achilles returned to the war to take vengeance for patroclus, and how he slew hector. when patroclus fell, hector seized the armour which the gods had given to peleus, and peleus to his son achilles, while achilles had lent it to patroclus that he might terrify the trojans. retiring out of reach of spears, hector took off his own armour and put on that of achilles, and greeks and trojans fought for the dead body of patroclus. then zeus, the chief of the gods, looked down and said that hector should never come home out of the battle to his wife, andromache. but hector returned into the fight around the dead patroclus, and here all the best men fought, and even automedon, who had been driving the chariot of patroclus. now when the trojans seemed to have the better of the fight, the greeks sent antilochus, a son of old nestor, to tell achilles that his friend was slain, and antilochus ran, and aias and his brother protected the greeks who were trying to carry the body of patroclus back to the ships. swiftly antilochus came running to achilles, saying: "fallen is patroclus, and they are fighting round his naked body, for hector has his armour." then achilles said never a word, but fell on the floor of his hut, and threw black ashes on his yellow hair, till antilochus seized his hands, fearing that he would cut his own throat with his dagger, for very sorrow. his mother, thetis, arose from the sea to comfort him, but he said that he desired to die if he could not slay hector, who had slain his friend. then thetis told him that he could not fight without armour, and now he had none; but she would go to the god of armour-making and bring from him such a shield and helmet and breastplate as had never been seen by men. meanwhile the fight raged round the dead body of patroclus, which was defiled with blood and dust, near the ships, and was being dragged this way and that, and torn and wounded. achilles could not bear this sight, yet his mother had warned him not to enter without armour the battle where stones and arrows and spears were flying like hail; and he was so tall and broad that he could put on the arms of no other man. so he went down to the ditch as he was, unarmed, and as he stood high above it, against the red sunset, fire seemed to flow from his golden hair like the beacon blaze that soars into the dark sky when an island town is attacked at night, and men light beacons that their neighbours may see them and come to their help from other isles. there achilles stood in a splendour of fire, and he shouted aloud, as clear as a clarion rings when men fall on to attack a besieged city wall. thrice achilles shouted mightily, and thrice the horses of the trojans shuddered for fear and turned back from the onslaught,--and thrice the men of troy were confounded and shaken with terror. then the greeks drew the body of patroclus out of the dust and the arrows, and laid him on a bier, and achilles followed, weeping, for he had sent his friend with chariot and horses to the war; but home again he welcomed him never more. then the sun set and it was night. now one of the trojans wished hector to retire within the walls of troy, for certainly achilles would to-morrow be foremost in the war. but hector said, "have ye not had your fill of being shut up behind walls? let achilles fight; i will meet him in the open field." the trojans cheered, and they camped in the plain, while in the hut of achilles women washed the dead body of patroclus, and achilles swore that he would slay hector. in the dawn came thetis, bearing to achilles the new splendid armour that the god had made for him. then achilles put on that armour, and roused his men; but ulysses, who knew all the rules of honour, would not let him fight till peace had been made, with a sacrifice and other ceremonies, between him and agamemnon, and till agamemnon had given him all the presents which achilles had before refused. achilles did not want them; he wanted only to fight, but ulysses made him obey, and do what was usual. then the gifts were brought, and agamemnon stood up, and said that he was sorry for his insolence, and the men took breakfast, but achilles would neither eat nor drink. he mounted his chariot, but the horse xanthus bowed his head till his long mane touched the ground, and, being a fairy horse, the child of the west wind, he spoke (or so men said), and these were his words: "we shall bear thee swiftly and speedily, but thou shalt be slain in fight, and thy dying day is near at hand." "well i know it," said achilles, "but i will not cease from fighting till i have given the trojans their fill of war." so all that day he chased and slew the trojans. he drove them into the river, and, though the river came down in a red flood, he crossed, and slew them on the plain. the plain caught fire, the bushes and long dry grass blazed round him, but he fought his way through the fire, and drove the trojans to their walls. the gates were thrown open, and the trojans rushed through like frightened fawns, and then they climbed to the battlements, and looked down in safety, while the whole greek army advanced in line under their shields. but hector stood still, alone, in front of the gate, and old priam, who saw achilles rushing on, shining like a star in his new armour, called with tears to hector, "come within the gate! this man has slain many of my sons, and if he slays thee whom have i to help me in my old age?" his mother also called to hector, but he stood firm, waiting for achilles. now the story says that he was afraid, and ran thrice in full armour round troy, with achilles in pursuit. but this cannot be true, for no mortal men could run thrice, in heavy armour, with great shields that clanked against their ankles, round the town of troy: moreover hector was the bravest of men, and all the trojan women were looking down at him from the walls. we cannot believe that he ran away, and the story goes on to tell that he asked achilles to make an agreement with him. the conqueror in the fight should give back the body of the fallen to be buried by his friends, but should keep his armour. but achilles said that he could make no agreement with hector, and threw his spear, which flew over hector's shoulder. then hector threw his spear, but it could not pierce the shield which the god had made for achilles. hector had no other spear, and achilles had one, so hector cried, "let me not die without honour!" and drew his sword, and rushed at achilles, who sprang to meet him, but before hector could come within a sword-stroke achilles had sent his spear clean through the neck of hector. he fell in the dust and achilles said, "dogs and birds shall tear your flesh unburied." with his dying breath hector prayed him to take gold from priam, and give back his body to be burned in troy. but achilles said, "hound! would that i could bring myself to carve and eat thy raw flesh, but dogs shall devour it, even if thy father offered me thy weight in gold." with his last words hector prophesied and said, "remember me in the day when paris shall slay thee in the scaean gate." then his brave soul went to the land of the dead, which the greeks called hades. to that land ulysses sailed while he was still a living man, as the story tells later. then achilles did a dreadful deed; he slit the feet of dead hector from heel to ankle, and thrust thongs through, and bound him by the thongs to his chariot and trailed the body in the dust. all the women of troy who were on the walls raised a shriek, and hector's wife, andromache, heard the sound. she had been in an inner room of her house, weaving a purple web, and embroidering flowers on it, and she was calling her bower maidens to make ready a bath for hector when he should come back tired from battle. but when she heard the cry from the wall she trembled, and the shuttle with which she was weaving fell from her hands. "surely i heard the cry of my husband's mother," she said, and she bade two of her maidens come with her to see why the people lamented. she ran swiftly, and reached the battlements, and thence she saw her dear husband's body being whirled through the dust towards the ships, behind the chariot of achilles. then night came over her eyes and she fainted. but when she returned to herself she cried out that now none would defend her little boy, and other children would push him away from feasts, saying, "out with you; no father of thine is at our table," and his father, hector, would lie naked at the ships, unclad, unburned, unlamented. to be unburned and unburied was thought the greatest of misfortunes, because the dead man unburned could not go into the house of hades, god of the dead, but must always wander, alone and comfortless, in the dark borderland between the dead and the living. the cruelty of achilles, and the ransoming of hector when achilles was asleep that night the ghost of patroclus came, saying, "why dost thou not burn and bury me? for the other shadows of dead men suffer me not to come near them, and lonely i wander along the dark dwelling of hades." then achilles awoke, and he sent men to cut down trees, and make a huge pile of fagots and logs. on this they laid patroclus, covered with white linen, and then they slew many cattle, and achilles cut the throats of twelve trojan prisoners of war, meaning to burn them with patroclus to do him honour. this was a deed of shame, for achilles was mad with sorrow and anger for the death of his friend. then they drenched with wine the great pile of wood, which was thirty yards long and broad, and set fire to it, and the fire blazed all through the night and died down in the morning. they put the white bones of patroclus in a golden casket, and laid it in the hut of achilles, who said that, when he died, they must burn his body, and mix the ashes with the ashes of his friend, and build over it a chamber of stone, and cover the chamber with a great hill of earth, and set a pillar of stone above it. this is one of the hills on the plain of troy, but the pillar has fallen from the tomb, long ago. then, as the custom was, achilles held games--chariot races, foot races, boxing, wrestling, and archery--in honour of patroclus. ulysses won the prize for the foot race, and for the wrestling, so now his wound must have been healed. but achilles still kept trailing hector's dead body each day round the hill that had been raised for the tomb of patroclus, till the gods in heaven were angry, and bade thetis tell her son that he must give back the dead body to priam, and take ransom for it, and they sent a messenger to priam to bid him redeem the body of his son. it was terrible for priam to have to go and humble himself before achilles, whose hands had been red with the blood of his sons, but he did not disobey the gods. he opened his chests, and took out twenty-four beautiful embroidered changes of raiment; and he weighed out ten heavy bars, or talents, of gold, and chose a beautiful golden cup, and he called nine of his sons, paris, and helenus, and deiphobus, and the rest, saying, "go, ye bad sons, my shame; would that hector lived and all of you were dead!" for sorrow made him angry; "go, and get ready for me a wain, and lay on it these treasures." so they harnessed mules to the wain, and placed in it the treasures, and, after praying, priam drove through the night to the hut of achilles. in he went, when no man looked for him, and kneeled to achilles, and kissed his terrible death-dealing hands. "have pity on me, and fear the gods, and give me back my dead son," he said, "and remember thine own father. have pity on me, who have endured to do what no man born has ever done before, to kiss the hands that slew my sons." then achilles remembered his own father, far away, who now was old and weak: and he wept, and priam wept with him, and then achilles raised priam from his knees and spoke kindly to him, admiring how beautiful he still was in his old age, and priam himself wondered at the beauty of achilles. and achilles thought how priam had long been rich and happy, like his own father, peleus, and now old age and weakness and sorrow were laid upon both of them, for achilles knew that his own day of death was at hand, even at the doors. so achilles bade the women make ready the body of hector for burial, and they clothed him in a white mantle that priam had brought, and laid him in the wain; and supper was made ready, and priam and achilles ate and drank together, and the women spread a bed for priam, who would not stay long, but stole away back to troy while achilles was asleep. all the women came out to meet him, and to lament for hector. they carried the body into the house of andromache and laid it on a bed, and the women gathered around, and each in turn sang her song over the great dead warrior. his mother bewailed him, and his wife, and helen of the fair hands, clad in dark mourning raiment, lifted up her white arms, and said: "hector, of all my brethren in troy thou wert the dearest, since paris brought me hither. would that ere that day i had died! for this is now the twentieth year since i came, and in all these twenty years never heard i a word from thee that was bitter and unkind; others might upbraid me, thy sisters or thy mother, for thy father was good to me as if he had been my own; but then thou wouldst restrain them that spoke evil by the courtesy of thy heart and thy gentle words. ah! woe for thee, and woe for me, whom all men shudder at, for there is now none in wide troyland to be my friend like thee, my brother and my friend!" so helen lamented, but now was done all that men might do; a great pile of wood was raised, and hector was burned, and his ashes were placed in a golden urn, in a dark chamber of stone, within a hollow hill. how ulysses stole the luck of troy after hector was buried, the siege went on slowly, as it had done during the first nine years of the war. the greeks did not know at that time how to besiege a city, as we saw, by way of digging trenches and building towers, and battering the walls with machines that threw heavy stones. the trojans had lost courage, and dared not go into the open plain, and they were waiting for the coming up of new armies of allies--the amazons, who were girl warriors from far away, and an eastern people called the khita, whose king was memnon, the son of the bright dawn. now everyone knew that, in the temple of the goddess pallas athene, in troy, was a sacred image, which fell from heaven, called the palladium, and this very ancient image was the luck of troy. while it remained safe in the temple people believed that troy could never be taken, but as it was in a guarded temple in the middle of the town, and was watched by priestesses day and night, it seemed impossible that the greeks should ever enter the city secretly and steal the luck away. as ulysses was the grandson of autolycus, the master thief, he often wished that the old man was with the greeks, for if there was a thing to steal autolycus could steal it. but by this time autolycus was dead, and so ulysses could only puzzle over the way to steal the luck of troy, and wonder how his grandfather would have set about it. he prayed for help secretly to hermes, the god of thieves, when he sacrificed goats to him, and at last he had a plan. there was a story that anius, the king of the isle of delos, had three daughters, named oeno, spermo, and elais, and that oeno could turn water into wine, while spermo could turn stones into bread, and elais could change mud into olive oil. those fairy gifts, people said, were given to the maidens by the wine god, dionysus, and by the goddess of corn, demeter. now corn, and wine, and oil were sorely needed by the greeks, who were tired of paying much gold and bronze to the phoenician merchants for their supplies. ulysses therefore went to agamemnon one day, and asked leave to take his ship and voyage to delos, to bring, if he could, the three maidens to the camp, if indeed they could do these miracles. as no fighting was going on, agamemnon gave ulysses leave to depart, so he went on board his ship, with a crew of fifty men of ithaca, and away they sailed, promising to return in a month. two or three days after that, a dirty old beggar man began to be seen in the greek camp. he had crawled in late one evening, dressed in a dirty smock and a very dirty old cloak, full of holes, and stained with smoke. over everything he wore the skin of a stag, with half the hair worn off, and he carried a staff, and a filthy tattered wallet, to put food in, which swung from his neck by a cord. he came crouching and smiling up to the door of the hut of diomede, and sat down just within the doorway, where beggars still sit in the east. diomede saw him, and sent him a loaf and two handfuls of flesh, which the beggar laid on his wallet, between his feet, and he made his supper greedily, gnawing a bone like a dog. after supper diomede asked him who he was and whence he came, and he told a long story about how he had been a cretan pirate, and had been taken prisoner by the egyptians when he was robbing there, and how he had worked for many years in their stone quarries, where the sun had burned him brown, and had escaped by hiding among the great stones, carried down the nile in a raft, for building a temple on the seashore. the raft arrived at night, and the beggar said that he stole out from it in the dark and found a phoenician ship in the harbour, and the phoenicians took him on board, meaning to sell him somewhere as a slave. but a tempest came on and wrecked the ship off the isle of tenedos, which is near troy, and the beggar alone escaped to the island on a plank of the ship. from tenedos he had come to troy in a fisher's boat, hoping to make himself useful in the camp, and earn enough to keep body and soul together till he could find a ship sailing to crete. he made his story rather amusing, describing the strange ways of the egyptians; how they worshipped cats and bulls, and did everything in just the opposite of the greek way of doing things. so diomede let him have a rug and blankets to sleep on in the portico of the hut, and next day the old wretch went begging about the camp and talking with the soldiers. now he was a most impudent and annoying old vagabond, and was always in quarrels. if there was a disagreeable story about the father or grandfather of any of the princes, he knew it and told it, so that he got a blow from the baton of agamemnon, and aias gave him a kick, and idomeneus drubbed him with the butt of his spear for a tale about his grandmother, and everybody hated him and called him a nuisance. he was for ever jeering at ulysses, who was far away, and telling tales about autolycus, and at last he stole a gold cup, a very large cup, with two handles, and a dove sitting on each handle, from the hut of nestor. the old chief was fond of this cup, which he had brought from home, and, when it was found in the beggar's dirty wallet, everybody cried that he must be driven out of the camp and well whipped. so nestor's son, young thrasymedes, with other young men, laughing and shouting, pushed and dragged the beggar close up to the scaean gate of troy, where thrasymedes called with a loud voice, "o trojans, we are sick of this shameless beggar. first we shall whip him well, and if he comes back we shall put out his eyes and cut off his hands and feet, and give him to the dogs to eat. he may go to you, if he likes; if not, he must wander till he dies of hunger." the young men of troy heard this and laughed, and a crowd gathered on the wall to see the beggar punished. so thrasymedes whipped him with his bowstring till he was tired, and they did not leave off beating the beggar till he ceased howling and fell, all bleeding, and lay still. then thrasymedes gave him a parting kick, and went away with his friends. the beggar lay quiet for some time, then he began to stir, and sat up, wiping the tears from his eyes, and shouting curses and bad words after the greeks, praying that they might be speared in the back, and eaten by dogs. at last he tried to stand up, but fell down again, and began to crawl on hands and knees towards the scaean gate. there he sat down, within the two side walls of the gate, where he cried and lamented. now helen of the fair hands came down from the gate tower, being sorry to see any man treated so much worse than a beast, and she spoke to the beggar and asked him why he had been used in this cruel way? at first he only moaned, and rubbed his sore sides, but at last he said that he was an unhappy man, who had been shipwrecked, and was begging his way home, and that the greeks suspected him of being a spy sent out by the trojans. but he had been in lacedaemon, her own country, he said, and could tell her about her father, if she were, as he supposed, the beautiful helen, and about her brothers, castor and polydeuces, and her little daughter, hermione. "but perhaps," he said, "you are no mortal woman, but some goddess who favours the trojans, and if indeed you are a goddess then i liken you to aphrodite, for beauty, and stature, and shapeliness." then helen wept; for many a year had passed since she had heard any word of her father, and daughter, and her brothers, who were dead, though she knew it not. so she stretched out her white hand, and raised the beggar, who was kneeling at her feet, and bade him follow her to her own house, within the palace garden of king priam. helen walked forward, with a bower maiden at either side, and the beggar crawling after her. when she had entered her house, paris was not there, so she ordered the bath to be filled with warm water, and new clothes to be brought, and she herself washed the old beggar and anointed him with oil. this appears very strange to us, for though saint elizabeth of hungary used to wash and clothe beggars, we are surprised that helen should do so, who was not a saint. but long afterwards she herself told the son of ulysses, telemachus, that she had washed his father when he came into troy disguised as a beggar who had been sorely beaten. you must have guessed that the beggar was ulysses, who had not gone to delos in his ship, but stolen back in a boat, and appeared disguised among the greeks. he did all this to make sure that nobody could recognise him, and he behaved so as to deserve a whipping that he might not be suspected as a greek spy by the trojans, but rather be pitied by them. certainly he deserved his name of "the much-enduring ulysses." meanwhile he sat in his bath and helen washed his feet. but when she had done, and had anointed his wounds with olive oil, and when she had clothed him in a white tunic and a purple mantle, then she opened her lips to cry out with amazement, for she knew ulysses; but he laid his finger on her lips, saying "hush!" then she remembered how great danger he was in, for the trojans, if they found him, would put him to some cruel death, and she sat down, trembling and weeping, while he watched her. "oh thou strange one," she said, "how enduring is thy heart and how cunning beyond measure! how hast thou borne to be thus beaten and disgraced, and to come within the walls of troy? well it is for thee that paris, my lord, is far from home, having gone to guide penthesilea, the queen of the warrior maids whom men call amazons, who is on her way to help the trojans." then ulysses smiled, and helen saw that she had said a word which she ought not to have spoken, and had revealed the secret hope of the trojans. then she wept, and said, "oh cruel and cunning! you have made me betray the people with whom i live, though woe is me that ever i left my own people, and my husband dear, and my child! and now if you escape alive out of troy, you will tell the greeks, and they will lie in ambush by night for the amazons on the way to troy and will slay them all. if you and i were not friends long ago, i would tell the trojans that you are here, and they would give your body to the dogs to eat, and fix your head on the palisade above the wall. woe is me that ever i was born." ulysses answered, "lady, as you have said, we two are friends from of old, and your friend i will be till the last, when the greeks break into troy, and slay the men, and carry the women captives. if i live till that hour no man shall harm you, but safely and in honour you shall come to your palace in lacedaemon of the rifted hills. moreover, i swear to you a great oath, by zeus above, and by them that under earth punish the souls of men who swear falsely, that i shall tell no man the thing which you have spoken." so when he had sworn and done that oath, helen was comforted and dried her tears. then she told him how unhappy she was, and how she had lost her last comfort when hector died. "always am i wretched," she said, "save when sweet sleep falls on me. now the wife of thon, king of egypt, gave me this gift when we were in egypt, on our way to troy, namely, a drug that brings sleep even to the most unhappy, and it is pressed from the poppy heads of the garland of the god of sleep." then she showed him strange phials of gold, full of this drug: phials wrought by the egyptians, and covered with magic spells and shapes of beasts and flowers. "one of these i will give you," she said, "that even from troy town you may not go without a gift in memory of the hands of helen." so ulysses took the phial of gold, and was glad in his heart, and helen set before him meat and wine. when he had eaten and drunk, and his strength had come back to him, he said: "now i must dress me again in my old rags, and take my wallet, and my staff, and go forth, and beg through troy town. for here i must abide for some days as a beggar man, lest if i now escape from your house in the night the trojans may think that you have told me the secrets of their counsel, which i am carrying to the greeks, and may be angry with you." so he clothed himself again as a beggar, and took his staff, and hid the phial of gold with the egyptian drug in his rags, and in his wallet also he put the new clothes that helen had given him, and a sword, and he took farewell, saying, "be of good heart, for the end of your sorrows is at hand. but if you see me among the beggars in the street, or by the well, take no heed of me, only i will salute you as a beggar who has been kindly treated by a queen." so they parted, and ulysses went out, and when it was day he was with the beggars in the streets, but by night he commonly slept near the fire of a smithy forge, as is the way of beggars. so for some days he begged, saying that he was gathering food to eat while he walked to some town far away that was at peace, where he might find work to do. he was not impudent now, and did not go to rich men's houses or tell evil tales, or laugh, but he was much in the temples, praying to the gods, and above all in the temple of pallas athene. the trojans thought that he was a pious man for a beggar. now there was a custom in these times that men and women who were sick or in distress, should sleep at night on the floors of the temples. they did this hoping that the god would send them a dream to show them how their diseases might be cured, or how they might find what they had lost, or might escape from their distresses. ulysses slept in more than one temple, and once in that of pallas athene, and the priests and priestesses were kind to him, and gave him food in the morning when the gates of the temple were opened. in the temple of pallas athene, where the luck of troy lay always on her altar, the custom was that priestesses kept watch, each for two hours, all through the night, and soldiers kept guard within call. so one night ulysses slept there, on the floor, with other distressed people, seeking for dreams from the gods. he lay still all through the night till the turn of the last priestess came to watch. the priestess used to walk up and down with bare feet among the dreaming people, having a torch in her hand, and muttering hymns to the goddess. then ulysses, when her back was turned, slipped the gold phial out of his rags, and let it lie on the polished floor beside him. when the priestess came back again, the light from her torch fell on the glittering phial, and she stooped and picked it up, and looked at it curiously. there came from it a sweet fragrance, and she opened it, and tasted the drug. it seemed to her the sweetest thing that ever she had tasted, and she took more and more, and then closed the phial and laid it down, and went along murmuring her hymn. but soon a great drowsiness came over her, and she sat down on the step of the altar, and fell sound asleep, and the torch sunk in her hand, and went out, and all was dark. then ulysses put the phial in his wallet, and crept very cautiously to the altar, in the dark, and stole the luck of troy. it was only a small black mass of what is now called meteoric iron, which sometimes comes down with meteorites from the sky, but it was shaped like a shield, and the people thought it an image of the warlike shielded goddess, fallen from heaven. such sacred shields, made of glass and ivory, are found deep in the earth in the ruined cities of ulysses' time. swiftly ulysses hid the luck in his rags and left in its place on the altar a copy of the luck, which he had made of blackened clay. then he stole back to the place where he had lain, and remained there till dawn appeared, and the sleepers who sought for dreams awoke, and the temple gates were opened, and ulysses walked out with the rest of them. he stole down a lane, where as yet no people were stirring, and crept along, leaning on his staff, till he came to the eastern gate, at the back of the city, which the greeks never attacked, for they had never drawn their army in a circle round the town. there ulysses explained to the sentinels that he had gathered food enough to last for a long journey to some other town, and opened his bag, which seemed full of bread and broken meat. the soldiers said he was a lucky beggar, and let him out. he walked slowly along the waggon road by which wood was brought into troy from the forests on mount ida, and when he found that nobody was within sight he slipped into the forest, and stole into a dark thicket, hiding beneath the tangled boughs. here he lay and slept till evening, and then took the new clothes which helen had given him out of his wallet, and put them on, and threw the belt of the sword over his shoulder, and hid the luck of troy in his bosom. he washed himself clean in a mountain brook, and now all who saw him must have known that he was no beggar, but ulysses of ithaca, laertes' son. so he walked cautiously down the side of the brook which ran between high banks deep in trees, and followed it till it reached the river xanthus, on the left of the greek lines. here he found greek sentinels set to guard the camp, who cried aloud in joy and surprise, for his ship had not yet returned from delos, and they could not guess how ulysses had come back alone across the sea. so two of the sentinels guarded ulysses to the hut of agamemnon, where he and achilles and all the chiefs were sitting at a feast. they all leaped up, but when ulysses took the luck of troy from within his mantle, they cried that this was the bravest deed that had been done in the war, and they sacrificed ten oxen to zeus. "so you were the old beggar," said young thrasymedes. "yes," said ulysses, "and when next you beat a beggar, thrasymedes, do not strike so hard and so long." that night all the greeks were full of hope, for now they had the luck of troy, but the trojans were in despair, and guessed that the beggar was the thief, and that ulysses had been the beggar. the priestess, theano, could tell them nothing; they found her, with the extinguished torch drooping in her hand, asleep, as she sat on the step of the altar, and she never woke again. the battles with the amazons and memnon--the death of achilles ulysses thought much and often of helen, without whose kindness he could not have saved the greeks by stealing the luck of troy. he saw that, though she remained as beautiful as when the princes all sought her hand, she was most unhappy, knowing herself to be the cause of so much misery, and fearing what the future might bring. ulysses told nobody about the secret which she had let fall, the coming of the amazons. the amazons were a race of warlike maids, who lived far away on the banks of the river thermodon. they had fought against troy in former times, and one of the great hill-graves on the plain of troy covered the ashes of an amazon, swift-footed myrine. people believed that they were the daughters of the god of war, and they were reckoned equal in battle to the bravest men. their young queen, penthesilea, had two reasons for coming to fight at troy: one was her ambition to win renown, and the other her sleepless sorrow for having accidentally killed her sister, hippolyte, when hunting. the spear which she threw at a stag struck hippolyte and slew her, and penthesilea cared no longer for her own life, and desired to fall gloriously in battle. so penthesilea and her bodyguard of twelve amazons set forth from the wide streams of thermodon, and rode into troy. the story says that they did not drive in chariots, like all the greek and trojan chiefs, but rode horses, which must have been the manner of their country. penthesilea was the tallest and most beautiful of the amazons, and shone among her twelve maidens like the moon among the stars, or the bright dawn among the hours which follow her chariot wheels. the trojans rejoiced when they beheld her, for she looked both terrible and beautiful, with a frown on her brow, and fair shining eyes, and a blush on her cheeks. to the trojans she came like iris, the rainbow, after a storm, and they gathered round her cheering, and throwing flowers and kissing her stirrup, as the people of orleans welcomed joan of arc when she came to deliver them. even priam was glad, as is a man long blind, when he has been healed, and again looks upon the light of the sun. priam held a great feast, and gave to penthesilea many beautiful gifts: cups of gold, and embroideries, and a sword with a hilt of silver, and she vowed that she would slay achilles. but when andromache, the wife of hector, heard her she said within herself, "ah, unhappy girl, what is this boast of thine! thou hast not the strength to fight the unconquerable son of peleus, for if hector could not slay him, what chance hast thou? but the piled-up earth covers hector!" in the morning penthesilea sprang up from sleep and put on her glorious armour, with spear in hand, and sword at side, and bow and quiver hung behind her back, and her great shield covering her side from neck to stirrup, and mounted her horse, and galloped to the plain. beside her charged the twelve maidens of her bodyguard, and all the company of hector's brothers and kinsfolk. these headed the trojan lines, and they rushed towards the ships of the greeks. then the greeks asked each other, "who is this that leads the trojans as hector led them, surely some god rides in the van of the charioteers!" ulysses could have told them who the new leader of the trojans was, but it seems that he had not the heart to fight against women, for his name is not mentioned in this day's battle. so the two lines clashed, and the plain of troy ran red with blood, for penthesilea slew molios, and persinoos, and eilissos, and antiphates, and lernos high of heart, and hippalmos of the loud warcry, and haemonides, and strong elasippus, while her maidens derinoe and clonie slew each a chief of the greeks. but clonie fell beneath the spear of podarkes, whose hand penthesilea cut off with the sword, while idomeneus speared the amazon bremousa, and meriones of crete slew evadre, and diomede killed alcibie and derimacheia in close fight with the sword, so the company of the twelve were thinned, the bodyguard of penthesilea. the trojans and greeks kept slaying each other, but penthesilea avenged her maidens, driving the ranks of greece as a lioness drives the cattle on the hills, for they could not stand before her. then she shouted, "dogs! to-day shall you pay for the sorrows of priam! where is diomede, where is achilles, where is aias, that, men say, are your bravest? will none of them stand before my spear?" then she charged again, at the head of the household of priam, brothers and kinsmen of hector, and where they came the greeks fell like yellow leaves before the wind of autumn. the white horse that penthesilea rode, a gift from the wife of the north wind, flashed like lightning through a dark cloud among the companies of the greeks, and the chariots that followed the charge of the amazon rocked as they swept over the bodies of the slain. then the old trojans, watching from the walls, cried: "this is no mortal maiden but a goddess, and to-day she will burn the ships of the greeks, and they will all perish in troyland, and see greece never more again." now it so was that aias and achilles had not heard the din and the cry of war, for both had gone to weep over the great new grave of patroclus. penthesilea and the trojans had driven back the greeks within their ditch, and they were hiding here and there among the ships, and torches were blazing in men's hands to burn the ships, as in the day of the valour of hector: when aias heard the din of battle, and called to achilles to make speed towards the ships. so they ran swiftly to their huts, and armed themselves, and aias fell smiting and slaying upon the trojans, but achilles slew five of the bodyguard of penthesilea. she, beholding her maidens fallen, rode straight against aias and achilles, like a dove defying two falcons, and cast her spear, but it fell back blunted from the glorious shield that the god had made for the son of peleus. then she threw another spear at aias, crying, "i am the daughter of the god of war," but his armour kept out the spear, and he and achilles laughed aloud. aias paid no more heed to the amazon, but rushed against the trojan men; while achilles raised the heavy spear that none but he could throw, and drove it down through breastplate and breast of penthesilea, yet still her hand grasped her sword-hilt. but, ere she could draw her sword, achilles speared her horse, and horse and rider fell, and died in their fall. there lay fair penthesilea in the dust, like a tall poplar tree that the wind has overthrown, and her helmet fell, and the greeks who gathered round marvelled to see her lie so beautiful in death, like artemis, the goddess of the woods, when she sleeps alone, weary with hunting on the hills. then the heart of achilles was pierced with pity and sorrow, thinking how she might have been his wife in his own country, had he spared her, but he was never to see pleasant phthia, his native land, again. so achilles stood and wept over penthesilea dead. now the greeks, in pity and sorrow, held their hands, and did not pursue the trojans who had fled, nor did they strip the armour from penthesilea and her twelve maidens, but laid the bodies on biers, and sent them back in peace to priam. then the trojans burned penthesilea in the midst of her dead maidens, on a great pile of dry wood, and placed their ashes in a golden casket, and buried them all in the great hill-grave of laomedon, an ancient king of troy, while the greeks with lamentation buried them whom the amazon had slain. the old men of troy and the chiefs now held a council, and priam said that they must not yet despair, for, if they had lost many of their bravest warriors, many of the greeks had also fallen. their best plan was to fight only with arrows from the walls and towers, till king memnon came to their rescue with a great army of aethiopes. now memnon was the son of the bright dawn, a beautiful goddess who had loved and married a mortal man, tithonus. she had asked zeus, the chief of the gods, to make her lover immortal, and her prayer was granted. tithonus could not die, but he began to grow grey, and then white haired, with a long white beard, and very weak, till nothing of him seemed to be left but his voice, always feebly chattering like the grasshoppers on a summer day. memnon was the most beautiful of men, except paris and achilles, and his home was in a country that borders on the land of sunrising. there he was reared by the lily maidens called hesperides, till he came to his full strength, and commanded the whole army of the aethiopes. for their arrival priam wished to wait, but polydamas advised that the trojans should give back helen to the greeks, with jewels twice as valuable as those which she had brought from the house of menelaus. then paris was very angry, and said that polydamas was a coward, for it was little to paris that troy should be taken and burned in a month if for a month he could keep helen of the fair hands. at length memnon came, leading a great army of men who had nothing white about them but the teeth, so fiercely the sun burned on them in their own country. the trojans had all the more hopes of memnon because, on his long journey from the land of sunrising, and the river oceanus that girdles the round world, he had been obliged to cross the country of the solymi. now the solymi were the fiercest of men and rose up against memnon, but he and his army fought them for a whole day, and defeated them, and drove them to the hills. when memnon came, priam gave him a great cup of gold, full of wine to the brim, and memnon drank the wine at one draught. but he did not make great boasts of what he could do, like poor penthesilea, "for," said he, "whether i am a good man at arms will be known in battle, where the strength of men is tried. so now let us turn to sleep, for to wake and drink wine all through the night is an ill beginning of war." then priam praised his wisdom, and all men betook them to bed, but the bright dawn rose unwillingly next day, to throw light on the battle where her son was to risk his fife. then memnon led out the dark clouds of his men into the plain, and the greeks foreboded evil when they saw so great a new army of fresh and unwearied warriors, but achilles, leading them in his shining armour, gave them courage. memnon fell upon the left wing of the greeks, and on the men of nestor, and first he slew ereuthus, and then attacked nestor's young son, antilochus, who, now that patroclus had fallen, was the dearest friend of achilles. on him memnon leaped, like a lion on a kid, but antilochus lifted a huge stone from the plain, a pillar that had been set on the tomb of some great warrior long ago, and the stone smote full on the helmet of memnon, who reeled beneath the stroke. but memnon seized his heavy spear, and drove it through shield and corselet of antilochus, even into his heart, and he fell and died beneath his father's eyes. then nestor in great sorrow and anger strode across the body of antilochus and called to his other son, thrasymedes, "come and drive afar this man that has slain thy brother, for if fear be in thy heart thou art no son of mine, nor of the race of periclymenus, who stood up in battle even against the strong man heracles!" but memnon was too strong for thrasymedes, and drove him off, while old nestor himself charged sword in hand, though memnon bade him begone, for he was not minded to strike so aged a man, and nestor drew back, for he was weak with age. then memnon and his army charged the greeks, slaying and stripping the dead. but nestor had mounted his chariot and driven to achilles, weeping, and imploring him to come swiftly and save the body of antilochus, and he sped to meet memnon, who lifted a great stone, the landmark of a field, and drove it against the shield of the son of peleus. but achilles was not shaken by the blow; he ran forward, and wounded memnon over the rim of his shield. yet wounded as he was memnon fought on and struck his spear through the arm of achilles, for the greeks fought with no sleeves of bronze to protect their arms. then achilles drew his great sword, and flew on memnon, and with sword- strokes they lashed at each other on shield and helmet, and the long horsehair crests of the helmets were shorn off, and flew down the wind, and their shields rang terribly beneath the sword strokes. they thrust at each others' throats between shield and visor of the helmet, they smote at knee, and thrust at breast, and the armour rang about their bodies, and the dust from beneath their feet rose up in a cloud around them, like mist round the falls of a great river in flood. so they fought, neither of them yielding a step, till achilles made so rapid a thrust that memnon could not parry it, and the bronze sword passed clean through his body beneath the breast-bone, and he fell, and his armour clashed as he fell. then achilles, wounded as he was and weak from loss of blood, did not stay to strip the golden armour of memnon, but shouted his warcry, and pressed on, for he hoped to enter the gate of troy with the fleeing trojans, and all the greeks followed after him. so they pursued, slaying as they went, and the scaean gate was choked with the crowd of men, pursuing and pursued. in that hour would the greeks have entered troy, and burned the city, and taken the women captive, but paris stood on the tower above the gate, and in his mind was anger for the death of his brother hector. he tried the string of his bow, and found it frayed, for all day he had showered his arrows on the greeks; so he chose a new bowstring, and fitted it, and strung the bow, and chose an arrow from his quiver, and aimed at the ankle of achilles, where it was bare beneath the greave, or leg-guard of metal, that the god had fashioned for him. through the ankle flew the arrow, and achilles wheeled round, weak as he was, and stumbled, and fell, and the armour that the god had wrought was defiled with dust and blood. then achilles rose again, and cried: "what coward has smitten me with a secret arrow from afar? let him stand forth and meet me with sword and spear!" so speaking he seized the shaft with his strong hands and tore it out of the wound, and much blood gushed, and darkness came over his eyes. yet he staggered forward, striking blindly, and smote orythaon, a dear friend of hector, through the helmet, and others he smote, but now his force failed him, and he leaned on his spear, and cried his warcry, and said, "cowards of troy, ye shall not all escape my spear, dying as i am." but as he spoke he fell, and all his armour rang around him, yet the trojans stood apart and watched; and as hunters watch a dying lion not daring to go nigh him, so the trojans stood in fear till achilles drew his latest breath. then from the wall the trojan women raised a great cry of joy over him who had slain the noble hector: and thus was fulfilled the prophecy of hector, that achilles should fall in the scaean gateway, by the hand of paris. then the best of the trojans rushed forth from the gate to seize the body of achilles, and his glorious armour, but the greeks were as eager to carry the body to the ships that it might have due burial. round the dead achilles men fought long and sore, and both sides were mixed, greeks and trojans, so that men dared not shoot arrows from the walls of troy lest they should kill their own friends. paris, and aeneas, and glaucus, who had been the friend of sarpedon, led the trojans, and aias and ulysses led the greeks, for we are not told that agamemnon was fighting in this great battle of the war. now as angry wild bees flock round a man who is taking their honeycombs, so the trojans gathered round aias, striving to stab him, but he set his great shield in front, and smote and slew all that came within reach of his spear. ulysses, too, struck down many, and though a spear was thrown and pierced his leg near the knee he stood firm, protecting the body of achilles. at last ulysses caught the body of achilles by the hands, and heaved it upon his back, and so limped towards the ships, but aias and the men of aias followed, turning round if ever the trojans ventured to come near, and charging into the midst of them. thus very slowly they bore the dead achilles across the plain, through the bodies of the fallen and the blood, till they met nestor in his chariot and placed achilles therein, and swiftly nestor drove to the ships. there the women, weeping, washed achilles' comely body, and laid him on a bier with a great white mantle over him, and all the women lamented and sang dirges, and the first was briseis, who loved achilles better than her own country, and her father, and her brothers whom he had slain in war. the greek princes, too, stood round the body, weeping and cutting off their long locks of yellow hair, a token of grief and an offering to the dead. men say that forth from the sea came thetis of the silver feet, the mother of achilles, with her ladies, the deathless maidens of the waters. they rose up from their glassy chambers below the sea, moving on, many and beautiful, like the waves on a summer day, and their sweet song echoed along the shores, and fear came upon the greeks. then they would have fled, but nestor cried: "hold, flee not, young lords of the achaeans! lo, she that comes from the sea is his mother, with the deathless maidens of the waters, to look on the face of her dead son." then the sea nymphs stood around the dead achilles and clothed him in the garments of the gods, fragrant raiment, and all the nine muses, one to the other replying with sweet voices, began their lament. next the greeks made a great pile of dry wood, and laid achilles on it, and set fire to it, till the flames had consumed his body except the white ashes. these they placed in a great golden cup and mingled with them the ashes of patroclus, and above all they built a tomb like a hill, high on a headland above the sea, that men for all time may see it as they go sailing by, and may remember achilles. next they held in his honour foot races and chariot races, and other games, and thetis gave splendid prizes. last of all, when the games were ended, thetis placed before the chiefs the glorious armour that the god had made for her son on the night after the slaying of patroclus by hector. "let these arms be the prize of the best of the greeks," she said, "and of him that saved the body of achilles out of the hands of the trojans." then stood up on one side aias and on the other ulysses, for these two had rescued the body, and neither thought himself a worse warrior than the other. both were the bravest of the brave, and if aias was the taller and stronger, and upheld the fight at the ships on the day of the valour of hector; ulysses had alone withstood the trojans, and refused to retreat even when wounded, and his courage and cunning had won for the greeks the luck of troy. therefore old nestor arose and said: "this is a luckless day, when the best of the greeks are rivals for such a prize. he who is not the winner will be heavy at heart, and will not stand firm by us in battle, as of old, and hence will come great loss to the greeks. who can be a just judge in this question, for some men will love aias better, and some will prefer ulysses, and thus will arise disputes among ourselves. lo! have we not here among us many trojan prisoners, waiting till their friends pay their ransom in cattle and gold and bronze and iron? these hate all the greeks alike, and will favour neither aias nor ulysses. let _them_ be the judges, and decide who is the best of the greeks, and the man who has done most harm to the trojans." agamemnon said that nestor had spoken wisely. the trojans were then made to sit as judges in the midst of the assembly, and aias and ulysses spoke, and told the stories of their own great deeds, of which we have heard already, but aias spoke roughly and discourteously, calling ulysses a coward and a weakling. "perhaps the trojans know," said ulysses quietly, "whether they think that i deserve what aias has said about me, that i am a coward; and perhaps aias may remember that he did not find me so weak when we wrestled for a prize at the funeral of patroclus." then the trojans all with one voice said that ulysses was the best man among the greeks, and the most feared by them, both for his courage and his skill in stratagems of war. on this, the blood of aias flew into his face, and he stood silent and unmoving, and could not speak a word, till his friends came round him and led him away to his hut, and there he sat down and would not eat or drink, and the night fell. long he sat, musing in his mind, and then rose and put on all his armour, and seized a sword that hector had given him one day when they two fought in a gentle passage of arms, and took courteous farewell of each other, and aias had given hector a broad sword-belt, wrought with gold. this sword, hector's gift, aias took, and went towards the hut of ulysses, meaning to carve him limb from limb, for madness had come upon him in his great grief. rushing through the night to slay ulysses he fell upon the flock of sheep that the greeks kept for their meat. and up and down among them he went, smiting blindly till the dawn came, and, lo! his senses returned to him, and he saw that he had not smitten ulysses, but stood in a pool of blood among the sheep that he had slain. he could not endure the disgrace of his madness, and he fixed the sword, hector's gift, with its hilt firmly in the ground, and went back a little way, and ran and fell upon the sword, which pierced his heart, and so died the great aias, choosing death before a dishonoured life. ulysses sails to seek the son of achilles.--the valour of eurypylus when the greeks found aias lying dead, slain by his own hand, they made great lament, and above all the brother of aias, and his wife tecmessa bewailed him, and the shores of the sea rang with their sorrow. but of all no man was more grieved than ulysses, and he stood up and said: "would that the sons of the trojans had never awarded to me the arms of achilles, for far rather would i have given them to aias than that this loss should have befallen the whole army of the greeks. let no man blame me, or be angry with me, for i have not sought for wealth, to enrich myself, but for honour only, and to win a name that will be remembered among men in times to come." then they made a great fire of wood, and burned the body of aias, lamenting him as they had sorrowed for achilles. now it seemed that though the greeks had won the luck of troy and had defeated the amazons and the army of memnon, they were no nearer taking troy than ever. they had slain hector, indeed, and many other trojans, but they had lost the great achilles, and aias, and patroclus, and antilochus, with the princes whom penthesilea and memnon slew, and the bands of the dead chiefs were weary of fighting, and eager to go home. the chiefs met in council, and menelaus arose and said that his heart was wasted with sorrow for the death of so many brave men who had sailed to troy for his sake. "would that death had come upon me before i gathered this host," he said, "but come, let the rest of us launch our swift ships, and return each to our own country." he spoke thus to try the greeks, and see of what courage they were, for his desire was still to burn troy town and to slay paris with his own hand. then up rose diomede, and swore that never would the greeks turn cowards. no! he bade them sharpen their swords, and make ready for battle. the prophet calchas, too, arose and reminded the greeks how he had always foretold that they would take troy in the tenth year of the siege, and how the tenth year had come, and victory was almost in their hands. next ulysses stood up and said that, though achilles was dead, and there was no prince to lead his men, yet a son had been born to achilles, while he was in the isle of scyros, and that son he would bring to fill his father's place. "surely he will come, and for a token i will carry to him those unhappy arms of the great achilles. unworthy am i to wear them, and they bring back to my mind our sorrow for aias. but his son will wear them, in the front of the spearmen of greece and in the thickest ranks of troy shall the helmet of achilles shine, as it was wont to do, for always he fought among the foremost." thus ulysses spoke, and he and diomede, with fifty oarsmen, went on board a swift ship, and sitting all in order on the benches they smote the grey sea into foam, and ulysses held the helm and steered them towards the isle of scyros. now the trojans had rest from war for a while, and priam, with a heavy heart, bade men take his chief treasure, the great golden vine, with leaves and clusters of gold, and carry it to the mother of eurypylus, the king of the people who dwell where the wide marshlands of the river cayster clang with the cries of the cranes and herons and wild swans. for the mother of eurypylus had sworn that never would she let her son go to the war unless priam sent her the vine of gold, a gift of the gods to an ancient king of troy. with a heavy heart, then, priam sent the golden vine, but eurypylus was glad when he saw it, and bade all his men arm, and harness the horses to the chariots, and glad were the trojans when the long line of the new army wound along the road and into the town. then paris welcomed eurypylus who was his nephew, son of his sister astyoche, a daughter of priam; but the grandfather of eurypylus was the famous heracles, the strongest man who ever lived on earth. so paris brought eurypylus to his house, where helen sat working at her embroideries with her four bower maidens, and eurypylus marvelled when he saw her, she was so beautiful. but the khita, the people of eurypylus, feasted in the open air among the trojans, by the light of great fires burning, and to the music of pipes and flutes. the greeks saw the fires, and heard the merry music, and they watched all night lest the trojans should attack the ships before the dawn. but in the dawn eurypylus rose from sleep and put on his armour, and hung from his neck by the belt the great shield on which were fashioned, in gold of many colours and in silver, the twelve adventures of heracles, his grandfather; strange deeds that he did, fighting with monsters and giants and with the hound of hades, who guards the dwellings of the dead. then eurypylus led on his whole army, and with the brothers of hector he charged against the greeks, who were led by agamemnon. in that battle eurypylus first smote nireus, who was the most beautiful of the greeks now that achilles had fallen. there lay nireus, like an apple tree, all covered with blossoms red and white, that the wind has overthrown in a rich man's orchard. then eurypylus would have stripped off his armour, but machaon rushed in, machaon who had been wounded and taken to the tent of nestor, on the day of the valour of hector, when he brought fire against the ships. machaon drove his spear through the left shoulder of eurypylus, but eurypylus struck at his shoulder with his sword, and the blood flowed; nevertheless, machaon stooped, and grasped a great stone, and sent it against the helmet of eurypylus. he was shaken, but he did not fall, he drove his spear through breastplate and breast of machaon, who fell and died. with his last breath he said, "thou, too, shalt fall," but eurypylus made answer, "so let it be! men cannot live for ever, and such is the fortune of war." thus the battle rang, and shone, and shifted, till few of the greeks kept steadfast, except those with menelaus and agamemnon, for diomede and ulysses were far away upon the sea, bringing from scyros the son of achilles. but teucer slew polydamas, who had warned hector to come within the walls of troy; and menelaus wounded deiphobus, the bravest of the sons of priam who were still in arms, for many had fallen; and agamemnon slew certain spearmen of the trojans. round eurypylus fought paris, and aeneas, who wounded teucer with a great stone, breaking in his helmet, but he drove back in his chariot to the ships. menelaus and agamemnon stood alone and fought in the crowd of trojans, like two wild boars that a circle of hunters surrounds with spears, so fiercely they stood at bay. there they would both have fallen, but idomeneus, and meriones of crete, and thrasymedes, nestor's son, ran to their rescue, and fiercer grew the fighting. eurypylus desired to slay agamemnon and menelaus, and end the war, but, as the spears of the scots encompassed king james at flodden field till he ran forward, and fell within a lance's length of the english general, so the men of crete and pylos guarded the two princes with their spears. there paris was wounded in the thigh with a spear, and he retreated a little way, and showered his arrows among the greeks; and idomeneus lifted and hurled a great stone at eurypylus which struck his spear out of his hand, and he went back to find it, and menelaus and agamemnon had a breathing space in the battle. but soon eurypylus returned, crying on his men, and they drove back foot by foot the ring of spears round agamemnon, and aeneas and paris slew men of crete and of mycenae till the greeks were pushed to the ditch round the camp; and then great stones and spears and arrows rained down on the trojans and the people of eurypylus from the battlements and towers of the grecian wall. now night fell, and eurypylus knew that he could not win the wall in the dark, so he withdrew his men, and they built great fires, and camped upon the plain. the case of the greeks was now like that of the trojans after the death of hector. they buried machaon and the other chiefs who had fallen, and they remained within their ditch and their wall, for they dared not come out into the open plain. they knew not whether ulysses and diomede had come safely to scyros, or whether their ship had been wrecked or driven into unknown seas. so they sent a herald to eurypylus, asking for a truce, that they might gather their dead and burn them, and the trojans and khita also buried their dead. meanwhile the swift ship of ulysses had swept through the sea to scyros, and to the palace of king lycomedes. there they found neoptolemus, the son of achilles, in the court before the doors. he was as tall as his father, and very like him in face and shape, and he was practising the throwing of the spear at a mark. right glad were ulysses and diomede to behold him, and ulysses told neoptolemus who they were, and why they came, and implored him to take pity on the greeks and help them. "my friend is diomede, prince of argos," said ulysses, "and i am ulysses of ithaca. come with us, and we greeks will give you countless gifts, and i myself will present you with the armour of your father, such as it is not lawful for any other mortal man to wear, seeing that it is golden, and wrought by the hands of a god. moreover, when we have taken troy, and gone home, menelaus will give you his daughter, the beautiful hermione, to be your wife, with gold in great plenty." then neoptolemus answered: "it is enough that the greeks need my sword. to-morrow we shall sail for troy." he led them into the palace to dine, and there they found his mother, beautiful deidamia, in mourning raiment, and she wept when she heard that they had come to take her son away. but neoptolemus comforted her, promising to return safely with the spoils of troy, "or, even if i fall," he said, "it will be after doing deeds worthy of my father's name." so next day they sailed, leaving deidamia mournful, like a swallow whose nest a serpent has found, and has killed her young ones; even so she wailed, and went up and down in the house. but the ship ran swiftly on her way, cleaving the dark waves till ulysses showed neoptolemus the far off snowy crest of mount ida; and tenedos, the island near troy; and they passed the plain where the tomb of achilles stands, but ulysses did not tell the son that it was his father's tomb. now all this time the greeks, shut up within their wall and fighting from their towers, were looking back across the sea, eager to spy the ship of ulysses, like men wrecked on a desert island, who keep watch every day for a sail afar off, hoping that the seamen will touch at their isle and have pity upon them, and carry them home, so the greeks kept watch for the ship bearing neoptolemus. diomede, too, had been watching the shore, and when they came in sight of the ships of the greeks, he saw that they were being besieged by the trojans, and that all the greek army was penned up within the wall, and was fighting from the towers. then he cried aloud to ulysses and neoptolemus, "make haste, friends, let us arm before we land, for some great evil has fallen upon the greeks. the trojans are attacking our wall, and soon they will burn our ships, and for us there will be no return." then all the men on the ship of ulysses armed themselves, and neoptolemus, in the splendid armour of his father, was the first to leap ashore. the greeks could not come from the wall to welcome him, for they were fighting hard and hand-to-hand with eurypylus and his men. but they glanced back over their shoulders and it seemed to them that they saw achilles himself, spear and sword in hand, rushing to help them. they raised a great battle-cry, and, when neoptolemus reached the battlements, he and ulysses, and diomede leaped down to the plain, the greeks following them, and they all charged at once on the men of eurypylus, with levelled spears, and drove them from the wall. then the trojans trembled, for they knew the shields of diomede and ulysses, and they thought that the tall chief in the armour of achilles was achilles himself, come back from the land of the dead to take vengeance for antilochus. the trojans fled, and gathered round eurypylus, as in a thunderstorm little children, afraid of the lightning and the noise, run and cluster round their father, and hide their faces on his knees. but neoptolemus was spearing the trojans, as a man who carries at night a beacon of fire in his boat on the sea spears the fishes that flock around, drawn by the blaze of the flame. cruelly he avenged his father's death on many a trojan, and the men whom achilles had led followed achilles' son, slaying to right and left, and smiting the trojans, as they ran, between the shoulders with the spear. thus they fought and followed while daylight lasted, but when night fell, they led neoptolemus to his father's hut, where the women washed him in the bath, and then he was taken to feast with agamemnon and menelaus and the princes. they all welcomed him, and gave him glorious gifts, swords with silver hilts, and cups of gold and silver, and they were glad, for they had driven the trojans from their wall, and hoped that to-morrow they would slay eurypylus, and take troy town. but their hope was not to be fulfilled, for though next day eurypylus met neoptolemus in the battle, and was slain by him, when the greeks chased the trojans into their city so great a storm of lightning and thunder and rain fell upon them that they retreated again to their camp. they believed that zeus, the chief of the gods, was angry with them, and the days went by, and troy still stood unconquered. the slaying of paris when the greeks were disheartened, as they often were, they consulted calchas the prophet. he usually found that they must do something, or send for somebody, and in doing so they diverted their minds from their many misfortunes. now, as the trojans were fighting more bravely than before, under deiphobus, a brother of hector, the greeks went to calchas for advice, and he told them that they must send ulysses and diomede to bring philoctetes the bowman from the isle of lemnos. this was an unhappy deserted island, in which the married women, some years before, had murdered all their husbands, out of jealousy, in a single night. the greeks had landed in lemnos, on their way to troy, and there philoctetes had shot an arrow at a great water dragon which lived in a well within a cave in the lonely hills. but when he entered the cave the dragon bit him, and, though he killed it at last, its poisonous teeth wounded his foot. the wound never healed, but dripped with venom, and philoctetes, in terrible pain, kept all the camp awake at night by his cries. the greeks were sorry for him, but he was not a pleasant companion, shrieking as he did, and exuding poison wherever he came. so they left him on the lonely island, and did not know whether he was alive or dead. calchas ought to have told the greeks not to desert philoctetes at the time, if he was so important that troy, as the prophet now said, could not be taken without him. but now, as he must give some advice, calchas said that philoctetes must be brought back, so ulysses and diomede went to bring him. they sailed to lemnos, a melancholy place they found it, with no smoke rising from the ruinous houses along the shore. as they were landing they learned that philoctetes was not dead, for his dismal old cries of pain, _ototototoi, ai, ai; pheu, pheu; ototototoi_, came echoing from a cave on the beach. to this cave the princes went, and found a terrible-looking man, with long, dirty, dry hair and beard; he was worn to a skeleton, with hollow eyes, and lay moaning in a mass of the feathers of sea birds. his great bow and his arrows lay ready to his hand: with these he used to shoot the sea birds, which were all that he had to eat, and their feathers littered all the floor of his cave, and they were none the better for the poison that dripped from his wounded foot. when this horrible creature saw ulysses and diomede coming near, he seized his bow and fitted a poisonous arrow to the string, for he hated the greeks, because they had left him in the desert isle. but the princes held up their hands in sign of peace, and cried out that they had come to do him kindness, so he laid down his bow, and they came in and sat on the rocks, and promised that his wound should be healed, for the greeks were very much ashamed of having deserted him. it was difficult to resist ulysses when he wished to persuade any one, and at last philoctetes consented to sail with them to troy. the oarsmen carried him down to the ship on a litter, and there his dreadful wound was washed with warm water, and oil was poured into it, and it was bound up with soft linen, so that his pain grew less fierce, and they gave him a good supper and wine enough, which he had not tasted for many years. next morning they sailed, and had a fair west wind, so that they soon landed among the greeks and carried philoctetes on shore. here podaleirius, the brother of machaon, being a physician, did all that could be done to heal the wound, and the pain left philoctetes. he was taken to the hut of agamemnon, who welcomed him, and said that the greeks repented of their cruelty. they gave him seven female slaves to take care of him, and twenty swift horses, and twelve great vessels of bronze, and told him that he was always to live with the greatest chiefs and feed at their table. so he was bathed, and his hair was cut and combed and anointed with oil, and soon he was eager and ready to fight, and to use his great bow and poisoned arrows on the trojans. the use of poisoned arrow-tips was thought unfair, but philoctetes had no scruples. now in the next battle paris was shooting down the greeks with his arrows, when philoctetes saw him, and cried: "dog, you are proud of your archery and of the arrow that slew the great achilles. but, behold, i am a better bowman than you, by far, and the bow in my hands was borne by the strong man heracles!" so he cried and drew the bowstring to his breast and the poisoned arrowhead to the bow, and the bowstring rang, and the arrow flew, and did but graze the hand of paris. then the bitter pain of the poison came upon him, and the trojans carried him into their city, where the physicians tended him all night. but he never slept, and lay tossing in agony till dawn, when he said: "there is but one hope. take me to oenone, the nymph of mount ida!" then his friends laid paris on a litter, and bore him up the steep path to mount ida. often had he climbed it swiftly, when he was young, and went to see the nymph who loved him; but for many a day he had not trod the path where he was now carried in great pain and fear, for the poison turned his blood to fire. little hope he had, for he knew how cruelly he had deserted oenone, and he saw that all the birds which were disturbed in the wood flew away to the left hand, an omen of evil. at last the bearers reached the cave where the nymph oenone lived, and they smelled the sweet fragrance of the cedar fire that burned on the floor of the cave, and they heard the nymph singing a melancholy song. then paris called to her in the voice which she had once loved to hear, and she grew very pale, and rose up, saying to herself, "the day has come for which i have prayed. he is sore hurt, and has come to bid me heal his wound." so she came and stood in the doorway of the dark cave, white against the darkness, and the bearers laid paris on the litter at the feet of oenone, and he stretched forth his hands to touch her knees, as was the manner of suppliants. but she drew back and gathered her robe about her, that he might not touch it with his hands. then he said: "lady, despise me not, and hate me not, for my pain is more than i can bear. truly it was by no will of mine that i left you lonely here, for the fates that no man may escape led me to helen. would that i had died in your arms before i saw her face! but now i beseech you in the name of the gods, and for the memory of our love, that you will have pity on me and heal my hurt, and not refuse your grace and let me die here at your feet." then oenone answered scornfully: "why have you come here to me? surely for years you have not come this way, where the path was once worn with your feet. but long ago you left me lonely and lamenting, for the love of helen of the fair hands. surely she is much more beautiful than the love of your youth, and far more able to help you, for men say that she can never know old age and death. go home to helen and let her take away your pain." thus oenone spoke, and went within the cave, where she threw herself down among the ashes of the hearth and sobbed for anger and sorrow. in a little while she rose and went to the door of the cave, thinking that paris had not been borne away back to troy, but she found him not; for his bearers had carried him by another path, till he died beneath the boughs of the oak trees. then his bearers carried him swiftly down to troy, where his mother bewailed him, and helen sang over him as she had sung over hector, remembering many things, and fearing to think of what her own end might be. but the trojans hastily built a great pile of dry wood, and thereon laid the body of paris and set fire to it, and the flame went up through the darkness, for now night had fallen. but oenone was roaming in the dark woods, crying and calling after paris, like a lioness whose cubs the hunters have carried away. the moon rose to give her light, and the flame of the funeral fire shone against the sky, and then oenone knew that paris had died--beautiful paris--and that the trojans were burning his body on the plain at the foot of mount ida. then she cried that now paris was all her own, and that helen had no more hold on him: "and though when he was living he left me, in death we shall not be divided," she said, and she sped down the hill, and through the thickets where the wood nymphs were wailing for paris, and she reached the plain, and, covering her head with her veil like a bride, she rushed through the throng of trojans. she leaped upon the burning pile of wood, she clasped the body of paris in her arms, and the flame of fire consumed the bridegroom and the bride, and their ashes mingled. no man could divide them any more, and the ashes were placed in a golden cup, within a chamber of stone, and the earth was mounded above them. on that grave the wood nymphs planted two rose trees, and their branches met and plaited together. this was the end of paris and oenone. how ulysses invented the device of the horse of tree after paris died, helen was not given back to menelaus. we are often told that only fear of the anger of paris had prevented the trojans from surrendering helen and making peace. now paris could not terrify them, yet for all that the men of the town would not part with helen, whether because she was so beautiful, or because they thought it dishonourable to yield her to the greeks, who might put her to a cruel death. so helen was taken by deiphobus, the brother of paris, to live in his own house, and deiphobus was at this time the best warrior and the chief captain of the men of troy. meanwhile, the greeks made an assault against the trojan walls and fought long and hardily; but, being safe behind the battlements, and shooting through loopholes, the trojans drove them back with loss of many of their men. it was in vain that philoctetes shot his poisoned arrows, they fell back from the stone walls, or stuck in the palisades of wood above the walls, and the greeks who tried to climb over were speared, or crushed with heavy stones. when night fell, they retreated to the ships and held a council, and, as usual, they asked the advice of the prophet calchas. it was the business of calchas to go about looking at birds, and taking omens from what he saw them doing, a way of prophesying which the romans also used, and some savages do the same to this day. calchas said that yesterday he had seen a hawk pursuing a dove, which hid herself in a hole in a rocky cliff. for a long while the hawk tried to find the hole, and follow the dove into it, but he could not reach her. so he flew away for a short distance and hid himself; then the dove fluttered out into the sunlight, and the hawk swooped on her and killed her. the greeks, said calchas, ought to learn a lesson from the hawk, and take troy by cunning, as by force they could do nothing. then ulysses stood up and described a trick which it is not easy to understand. the greeks, he said, ought to make an enormous hollow horse of wood, and place the bravest men in the horse. then all the rest of the greeks should embark in their ships and sail to the isle of tenedos, and lie hidden behind the island. the trojans would then come out of the city, like the dove out of her hole in the rock, and would wander about the greek camp, and wonder why the great horse of tree had been made, and why it had been left behind. lest they should set fire to the horse, when they would soon have found out the warriors hidden in it, a cunning greek, whom the trojans did not know by sight, should be left in the camp or near it. he would tell the trojans that the greeks had given up all hope and gone home, and he was to say that they feared the goddess pallas was angry with them, because they had stolen her image that fell from heaven, and was called the luck of troy. to soothe pallas and prevent her from sending great storms against the ships, the trojans (so the man was to say) had built this wooden horse as an offering to the goddess. the trojans, believing this story, would drag the horse into troy, and, in the night, the princes would come out, set fire to the city, and open the gates to the army, which would return from tenedos as soon as darkness came on. the prophet was much pleased with the plan of ulysses, and, as two birds happened to fly away on the right hand, he declared that the stratagem would certainly be lucky. neoptolemus, on the other hand, voted for taking troy, without any trick, by sheer hard fighting. ulysses replied that if achilles could not do that, it could not be done at all, and that epeius, a famous carpenter, had better set about making the horse at once. next day half the army, with axes in their hands, were sent to cut down trees on mount ida, and thousands of planks were cut from the trees by epeius and his workmen, and in three days he had finished the horse. ulysses then asked the best of the greeks to come forward and go inside the machine; while one, whom the greeks did not know by sight, should volunteer to stay behind in the camp and deceive the trojans. then a young man called sinon stood up and said that he would risk himself and take the chance that the trojans might disbelieve him, and burn him alive. certainly, none of the greeks did anything more courageous, yet sinon had not been considered brave. had he fought in the front ranks, the trojans would have known him; but there were many brave fighters who would not have dared to do what sinon undertook. then old nestor was the first that volunteered to go into the horse; but neoptolemus said that, brave as he was, he was too old, and that he must depart with the army to tenedos. neoptolemus himself would go into the horse, for he would rather die than turn his back on troy. so neoptolemus armed himself and climbed into the horse, as did menelaus, ulysses, diomede, thrasymedes (nestor's son), idomeneus, philoctetes, meriones, and all the best men except agamemnon, while epeius himself entered last of all. agamemnon was not allowed by the other greeks to share their adventure, as he was to command the army when they returned from tenedos. they meanwhile launched their ships and sailed away. but first menelaus had led ulysses apart, and told him that if they took troy (and now they must either take it or die at the hands of the trojans), he would owe to ulysses the glory. when they came back to greece, he wished to give ulysses one of his own cities, that they might always be near each other. ulysses smiled and shook his head; he could not leave ithaca, his own rough island kingdom. "but if we both live through the night that is coming," he said, "i may ask you for one gift, and giving it will make you none the poorer." then menelaus swore by the splendour of zeus that ulysses could ask him for no gift that he would not gladly give; so they embraced, and both armed themselves and went up into the horse. with them were all the chiefs except nestor, whom they would not allow to come, and agamemnon, who, as chief general, had to command the army. they swathed themselves and their arms in soft silks, that they might not ring and clash, when the trojans, if they were so foolish, dragged the horse up into their town, and there they sat in the dark waiting. meanwhile, the army burned their huts and launched their ships, and with oars and sails made their way to the back of the isle of tenedos. the end of troy and the saving of helen from the walls the trojans saw the black smoke go up thick into the sky, and the whole fleet of the greeks sailing out to sea. never were men so glad, and they armed themselves for fear of an ambush, and went cautiously, sending forth scouts in front of them, down to the seashore. here they found the huts burned down and the camp deserted, and some of the scouts also caught sinon, who had hid himself in a place where he was likely to be found. they rushed on him with fierce cries, and bound his hands with a rope, and kicked and dragged him along to the place where priam and the princes were wondering at the great horse of tree. sinon looked round upon them, while some were saying that he ought to be tortured with fire to make him tell all the truth about the horse. the chiefs in the horse must have trembled for fear lest torture should wring the truth out of sinon, for then the trojans would simply burn the machine and them within it. but sinon said: "miserable man that i am, whom the greeks hate and the trojans are eager to slay!" when the trojans heard that the greeks hated him, they were curious, and asked who he was, and how he came to be there. "i will tell you all, oh king!" he answered priam. "i was a friend and squire of an unhappy chief, palamedes, whom the wicked ulysses hated and slew secretly one day, when he found him alone, fishing in the sea. i was angry, and in my folly i did not hide my anger, and my words came to the ears of ulysses. from that hour he sought occasion to slay me. then calchas--" here he stopped, saying: "but why tell a long tale? if you hate all greeks alike, then slay me; this is what agamemnon and ulysses desire; menelaus would thank you for my head." the trojans were now more curious than before. they bade him go on, and he said that the greeks had consulted an oracle, which advised them to sacrifice one of their army to appease the anger of the gods and gain a fair wind homewards. "but who was to be sacrificed? they asked calchas, who for fifteen days refused to speak. at last, being bribed by ulysses, he pointed to me, sinon, and said that i must be the victim. i was bound and kept in prison, while they built their great horse as a present for pallas athene the goddess. they made it so large that you trojans might never be able to drag it into your city; while, if you destroyed it, the goddess might turn her anger against you. and now they have gone home to bring back the image that fell from heaven, which they had sent to greece, and to restore it to the temple of pallas athene, when they have taken your town, for the goddess is angry with them for that theft of ulysses." the trojans were foolish enough to believe the story of sinon, and they pitied him and unbound his hands. then they tied ropes to the wooden horse, and laid rollers in front of it, like men launching a ship, and they all took turns to drag the horse up to the scaean gate. children and women put their hands to the ropes and hauled, and with shouts and dances, and hymns they toiled, till about nightfall the horse stood in the courtyard of the inmost castle. then all the people of troy began to dance, and drink, and sing. such sentinels as were set at the gates got as drunk as all the rest, who danced about the city till after midnight, and then they went to their homes and slept heavily. meanwhile the greek ships were returning from behind tenedos as fast as the oarsmen could row them. one trojan did not drink or sleep; this was deiphobus, at whose house helen was now living. he bade her come with them, for he knew that she was able to speak in the very voice of all men and women whom she had ever seen, and he armed a few of his friends and went with them to the citadel. then he stood beside the horse, holding helen's hand, and whispered to her that she must call each of the chiefs in the voice of his wife. she was obliged to obey, and she called menelaus in her own voice, and diomede in the voice of his wife, and ulysses in the very voice of penelope. then menelaus and diomede were eager to answer, but ulysses grasped their hands and whispered the word "echo!" then they remembered that this was a name of helen, because she could speak in all voices, and they were silent; but anticlus was still eager to answer, till ulysses held his strong hand over his mouth. there was only silence, and deiphobus led helen back to his house. when they had gone away epeius opened the side of the horse, and all the chiefs let themselves down softly to the ground. some rushed to the gate, to open it, and they killed the sleeping sentinels and let in the greeks. others sped with torches to burn the houses of the trojan princes, and terrible was the slaughter of men, unarmed and half awake, and loud were the cries of the women. but ulysses had slipped away at the first, none knew where. neoptolemus ran to the palace of priam, who was sitting at the altar in his courtyard, praying vainly to the gods, for neoptolemus slew the old man cruelly, and his white hair was dabbled in his blood. all through the city was fighting and slaying; but menelaus went to the house of deiphobus, knowing that helen was there. in the doorway he found deiphobus lying dead in all his armour, a spear standing in his breast. there were footprints marked in blood, leading through the portico and into the hall. there menelaus went, and found ulysses leaning, wounded, against one of the central pillars of the great chamber, the firelight shining on his armour. "why hast thou slain deiphobus and robbed me of my revenge?" said menelaus. "you swore to give me a gift," said ulysses, "and will you keep your oath?" "ask what you will," said menelaus; "it is yours and my oath cannot be broken." "i ask the life of helen of the fair hands," said ulysses "this is my own life-price that i pay back to her, for she saved my life when i took the luck of troy, and i swore that hers should be saved." then helen stole, glimmering in white robes, from a recess in the dark hall, and fell at the feet of menelaus; her golden hair lay in the dust of the hearth, and her hands moved to touch his knees. his drawn sword fell from the hands of menelaus, and pity and love came into his heart, and he raised her from the dust and her white arms were round his neck, and they both wept. that night menelaus fought no more, but they tended the wound of ulysses, for the sword of deiphobus had bitten through his helmet. when dawn came troy lay in ashes, and the women were being driven with spear shafts to the ships, and the men were left unburied, a prey to dogs and all manner of birds. thus the grey city fell, that had lorded it for many centuries. all the gold and silver and rich embroideries, and ivory and amber, the horses and chariots, were divided among the army; all but a treasure of silver and gold, hidden in a chest within a hollow of the wall, and this treasure was found, not very many years ago, by men digging deep on the hill where troy once stood. the women, too, were given to the princes, and neoptolemus took andromache to his home in argos, to draw water from the well and to be the slave of a master, and agamemnon carried beautiful cassandra, the daughter of priam, to his palace in mycenae, where they were both slain in one night. only helen was led with honour to the ship of menelaus. the story of all that happened to ulysses on his way home from troy is told in another book, "tales of the greek seas." the queen of the air being a study of the greek myths of cloud and storm by john ruskin, ll.d. table of contents preface i. athena chalinitis. (athena in the heavens.) lecture on the greek myths of storm, given (partly) in university college, london, march , . ii. athena keramitis. (athena in the earth.) study, supplementary to the preceding lecture, of the supposed and actual relations of athena to the vital force in material organism. iii. athena ergane. (athena in the heart.) various notes relating to the conception of athena as the directress of the imagination and will. preface my days and strength have lately been much broken; and i never more felt the insufficiency of both than in preparing for the press the following desultory memoranda on a most noble subject. but i leave them now as they stand, for no time nor labor would be enough to complete them to my contentment; and i believe that they contain suggestions which may be followed with safety, by persons who are beginning to take interest in the aspects of mythology, which only recent investigation has removed from the region of conjecture into that of rational inquiry. i have some advantage, also, from my field work, in the interpretation of myths relating to natural phenomena; and i have had always near me, since we were at college together, a sure, and unweariedly kind, guide, in my friend charles newton, to whom we owe the finding of more treasure in mines of marble than, were it rightly estimated, all california could buy. i must not, however, permit the chance of his name being in any wise associated with my errors. much of my work as been done obstinately in my own way; and he is never responsible for me, though he has often kept me right, or at least enabled me to advance in a new direction. absolutely right no one can be in such matters; nor does a day pass without convincing every honest student of antiquity of some partial error, and showing him better how to think, and where to look. but i knew that there was no hope of my being able to enter with advantage on the fields of history opened by the splendid investigation of recent philologists, though i could qualify myself, by attention and sympathy, to understand, here and there, a verse of homer's or hesiod's, as the simple people did for whom they sang. even while i correct these sheets for press, a lecture by professor tyndall has been put into my hands, which i ought to have heard last th january, but was hindered by mischance; and which, i now find, completes, in two important particulars, the evidence of an instinctive truth in ancient symbolism; showing, first, that the greek conception of an ætherial element pervading space is justified by the closest reasoning of modern physicists; and, secondly, that the blue of the sky, hitherto thought to be caused by watery vapour, is, indeed, reflected from the divided air itself; so that the bright blue of the eyes of athena, and the deep blue of her ægis, prove to be accurate mythic expressions of natural phenomena which it is an uttermost triumph of recent science to have revealed. indeed, it would be difficult to imagine triumph more complete. to form, "within an experimental tube, a bit of more perfect sky than the sky itself!" here is magic of the finest sort! singularly reversed from that of old time, which only asserted its competency to enclose in bottles elemental forces that were--not of the sky. let me, in thanking professor tyndall for the true wonder of this piece of work, ask his pardon, and that of all masters in physical science, for any words of mine, either in the following pages or elsewhere, that may ever seem to fail in the respect due to their great powers of thought, or in the admiration due to the far scope of their discovery. but i will be judged by themselves, if i have not bitter reason to ask them to teach us more than yet they have taught. this first day of may, , i am writing where my work was begun thirty-five years ago, within sight of the snows of the higher alps. in that half of the permitted life of man, i have seen strange evil brought upon every scene that i best loved, or tried to make beloved by others. the light which once flushed those pale summits with its rose at dawn, and purple at sunset, is now umbered and faint; the air which once inlaid the clefts of all their golden crags with azure is now defiled with languid coils of smoke, belched from worse than volcanic fires; their very glacier waves are ebbing, and their snows fading, as if hell had breathed on them; the waters that once sank at their feet into crystalline rest are now dimmed and foul, from deep to deep, and shore to shore. these are no careless words--they are accurately, horribly, true. i know what the swiss lakes were; no pool of alpine fountain at its source was clearer. this morning, on the lake of geneva, at half a mile from the beach, i could scarcely see my oar-blade a fathom deep. the light, the air, the waters, all defiled! how of the earth itself? take this one fact for type of honour done by the modern swiss to the earth of his native land. there used to be a little rock at the end of the avenue by the port of neuchâtel; there, the last marble of the foot of jura, sloping to the blue water, and (at this time of year) covered with bright pink tufts of saponaria. i went, three days since, to gather a blossom at the place. the goodly native rock and its flowers were covered with the dust and refuse of the town; but, in the middle of the avenue, was a newly-constructed artificial rockery, with a fountain twisted through a spinning spout, and an inscription on one of its loose-tumbled stones,-- "aux botanistes, le club jurassique," ah, masters of modern science, give me back my athena out of your vials, and seal, if it may be, once more, asmodeus therein. you have divided the elements, and united them; enslaved them upon the earth, and discerned them in the stars. teach us now, but this of them, which is all that man need know,--that the air is given to him for his life; and the rain to his thirst, and for his baptism; and the fire for warmth; and the sun for sight; and the earth for his meat--and his rest. vevay, may , . the queen of the air. i. athena chalinitis.* (athena in the heavens.) * "athena the restrainer." the name is given to her as having helped bellerophon to bridle pegasus, the flying cloud. lecture on the greek myths of storm, given (partly) in university college, london, march , . . i will not ask your pardon for endeavoring to interest you in the subject of greek mythology; but i must ask your permission to approach it in a temper differing from that in which it is frequently treated. we cannot justly interpret the religion of any people, unless we are prepared to admit that we ourselves, as well as they, are liable to error in matters of faith; and that the convictions of others, however singular, may in some points have been well founded, while our own, however reasonable, may be in some particulars mistaken. you must forgive me, therefore, for not always distinctively calling the creeds of the past "superstition," and the creeds of the present day "religion;" as well as for assuming that a faith now confessed may sometimes be superficial, and that a faith long forgotten may once have been sincere. it is the task of the divine to condemn the errors of antiquity, and of the philologists to account for them; i will only pray you to read, with patience, and human sympathy, the thoughts of men who lived without blame in a darkness they could not dispel; and to remember that, whatever charge of folly may justly attach to the saying, "there is no god," the folly is prouder, deeper, and less pardonable, in saying, "there is no god but for me." . a myth, in its simplest definition, is a story with a meaning attached to it other than it seems to have at first; and the fact that it has such a meaning is generally marked by some of its circumstances being extraordinary, or, in the common use of the word, unnatural. thus if i tell you that hercules killed a water-serpent in the lake of lerna, and if i mean, and you understand, nothing more than that fact, the story, whether true or false, is not a myth. but if by telling you this, i mean that hercules purified the stagnation of many streams from deadly miasmata, my story, however simple, is a true myth; only, as, if i leftit in that simplicity, you would probably look for nothing beyond, it will be wise in me to surprise your attention by adding some singular circumstance; for instance, that the water-snake had several heads, which revived as fast as they were killed, and which poisoned even the foot that trod upon them as they slept. and in proportion to the fulness of intended meaning i shall probably multiply and refine upon these improbabilities; as, suppose, if, instead of desiring only to tell you that hercules purified a marsh, i wished you to understand that he contended with the venom and vapor of envy and evil ambition, whether in other men's souls or in his own, and choked that malaria only by supreme toil,--i might tell you that this serpent was formed by the goddess whose pride was in the trial of hercules; and that its place of abode as by a palm-tree; and that for every head of it that was cut off, two rose up with renewed life; and that the hero found at last that he could not kill the creature at all by cutting its heads off or crushing them, but only by burning them down; and that the midmost of them could not be killed even that way, but had to be buried alive. only in proportion as i mean more, i shall certainly appear more absurd in my statement; and at last when i get unendurably significant, all practical persons will agree that i was talking mere nonsense from the beginning, and never meant anything at all. . it is just possible, however, also, that the story-teller may all along have meant nothing but what he said; and that, incredible as the events may appear, he himself literally believed--and expected you also to believe--all this about hercules, without any latent moral or history whatever. and it is very necessary, in reading traditions of this kind, to determine, first of all, whether you are listening to a simple person, who is relating what, at all events, he believes to be true, (and may, therefore, possibly have been so to some extent), or to a reserved philosopher, who is veiling a theory of the universe under the grotesque of a fairy tale. it is, in general, more likely that the first supposition should be the right one: simple and credulous persons are, perhaps fortunately, more common than philosophers; and it is of the highest importance that you should take their innocent testimony as it was meant, and not efface, under the graceful explanation which your cultivated ingenuity may suggest, either the evidence their story may contain (such as it is worth) of an extraordinary event having really taken place, or the unquestionable light which it will cast upon the character of the person by whom it was frankly believed. and to deal with greek religion honestly, you must at once understand that this literal belief was, in the mind of the general people, as deeply rooted as ours in the legends of our own sacred book; and that a basis of unmiraculous event was as little suspected, and an explanatory symbolism as rarely traced, by them, as by us. you must, therefore, observe that i deeply degrade the position which such a myth as that just referred to occupied in the greek mind, by comparing it (for fear of offending you) to our story of st. george and the dragon. still, the analogy is perfect in minor respects; and though it fails to give you any notion of the greek faith, it will exactly illustrate the manner in which faith laid hold of its objects. . this story of hercules and the hydra, then, was to the general greek mind, in its best days, a tale about a real hero and a real monster. not one in a thousand knew anything of the way in which the story had arisen, any more than the english peasant generally is aware of the plebeian original of st. george; or supposes that there were once alive in the world, with sharp teeth and claws, real, and very ugly, flying dragons. on the other hand, few persons traced any moral or symbolical meaning in the story, and the average greek was as far from imagining any interpretation like that i have just given you, as an average englishman is from seeing is st. george the red cross knight of spenser, or in the dragon the spirit of infidelity. but, for all that, there was a certain undercurrent of consciousness in all minds that the figures meant more than they at first showed; and, according to each man's own faculties of sentiment, he judged and read them; just as a knight of the garter reads more in the jewel on his collar than the george and dragon of a public-house expresses to the host or to his customers. thus, to the mean person the myth always meant little; to the noble person, much; and the greater their familiarity with it, the more contemptible it became to one, and the more sacred to the other; until vulgar commentators explained it entirely away, while virgil made the crowning glory of his choral hymn to hercules. "around thee, powerless to infect thy soul, rose, in his crested crowd, the lerna worm." "non te rationis egentem lernæus turbâ capitum circumstetit anguis." and although, in any special toil of the hero's life, the moral interpretation was rarely with definiteness attached to the event, yet in the whole course of the life, not only for a symbolical meaning, but the warrant for the existence of a real spiritual power, was apprehended of all men. hercules was no dead hero, to be remembered only as a victor over monsters of the past--harmless now as slain. he was the perpetual type and mirror of heroism, and its present and living aid against every ravenous form of human trial and pain. . but, if we seek to know more than this and 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 corporal gods, whose limbs are clothes 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, as the sun, with a constant fire, whatever in humanity is skilful 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 myth of importance, and certainly in every one of those which i shall speak to-night, 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. . the great myths; that is to say, myths made by great people. for the first plain fact about myth-making is one which has been most strangely lost sight of,--that you cannot make a myth unless you have something to make it of. you cannot tell a secret which you don't know. if the myth is about the sky, it must have been made by somebody who has looked at the sky. if the myth is about justice and fortitude, it must have been made by someone who knew what it was to be just or patient. according to the quantity of understanding in the person will be the quantity of significance in his fable; and the myth of a simple and ignorant race must necessarily mean little, because a simple and ignorant race have little to mean. so the great question in reading a story is always, not what wild hunter dreamed, or what childish race first dreaded it; but what wise man first perfectly told, and what strong people first perfectly lived by it. and the real meaning of any myth is that which it has at the noblest age of the nation among whom it is current. the farther back you pierce, the less significance you will find, until you come to the first narrow thought, which, indeed, contains the germ of the accomplished tradition; but only as the seed contains the flower. as the intelligence and passion of the race develop, they cling to and nourish their beloved and sacred legend; leaf by leaf it expands under the touch of more pure affections, and more delicate imagination, until at last the perfect fable burgeons out into symmetry of milky stem and honied bell. . but through whatever changes it may pass, remember that our right reading of it is wholly dependent on the materials we have in our own minds for an intelligent answering sympathy. if it first arose among a people who dwelt under stainless skies, and measures their journeys by ascending and declining stars, we certainly cannot read their story, if we have never seen anything above us in the day but smoke, nor anything around us in the night but candles. if the tale goes on to change clouds or planets into living creatures,--to invest them with fair forms and inflame them with mighty passions,--we can only understand the story of the human-hearted things, in so far as we ourselves take pleasure in the perfectness of visible form, or can sympathize, by an effort of imagination, with the strange people who had other loves than those of wealth, and other interests than those of commerce. and, lastly, if the myth complete itself to the fulfilled thoughts of the nation, by attributing to the gods, whom they have carved out of their fantasy, continual presence with their own souls; and their every effort for good is finally guided by the sense of the companionship, the praise, and the pure will of immortals, we shall be able to follow them into this last circle of their faith only in the degree in which the better parts of our own beings have been also stirred by the aspects of nature, or strengthened by her laws. it may be easy to prove that the ascent of apollo in his chariot signifies nothing but the rising of the sun. but what does the sunrise itself signify to us? if only languid return to frivolous amusement, or fruitless labor, it will, indeed, not be easy for us to conceive the power, over a greek, of the name of apollo. but if, fir us also, as for the greek, 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 over-pass 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. . the time, then, at which i shall take up for you, as well as i can decipher it, the traditions of the gods of greece, shall be near the beginning of its central and formed faith,--about b.c.,--a faith of which the character is perfectly represented by pindar and Æschylus, who are both of them outspokenly religious, and entirely sincere men; while we may always look back to find the less developed thought of the preceding epoch given by homer, in a more occult, subtle, half-instinctive, and involuntary way. . now, at that culminating period of the greek religion, we find, under one governing lord of all things, four subordinate elemental forces, and four spiritual powers living in them and commanding them. the elements are of course the well-known four of the ancient world,-- the earth, the waters, the fire, and the air; and the living powers of them are demeter, the latin ceres; poseidon, the latin neptune; apollo, who has retained always his greek name; and athena, the latin minerva. each of these are descended from, or changed from, more ancient, and therefore more mystic, deities of the earth and heaven, and of a finer element of æther supposed to be beyond the heavens;* but at this time we find the four quite definite, both in their kingdoms and in their personalities. they are the rulers of the earth that we tread upon, and the air that we breathe; and are with us closely, in their vivid humanity, as the dust that they animate, and the winds that they bridle. i shall briefly define for you the range of their separate dominions, and then follow, as far as we have time, the most interesting of the legends which relate to the queen of the air. * and by modern science now also asserted, and with probability argued, to exist. . the rule of the first spirit, demeter, the earth mother, is over the earth, first, as the origin of all life,--the dust from whence we were taken; secondly, as the receiver of all things back at last into silence --"dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." and, therefore, as the most tender image of this appearing and fading life, in the birth and fall of flowers, her daughter proserpine plays in the fields of sicily, and thence is torn away into darkness, and becomes the queen of fate--not merely of death, but of the gloom which closes over and ends, not beauty only, but sin, and chiefly of sins the sin against the life she gave; so that she is, in her highest power, persephone, the avenger and purifier of blood--"the voice of thy brother's blood cries to me out of the ground." then, side by side with this queen of the earth, we find a demigod of agriculture by the plough--the lord of grain, or of the thing ground by the mill. and it is a singular proof of the simplicity of greek character at this noble time, that of all representations left to us of their deities by their art, few are so frequent, and none perhaps so beautiful, as the symbol of this spirit of agriculture. . then the dominant spirit of the element water is neptune, but subordinate to him are myriads of other water spirits, of whom nereus is the chief, with palæmon, and leucothea, the "white lady" of the sea; and thetis, and nymphs innumerable who, like her, could "suffer a sea change," while the river deities had each independent power, according to the preciousness of their streams to the cities fed by them,--the "fountain arethuse, and thou, honoured flood, smooth sliding mincius, crowned with vocal reeds." and, spiritually, this king of the waters is lord of the strength and daily flow of human life--he gives it material force and victory; which as the meaning of the dedication of the hair, as the sign of the strength of life, to the river or the native land. . demeter, then, over the earth, and its giving and receiving of life. neptune over the waters, and the flow and force of life,--always among the greeks typified by the horse, which was to them as a crested sea-wave, animated and bridled. then the third element, fire, has set over it two powers: over earthly fire, the assistant of human labor, is set hephæstus, lord of all labor in which is the flush and the sweat of the brow; and over heavenly fire, the source of day, is set apollo, the spirit of all kindling, purifying, and illuminating intellectual wisdom, each of these gods having also their subordinate or associated powers,-- servant, or sister, or companion muse. . then, lastly, we come to the myth which is to be our subject of closer inquiry,--the story of athena and of the deities subordinate to her. this great goddess, the neith of the egyptians, the athena or athenaia of the greeks, and, with broken power, half usurped by mars, the minerva of the latins, is, physically, the queen of the air; having supreme power both over its blessing of calm, and wrath of storm; and, spiritually, she is the queen of the breath of man, first of the bodily breathing which is life to his blood, and strength to his arm in battle; and then of the mental breathing, or inspiration, which is his moral health and habitual wisdom; wisdom of conduct and of the heart, as opposed to the wisdom of imagination and the brain; moral, as distinct from intellectual; inspired, as distinct from illuminated. . by a singular and fortunate, though i believe wholly accidental, coincidence, the heart-virtue, of which she is the spirit, was separated by the ancients into four divisions, which have since obtained acceptance from all men as rightly discerned, and have received, as if from the quarters of the four winds of which athena is the natural queen, the name of "cardinal" virtues: namely, prudence (the right seeing, and foreseeing, of events through darkness); justice (the righteous bestowal of favor and of indignation); fortitude (patience under trial by pain); and temperance (patience under trial by pleasure). with respect to these four virtues, the attributes of athena are all distinct. in her prudence, or sight in darkness, she is "glaukopis," "owl-eyed."* in her justice, which is the dominant virtue, she wears two robes, one of light, and one of darkness; the robe of light, saffron color, or the color of the daybreak, falls to her feet, covering her wholly with favor and love,--the calm of the sky in blessing; it is embroidered along its edge with her victory over the giants (the troublous powers of the earth), and the likeness of it was woven yearly by the athenian maidens and carried to the temple of their own athena, not to the parthenon, that was the temple of all the world's athena,--but this they carried to the temple of their own only one who loved them, and stayed with them always. then her robe of indignation is worn on her breast and left arm only, fringed with fatal serpents, and fastened with gorgonian cold, turning men to stone; physically, the lightning and hail of chastisement by storm. then in her fortitude she wears the crested and unstooping hemlet;** and lastly, in her temperance, she is the queen of maidenhood--stainless as the air of heaven. * there are many other meanings in the epithet; see farther on, § , pp. , . ** i am compelled, for clearness' sake, to mark only one meaning at a time. athena's helmet is sometimes a mask, sometimes a sign of anger, sometimes of the highest light of æther; but i cannot speak of all this at once. . but all these virtues mass themselves in the greek mind into the two main ones,--of justice, or noble passion, and fortitude, or noble patience; and of these, the chief powers of athena, the greeks have divinely written for them, and for all men after them, two mighty songs, --one, of the menis,* mens, passion, or zeal, of athena, breathed into a mortal whose name is "ache of heart," and whose short life is only the incarnate brooding and burst of storm; and the other is of the foresight and fortitude of athena, maintained by her in the heart of a mortal whose name is given to him from a longer grief, odysseus, the full of sorrow, the much enduring, and the long-suffering. * this first word of the iliad, menis, afterwards passes into the latin mens; is the root of the latin name for athena, "minerva," and so the root of the english "mind." . the minor expressions by the greeks in word, in symbol, and in religious service, of this faith, are so many and so beautiful, that i hope some day to gather at least a few of them into a separate body of evidence respecting the power of athena, and of its relations to the ethical conception of the homeric poems, or, rather, to their ethical nature; for they are not conceived didactically, but are didactic in their essence, as all good art is. there is an increasing insensibility to this character, and even an open denial of it, among us now which is one of the most curious errors of modernism,--the peculiar and judicial blindness of an age which, having long practised art and poetry for the sake of pleasure only, has become incapable of reading their language when they were both didactic; and also, having been itself accustomed to a professedly didactic teaching, which yet, for private interests, studiously avoids collision with every prevalent vice of its day (and especially with avarice), has become equally dead to the intensely ethical conceptions of a race which habitually divided all men into two broad classes of worthy or worthless,--good, and good for nothing. and even the celebrated passage of horace about the iliad is now misread or disbelieved, as if it were impossible that the iliad could be instructive because it is not like a sermon. horce does not say that it is like a sermon, and would have been still less likely to say so if he ever had had the advantage of hearing a sermon. "i have been reading that story of troy again" (thus he writes to a noble youth of rome whom he cared for), "quietly at præneste, while you have been busy at rome; and truly i think that what is base and what is noble, and what useful and useless, may be better learned from that, than from all chrysippus' and crantor's talk put together."* which is profoundly true, not of the iliad only, but of all other great art whatsoever; for all pieces of such art are didactic in the purest way, indirectly and occultly, so that, first, you shall only be bettered by them if you are already hard at work in bettering yourself; and when you are bettered by them, it shall be partly with a general acceptance of their influence, so constant and subtile that you shall be no more conscious of it than of the healthy digestion of food; and partly by a gift of unexpected truth, which you shall only find by slow mining for it,--which is withheld on purpose, and close-locked, that you may not get it till you have forged the key of it in a furnace of your own heating. and this withholding of their meaning is continual, and confessed, in the great poets. thus pindar says of himself: "there is many an arrow in my quiver, full of speech to the wise, but, for the many, they need interpreters." and neither pindar, nor Æschylus, nor hesiod, nor homer, nor any of the greater poets or teachers of any nation or time, ever spoke but with intentional reservation; nay, beyond this, there is often a meaning which they themselves cannot interpert [sic],--which it may be for ages long after them to intrepert [sic],--in what they said, so far as it recorded true imaginative vision. for all the greatest myths have been seen by the men who tell them, involuntarily and passively,--seen by them with as great distinctness (and in some respects, though not in all, under conditions as far beyond the control of their will) as a dream sent to any of us by night when we dream clearest; and it is this veracity of vision that could not be refused, and of moral that could not be foreseen, which in modern historical inquiry has been left wholly out of account; being indeed the thing which no merely historical investigator can understand, or even believe; for it belongs exclusively to the creative or artistic group of men, and can only be interpreted by those of their race, who themselves in some measure also see visions and dream dreams. * note, once for all, that unless when there is question about some particular expression, i never translate literally, but give the real force of what is said, as i best can, freely. so that you may obtain a more truthful idea of the nature of greek religion and legend from the poems of keats, and the nearly as beautiful, and, in general grasp of subject, far more powerful, recent work of morris, than from frigid scholarship, however extensive. not that the poet's impressions or renderings of things are wholly true, but their truth is vital, not formal. they are like sketches from the life by reynolds or gainsborough, which may be demonstrably inaccurate or imaginary in many traits, and indistinct in others, yet will be in the deepest sense like, and true; while the work of historical analysis is too often weak with loss, through the very labor of its miniature touches, or useless in clumsy and vapid veracity of externals, and complacent security of having done all that is required for the portrait, when it has measured the breadth of the forehead and the length of the nose. . the first of requirements, then, for the right reading of myths, is the understanding of the nature of all true vision by noble persons; namely, that it is founded on constant laws common to all human nature; that it perceives, however darkly, things which are for all ages true; that we can only understand it so far as we have some perception of the same truth; and that its fulness is developed and manifested more and more by the reverberation of it from minds of the same mirror-temper, in succeeding ages. you will understand homer better by seeing his reflection in dante, as you may trace new forms and softer colors in a hillside, redoubled by a lake. i shall be able partly to show you, even to-night, how much, in the homeric vision of athena, has been made clearer by the advance of time, being thus essentially and eternally true; but i must in the outset indicate the relation to that central thought of the imagery of the inferior deities of storm. . and first i will take the myth of Æolus (the "sage hippotades" of milton), as it is delivered pure by homer from the early times. why do you suppose milton calls him "sage"? one does not usually think of the winds as very thoughtful or deliberate powers. but hear homer: "then we came to the Æolian island, and there dwelt Æolus hippotades, dear to the deathless gods; there he dwelt in a floating island, and round it was a wall of brass that could not be broken; and the smooth rock of it ran up sheer. to whom twelve children were born in the sacred chambers,--six daughters and six strong sons; and they dwell foreer with their beloved father and their mother, strict in duty; and with them are laid up a thousand benefits; and the misty house around them rings with fluting all the day long." now, you are to note first, in this description, the wall of brass and the sheer rock. you will find, throughout the fables of the tempest-group, that the brazen wall and the precipice (occurring in another myth as the brazen tower of danaë) are always connected with the idea of the towering cloud lighted by the sun, here truly described as a floating island. secondly, you hear that all treasures were laid up in them; therefore, you know this Æolus is lord of the beneficent winds ("he bringeth the wind out of his treasuries"); and presently afterwards homer calls him the "steward" of the winds, the master of the store-house of them. and this idea of gifts and preciousness in the winds of heaven is carried out in the well-known sequel of the fable: Æolus gives them to ulysses, all but one, bound in leathern bags, with a glittering cord of silver; and so like bags of treasure that the sailors think they are so, and open them to see. and when ulysses is thus driven back to Æolus, and prays him again to help him, note the deliberate words of the king's refusal,--"did i not," says he, "send thee on thy way heartily, that thou mightest reach thy country, thy home, and whatever is dear to thee? it is not lawful for me again to send forth favorably on his journey a man hated by the happy gods." this idea of the beneficence of Æolus remains to the latest times, though virgil, by adopting the vulgar change of the cloud island into lipari, has lost it a little; but even when it is finally explained away by diodorus, Æolus is still a kind-hearted monarch, who lived on the coast of sorrento, invented the use of sails, and established a system of storm signals. . another beneficent storm-power, boreas, occupies an important place in early legend, and a singularly principal one in art; and i wish i could read to you a passage of plato about the legend of boreas and oreithyia,* and the breeze and shade of the ilissus--notwithstannding its severe reflection upon persons who waste their time on mythological studies; but i must go on at once to the fable with which you are all generally familiar, that of the harpies. * translated by max müller in the opening of his essay on "comparative mythology."--chips from a german workshop, vol. ii. this is always connected with that of boreas or the north wind, because the two sons of boreas are enemies of the harpies, and drive them away into frantic flight. the myth in its first literal form means only the battle between the fair north wind and the foul south one: the two harpies, "stormswift" and "swiftfoot," are the sisters of the rainbow; that is to say, they are the broken drifts of the showery south wind, and the clear north wind drives them back; but they quickly take a deeper and more malignant significance. you know the short, violent, spiral gusts that lift the dust before coming rain: the harpies get identified first with these, and then with more violent whirlwinds, and so they are called "harpies," "the snatchers," and are thought of as entirely destructive; their manner of destroying being twofold,--by snatching away, and by defiling and polluting. this is a month in which you may really see a small harpy at her work almost whenever you choose. the first time that there is threatening of rain after two or three days of fine weather, leave your window well open to the street, and some books or papers on the table; and if you do not, in a little while, know what the harpies mean, and how they snatch, and how they defile, i'll give up my greek myths. . that is the physical meaning. it is now easy to find the mental one. you must all have felt the expression of ignoble anger in those fitful gusts of storm. there is a sense of provocation in their thin and senseless fury, wholly different from the nobler anger of the greater tempests. also, they seem useless and unnatural, and the greek thinks of them always as vile in malice, and opposed, therefore, to the sons of boreas, who are kindly winds, that fill sails, and wave harvests,--full of bracing health and happy impulses. from this lower and merely greater terror, always associated with their whirling motion, which is indeed indicative of the most destructive winds; and they are thus related to the nobler tempests, as charybdis to the sea; they are devouring and desolating, making all things disappear that come in their grasp; and so, spiritually, they are the gusts of vexatious, fretful, lawless passion, vain and overshadowing, discontented and lamenting, meager and insane,-- spirits of wasted energy, and wandering disease, and unappeased famine, and unsatisfied hope. so you have, on the one side, the winds of prosperity and health, on the other, of ruin and sickness. understand that, once, deeply,--any who have ever known the weariness of vain desires, the pitiful, unconquerable, coiling and recoiling famine and thirst of heart,--and you will know what was in the sound of the harpy celæno's shriek from her rock; and why, in the seventh circle of the "inferno," the harpies make their nests in the warped branches of the trees that are the souls of suicides. . now you must always be prepared to read greek legends as you trace threads through figures on a silken damask: the same thread runs through the web, but it makes part of different figures. joined with other colors you hardly recognize it, and in different lights it is dark or light. thus the greek fables blend and cross curiously in different directions, till they knit themselves into an arabesque where sometimes you cannot tell black from purple, nor blue from emerald--they being all the truer for this, because the truths of emotion they represent are interwoven in the same way, but all the more difficult to read, and to explain in any order. thus the harpies, as they represent vain desire, are connected with the sirens, who are the spirits of constant desire; so that it is difficult sometimes in early art to know which are meant, both being represented alike as birds with women's heads; only the sirens are the great constant desires--the infinite sicknesses of heart--which, rightly placed, give life, and wrongly placed, waste it away; so that there are two groups of sirens, one noble and saving, as the other is fatal. but there are no animating or saving harpies; their nature is always vexing and full of weariness, and thus they are curiously connected with the whole group of legends about tantalus. .* we all know what it is to be tantalized; but we do not often think of asking what tantalus was tantalized for--what he had done, to be forever kept hungry in sight of food. well; he had not been condemned to this merely for being a glutton. by dante the same punishment is assigned to simple gluttony, to purge it away; but the sins of tantalus were of a much wider and more mysterious kind. there are four great sins attributed to him: one, stealing the food of the gods to give it to men; another, sacrificing his son to feed the gods themselves (it may remind you for a moment of what i was telling you of the earthly character of demeter, that, while the other gods all refuse, she, dreaming about her lost daughter, eats part of the shoulder of pelops before she knows what she is doing); another sin is, telling the secrets of the gods; and only the fourth--stealing the golden dog of pandareos--is connected with gluttony. the special sense of this myth is marked by pandareos receiving the happy privilege of never being troubled with indigestion; the dog, in general, however mythically represents all utter senseless and carnal desires; mainly that of gluttony; and in the mythic sense of hades--that is to say, so far as it represents spiritual ruin in this life, and not a literal hell--the dog cerberus as its gatekeeper--with this special marking of his character of sensual passion, that he fawns on all those who descend, but rages against all who would return (the virgilian "facilis descendus" being a later recognition of this mythic character of hades); the last labor of hercules is the dragging him up to the light; and in some sort he represents the voracity or devouring of hades itself; and the mediæval representation of the mouth of hell perpetuates the same thought. then, also, the power of evil passion is partly associated with the red and scorching light of sirius, as opposed to the pure light of the sun: he is the dog-star of ruin; and hence the continual homeric dwelling upon him, and comparison of the flame of anger to his swarthy light; only, in his scorching, it is thirst, not hunger, over which he rules physically; so that the fable of icarius, his first master, corresponds, among the greeks, to the legend of the drunkenness of noah. * printer's error: should be . the story of actæon, the raging death of hecuba, and the tradition of the white dog which ate part of hercules' first sacrifice, and so gave name to the cynosarges, are all various phases of the same thought,--the greek notion of the dog being throughout confused between its serviceable fidelity, its watchfulness, its foul voracity, shamelessness, and deadly madness, while with the curious reversal or recoil of the meaning which attaches itself to nearly every great myth,--and which we shall presently see notably exemplified in the relations of the serpent to athena,--the dog becomes in philosophy a type of severity and abstinence. . it would carry us too far aside were i to tell you the story of pandareos' dog--or rather of jupiter's dog, for pandareos was its guardian only; all that bears on our present purpose is that the guardian of this golden dog had three daughters, one of whom was subject to the power of the sirens, and is turned into a nightingale; and the other two were subject to the power of the harpies, and this was what happened to them: they were very beautiful, and they were beloved by the gods in their youth, and all the great goddesses were anxious to bring them up rightly. of all types of young ladies' education, there is nothing so splendid as that of the younger daughters of pandareos. they have literally the four greatest goddesses for their governesses. athena teaches them domestic accomplishments, how to weave, and sew, and the like; artemis teaches them to hold themselves up straight; hera, how to behave proudly and oppressively to company; and aphrodite, delightful governess, feeds them with cakes and honey all day long. all goes well, until just the time when they are going to be brought out; then there is a great dispute whom they are to marry, and in the midst of it they are carried off by the harpies, given by them to be slaves to the furies, and never seen more. but of course there is nothing in greek myths; and one never heard of such things as vain desires, and empty hopes, and clouded passions, defiling and snatching away the souls of maidens, in a london season. i have no time to trace for you any more harpy legends, though they are full of the most curious interest; but i may confirm for you my interpretation of this one, and prove its importance in the greek mind, by noting that polygnotus painted these maidens, in his great religious series of paintings at delphi, crowned with flowers, and playing at dice; and that penelope remembers them in her last fit of despair, just before the return of ulysses, and prays bitterly that she may be snatched away at once into nothingness by the harpies, like pandareos' daughters, rather than be tormented longer by her deferred hope, and anguish of disappointed love. . i have hitherto spoken only of deities of the winds. we pass now to a far more important group, the deities of cloud. both of these are subordinate to the ruling power of the air, as the demigods of the fountains and minor seas are to the great deep; but, as the cloud-firmament detaches itself more from the air, and has a wider range of ministry than the minor streams and seas, the highest cloud deity, hermes, has a rank more equal with athena than nereus or proteus with neptune; and there is greater difficulty in tracing his character, because his physical dominion over the clouds can, of course, be asserted only where clouds are; and, therefore, scarcely at all in egypt;* so that the changes which hermes undergoes in becoming a greek from an egyptian and ph�nician god, are greater than in any other case of adopted tradition in egypt hermes is a deity of historical record, and a conductor of the dead to judgment; the greeks take away much of this historical function, assigning it to the muses; but, in investing him with the physical power over clouds, they give him that which the muses disdain,--the power of concealment and of theft. the snatching away by the harpies is with brute force; but the snatching away by the clouds is connected with the thought of hiding, and of making things seem to be what they are not; so that hermes is the god of lying, as he is of mist; and yet with this ignoble function of making things vanish and disappear is connected the remnant of his grand egyptian authority of leading away souls in the cloud of death (the actual dimness of sight caused by mortal wounds physically suggesting the darkness and descent of clouds, and continually being so described in the iliad); while the sense of the need of guidance on the untrodden road follows necessarily. you cannot but remember how this thought of cloud guidance, and cloud receiving souls at death, has been elsewhere ratified. * i believe that the conclusions of recent scholarship are generally opposed to the herodotean ideas of any direct acceptance by the greeks of egyptian myths: and very certainly, greek art is developed by giving the veracity and simplicity of real life to eastern savage grotesque; and not by softening the severity of pure egyptian design. but it is of no consequence whether one conception was, or was not, in this case, derived from the other; my object is only to mark the essential difference between them. . without following that higher clue, i will pass to the lovely group of myths connected with the birth of hermes on the greek mountains. you know that the valley of sparta is one of the noblest mountain ravines in the world, and that the western flank of it is formed by an unbroken chain of crags, forty miles long, rising, opposite sparta, to a height of , feet, and known as the chain of taygetus. now, the nymph from whom that mountain ridge is named was the mother of lacedæmon; therefore the mythic ancestress of the spartan race. she is the nymph taygeta, and one of the seven stars of spring; one of those pleiades of whom is the question to job,--"canst thou bind the sweet influences of pleiades, or loose the bands of orion?" "the sweet influences of pleiades," of the stars of spring,--nowhere sweeter than among the pine-clad slopes of the hills of sparta and arcadia, when he snows of their higher summits, beneath the sunshine of april, fell into fountains, and rose into clouds; and in every ravine was a newly awakened voice of waters,--soft increase of whisper among its sacred stones; and on every crag its forming and fading veil of radiant cloud; temple above temple, of the divine marble that no tool can pollute, nor ruin undermine. and, therefore, beyond this central valley, this great greek vase of arcadia, on the "hollow" mountain, cyllene, or "pregnant" mountain, called also "cold," because there the vapors rest,* and born of the eldest of those stars of spring, that maia, from whom your own month of may has its name, bringing to you, in the green of her garlands, and the white of her hawthorn, the unrecognized symbols of the pastures and the wreathed snows of arcadia, where long ago she was queen of stars: there, first cradled and wrapt in swaddling-clothes; then raised, in a moment of surprise, into his wandering power,--is born the shepherd of the clouds, winged-footed and deceiving,--blinding the eyes of argus,--escaping from the grasp of apollo--restless messenger between the highest sky and topmost earth-- "the herald mercury, new lighted on a heaven-kissing hill." * on the altar of hermes on its summit, as on that of the lacinian hera, no wind ever stirred the ashes. by those altars, the gods of heaven were appeased, and all their storms at rest. . now, it will be wholly impossible, at present, to trace for you any of the minor greek expressions of this thought, except only that mercury, as the cloud shepherd, is especially called eriophoros, the wool-bearer. you will recollect the name from the common woolly rush "eriophorum" which has a cloud of silky seed; and note also that he wears distinctively the flap cap, petasos, named from a word meaning "to expand;" which shaded from the sun, and is worn on journeys. you have the epithet of mountains "cloud-capped" as an established form with every poet, and the mont pilate of lucerne is named from a latin word signifying specially a woollen cap; but mercury has, besides, a general homeric epithet, curiously and intensely concentrated in meaning, "the profitable or serviceable by wool,"* that is to say, by shepherd wealth; hence, "pecuniarily," rich or serviceable, and so he passes at last into a general mercantile deity; while yet the cloud sense of the wool is retained by homer always, so that he gives him this epithet when it would otherwise have been quite meaningless (in iliad, xxiv. ), when he drives priam's chariot, and breathes force into his horses, precisely as we shall find athena drive diomed; and yet the serviceable and profitable sense--and something also of gentle and soothing character in the mere wool-softness, as used for dress, and religious rites--is retained also in the epithet, and thus the gentle and serviceable hermes is opposed to the deceitful one. * i am convinced that the 'eri' in 'eriounios' is not intensitive, but retained from 'erion'; but even if i am wrong in thinking this, the mistake is of no consequence with respect to the general force of the term as meaning the profitableness of hermes. athena's epithet of 'ageleia' has a parallel significance. [transcriber's note: words inside single apostrophes are greek, and use the greek alphabet.] . in connection with this driving of priam's chariot, remember that as autolycus is the son of hermes the deceiver, myrtilus (the auriga of the stars) is the son of hermes the guide. the name hermes itself means impulse; and he is especially the shepherd of the flocks of the sky, in driving, or guiding, or stealing them; and yet his great name, argeiphontes, not only--as in different passages of the olden poets--means "shining white," which is said of him as being himself the silver cloud lighted by the sun; but "argus-killer," the killer of rightness, which is said of him as he veils the sky, and especially the stars, which are the eyes of argus; or, literally, eyes of brightness, which juno, who is, with jupiter, part of the type of highest heaven, keeps in her peacock's train. we know that this interpretation is right, from a passage in which euripides describes the shield of hippomedon, which bore for his sign, "argus the all-seeing, covered with eyes; open towards the rising of the stars and closed towards their setting." and thus hermes becomes the spirit of the movement of the sky or firmament; not merely the fast flying of the transitory cloud, but the great motion of the heavens and stars themselves. thus, in his highest power, he corresponds to the "primo mobile" of the later italian philosophy, and, in his simplest, is the guide of all mysterious and cloudy movement, and of all successful subtleties. perhaps the prettiest minor recognition of his character is when, on the night foray of ulysses and diomed, ulysses wear the helmet stolen by autolycus, the son of hermes. . the position in the greek mind of hermes as the lord of cloud is, however, more mystic and ideal than that of any other deity, just on account of the constant and real presence of the cloud itself under different forms, giving rise to all kinds of minor fables. the play of the greek imagination in this direction is so wide and complex, that i cannot give you an outline of its range in my present limits. there is first a great series of storm-legends connected with the family of the historic Æolus centralized by the story of athamas, with his two wives, "the cloud," and the "white goddess," ending in that of phrixus and helle, and of the golden fleece (which is only the cloud-burden of hermes eriophoros). with this, there is the fate of salmoneus, and the destruction of the glaucus by his own horses; all these minor myths of storm concentrating themselves darkly into the legend of bellerophon and the chimæra, in which there is an under story about the vain subduing of passion and treachery, and the end of life in fading melancholy,--which, i hope, not many of you could understand even were i to show it you (the merely physical meaning of the chimæra is the cloud of volcanic lightning connected wholly with earth-fire, but resembling the heavenly cloud in its height and its thunder). finally, in the Æolic group, there is the legend of sisypus, which i mean to work out thoroughly by itself; its root is in the position of corinth as ruling the isthmus and the two seas --the corinthean acropolis, two thousand feet high, being the centre of the crossing currents of the winds, and of the commerce of greece. therefore, athena, and the fountain-cloud pegasus, are more closely connected with corinth than even with athens in their material, though not in their moral, power; and sisyphus founds the isthmian games in connection with a melancholy story about the sea gods; but he himself is 'kerdotos andron', the most "gaining" and subtle of men; who having the key of the isthmus, becomes the type of transit, transfer, or trade, as such; and of the apparent gain from it, which is not gain; and this is the real meaning of his punishment in hell--eternal toil and recoil (the modern idol of capital being, indeed, the stone of sisyphus with a vengeance, crushing in its recoil). but, throughout, the old ideas of the cloud power and cloud feebleness,--the deceit of its hiding,--and the emptiness of its banishing,--the autolycus enchantment of making black seem white,--and the disappointed fury of ixion (taking shadow for power), mingle in the moral meaning of this and its collateral legends; and give an aspect, at last, not only of foolish cunning, but of impiety or literal "idolatry," "imagination worship," to the dreams of avarice and injustice, until this notion of atheism and insolent blindness becomes principal; and the "clouds" of aristophanes, with the personified "just" and "unjust" sayings in the latter part of the play, foreshadow, almost feature by feature, in all that they were written to mock and to chastise, the worst elements of the impious "'dinos'" and tumult in men's thoughts, which have followed on their avarice in the present day, making them alike forsake the laws of their ancient gods, and misapprehended or reject the true words of their existing teachers. . all this we have from the legends of the historic Æolus only; but, besides these, there is the beautiful story of semele, the mother of bacchus. she is the cloud with the strength of the vine in its bosom, consumed by the light which matures the fruit; the melting away of the cloud into the clean air at the fringe of its edges being exquisitely rendered by pindar's epithet for her, semele, "with the stretched-out hair" ('tauuetheira'.) then there is the entire tradition of the danaides, and of the tower of danaë and golden shower; the birth of perseus connecting this legend with that of the gorgons and graiæ, who are the true clouds of thunderous ruin and tempest. i must, in passing, mark for you that the form of the sword or sickle of perseus, with which he kills medusa, is another image of the whirling harpy vortex, and belongs especially to the sword of destruction or annihilation; whence it is given to the two angels who gather for destruction the evil harvest and evil vintage of the earth (rev. xiv. ). i will collect afterwards and complete what i have already written respecting the pegasean and gorgonian legends, noting here only what is necessary to explain the central myth of athena herself, who represents the ambient air, which included all cloud, and rain, and dew, and darkness, and peace, and wrath of heaven. let me now try to give you, however briefly, some distinct idea of the several agencies of this great goddess. . i. she is the air giving life and health to all animals. ii. she is the air giving vegetative power to the earth. iii. she is the air giving motion to the sea, and rendering navigation possible. iv. she is the air nourishing artificial light, torch or lamplight; as opposed to that of the sun, on one hand, and of consuming* fire on the other. v. she is the air conveying vibration of sound. * not a scientific, but a very practical and expressive distinction. i will give you instances of her agency in all these functions. . first, and chiefly, she is air as the spirit of life, giving vitality to the blood. her psychic relation to the vital force in matter lies deeper, and we will examine it afterwards; but a great number of the most interesting passages in homer regard her as flying over the earth in local and transitory strength, simply and merely the goddess of fresh air. it is curious that the british city which has somewhat saucily styled itself the modern athens is indeed more under her especial tutelage and favor in this respect than perhaps any other town in the island. athena is first simply what in the modern athens you practically find her, the breeze of the mountain and the sea; and wherever she comes, there is purification, and health, and power. the sea-beach round this isle of ours is the frieze of our parthenon; every wave that breaks on it thunders with athena's voice; nay, wherever you throw your window wide open in the morning, you let in athena, as wisdom and fresh air at the same instant; and whenever you draw a pure, long, full breath of right heaven, you take athena into your heart, through your blood; and, with the blood, into the thoughts of your brain. now, this giving of strength by the air, observe, is mechanical as well as chemical. you cannot strike a good blow but with your chest full; and, in hand to hand fighting, it is not the muscle that fails first, it is the breath; the longest-breathed will, on the average, be the victor, --not the strongest. note how shakespeare always leans on this. of mortimer, in "changing hardiment with great glendower": "three times they breathed, and three times did they drink, upon agreement, of swift severn's flood." and again, hotspur, sending challenge to prince harry: "that none might draw short breath to-day but i and harry monmouth." again, of hamlet, before he receives his wound: "he's fat, and scant of breath." again, orlando in the wrestling: "yes; i beseech your grace i am not yet well breathed." now, of all the people that ever lived, the greeks knew best what breath meant, both in exercise and in battle, and therefore the queen of the air becomes to them at once the queen of bodily strength in war; not mere brutal muscular strength,--that belongs to ares,--but the strength of young lives passed in pure air and swift exercise,--camilla's virginal force, that "flies o'er the unbending corn, and skims along the main." . now i will rapidly give you two or three instances of her direct agency in this function. first, when she wants to make penelope bright and beautiful; and to do away with the signs of her waiting and her grief. "then athena thought of another thing; she laid her into a deep sleep, and loosed all her limbs, and made her taller, and made her smoother, and fatter, and whiter than sawn ivory; and breathed ambrosial brightness over her face; and so she left her and went up to heaven." fresh air and sound sleep at night, young ladies! you see you may have athena for lady's maid whenever you choose. next, hark how she gives strength to achilles when he is broken with fasting and grief. jupiter pities him and says to her, "'daughter mine, are you forsaking your own soldier, and don't you care for achilles any more? see how hungry and weak he is,--go and feed him with ambrosia.' so he urged the eager athena; and she leaped down out of heaven like a harpy falcon, shrill-voiced; and she poured nectar and ambrosia, full of delight, into the breast of achilles, that his limbs might not fail with famine; then she returned to the solid dome of her strong father." and then comes the great passage about achilles arming--for which we have no time. but here is again athena giving strength to the whole greek army. she came as a falcon to achilles, straight at him, a sudden drift of breeze; but to the army she must come widely, she sweeps around them all. "as when jupiter spreads the purple rainbow over heaven, portending battle or cold storm, so athena, wrapping herself round with a purple cloud, stooped to the greek soldiers, and raised up each of them." note that purple, in homer's use of it, nearly always means "fiery," "full of light." it is the light of the rainbow, not the color of it, which homer means you to think of. . but the most curious passage of all, and fullest of meaning, is when she gives strength to menelaus, that he may stand unwearied against hector. he prays to her: "and blue-eyed athena was glad that he prayed to her, first; and she gave him strength in his shoulders, and in his limbs, an she gave him the courage"--of what animal, do you suppose? had it been neptune or mars, they would have given him the courage of a bull, or a lion; but athena gives him the courage of the most fearless in attack of all creatures, small or great, and very small it is, but wholly incapable of terror,--she gives him the courage of a fly. . now this simile of homer's is one of the best instances i can give you of the way in which great writers seize truths unconsciously which are for all time. it is only recent science which has completely shown the perfectness of this minute symbol of the power of athena; proving that the insect's flight and breath are co-ordinated; that its wings are actually forcing-pumps, of which the stroke compels the thoracic respiration; and that it thus breathes and flies simultaneously by the action of the same muscles, so that respiration is carried on most vigorously during flight, "while the air-vessels, supplied by many pairs of lungs instead of one, traverse the organs of flight in far greater numbers than the capillary blood-vessels of our own system, and give enormous and untiring muscular power, a rapidity of action measured by thousands of strokes in the minute, and an endurance, by miles and hours of flight."* * ormerod: "natural history of wasps." homer could not have known this; neither that the buzzing of the fly was produced, as in a wind instrument, by a constant current of air through the trachea. but he had seen, and, doubtless, meant us to remember, the marvellous strength and swiftness of the insect's flight (the glance of the swallow itself is clumsy and slow compared to the darting of common house-flies at play); he probably attributed its murmur to the wings, but in this also there was a type of what we shall presently find recognized in the name of pallas,--the vibratory power of the air to convey sound, while, as a purifying creature, the fly holds its place beside the old symbol of athena in egypt, the vulture; and as a venomous and tormenting creature has more than the strength of the serpent in proportion to its size, being thus entirely representative of the influence of the air both in purification and pestilence; and its courage is so notable that, strangely enough, forgetting homer's simile, i happened to take the fly for an expression of the audacity of freedom in speaking of quite another subject.* whether it should be called courage, or mere mechanical instinct, may be questioned, but assuredly no other animal, exposed to continual danger, is so absolutely without sign of fear. * see farther on, § , pp. - . . you will, perhaps, have still patience to hear two instances, not of the communication as strength, but of the personal agency of athena as the air. when she comes down to help diomed against ares, she does not come to fight instead of him, but she takes his charioteer's place. "she snatched the reins, she lashed with all her force, and full on mars impelled the foaming horse." ares is the first to cast his spear; then--note this--pope says: "pallas opposed her hand, and caused to glance, far from the car, the strong immortal lance." she does not oppose her hand in the greek--the wind could not meet the lance straight--she catches it in her hand, and throws it off. there is no instance in which a lance is so parried by a mortal hand in all the iliad, and it is exactly the way the wind would parry it, catching it, and turning it aside. if there are any good rifleshots here, they know something about athena's parrying; and in old times the english masters of feathered artillery knew more yet. compare also the turning of hector's lance from achilles: iliad, xx. . . the last instance i will give you is as lovely as it is subtile. throughout the iliad, athena is herself the will or menis of achilles. if he is to be calmed, it is she who calms him; if angered, it is she who inflames him. in the first quarrel with atreides, when he stands at pause, with the great sword half drawn, "athena came from heaven, and stood behind him and caught him by the yellow hair." another god would have stayed his hand upon the hilt, but athena only lifts his hair. "and he turned and knew her, and her dreadful eyes shone upon him." there is an exquisite tenderness in this laying her hand upon his hair, for it is the talisman of his life, vowed to his own thessalian river if he ever returned to its shore, and cast upon patroclus' pile, so ordaining that there should be no return. . secondly, athena is the air giving vegetative impulse to the earth. she is the wind and the rain, and yet more the pure air itself, getting at the earth fresh turned by spade or plough, and, above all, feeding the fresh leaves; for though the greeks knew nothing about carbonic acid, they did know that trees fed on the air. now, note first in this, the myth of the air getting at ploughed land. you know i told you the lord of all labor by which man lived was hephæstus; therefore athena adopts a child of his, and of the earth,-- erichthonius,--literally, "the tearer up of the ground," who is the head (though not in direct line) of the kings of attica; and, having adopted him, she gives him to be brought up by the three nymphs of the dew. of these, aglauros, the dweller in the fields, is the envy or malice of the earth; she answers nearly to the envy of cain, the tiller of the ground, against his shepherd brother, in her own envy against her two sisters, herse, the cloud dew, who is the beloved of the shepherd mercury; and pandrosos, the diffused dew, or dew of heaven. literally, you have in this myth the words of the blessing of esau: "thy dwelling shall be of the fatness of the earth, and of the dew of heaven from above." aglauros is for her envy turned into a black stone; and hers is one of the voices --the other being that of cain--which haunts the circle of envy in the purgatory: "io sono aglauro, chi divenne sasso." but to her two sisters, with erichthonius (or the hero erectheus), is built the most sacred temple of athena in athens; the temple to their own dearest athena--to her, and to the dew together; so that it was divided into two parts: one, the temple of athena of the city, and the other that of the dew. and this expression of her power, as the air bringing the dew to the hill pastures, in the central temple of the central city of the heathen, dominant over the future intellectual world, is, of all the facts connected with her worship as the spirit of life, perhaps the most important. i have no time now to trace for you the hundredth part of the different ways in which it bears both upon natural beauty, and on the best order and happiness of men's lives. i hope to follow out some of these trains of thought in gathering together what i have to say about field herbage; but i must say briefly here that the great sign, to the greeks, of the coming of spring in the pastures, was not, as with us, in the primrose, but in the various flowers of the asphodel tribe (of which i will give you some separate account presently); therefore it is that the earth answers with crocus flame to the cloud on ida; and the power of athena in eternal life is written by the light of the asphodel on the elysian fields. but further, athena is the air, not only to the lilies of the field, but to the leaves of the forest. we saw before the reason why hermes is said to be the son of maia, the eldest of the sister stars of spring. those stars are called not only pleiades, but vergiliæ, from a word mingling the ideas of the turning or returning of springtime with the outpouring of rain. the mother of vergil bearing the name of maia, vergil himself received his name from the seven stars; and he, forming first the mind of dante, and through him that of chaucer (besides whatever special minor influence came from the pastorals and georgics) became the fountainhead of all the best literary power connected with the love of vegetative nature among civilized races of men. take the fact for what it is worth; still it is a strange seal of coincidence, in word and in reality, upon the greek dream of the power over human life, and its purest thoughts, in the stars of spring. but the first syllable of the name of vergil has relation also to another group of words, of which the english ones, virtue and virgin, bring down the force to modern days. it is a group containing mainly the idea of "spring," or increase of life in vegetation--the rising of the new branch of the tree out of the bud, and of the new leaf out of the ground. it involves, secondarily, the idea of greenness and of strength, but, primarily, that of living increase of a new rod from a stock, stem, or root ("there shall come forth a rod out of the stem of jesse"); and chiefly the stem of certain plants--either of the rose tribe, as in the budding of the almond rod of aaron; or of the olive tribe, which has triple significance in this symbolism, from the use of its oil for sacred anointing, for strength in the gymnasium, and for light. hence, in numberless divided and reflected ways, it is connected with the power of hercules and athena: hercules plants the wild olive, for its shade, on the course of olympia, and it thenceforward gives the olympic crown of consummate honor and rest; while the prize at the panathenaic games is a vase of its oil (meaning encouragement to continuance of effort); and from the paintings on these panathenaic vases we get the most precious clue to the entire character of athena. then to express its propagation by slips, the trees from which the oil was to be taken were called "moriai," trees of division (being all descendents of the sacred one in the erechtheum). and thus, in one direction, we get to the "children like olive plants round about thy table" and the olive grafting of st. paul; while the use of the oil for anointing gives chief name to the rod itself of the stem of jesse, and to all those who were by that name signed for his disciples first in antioch. remember, further, since that name was first given the influence of the symbol, both in extreme unction and in consecration of priests and kings to their "divine right;" and thing, if you can reach with any grasp of thought, what the influence on the earth has been, of those twisted branches whose leaves give gray bloom to the hillsides under every breeze that blows from the midland sea. but, above and beyond all, think how strange it is that the chief agonia of humanity, and the chief giving of strength from heaven for its fulfilment, should have been under its night shadow in palestine. . thirdly, athena is the air in its power over the sea. on the earliest panathenaic vase known--the "burgon" vase in the british museum--athena has a dolphin on her shield. the dolphin has two principal meanings in greek symbolism. it means, first, the sea; secondarily, the ascending and descending course of any of the heavenly bodies from one sea horizon to another--the dolphins' arching rise and replunge (in a summer evening, out of calm sea, their black backs roll round with exactly the slow motion of a water-wheel; but i do not know how far aristotle's exaggerated account of their leaping or their swiftness has any foundation) being taken as a type of the emergence of the sun or stars from the sea in the east, and plunging beneath in the west. hence, apollo, when in his personal power he crosses the sea, leading his cretan colonists to pytho, takes the form of a dolphin, becomes apollo delphinius, and names the founded colony "delphi." the lovely drawing of the delphic apollo on the hydria of the vatican (le normand and de witte, vol. ii. p. ) gives the entire conception of this myth. again, the beautiful coins of tarentum represent taras coming to found the city, riding on a dolphin, whose leaps and plunges have partly the rage of the sea in them, and partly the spring of the horse, because the splendid riding of the tarentines had made their name proverbial in magna græca. the story of arion is a collateral fragment of the same thought; and, again, the plunge, before their transformation, of the ships of Æneas. then, this idea of career upon, or conquest of, or by dolphin-like ships (compare the merlin prophecy, "they shall ride over ocean wide with hempen bridle, ad horse of tree,") connects itself with the thought of undulation, and of the wave-power in the sea itself, which is always expressed by the serpentine bodies either of the sea-gods or of the sea-horse; and when athena carries, as she does often in later work, a serpent for her shield-sign, it is not so much the repetition of her own ægis-snakes as the further expression of her power over the sea-wave; which, finally, vergil gives in its perfect unity with her own anger, in the approach of the serpents against laocoön from the sea; and then, finally, when her own storm-power is fully put forth on the ocean also, and the madness of the ægis-snake is give to the wave-snake, the sea-wave becomes the devouring hound at the waist of scylla, and athena takes scylla for her helmet-crest; while yet her beneficent and essential power on the ocean, in making navigation possible, is commemorated in the panathenaic festival by her peplus being carried to the erechtheum suspended from the mast of a ship. in plate cxv. of vol. ii, le normand, are given two sides of a vase, which, in rude and childish ways, assembles most of the principal thoughts regarding athena in this relation. in the first, the sunrise is represented by the ascending chariot of apollo, foreshortened; the light is supposed to blind the eyes, and no face of the god is seen (turner, in the ulysses and polyphemus sunrise, loses the form of the god in light, giving the chariot-horses only; rendering in his own manner, after , years of various fall and revival of the arts, precisely the same thought as the old greek potter). he ascends out of the sea; but the sea itself has not yet caught the light. in the second design, athena as the morning breeze, and hermes as the morning cloud, fly over the sea before the sun. hermes turns back his head; his face is unseen in the cloud, as apollo's in the light; the grotesque appearance of an animal's face is only the cloud-phantasm modifying a frequent form of the hair of hermes beneath the back of his cap. under the morning breeze, the dolphins leap from the rippled sea, and their sides catch the light. the coins of the lucanian heracleia give a fair representation of the helmed athena, as imagined in later greek art, with the embossed scylla. . fourthly, athena is the air nourishing artificial light--unconsuming fire. therefore, a lamp was always kept burning in the erechtheum; and the torch-race belongs chiefly to her festival, of which the meaning is to show the danger of the perishing of the light even by excess of the air that nourishes it; and so that the race is not to the swift, but to the wise. the household use of her constant light is symbolized in the lovely passage in the odyssey, where ulysses and his son move the armor while the servants are shut in their chambers, and there is no one to hold the torches for them; but athena herself, "having a golden lamp," fills all the rooms with light. her presence in war-strength with her favorite heroes is always shown by the "unwearied" fire hovering on their helmets and shields; and the image gradually becomes constant and accepted, both for the maintenance of household watchfulness, as in the parable of the ten virgins, or as the symbol of direct inspiration, in the rushing wind and divided flames of pentecost; but together with this thought of unconsuming and constant fire, there is always mingled in the greek mind the sense of the consuming by excess, as of the flame by the air, so also of the inspired creature by its own fire (thus, again, "the zeal of thine house hath eaten me up"--"my zeal hath consumed me, because of thine enemies," and the like); and especially athena has this aspect towards the truly sensual and bodily strength; so that to ares, who is himself insane and consuming, the opposite wisdom seems to be insane and consuming: "all we the other gods have thee against us, o jove! when we would give grace to men; for thou hast begotten the maid without a mind-- the mischievous creature, the doer of unseemly evil. all we obey thee, and are ruled by thee. her only thou wilt not resist in anything she says or does, because thou didst bear her--consuming child as she is." . lastly, athena is the air conveying vibration of sound. in all the loveliest representations in central greek art of the birth of athena, apollo stands close to the sitting jupiter, singing, with a deep, quiet joyfulness, to his lyre. the sun is always thought of as the master of time and rhythm, and as the origin of the composing and inventive discovery of melody; but the air, as the actual element and substance of the voice, the prolonging and sustaining power of it, and the symbol of its moral passion. whatever in music is measured and designed belongs therefore to apollo and the muses; whatever is impulsive and passionate, to athena; hence her constant strength a voice or cry (as when she aids the shout of achilles) curiously opposed to the dumbness of demeter. the apolline lyre, therefore, is not so much the instrument producing sound, as its measurer and divider by length or tension of string into given notes; and i believe it is, in a double connection with its office as a measurer of time or motion and its relation to the transit of the sun in the sky, that hermes forms it from the tortoise-shell, which is the image of the dappled concave of the cloudy sky. thenceforward all the limiting or restraining modes of music belong to the muses; but the more passionate music is wind music, as in the doric flute. then, when this inspired music becomes degraded in its passion, it sinks into the pipe of pan, and the double pipe of marsyas, and is then rejected by athena. the myth which represents her doing so is that she invented the double pipe from hearing the hiss of the gorgonian serpents; but when she played upon it, chancing to see her face reflected in water, she saw that it was distorted, whereupon she threw down the flute which marsyas found. then, the strife of apollo and marsyas represents the enduring contest between music in which the words and thought lead, and the lyre measures or melodizes them (which pindar means when he calls his hymns "kings over the lyre"), and music in which the words are lost and the wind or impulse leads,--generally, therefore, between intellectual, and brutal, or meaningless, music. therefore, when apollo prevails, he flays marsyas, taking the limit and external bond of his shape from him, which is death, without touching the mere muscular strength, yet shameful and dreadful in dissolution. . and the opposition of these two kinds of sound is continually dwelt upon by the greek philosophers, the real fact at the root of all music is the natural expression of a lofty passion for a right cause; that in proportion to the kingliness and force of any personality, the expression either of its joy or suffering becomes measured, chastened, calm, and capable of interpretation only by the majesty of ordered, beautiful, and worded sound. exactly in proportion to the degree in which we become narrow in the cause and conception of our passions, incontinent in the utterance of them, feeble of perseverance in them, sullied or shameful in the indulgence of them, their expression by musical sound becomes broken, mean, fatuitous, and at last impossible; the measured waves of the air of heaven will not lend themselves to expression of ultimate vice, it must be forever sunk into discordance or silence. and since, as before stated, every work of right art has a tendency to reproduce the ethical state which first developed it, this, which of all the arts is most directly in power of discipline; the first, the simplest, the most effective of all instruments of moral instruction; while in the failure and betrayal of its functions, it becomes the subtlest aid of moral degradation. music is thus, in her health, the teacher of perfect order, and is the voice of the obedience of angels, and the companion of the course of the spheres of heaven; and in her depravity she is also the teacher of perfect disorder and disobedience, and the gloria in excelsis becomes the marseillaise. in the third section of this volume, i reprint two chapters from another essay of mine ("the cestus of aglaia"), on modesty or measure, and on liberty, containing further reference to music in her two powers; and i do this now, because, among the many monstrous and misbegotten fantasies which are the spawn of modern license, perhaps the most impishly opposite to the truth is the conception of music which has rendered possible the writing, by educated persons, and, more strangely yet, the tolerant criticism, of such words as these: "this so persuasive art is the only one that has no didactic efficacy, that engenders no emotions save such as are without issue on the side of moral truth, that expresses nothing of god, nothing of reason, nothing of human liberty." i will not give the author's name; the passage is quoted in the "westminster review" for last january [ ]. . i must also anticipate something of what i have to say respecting the relation of the power of athena to organic life, so far as to note that her name, pallas, probably refers to the quivering or vibration of the air; and to its power, whether as vital force, or communicated wave, over every kind of matter, in giving it vibratory movement; first, and most intense, in the voice and throat of the bird, which is the air incarnate; and so descending through the various orders of animal life to the vibrating and semi-voluntary murmur of the insect; and, lower still, to the hiss or quiver of the tail of the half-lunged snake and deaf adder; all these, nevertheless, being wholly under the rule of athena as representing either breath or vital nervous power; and, therefore, also, in their simplicity, the "oaten pipe and pastoral song," which belong to her dominion over the asphodel meadows, and breathe on their banks of violets. finally, is it not strange to think of the influence of this one power of pallas in vibration (we shall see a singular mechanical energy of it presently in the serpent's motion), in the voices of war and peace? how much of the repose, how much of the wrath, folly, and misery of men, has literally depended on this one power of the air; on the sound of the trumpet and of the bell, on the lark's song, and the bee's murmur! . such is the general conception in the greek mind of the physical power of athena. the spiritual power associated with it is of two kinds: first, she is the spirit of life in material organism; not strength in the blood only, but formative energy in the clay; and, secondly, she is inspired and impulsive wisdom in human conduct and human art, giving the instinct of infallible decision, and of faultless invention. it is quite beyond the scope of my present purpose--and, indeed, will only be possible for me at all after marking the relative intention of the apolline myths--to trace for you the greek conception of athena as the guide of moral passion. but i will at least endeavor, on some near occasion,* to define some of the actual truths respecting the vital force in created organism, and inventive fancy in the works of man, which are more or less expressed by the greeks, under the personality of athena. you would, perhaps, hardly bear with me if i endeavored further to show you--what is nevertheless perfectly true--the analogy between the spiritual power of athena in her gentle ministry, yet irresistible anger, with the ministry of anther spirit whom we also, holding for the universal power of life, are forbidden, at our worst peril, to quench or to grieve. * i have tried to do this in mere outline in the two following sections of this volume. . but, i think, to-night, you should not let me close without requiring of me an answer on one vital point, namely, how far these imaginations of gods--which are vain to us--were vain to those who had no better trust? and what real belief the greek had in these creations of his own spirit, practical and helpful to him in the sorrow of earth? i am able to answer you explicitly in this. the origin of his thoughts is often obscure, and we may err in endeavoring to account or their form of realization; but the effect of that realization on his life is not obscure at all. the greek creed was, of course, different in its character, as our own creed is, according to the class of persons who held it. the common people's was quite literal, simple, and happy; their idea of athena was as clear as a good roman catholic peasant's idea of the madonna. in athens itself, the centre of thought and refinement, pisistratus obtained the reins of government through the ready belief of the populace that a beautiful woman, armed like athena, was the goddess herself. even at the close of the last century some of this simplicity remained among the inhabitants of the greek islands; and when a pretty english lady first made her way into the grotto of antiparos, she was surrounded, on her return, by all the women of the neighboring village, believing her to be divine, and praying her to heal them of their sicknesses. . then, secondly, the creed of the upper classes was more refined and spiritual, but quite as honest, and even more forcible in its effect on the life. you might imagine that the employment of the artifice just referred to implied utter unbelief in the persons contriving it; but it really meant only that the more worldly of them would play with a popular faith of their own purposes, as doubly-minded persons have often done since, all the while sincerely holding the same ideas themselves in a more abstract form; while the good and unworldly men, the true greek heroes, lived by their faith as firmly as st. louis, or the cid, or the chevalier bayard. . then, thirdly, the faith of the poets and artists was, necessarily, less definite, being continually modified by the involuntary action of their own fancies; and by the necessity of presenting, in clear verbal or material form, things of which they had no authoritative knowledge. their faith was, in some respects like dante's or milton's: firm in general conception, but not able to vouch for every detail in the forms they gave it; but they went considerably farther, even in that minor sincerity, than subsequent poets; and strove with all their might to be as near the truth as they could. pindar says, quite simply, "i cannot think so-and-so of the gods. it must have been this way--it cannot have been that way--that the thing was done." and as late among the latins as the days of horace, this sincerity remains. horace is just as true and simple in his religion as wordsworth; but all power of understanding any of the honest classic poets has been taken away from most english gentlemen by the mechanical drill in verse-writing at school. throughout the whole of their lives afterwards, they never can get themselves quit of the notion that all verses were written as an exercise, and that minerva was only a convenient word for the last of a hexameter, and jupiter for the last but one. . it is impossible that any notion can be more fallacious or more misleading in its consequences. all great song, from the first day when human lips contrived syllables, has been sincere song. with deliberate didactic purpose the tragedians--with pure and native passion the lyrists --fitted their perfect words to their dearest faiths. "operosa parvus carmina fingo." "i, little thing that i am, weave my laborious songs" as earnestly as the bee among the bells of thyme on the matin mountains. yes, and he dedicates his favorite pine to diana, and he chants his autumnal hymn to the faun that guards his fields, and he guides the noble youth and maids of rome in their choir to apollo, and he tells the farmer's little girl that the gods will love her, though she has only a handful of salt and meal to give them--just as earnestly as ever english gentleman taught christian faith to english youth in england's truest days. . then, lastly, the creed of the philosophers of sages varied according to the character and knowledge of each; their relative acquaintance with the secrets of natural science, their intellectual and sectarian egotism, and their mystic or monastic tendencies, for there is a classic as well as a mediæval monasticism. they end in losing the life of greece in play upon words; but we owe to their early thought some of the soundest ethics, and the foundation of the best practical laws, yet known to mankind. . such was the general vitality of the heathen creed in its strength. of its direct influence on conduct, it is, as i said, impossible for me to speak now; only, remember always, in endeavoring to form a judgment of it, that what of good or right the heathens did, they did looking for no reward. the purest forms of our own religion have always consisted in sacrificing less things to win greater, time to win eternity, the world to win the skies. the order, "sell that thou hast," is not given without the promise, "thou shalt have treasure in heaven;" and well for the modern christian if he accepts the alternative as his master left it, and does not practically read the command and promise thus: "sell that thou hast in the best market, and thou shalt have treasure in eternity also." but the poor greeks of the great ages expected no reward from heaven but honor, and no reward from earth but rest; though, when, on those conditions, they patiently, and proudly, fulfilled their task of the granted day, an unreasoning instinct of an immortal benediction broke from their lips in song; and they, even they, had sometimes a prophet to tell them of a land "where there is sun alike by day and alike by night, where they shall need no more to trouble the earth by strength of hands for daily bread; but the ocean breezes blow around the blessed islands, and golden flowers burn on their bright trees for evermore." ii. athena keramitis.* (athena in the earth.) * "athena, fit for being made into pottery." i coin the expression as a counterpart of 'ge parthenia', "clay intact." study, supplementary to the preceding lecture, of the supposed and actual relations of athena to the vital force in material organism . it has been easy to decipher approximately the greek conception of the physical power of athena in cloud and sky, because we know ourselves what clouds and skies are, and what the force of the wind is in forming them. but it is not at all easy to trace the greek thoughts about the power of athena in giving life, because we do not ourselves know clearly what life is, or in what way the air is necessary to it, or what there is, besides the air, shaping the forms that it is put into. and it is comparatively of small consequence to find out what the greeks thought or meant, until we have determined what we ourselves think, or mean, when we translate the greek word for "breathing" into the latin-english word "spirit." . but it is of great consequence that you should fix in your minds-- and hold, against the baseness of mere materialism on the one hand, and against the fallacies of controversial speculation on the other--the certain and practical sense of this word "spirit;" the sense in which you all know that its reality exists, as the power which shaped you into your shape, and by which you love and hate when you have received that shape. you need not fear, on the one hand, that either the sculpturing or the loving power can ever be beaten down by the philosophers into a metal, or evolved by them into a gas; but on the other hand, take care that you yourself, in trying to elevate your conception of it, do not lose its truth in a dream, or even in a word. beware always of contending for words: you will find them not easy to grasp, if you know them in several languages. this very word, which is so solemn in your mouths, is one of the most doubtful. in latin it means little more than breathing, and may mean merely accent; in french it is not breath, but wit, and our neighbors are therefore obliged, even in their most solemn expressions, to say "wit" when we say "ghost." in greek, "pneuma," the word we translate "ghost," means either wind or breath, and the relative word "psyche" has, perhaps, a more subtle power; yet st. paul's words "pneumatic body" and "psychic body" involve a difference in his mind which no words will explain. but in greek and in english, and in saxon and in hebrew, and in every articulate tongue of humanity the "spirit of man" truly means his passion and virtue, and is stately according to the height of his conception, and stable according to the measure of his endurance. . endurance, or patience, that is the central sign of spirit; a constancy against the cold and agony of death; and as, physically, it is by the burning power of the air that the heat of the flesh is sustained, so this athena, spiritually, is the queen of all glowing virtue, the unconsuming fire and inner lamp of life. and thus, as hephæstus is lord of the fire of the hand, and apollo of the fire of the brain, so athena of the fire of the heart; and as hercules wears for his chief armor the skin of the nemean lion, his chief enemy, whom he slew; and apollo has for his highest name "the pythian," from his chief enemy, the python slain; so athena bears always on her breast the deadly face of her chief enemy slain, the gorgonian cold, and venomous agony, that turns living men to stone. . and so long as you have the fire of the heart within you, and know the reality of it, you need to be under no alarm as to the possibility of its chemical or mechanical analysis. the philosophers are very humorous in their ecstasy of hope about it; but the real interest of their discoveries in this direction is very small to humankind. it is quite true that the tympanum of the ear vibrates under sound, and that the surface of the water in a ditch vibrates too; but the ditch hears nothing for all that; and my hearing is still to me as blessed a mystery as ever, and the interval between the ditch and me quite as great. if the trembling sound in my ears was once of the marriage-bell which began my happiness, and is now of the passing-bell which ends it, the difference between those two sounds to me cannot be counted by the number of concussions. there have been some curious speculations lately as to the conveyance of mental consciousness by "brain-waves." what does it matter how it is conveyed? the consciousness itself is not a wave. it may be accompanied here or there by any quantity of quivers and shakes, up or down, of anything you can find in the universe that is shakable-- what is that to me? my friend is dead, and my--according to modern views --vibratory sorrow is not one whit less, or less mysterious, to me, than my old quiet one. . beyond, and entirely unaffected by, any questionings of this kind, there are, therefore, two plain facts which we should all know: first, that there is a power which gives their several shapes to things, or capacities of feeling; and that we can increase or destroy both of these at our will. by care and tenderness, we can extend the range of lovely life in plants and animals; by our neglect and cruelty, we can arrest it, and bring pestilence in its stead. again, by right discipline we can increase our strength of noble will and passion or destroy both. and whether these two forces are local conditions of the elements in which they appear, or are part of a great force in the universe, out of which they are taken, and to which they must be restored, is not of the slightest importance to us in dealing with them; neither is the manner of their connection with light and air. what precise meaning we ought to attach to expressions such as that of the prophecy to the four winds that the dry bones might be breathed upon, and might live, or why the presence of the vital power should be dependent on the chemical action of air, and its awful passing away materially signified by the rendering up of that breath or ghost, we cannot at present know, and need not at any time dispute. what we assuredly know is that the states of life and death are different, and the first more desirable than the other, and by effort attainable, whether we understand being "born of the spirit" to signify having the breath of heaven in our flesh, or its power in our hearts. . as to its power on the body, i will endeavor to tell you, having been myself much led into studies involving necessary reference both to natural science and mental phenomena, what, at least, remains to us after science has done its worst; what the myth of athena, as a formative and decisive power, a spirit of creation and volition, must eternally mean for all of us. . it is now (i believe i may use the strong word) "ascertained" that heat and motion are fixed in quantity, and measurable in the portions that we deal with. we can measure portions of power, as we can measure portions of space; while yet, as far as we know, space may be infinite, and force infinite. there may be heat as much greater than the sun's, as the sun's heat is greater than a candle's: and force as much greater than the force by which the world swings, as that is greater than the force by which a cobweb trembles. now, on hear and force, life is inseparably dependent; and i believe, also, on a form of substance, which the philosophers call "protoplasm." i wish they would use english instead of greek words. when i want to know why a leaf is green, they tell me it is colored by "chlorophyll," which at first sounds very instructive; but if they would only say plainly that a leaf is colored green by a thing which is called "green leaf," we should see more precisely how far we had got. however, it is a curious fact that life is connected with a cellular structure called protoplasm, or in english, "first stuck together;" whence, conceivably through deuteroplasms, or second stickings, and tritoplasms, or third stickings,* we reach the highest plastic phase in the human pottery, which differs from common chinaware, primarily, by a measurable degree of heat, developed in breathing, which it borrows from the rest of the universe while it lives, and which it as certainly returns to the rest of the universe, when it dies. . again, with this heat certain assimilative powers are connected, which the tendency of recent discovery is to simplify more and more into modes of one force; or finally into mere motion, communicable in various states, but not destructible. we will assume that science has done its utmost; and that every chemical or animal force is demonstrably resolvable into heat or motion, reciprocally changing into each other. i would myself like better, in order of thought, to consider motion as a mode of heat than heat as a mode of motion; still, granting that we have got thus far, we have yet to ask, what is heat? or what is motion? what is this "primo mobile," this transitional power, in which all things live, and move, and have their being? it is by definition something different from matter, and we may call it as we choose, "first cause," or "first light," or "first heat;" but we can show no scientific proof of its not being personal, and coinciding with the ordinary conception of a supporting spirit in all things. . still, it is not advisable to apply the word "spirit" or "breathing" to it, while it is only enforcing chemical affinities; but, when the chemical affinities are brought under the influence of the air, and of the sun's heat, the formative force enters and entirely different phase. it does not now merely crystallize indefinite masses, but it gives to limited portions of matter the power of gathering, selectively, other elements proper to them, and binding those elements into their own peculiar and adopted form. this force, now properly called life, or breathing, or spirit, is continually creating its own shell of definite shape out of the wreck around it; and this is what i meant by saying, in the "ethics of the dust," "you may always stand by form against force." for the mere force of junction is not spirit; but the power that catches out of chaos charcoal, water, lime, or what not, and fastens them down into a given form, is properly called "spirit;" and we shall not diminish, but strengthen our conception of this creative energy by recognizing its presence in lower states of matter than our own; such recognition being enforced upon us by delight we instinctively receive from all the forms of matter which manifest it; and yet more, by the glorifying of those forms, in the parts of them that are most animated, with the colors that are pleasantest to our senses. the most familiar instance of this is the best, and also the most wonderful: the blossoming of plants. . the spirit in the plant--that is to say, its power of gathering dead matter out of the wreck round it, and shaping it into its own chosen shape--is of course strongest at the moment of its flowering, for it then not only gathers, but forms, with the greatest energy. and where this life is in at full power, its form becomes invested with aspects that are chiefly delightful to our own human passions; namely, at first, with the loveliest outlines of shape; and, secondly, with the most brilliant phases of the primary colors, blue, yellow, and red or white, the unison of all; and, to make it all more strange, this time of peculiar and perfect glory is associated with relations of the plants or blossoms to each other, correspondent to the joy of love in human creatures, and having the same object in the continuance of the race. only, with respect to plants, as animals, we are wrong in speaking as if the object of this strong life were only the bequeathing of itself. the flower is the end or proper object of the seed, not the seed of the flower. the reason for seeds is that flowers may be; not the reason of flowers that seeds may be. the flower itself is the creature which the spirit makes; only, in connection with its perfectness is placed the giving birth to its successor. . the main fact then, about a flower is that it is part of the plant's form developed at the moment of its intensest life; and this inner rapture is usually marked externally for us by the flush of one or more of the primary colors. what the character of the flower shall be, depends entirely upon the portion of the plant into which this rapture of spirit has been put. sometimes the life is put into its outer sheath, and then the outer sheath becomes white and pure, and full of strength and grace; sometimes the life is put into the common leaves, just under the blossom, and they become scarlet or purple; sometimes the life is put into the stalks of the flower and they flush blue; sometimes into its outer enclosure or calyx; mostly into its inner cup; but, in all cases, the presence of the strongest life is asserted by characters in which the human sight takes pleasure, and which seem prepared with distinct reference to us, or rather, bear, in being delightful, evidence of having been produced by the power of the same spirit as our own. . and we are led to feel this still more strongly because all the distinctions of species,* both in plants and animals, appear to have similar connection with human character. whatever the origin of species may be, or however those species, once formed, may be influenced by external accident, the groups into which birth or accident reduce them have distinct relation to the spirit of man. it is perfectly possible, and ultimately conceivable, that the crocodile and the lamb may have descended from the same ancestral atom of protoplasm; and that the physical laws of the operation of calcareous slime and of meadow grass, on that protoplasm, may in time have developed the opposite natures and aspects of the living frames but the practically important fact for us is the existence of a power which creates that calcareous earth itself, --which creates, that separately--and quartz, separately; and gold, separately; and charcoal, separately; and then so directs the relation of these elements as that the gold shall destroy the souls of men by being yellow; and the charcoal destroy their souls by being hard and bright; and the quartz represent to them an ideal purity; and the calcareous earth, soft, shall beget crocodiles, and dry and hard, sheep; and that the aspects and qualities of these two products, crocodiles and lambs, shall be, the one repellant to the spirit of man, the other attractive to it, in a quite inevitable way; representing to him states of moral evil and good; and becoming myths to him of destruction or redemption, and, in the most literal sense, "words" of god. * the facts on which i am about to dwell are in nowise antagonistic to the theories which mr. darwin's unwearied and unerring investigations are every day rendering more probable. the æsthetic relations of species are independent of their origin. nevertheless, it has always seemed to me in what little work i have done upon organic forms, as if the species mocked us by their deliberate imitation of each other when they met; yet did not pass one into another. . and the force of these facts cannot be escaped from by the thought that there are species innumerable, passing into each other by regular gradations, out of which we choose what we must love or dread, and say they were indeed prepared for us. species are not innumerable; neither are they now connected by consistent gradation. they touch at certain points only; and even then are connected, when we examine them deeply, in a kind of reticulated way, not in chains, but in chequers; also, however connected, it is but by a touch of the extremities, as it were, and the characteristic form of the species is entirely individual. the rose nearly sinks into a grass in the sanguisorba; but the formative spirit does not the less clearly separate the ear of wheat from the dog-rose, and oscillate with tremulous constancy round the central forms of both, having each their due relation to the mind of man. the great animal kingdoms are connected in the same way. the bird through the penguin drops towards the fish, and the fish in the cetacean reascends to the mammal, yet there is no confusion of thought possible between the perfect forms of an eagle, a trout, and a war-horse, in their relations to the elements, and to man. . now we have two orders of animals to take some note of in connection with athena, and one vast order of plants, which will illustrate this matter very sufficiently for us. the orders of animals are the serpent and the bird: the serpent, in which the breath or spirit is less than in any other creature, and the earth-power the greatest; the bird, in which the breath or spirit is more full than in any other creature, and the earth-power least. . we will take the bird first. it is little more than a drift of the air in all its quills, it breathes through its whole frame and flesh and glows with air in its flying, like blown flames; it rests upon the air, subdues it, surpasses it, outraces it,--is the air, conscious of itself, conquering itself, ruling itself. also, in the throat of the bird is given the voice of the air. all that in the wind itself is weak, wild, useless in sweetness, is knit together in its song. as we may imagine the wild form of the bird's wings, so the wild voice of the cloud into its ordered and commanded voice; unwearied, rippling through the clear heaven in its gladness, interpreting all intense passion through the soft spring nights, bursting into acclaim and rapture of choir at daybreak, or lisping and twittering among the boughs and hedges through heat of day, like little winds that only make the cowslip bells shake, and ruffle the petals of the wild rose. . also, upon the plumes of the bird are put the colors of the air; on these the gold of the cloud, that cannot be gathered by any covetousness; the rubies of the clouds, that are not the price of athena, but are athena; the vermillion of the cloud-bar, and the flame of the cloud-crest, and the snow of the cloud, and its shadow, and the melted blue of the deep wells of the sky,--all these, seized by the creating spirit, and woven by athena herself into films and threads of plume; with wave on wave following and fading along breast, and throat, and opened wings, infinite as the dividing of the foam and the sifting of the sea-sand; even the white down of the cloud seeming to flutter up between the stronger plumes,--seen, but too soft for touch. and so the spirit of the air is put into, and upon, this created form; and it becomes, through twenty centuries, the symbol of divine help, descending, as the fire, to speak but as the dove, to bless. . next, in the serpent we approach the source of a group of myths, world-wide, founded on great and common human instincts, respecting which i must note one or two points which bear intimately on all our subject. for it seems to me that the scholars who are at present occupied in interpretation of human myths have most of them forgotten that there are any such thing as natural myths, and that the dark sayings of men may be both difficult to read, and not always worth reading. and, indeed, all guidance to the right sense of the human and variable myths will probably depend on our first getting at the sense of the natural and invariable ones. the dead hieroglyph may have meant this or that; the living hieroglyph means always the same; but remember, it is just as much a hieroglyph as the other; nay, more,--a "sacred or reserved sculpture," a thing with an inner language. the serpent crest of the king's crown, or of the god's, on the pillars of egypt, is a mystery, but the serpent itself, gliding past the pillar's foot, is it less a mystery? is there, indeed, no tongue, except the mute forked flash from its lips, in that running brook of horror on the ground? . why that horror? we all feel it, yet how imaginative it is, how disproportioned to the real strength of the creature! there is more poison in an ill-kept drain, in a pool of dish-washing at a cottage door, than in the deadliest asp of nile. every back yard which you look down into from the railway as it carries you out by vauxhall or deptford, holds its coiled serpent; all the walls of those ghastly suburbs are enclosures of tank temples for serpent worship; yet you feel no horror in looking down into them as you would if you saw the livid scales, and lifted head. there is more venom, mortal, inevitable, in a single word, sometimes, or in the gliding entrance of a wordless thought than ever "vanti libia con sua rena." but that horror is of the myth, not of the creature. there are myriads lower than this, and more loathsome, in the scale of being; the links between dead matter and animation drift everywhere unseen. but it is the strength of the base element that is so dreadful in the serpent; it is the very omnipotence of the earth. that rivulet of smooth silver, how does it flow, think you? it literally rows on the earth, with every scale for an oar; it bites the dust with the ridges of its body. watch it, when it moves slowly. a wave, but without wind! a current, but with no fall! all the body moving at the same instant, yet some of it to one side, some to another, or some forward, and the rest of the coil backwards, but all with the same calm will and equal way, no contraction, no extension; one soundless, causeless, march of sequent rings, and spectral processions of spotted dust, with dissolution in its fangs, dislocation in its coils. startle it, the winding stream will become a twisted arrow; the wave of poisoned life will lash through the grass like a cast lance.* it scarcely breathes with its one lung (the other shriveled and abortive); it is passive to the sun and shade, and is cold or hot like a stone; yet "it can outclimb the monkey, outswim the fish, outleap the zebra, outwrestle the athlete, and crush the tiger."** it is a divine hieroglyph of the demoniac power of the earth, of the entire earthly nature. as the bird is the clothed power of the air, so this is the clothed power of the dust; as the bird is the symbol of the spirit of life, so this is the grasp and sting of death. * i cannot understand this swift forward motion of serpents. the seizure of prey by the constrictor, though invisibly swift, is quite simple in mechanism; it is simply the return to its coil of an opened watch-spring, and is just as instantaneous. but the steady and continuous motion, without a visible fulcrum (for the whole body moves at the same instant, and i have often seen even small snakes glide as fast as i could walk), seems to involve a vibration of the scales quite too rapid to be conceived. the motion of the crest and dorsal fin of the hippocampus, which is one of the intermediate types between serpent and fish, perhaps gives some resemblance of it, dimly visible, for the quivering turns the fin into a mere mist. the entrance of the two barbs of a bee's sting by alternate motion, "the teeth of one barb acting as a fulcrum for the other," must be something like the serpent motion on a small scale. ** richard owen. . hence the continual change in the interpretation put upon it in various religions. as the worm of corruption, it is the mightiest of all adversaries of the gods--the special adversary of their light and creative power--python against apollo. as the power of the earth against the air, the giants are serpent-bodied in the gigantomachia; but as the power of the earth upon the seed--consuming it into new life ("that which thou sowest is not quickened except it die")--serpents sustain the chariot of the spirit of agriculture. . yet on the other hand, there is a power in the earth to take away corruption, and to purify (hence the very fact of burial, and many uses of earth, only lately known): and in this sense the serpent is a healing spirit,--the representative of Æsculapius, and of hygieia; and is a sacred earth-type in the temple of the native earth of athens; so that its departure from the temple was a sign to the athenians that they were to leave their homes. and then, lastly, as there is a strength and healing in the earth, no less than the strength of air, so there is conceived to be a wisdom of earth no less than a wisdom of the spirit; and when its deadly power is killed, its guiding power becomes true; so that the python serpent is killed at delphi, where yet the oracle is from the breath of the earth. . you must remember, however, that in this, as in every other instance, i take the myth at its central time. this is only the meaning of the serpent to the greek mind which could conceive an athena. its first meaning to the nascent eyes of men, and its continued influence over degraded races, are subjects of the most fearful mystery. mr. fergusson has just collected the principal evidence bearing on the matter in a work of very great value, and if you read his opening chapters, they will put you in possession of the circumstances needing chiefly to be considered. i cannot touch upon any of them here, except only to point out that, though the doctrine of the so-called "corruption of human nature," asserting that there is nothing but evil in humanity, is just as blasphemous and false as a doctrine of the corruption of physical nature would be, asserting there was nothing but evil in the earth,-- there is yet the clearest evidence of a disease, plague, or cretinous imperfection of development, hitherto allowed to prevail against the greater part of the races of men; and this in monstrous ways, more full of mystery than the serpent-being itself. i have gathered for you tonight only instances of what is beautiful in greek religion; but even in its best time there were deep corruptions in other phases of it, and degraded forms of many of its deities, all originating in a misunderstood worship of lower races, little less than these corrupted forms of devotion can be found, all having a strange and dreadful consistency with each other, and infecting christianity, even at its strongest periods, with fatal terror of doctrine, and ghastliness of symbolic conception, passing through fear into frenzied grotesque, and thence into sensuality. in the psalter of st. louis itself, half of its letters are twisted snakes; there is scarcely a wreathed ornament, employed in christian dress, or architecture, which cannot be traced back to the serpent's coil; and there is rarely a piece of monkish decorated writing in the world that is not tainted with some ill-meant vileness of grotesque,-- nay, the very leaves of the twisted ivy-pattern of the fourteenth century can be followed back to wreaths for the foreheads of bacchanalian gods. and truly, it seems to me, as i gather in my mind the evidences of insane religion, degraded art, merciless war, sullen toil, detestable pleasure, and vain or vile hope, in which the nations of the world have lived since first they could bear record of themselves--it seems to me, i say, as if the race itself were still half-serpent, not extricated yet from its clay; a lacertine breed of bitterness--the glory of it emaciate with cruel hunger, and blotted on the leaf a glittering slime, and in the sand a useless furrow. . there are no myths, therefore, by which the moral state and fineness of intelligence of different races can be so deeply tried or measured, as by those of the serpent and the bird; both of them having an especial relation to the kind of remorse for sin, or for the grief in fate, of which the national minds that spoke by them had been capable. the serpent and vulture are alike emblems of immortality and purification among races which desired to be immortal and pure; and as they recognize their own misery, the serpent becomes to them the scourge of the furies, and the vulture finds its eternal prey in their breast. the bird long contests among the egyptians with the still received serpent symbol of power. but the draconian image of evil is established in the serpent apap; while the bird's wings, with the globe, become part of a better symbol of deity, and the entire form of the vulture, as an emblem of purification, is associated with the earliest conception of athena. in the type of the dove with the olive branch, the conception of the spirit of athena in renewed life prevailing over ruin is embodied for the whole of futurity; while the greeks, to whom, in a happier climate and higher life than that of egypt, the vulture symbol of cleansing became unintelligible, took the eagle instead for their hieroglyph of supreme spiritual energy, and it thenceforward retains its hold on the human imagination, till it is established among christian myths as the expression of the most exalted form of evangelistic teaching. the special relation of athena to her favorite bird we will trace presently; the peacock of hera, and dove of aphrodite, are comparatively unimportant myths; but the bird power is soon made entirely human by the greeks in their flying angel of victory (partially human, with modified meaning of evil, in the harpy and siren); and thenceforward it associates itself with the hebrew cherubim, and has had the most singular influence on the christian religion by giving its wings to render the conception of angels mysterious and untenable, and check rational endeavor to determine the nature of subordinate spiritual agency; while yet it has given to that agency a vague poetical influence of the highest value in its own imaginative way. . but with the early serpent-worship there was associated another, that of the groves, of which you will also find the evidence exhaustively collected in mr. fergussen's work. this tree-worship may have taken a dark form when associated with the draconian one; or opposed, as in judea, to a purer faith; but in itself, i believe, it was always healthy, and though it retains little definite hieroglyphic power in subsequent religion, it becomes, instead of symbolic, real; the flowers and trees are themselves beheld and beloved with a half-worshipping delight, which is always noble and healthful. and it is among the most notable indications of the volition of the animating power that we find the ethical signs of good and evil set on these also, as well as upon animals; the venom of the serpent, and in some respects its image also, being associated even with the passionless growth of the leaf out of the ground; while the distinctions of species seem appointed with more definite ethical address to the intelligence of man as their material products become more useful to him. . i can easily show this, and, at the same time, make clear the relation to other plants of the flowers which especially belong to athena, by examining the natural myths in the groups of the plants which would be used at any country dinner, over which athena would, in her simplest household authority, cheerfully rule here in england. suppose horace's favorite dish of beans, with the bacon; potatoes; some savory stuffing of onions and herbs, with the meat; celery, and a radish or two, with the cheese; nuts and apples for desert, and brown bread. . the beans are, from earliest time, the most important and interesting of the seeds of the great tribe of plants from which came the latin and french name for all kitchen vegetables,--things that are gathered with the hand--podded seeds that cannot be reaped, or beaten, or shaken down, but must be gathered green. "leguminous" plants, all of them having flowers like butterflies, seeds in (frequently pendent) pods, --"lætum siliqua quassante legumen"--smooth and tender leaves, divided into many minor ones; strange adjuncts of tendril, for climbing (and sometimes of thorn); exquisitely sweet, yet pure scents of blossom, and almost always harmless, if not serviceable seeds. it is of all tribes of plants the most definite, its blossoms being entirely limited in their parts, and not passing into other forms. it is also the most usefully extended in range and scale; familiar in the height of the forest-- acacia, laburnum, judas-tree; familiar in the sown field--bean and vetch and pea; familiar in the pasture--in every form of clustered clover and sweet trefoil tracery; the most entirely serviceable and human of all orders of plants. . next, in the potato, we have the scarcely innocent underground stem of one of a tribe set aside for evil; having the deadly nightshade for its queen, and including the henbane, the witch's mandrake, and the worst natural curse of modern civilization--tobacco.* and the strange thing about this tribe is, that though thus set aside for evil, they are not a group distinctly separate from those that are happier in function. there is nothing in other tribes of plants like the form of the bean blossom; but there is another family of forms and structure closely connected with this venomous one. examine the purple and yellow bloom of the common hedge nightshade; you will find it constructed exactly like some of the forms of the cyclamen; and, getting this clue, you will find at last the whole poisonous and terrible group to be--sisters of the primulas! * it is not easy to estimate the demoralizing effect on the youth of europe of the cigar, in enabling them to pass their time happily in idleness. the nightshades are, in fact, primroses with a curse upon them; and a sign set in their petals, by which the deadly and condemned flowers may always be known from the innocent ones,--that the stamens of the nightshades are between the lobes, and of the primulas, opposite the lobes, of the corolla. . next, side by side, in the celery and radish, you have the two great groups of unbelled and cruciferous plants; alike in conditions of rank among herbs: both flowering in clusters; but the unbelled group, flat, the crucifers, in spires: both of them mean and poor in the blossom, and losing what beauty they have by too close crowding; both of them having the most curious influence on human character in the temperate zones of the earth, from the days of the parsley crown, and hemlock drink, and mocked euripidean chervil, until now; but chiefly among the northern nations, being especially plants that are of some humble beauty, and (the crucifers) of endless use, when they are chosen and cultivated; but that run to wild waste, and are the signs of neglected ground, in their rank or ragged leaves and meagre stalks, and pursed or podded seed clusters. capable, even under cultivation, of no perfect beauty, thought reaching some subdued delightfulness in the lady's smock and the wallflower; for the most part they have every floral quality meanly, and in vain,--they are white without purity; golden, without preciousness; redundant, without richness; divided, without fineness; massive, without strength; and slender, without grace. yet think over that useful vulgarity of theirs; and of the relations of german and english peasant character to its food of kraut and cabbage (as of arab character to its food of palm-fruit), and you will begin to feel what purposes of the forming spirit are in these distinctions of species. . next we take the nuts and apples,--the nuts representing one of the groups of catkined trees, whose blossoms are only tufts and dust; and the other, the rose tribe, in which fruit and flower alike have been the types to the highest races of men, of all passionate temptation, or pure delight, from the coveting of eve to the crowing of the madonna, above the "rosa sempiterna, che si dilata, rigrada, e ridole odor di lode al sol." we have no time now for these, we must go on to the humblest group of all, yet the most wonderful, that of the grass which has given us our bread; and from that we will go back to the herbs. . the vast family of plants which, under rain, make the earth green for man, and, under sunshine, give him bread, and, in their springing in the early year, mixed with their native flowers, have given us (far more than the new leaves of trees) the thought and word of "spring," divide themselves broadly into three great groups--the grasses, sedges, and rushes. the grasses are essentially a clothing for healthy and pure ground, watered by occasional rain, but in itself dry, and fit for all cultivated pasture and corn. they are distinctively plants with round and jointed stems, which have long green flexible leaves, and heads of seed, independently emerging from them. the sedges are essentially the clothing of waste and more or less poor or uncultivated soils, coarse in their structure, frequently triangular in stem--hence called "acute" by virgil--and with their heads of seed not extricated from their leaves. now, in both the sedges and grasses, the blossom has a common structure, though undeveloped in the sedges, but composed always of groups of double husks, which have mostly a spinous process in the centre, sometimes projecting into a long awn or beard; this central process being characteristic also of the ordinary leaves of mosses, as if a moss were a kind of ear of corn made permanently green on the ground, and with a new and distinct fructification. but the rushes differ wholly from the sedge and grass in their blossom structure. it is not a dual cluster, but a twice threefold one, so far separate from the grasses, and so closely connected with a higher order of plants, that i think you will find it convenient to group the rushes at once with that higher order, to which, if you will for the present let me give the general name of drosidæ, or dew-plants, it will enable me to say what i have to say of them much more shortly and clearly. . these drosidæ, then, are plants delighting in interrupted moisture-- or at certain seasons--into dry ground. they are not among water-plants, but the signs of water resting among dry places. many of the true water-plants have triple blossoms, with a small triple calyx holding them; in the drosidæ the floral spirit passes into the calyx also, and the entire flower becomes a six-rayed star, bursting out of the stem laterally, as if it were the first of flowers and had made its way to the light by force through the unwilling green. they are often required to retain moisture or nourishment for the future blossom through long times of drought; and this they do in bulbs under ground, of which some become a rude and simple, but most wholesome, food for man. . so, now, observe, you are to divide the whole family of the herbs of the field into three great groups,--drosidæ, carices,* gramineæ,-- dew-plants, sedges, and grasses. then the drosidæ are divided into five great orders: lilies, asphodels, amaryllids, irids, and rushes. no tribes of flowers have had so great, so varied, or so healthy an influence on man as this great group of drosidæ, depending, not so much on the whiteness of some of their blossoms, or the radiance of others, as on the strength and delicacy of the substance of their petals; enabling them to take forms of faultless elastic curvature, either in cups, as the crocus, or expanding bells, as the true lily, or heath-like bells, as the hyacinth, or bright and perfect stars, like the star of bethlehem, or, when they are affected by the strange reflex of the serpent nature which forms the labiate group of all flowers, closing into forms of exquisitely fantastic symmetry in the gladiolus. put by their side their nereid sisters, the water-lilies, and you have them in the origin of the loveliest forms of ornamental design, and the most powerful floral myths yet recognized among human spirits, born by the streams of ganges, nile, arno, and avon. * i think carex will be found ultimately better than cyperus for the generic name, being the vergilian word, and representing a larger sub-species. . for consider a little what each of those five tribes* has been to the spirit of man. first, in their nobleness, the lilies gave the lily of the annunciation; the asphodels, the flower of the elysian fields; the irids, the fleur-de-lys of chivalry; and the amaryllids, christ's lily of the field; while the rush, trodden always under foot, became the emblem of humility. then take each of the tribes, and consider the extent of their lower influence. perdita's "the crown imperial, lilies of all kinds," are the first tribe, which, giving the type of perfect purity in the madonna's lily, have, by their lovely form, influenced the entire decorative design of italian sacred art; while ornament design of war was continually enriched by the curves of the triple petals of the florentine "giglio," and french fleur-de-lys; so that it is impossible to count their influence for good in the middle ages, partly as a symbol of womanly character, and partly of the utmost brightness and refinement of chivalry in the city which was the flower of cities. * take this rough distinction of the four tribes: lilies, superior ovary, white seeds; asphodels, superior ovary, black seeds; irids, inferior ovary, style (typically) rising into central crest; amaryllids, inferior ovary, stamens (typically) joined in central cup. then the rushes are a dark group, through which they stoop to the grasses. afterwards, the group of the turban-lilies, or tulips, did some mischief (their splendid stains having made them the favorite caprice of florists); but they may be pardoned all such guilt for the pleasure they have given in cottage gardens, and are yet to give, when lowly life may again be possible among us; and the crimson bars of the tulips in their trim beds, with their likeness in crimson bars of morning above them, and its dew glittering heavy, globed in their glossy cups, may be loved better than the gray nettles of the ash heap, under gray sky, unveined by vermilion or by gold. . the next great group, of the asphodels, divides itself also into two principal families: one, in which the flowers are like stars, and clustered characteristically in balls, though opening sometimes into looser heads; and the other, in which the flowers are in long bells, opening suddenly at the lips, and clustered in spires on a long stem, or drooping from it, when bent by their weight. the star-group, of the squills, garlics, and onions, has always caused me great wonder. i cannot understand why its beauty, and serviceableness, should have been associated with the rank scent which has been really among the most powerful means of degrading peasant life, and separating it from that of the higher classes. the belled group, of the hyacinth and convallaria, is as delicate as the other is coarse; the unspeakable azure light along the ground of the wood hyacinth in english spring; the grape hyacinth, which is in south france, as if a cluster of grapes and a hive of honey had been distilled and compressed together into one small boss of celled and beaded blue; the lilies of the valley everywhere, in each sweet and wild recess of rocky lands,--count the influences of these on childish and innocent life; then measure the mythic power of the hyacinth and asphodel as connected with greek thoughts of immortality; finally take their useful and nourishing power in ancient and modern peasant life, and it will be strange if you do not feel what fixed relation exists between the agency of the creating spirit in these, and in us who live by them. . it is impossible to bring into any tenable compass for our present purpose, even hints of the human influence of the two remaining orders of amaryllids and irids; only note this generally, that while these in northern countries share with the primulas the fields of spring, it seems that in greece, the primulaceæ are not an extended tribe, while the crocus, narcissus, and amaryllis lutea, the "lily of the field" (i suspect also that the flower whose name we translate "violet" was in truth an iris) represented to the greek the first coming of the breath of life on the renewed herbage; and became in his thoughts the true embroidery of the saffron robe of athena. later in the year, the dianthus (which, though belonging to an entirely different race of plants, has yet a strange look of being made out of the grasses by turning the sheath-membrane at the root of their leaves into a flower) seems to scatter, in multitudinous families, its crimson stars far and wide. but the golden lily and crocus, together with the asphodel, retain always the old greek's fondest thoughts,--they are only "golden" flowers that are to burn on the trees, and float on the streams of paradise. . i have but one tribe of plants more to note at our country feast-- the savory herbs; but must go a little out of my way to come at them rightly. all flowers whose petals are fastened together, and most of those whose petals are loose, are best thought of first as a kind of cup or tube opening at the mouth. sometimes the opening is gradual, as in the convolvulus or campanula; oftener there is a distinct change of direction between the tube and expanding lip, as in the primrose; or even a contraction under the lip, making the tube into a narrow-necked phial or vase, as in the heaths; but the general idea of a tube expanding into a quatrefoil, cinquefoil, or sixfoil, will embrace most of the forms. . now, it is easy to conceive that flowers of this kind, growing in close clusters, may, in process of time, have extended their outside petals rather than the interior ones (as the outer flowers of the clusters of many umbellifers actually do), and thus elongated and variously distorted forms have established themselves; then if the stalk is attached to the side instead of the base of the tube, its base becomes a spur, and thus all the grotesque forms of the mints, violets, and larkspurs, gradually might be composed. but, however this may be, there is one great tribe of plants separate from the rest, and of which the influence seems shed upon the rest, in different degrees; and these would give the impression, not so much of having been developed by change, as of being stamped with a character of their own, more or less serpentine or dragon-like. and i think you will find it convenient to call these generally draconidæ; disregarding their present ugly botanical name which i do not care even to write once--you may take for their principal types the foxglove, snapdragon, and calceolaria; and you will find they all agree in a tendency to decorate themselves by spots, and with bosses or swollen places in their leaves, as if they had been touched by poison. the spot of the foxglove is especially strange, because it draws the color out of the tissue all around it, as if it had been stung, and as if the central color was really an inflamed spot, with paleness round. then also they carry to its extreme the decoration by bulging or pouting out the petal,--often beautifully used by other flowers in a minor degree, like the beating out of bosses in hollow silver, as in the kalmia, beaten out apparently in each petal by the stamens instead of a hammer; or the borage, pouting towards; but the snapdragons and calceolarias carry it to its extreme. . then the spirit of these draconidæ seems to pass more or less into other flowers, whose forms are properly pure vases; but it affects some of them slightly, others not at all. it never strongly affects the heaths; never once the roses; but it enters like an evil spirit into the buttercup, and turns it into a larkspur, with a black, spotted, grotesque centre, and a strange, broken blue, gorgeous and intense, yet impure, glittering on the surface as if it were strewn with broken glass, and stained or darkening irregularly into red. and then at last the serpent charm changes the ranunculus into monkshood, and makes it poisonous. it enters into the forget-me-not, and the star of heavenly turquoise is corrupted into the viper's bugloss, darkened with the same strange red as the larkspur, and fretted into a fringe of thorn; it enters, together with a strange insect-spirit, into the asphodels, and (though with a greater interval between the groups) they change to spotted orchideæ; it touches the poppy, it becomes a fumaria; the iris, and it pouts into a gladiolus; the lily, and it chequers itself into a snake's-head, and secretes in the deep of its bell, drops, not of venom indeed, but honey-dew, as if it were a healing serpent. for there is an Æsculapian as well as an evil serpentry among the draconidæ, and the fairest of them, the "erba della madonna" of venice (linaria cymbalaria), descends from the ruins it delights into the herbage at their feet, and touches it; and behold, instantly, a vast group of herbs for healing,--all draconid in form,--spotted and crested, and from their lip-like corollas named "labiatæ;" full of various balm, and warm strength for healing, yet all of them without splendid honor or perfect beauty, "ground ives," richest when crushed under the foot; the best sweetness and gentle brightness of the robes of the field,--thyme, and marjoram, and euphrasy. . and observe, again and again, with respect to all these divisions and powers of plants: it does not matter in the least by what concurrences of circumstance or necessity they may gradually have been developed; the concurrence of circumstance is itself the supreme and inexplicable fact. we always come at last to a formative cause, which directs the circumstance, and mode of meeting it. if you ask an ordinary botanist the reason of the form of the leaf, he will tell you that it is a "developed tubercle," and that its ultimate form "is owing to the directions of its vascular threads." but what directs its vascular threads? "they are seeking for something they want," he will probably answer. what made them want that? what made them seek for it thus? seek for it, in five fibres or in three? seek for it, in serration, or in sweeping curves? seek for it, in servile tendrils, or impetuous spray? seek for it, in woolen wrinkles rough with stings, or in glossy surfaces, green with pure strength, and winterless delight? . there is no answer. but the sum of all is, that over the entire surface of the earth, and its waters, as influenced by the power of the air under solar light, there is developed a series of changing forms, in clouds, plants, and animals, all of which have reference in their action, or nature, to the human intelligence that perceives them; and on which, in their aspects of horror and beauty, and their qualities of good and evil, there is engraved a series of myths, or words of the forming power, which, according to the true passion and energy of the human race, they have been enabled to read into religion. and this forming power has been by all nations partly confused with the breath or air through which it acts, and partly understood as a creative wisdom, proceeding from the supreme deity; but entering into and inspiring all intelligences that work in harmony with him. and whatever intellectual results may be in modern days obtained by regarding this effluence only as a motion of vibration, every formative human art hitherto, and the best states of human happiness and order, may have depended on the apprehension of its mystery (which is certain,) and of its personality, which is probable. . of its influence on the formative arts, i have a few words to say separately: my present business is only to interpret, as we are now sufficiently enabled to do, the external symbols of the myth under which it was represented by the greeks as a goddess of counsel, taken first into that breast of their supreme deity, then created out of his thoughts, and abiding closely beside him; always sharing and consummating his power. . and in doing this we have first to note the meaning of the principal epithet applied to athena, "glaukopis," "with eyes full of light," the first syllable being connected, by its root, with words signifying sight, not with words signifying color. as far as i can trace the color perception of the greeks, i find it all founded primarily on the degree of connection between color and light; the most important fact to them in the color of red being its connection with fire and sunshine; so that "purple" is, in its original sense, "fire-color," and the scarlet or orange, of dawn, more than any other fire-color. i was long puzzled by homer's calling the sea purple; and misled into thinking he meant the color of cloud shadows on green sea; whereas he really means the gleaming blaze of the waves under wide light. aristotle's idea (partly true) is that light, subdued by blackness, becomes red; and blackness, heated or lighted, also becomes red. thus, a color may be called purple because it is light subdued (and so death is called "purple" or "shadowy" death); or else it may be called purple as being shade kindled with fire, and thus said of the lighted sea; or even of the sun itself, when it is thought of as a red luminary opposed to the whiteness of the moon: "purpureos inter soles, et candida lunæ sidera;" or of golden hair: "pro purpureo p�nam solvens scelerata capillo;" while both ideas are modified by the influence of an earlier form of the word, which has nothing to do with fire at all, but only with mixing or staining; and then, to make the whole group of thoughts inextricably complex, yet rich and subtle in proportion to their intricacy, the various rose and crimson colors of the murex dye,--the crimson and purple of the poppy, and fruit of the palm,-- and the association of all these with the hue of blood,--partly direct, partly through a confusion between the word signifying "slaughter" and "palm-fruit color," mingle themselves in, and renew the whole nature of the old word; so that, in later literature, it means a different color, or emotion of color, in almost every place where it occurs; and cast forever around the reflection of all that has been dipped in its dyes. . so that the world is really a liquid prism, and stream of opal. and then, last of all, to keep the whole history of it in the fantastic course of a dream, warped here and there into wild grotesque, we moderns, who have preferred to rule over coal-mines instead of the sea (and so have turned the everlasting lamp of athena into a davy's safety-lamp in the hand of britannia, and athenian heavenly lightning into british subterranean "damp"), have actually got our purple out of coal instead of the sea! and thus, grotesquely, we have had enforced on us the doubt that held the old word between blackness and fire, and have completed the shadow, and the fear of it, by giving it a name from battle, "magenta." . there is precisely a similar confusion between light and color in the word used for the blue of the eyes of athena--a noble confusion, however, brought about by the intensity of the greek sense that the heaven is light, more than it is blue. i was not thinking of this when i wrote in speaking of pictorial chiaroscuro, "the sky is not blue color merely: it is blue fire and cannot be painted" (mod. p. iv. p. ); but it was this that the greeks chiefly felt of it, and so "glaukopis" chiefly means gray-eyed: gray standing for a pale or luminous blue; but it only means "owl-eyed" in thought of the roundness and expansion, not from the color; this breath and brightness being, again, in their moral sense typical of the breadth, intensity, and singleness of the sight in prudence ("if thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light"). then the actual power of the bird to see in twilight enters into the type, and perhaps its general fineness of sense. "before the human form was adopted, her (athena's) proper symbol was the owl, a bird which seems to surpass all other creatures in acuteness of organic perception, its eye being calculated to observe objects which to all others are enveloped in darkness, its ear to hear sounds distinctly, and its nostrils to discriminate effluvia with such nicety that it has been deemed prophetic, from discovering the putridity of death even in the first stages of disease."* * payne knight in his "inquiry into the symbolical language of ancient art," not trustworthy, being little more than a mass of conjectural memoranda, but the heap is suggestive, if well sifted. i cannot find anywhere an account of the first known occurrence of the type; but, in the early ones on attic coins, the wide round eyes are clearly the principal things to be made manifest. . there is yet, however, another color of great importance in the conception of athena--the dark blue of her ægis. just as the blue or gray of her eyes was conceived more as light than color, so her aegis was dark blue, because the greeks thought of this tint more as shade than color, and, while they used various materials in ornamentation, lapislazuli, carbonate of copper, or, perhaps, smalt, with real enjoyment of the blue tint, it was yet in their minds as distinctly representative of darkness as scarlet was of light, and, therefore, anything dark,* but especially the color of heavy thunder-cloud, was described by the same term. the physical power of this darkness of the ægis, fringed with lightning, is given quite simply when jupiter himself uses it to overshadow ida and the plain of troy, and withdraws it at the prayer of ajax for light; and again when he grants it to be worn for a time by apollo, who is hidden by its cloud when he strikes down patroclus; but its spiritual power is chiefly expressed by a word signifying deeper shadow,--the gloom of erebus, or of our evening, which, when spoken of the ægis, signifies, not merely the indignation of athena, but the entire hiding or withdrawal of her help, and beyond even this, her deadliest of all hostility,--the darkness by which she herself deceives and beguiles to final ruin those to whom she is wholly adverse; this contradiction of her own glory being the uttermost judgment upon human falsehood. thus it is she who provokes pandarus to the treachery which purposed to fulfil the rape of helen by the murder of her husband in time of truce; and then the greek king, holding his wounded brother's hand, prophesies against troy the darkness of the ægis which shall be over all, and for ever.** * in the breastplate and shield of atrides the serpents and bosses are all of this dark color, yet the serpents are said to be like rainbows; but through all this splendor and opposition of hue, i feel distinctly that the literal "splendor," with its relative shade, are prevalent in the conception; and that there is always a tendency to look through the hue to its cause. and in this feeling about color the greeks are separated from the eastern nations, and from the best designers of christian times. i cannot find that they take pleasure in color for its own sake; it may be in something more than color, or better; but it is not in the hue itself. when homer describes cloud breaking from a mountain summit, the crags become visible in light, not color; he feels only their flashing out in bright edges and trenchant shadows; above, the "infinite," "unspeakable" æther is torn open--but not the blue of it. he has scarcely any abstract pleasure in blue, or green, or gold; but only in their shade or flame. i have yet to trace the causes of this (which will be a long task, belonging to art questions, not to mythological ones); but it is, i believe, much connected with the brooding of the shadow of death over the greeks without any clear hope of immortality. the restriction of the color on their vases to dim red (or yellow) with black and white, is greatly connected with their sepulchral use, and with all the melancholy of greek tragic thought; and in this gloom the failure of color-perception is partly noble, partly base: noble, in its earnestness, which raises the design of greek vases as far above the designing of mere colorist nations like the chinese, as men's thoughts are above children's; and yet it is partly base and earthly, and inherently defective in one human faculty; and i believe it was one cause of the perishing of their art so swiftly, for indeed there is no decline so sudden, or down to such utter loss and ludicrous depravity, as the fall of greek design on its vases from the fifth to the third century b.c. on the other hand, the pure colored-gift, when employed for pleasure only, degrades in another direction; so that among the indians, chinese, and japanese, all intellectual progress in art has been for ages rendered impossible by the prevalence of that faculty; and yet it is, as i have said again and again, the spiritual power of art; and its true brightness is the essential characteristic of all healthy schools. ** 'eremnen aigida pasi'.--il. iv. . . this, then, finally, was the perfect color-conception of athena: the flesh, snow-white (the hands, feet, and face of marble, even when the statue was hewn roughly in wood); the eyes of keen pale blue, often in statues represented by jewels; the long robe to the feet, crocus-colored; and the ægis thrown over it of thunderous purple; the helmet golden (il. v. .), and i suppose its crest also, as that of achilles. if you think carefully of the meaning and character which is now enough illustrated for you in each of these colors, and remember that the crocus-color and the purple were both of them developments, in opposite directions, of the great central idea of fire-color, or scarlet, you will see that this form of the creative spirit of the earth is conceived as robed in the blue, and purple, and scarlet, the white, and the gold, which have been recognized for the sacred chords of colors, from the day when the cloud descended on a rock more mighty than ida. . i have spoken throughout, hitherto, of the conception of athena, as it is traceable in the greek mind; not as it was rendered by greek art. it is matter of extreme difficulty, requiring a sympathy at once affectionate and cautious, and a knowledge reaching the earliest springs of the religion of many lands, to discern through the imperfection, and, alas! more dimly yet, through the triumphs of formative art, what kind of thoughts they were that appointed for it the tasks of its childhood, and watched by the awakening of its strength. the religions passion is nearly always vividest when the art is weakest; and the technical skill only reaches its deliberate splendor when the ecstacy which gave it birth has passed away forever. it is as vain an attempt to reason out the visionary power or guiding influence of athena in the greek heart, from anything we now read, or possess, of the work of phidias, as it would be for the disciples of some new religion to infer the spirit of christianity from titian's "assumption." the effective vitality of the religious conception can be traced only through the efforts of trembling hands, and strange pleasures of untaught eyes; and the beauty of the dream can no more be found in the first symbols by which it is expressed, than a child's idea of fairy-land can be gathered from its pencil scrawl, or a girl's love for her broken doll explained by the defaced features. on the other hand, the athena of phidias was, in very fact, not so much the deity, as the darling of the athenian people. her magnificence represented their pride and fondness, more than their piety; and the great artist, in lavishing upon her dignities which might be ended abruptly by the pillage they provoked, resigned, apparently without regret, the awe of her ancient memory; and (with only the careless remonstrance of a workman too strong to be proud) even the perfectness of his own art. rejoicing in the protection of their goddess, and in their own hour of glory, the people of athena robed her, at their will, with the preciousness of ivory and gems; forgot or denied the darkness of the breastplate of judgment, and vainly bade its unappeasable serpents relax their coils in gold. . it will take me many a day yet--if days, many or few, are given me-- to disentangle in anywise the proud and practised disguises of religious creeds from the instinctive arts which, grotesquely and indecorously, yet with sincerity, strove to embody them, or to relate. but i think the reader, by help even of the imperfect indications already given to him, will be able to follow, with a continually increasing security, the vestiges of the myth of athena; and to reanimate its almost evanescent shade, by connecting it with the now recognized facts of existent nature which it, more or less dimly, reflected and foretold. i gather these facts together in brief. . the deep of air that surrounds the earth enters into union with the earth at its surface, and with its waters, so as to be the apparent cause of their ascending into life. first, it warms them, and shades, at once, staying the heat of the sun's rays in its own body, but warding their force with its clouds. it warms and cools at once, with traffic of balm and frost; so that the white wreaths are withdrawn from the field of the swiss peasant by the glow of libyan rock. it gives its own strength to the sea; forms and fills every cell of its foam; sustains the precipices, and designs the valleys of its waves; gives the gleam to their moving under the night, and the white fire to their plains under sunrise; lifts their voices along the rocks, bears above them the spray of birds, pencils through them the dimpling of unfooted sands. it gathers out of them a portion in the hollow of its hand: dyes, with that, the hills into dark blue, and their glaciers with dying rose; inlays with that, for sapphire, the dome in which it has to set the cloud; shapes out of that the heavenly flocks: divides them, numbers, cherishes, bears them on its bosom, calls them to their journeys, waits by their rest; feeds from them the brooks that cease not, and strews with them the dews that cease. it spins and weaves their fleece into wild tapestry, rends it, and renews; and flits and flames, and whispers, among the golden threads, thrilling them with a plectrum of strange fire that traverses them to and fro, and is enclosed in them like life. it enters into the surface of the earth, subdues it, and falls together with it into fruitful dust, from which can be moulded flesh; it joins itself, in dew, to the substance of adamant, and becomes the green leaf out of the dry ground; it enters into the separated shapes of the earth it has tempered, commands the ebb and flow of the current of their life, fills their limbs with its own lightness, measures their existence by its indwelling pulse, moulds upon their lips the words by which one soul can be known to another; is to them the hearing of the ear, and the beating of the heart; and, passing away, leaves them to the peace that hears and moves no more. . this was the athena of the greatest people of the days of old. and opposite to the temple of this spirit of the breath, and life-blood, of man and beast, stood, on the mount of justice, and near the chasm which was haunted by the goddess-avengers, an altar to a god unknown,-- proclaimed at last to them, as one who, indeed, gave to all men, life, and breath, and all things; and rain from heaven, filling their hearts with rain from heaven, filling their hearts with food and gladness; a god who had made of one blood all nations of men who dwell on the face of all the earth, and had determined the times of their fate, and the bounds of their habitation. . we ourselves, fretted here in our narrow days, know less, perhaps, in very deed, than they, what manner of spirit we are of, or what manner of spirit we ignorantly worship. have we, indeed, desired the desire of all nations? and will the master whom we meant to seem, and the messenger in whom we thought we delighted, confirm, when he comes to his temple,-- or not find in its midst,--the tables heavy with gold for bread, and the seats that are bought with the price of the dove? or is our own land also to be left by its angered spirit,--left among those, where sunshine vainly sweet, and passionate folly of storm, waste themselves in the silent places of knowledge that has passed away, and of tongues that have ceased? this only we may discern assuredly; this, every true light of science, every mercifully-granted power, every wisely-restricted thought, teach us more clearly day by day, that in the heavens above, and the earth beneath, there is one continual and omnipotent presence of help, and of peace, for all men who know that they live, and remember that they die. iii. athena ergane.* (athena in the heart.) * "athena the worker, or having rule over work." the name was first give to her by the athenians. various notes relating to the conception of athena as the directress of the imagination and will. . i have now only a few words to say, bearing on what seems to me present need, respecting the third function of athena, conceived as the directress of human passion, resolution, and labor. few words, for i am not yet prepared to give accurate distinction between the intellectual rule of athena and that of the muses; but, broadly, the muses, with their king, preside over meditative, historical, and poetic arts, whose end is the discovery of light or truth, and the creation of beauty; but athena rules over moral passion, and practically useful art. she does not make men learned, but prudent and subtle; she does not teach them to make their work beautiful, but to make it right. in different places of my writings, and though many years of endeavor to define the laws of art, i have insisted on this rightness in work, and on its connection with virtue of character, in so many partial ways, that the impression left on the reader's mind--if, indeed, it was ever impressed at all--has been confused and uncertain. in beginning the series of my corrected works, i wish this principle (in my own mind the foundation of every other) to be made plain, if nothing else is; and will try, therefore, to make it so, as far as, by any effort, i can put it into unmistakable words. and, at first, here is a very simple statement of it, given lately in a lecture on the architecture of the valley of the somme, which will be better read in this place than in its incidental connection with my account of the porches of abbeville. . i had used, in a preceding part of the lecture, the expression, "by what faults" this gothic architecture fell. we continually speak thus of works of art. we talk of their faults and merits, as of virtues and vices. what do we mean by talking of the faults of a picture, or the merits of a piece of stone? the faults of a work of art are the faults of its workman, and its virtues his virtues. great art is the expression of the mind of a great man, and mean art, that of the want of mind of a weak man. a foolish person builds foolishly, and a wise one, sensibly; a virtuous one, beautifully; and a vicious one, basely. if stone work is well put together, it means that a thoughtful man planned it, and a careful man cut it, and an honest man cemented it. if it has too much ornament, it means that its carver was too greedy of pleasure; if too little, that he was rude, or insensitive, or stupid, and the like. so that when once you have learned how to spell these most precious of all legends,--pictures and buildings,--you may read the characters of men, and of nations, in their art, as in a mirror; nay, as in a microscope, and magnified a hundredfold; for the character becomes passionate in the art, and intensifies itself in all its noblest or meanest delights. nay, not only as in a microscope, but as under a scalpel, and in dissection; for a man may hide himself from you, or misrepresent himself to you every other way; but he cannot in his work: there, be sure, you have him to the inmost. all that he likes, all that he sees,--all that he can do,--his imagination, his affections, his perseverance, his impatience, his clumsiness, cleverness, everything is there. if the work is a cobweb, you know it was made by a spider; if a honey-comb, by a bee; a wormcast is thrown up by a worm, and a nest wreathed by a bird; and a house built by a man, worthily, if he is worthy, and ignobly if he is ignoble. and always, from the least to the greatest, as the made thing is good or bad, so is the maker of it. . you will use this faculty of judgment more or less, whether you theoretically admit the principle or not. take that floral gable;* you don't suppose the man who built stonehenge could have built that, or that the man who built that, would have built stonehenge? do you think an old roman would have liked such a piece of filigree work? or that michael angelo would have spent his time in twisting these stems of roses in and out? or, of modern handicraftsmen, do you think a burglar, or a brute, or a pickpocket could have carved it? could bill sykes have done it? or the dodger, dexterous with finger and tool? you will find in the end, that no man could have done it but exactly the man who did it; and by looking close at it, you may, if you know your letters, read precisely the manner of man he was. * the elaborate pendiment above the central porch at the west end of rouen cathedral, pierced into a transparent web of tracery, and enriched with a border of "twisted eglantine." . now i must insist on this matter, for a grave reason. of all facts concerning art, this is the one most necessary to be known, that, while manufacture is the work of hands only, art is the work of the whole spirit of man; and as that spirit is, so is the deed of it; and by whatever power of vice or virtue any art is produced, the same vice or virtue it reproduces and teaches. that which is born of evil begets evil; and that which is born of valor and honor, teaches valor and honor. all art is either infection or education. it must be one or other of these. . this, i repeat, of all truths respecting art, is the one of which understanding is the most precious, and denial the most deadly. and i assert it the more, because it has of late been repeatedly, expressly, and with contumely, denied, and that by high authority; and i hold it one of the most sorrowful facts connected with the decline of the arts among us, that english gentlemen, of high standing as scholars and artists, should have been blinded into the acceptance, and betrayed into the assertion of a fallacy which only authority such as theirs could have rendered for an instant credible. for the contrary of it is written in the history of all great nations; it is the one sentence always inscribed on the steps of their thrones; the one concordant voice in which they speak to us out of their dust. all such nations first manifest themselves as a pure and beautiful animal race, with intense energy and imagination. they live lives of hardship by choice, and by grand instinct of manly discipline; they become fierce and irresistible soldiers; the nation is always its own army, and their king, or chief head of government, is always their first soldier. pharaoh, or david, or leonidas, or valerius, or barbarossa, or coeur de lion, or st. louis, or dandalo, or frederick the great,--egyptian, jew, greek, roman, german, english, french, venetian,--that is inviolable law for them all; their king must be their first soldier, or they cannot be in progressive power. then, after their great military period, comes the domestic period; in which, without betraying the discipline of war, they add to their great soldiership the delights and possessions of a delicate and tender home-life; and then, for all nations, is the time of their perfect art, which is the fruit, the evidence, the reward of their national idea of character, developed by the finished care of the occupations of peace. that is the history of all true art that ever was, or can be; palpably the history of it,--unmistakably,--written on the forehead of it in letters of light,--in tongues of fire, by which the seal of virtue is branded as deep as ever iron burnt into a convict's flesh the seal of crime. but always, hitherto, after the great period, has followed the day of luxury, and pursuit of the arts for pleasure only. and all has so ended. . thus far of abbeville building. now i have here asserted two things,--first, the foundation of art in moral character; next, the foundation of moral character in war. i must make both these assertions clearer, and prove them. first, of the foundation of art in moral character. of course art-gift and amiability of disposition are two different things; for a good man is not necessarily a painter, nor does an eye for color necessarily imply an honest mind. but great art implies the union of both powers; it is the expression, by an art-gift, of a pure soul. if the gift is not there, we can have no art at all; and if the soul--and a right soul too-- is not there, the art is bad, however dexterous. . but also, remember, that the art-gift itself is only the result of the moral character of generations. a bad woman may have a sweet voice; but that sweetness of voice comes of the past morality of her race. that she can sing with it at all, she owes to the determination of laws of music by the morality of the past. every act, every impulse, of virtue and vice, affects in any creature, face, voice, nervous power, and vigor and harmony of invention, at once. perseverance in rightness of human conduct renders, after a certain number of generations, human art possible; every sin that clouds it, be it ever so little a one; and persistent vicious living and following of pleasure render, after a certain number of generations, all art impossible. men are deceived by the long-suffering of the laws of nature, and mistake, in a nation, the reward of the virtue of its sires, for the issue of its own sins. the time of their visitation will come, and that inevitably; for, it is always true, that if the fathers have eaten sour grapes, the children's teeth are set on edge. and for the individual, as soon as you have learned to read, you may, as i said, know him to the heart's core, through his art. let his art-gift be never so great, and cultivated to the height by the schools of a great race of men, and it is still but a tapestry thrown over his own being and inner soul; and the bearing of it will show, infallibly, whether it hangs on a man or on a skeleton. if you are dim-eyed, you may not see the difference in the fall of the folds at first, but learn how to look, and the folds themselves will become transparent, and you shall see through them the death's shape, or the divine one, making the tissue above it as a cloud of right, or as a winding-sheet. . then further, observe, i have said (and you will find it true, and that to the uttermost) that, as all lovely art is rooted in virtue, so it bares fruit of virtue, and is didactic in its own nature. it is often didactic also in actually expressed thought, as giotto's, michael angelo's, dürer's, and hundreds more; but that is not its special function; it is didactic chiefly by being beautiful; but beautiful with haunting thought, no less than with form, and full of myths that can be read only with the heart. for instance, at this moment there is open beside me as i write, a page of persian manuscript, wrought with wreathed azure and gold, and soft green, and violet, and ruby and scarlet, into one field of pure resplendence. it is wrought to delight the eyes only; and does delight them; and the man who did it assuredly had eyes in his head; but not much more. it is not didactic art, but its author was happy; and it will do the good, and the harm, that mere pleasure can do. but, opposite me, is an early turner drawing of the lake of geneva, taken about two miles from geneva, on the lausanne road, with mont blanc in the distance. the old city is seen lying beyond the waveless waters, veiled with a sweet misty veil of athena's weaving; a faint light of morning, peaceful exceedingly, and almost colorless, shed from behind the voirons, increases into soft amber along the slope of the salëve, and is just seen, and no more, on the fair warm fields of its summit, between the folds of a white cloud that rests upon the grass, but rises, high and tower-like, into the zenith of dawn above. . there is not as much color in that low amber light upon the hillside as there is in the palest dead leaf. the lake is not blue, but gray in mist, passing into deep shadow beneath the voirons' pines; a few dark clusters of leaves, a single white flower--scarcely seen--are all the gladness given to the rocks of the shore. one of the ruby spots of the eastern manuscript would give color enough for all the red that is in turner's entire drawing. for the mere pleasure of the eye, there is not so much in all those lines of his, throughout the entire landscape, as in half an inch square of the persian's page. what made him take pleasure in the low color that is only like the brown of a dead leaf? in the cold gray of dawn--in the one white flower among the rocks--in these--and no more than these? . he took pleasure in them because he had been bred among english fields and hills; because the gentleness of a great race was in his heart, and its powers of thought in his brain; because he knew the stories of the alps, and of the cities at their feet; because he had read the homeric legends of the clouds, and beheld the gods of dawn, and the givers of dew to the fields; because he knew the faces of the crags, and the imagery of the passionate mountains, as a man knows the face of his friend; because he had in him the wonder and sorrow concerning life and death, which are the inheritance of the gothic soul from the days of its first sea kings; and also the compassion and the joy that are woven into the innermost fabric of every great imaginative spirit, born now in countries that have lived by the christian faith with any courage or truth. and the picture contains also, for us, just this which its maker had in him to give; and can convey it to us, just so far as we are of the temper in which it must be received. it is didactic if we are worthy to be taught, not otherwise. the pure heart, it will make more pure; the thoughtful, more thoughtful. it has in it no words for the reckless or the base. . as i myself look at it, there is no fault nor folly of my life--and both have been many and great--that does not rise up against me, and take away my joy, and shorten my power of possession of sight, of understanding. and every past effort of my life, every gleam of rightness or good in it, is with me now, to help me in my grasp of this art, and its vision. so far as i can rejoice in, or interpret either, my power is owing to what of right there is in me. i dare to say it, that, because through all my life i have desired good, and not evil; because i have been kind to many; have wished to be kind to all; have wilfully injured none; and because i have loved much, and not selfishly; therefore, the morning light is yet visible to me on those hills, and you, who read, may trust my thought and word in such work as i have to do for you; and you will be glad afterwards that you have trusted them. . yet, remember,--i repeat it again and yet again,--that i may for once, if possible, make this thing assuredly clear: the inherited art-gift must be there, as well as the life in some poor measure, or rescued fragment, right. this art-gift of mine could not have been won by any work or by any conduct: it belongs to me by birthright, and came by athena's will, from the air of english country villages, and scottish hills. i will risk whatever charge of folly may come on me, for printing one of my many childish rhymes, written on a frosty day in glen farg, just north of loch leven. it bears date st january, . i was born on the th of february, ; and al that i ever could be, and all that i cannot be, the weak little rhyme already shows. "papa, how pretty those icicles are, that are seen so near,--that are seen so far; --those dropping waters that come from the rocks and many a hole, like the haunt of a fox. that silvery stream that runs babbling along, making a murmuring, dancing song. those trees that stand waving upon the rock's side, and men, that, like specters, among them glide. and waterfalls that are heard from far, and come in sight when very near. and the water-wheel that turns slowly round, grinding the corn that--requires to be ground,-- (political economy of the future!) ----and mountains at a distance seen, and rivers winding through the plain, and quarries with their craggy stones, and the wind among them moans." so foretelling stones of venice, and this essay on athena. enough now concerning myself. . of turner's life, and of its good and evil, both great, but the good immeasurably the greater, his work is in all things a perfect and transparent evidence. his biography is simply, "he did this, nor will ever another do its like again." yet read what i have said of him, as compared with the great italians, in the passages taken from the "cestus of aglaia," farther on, § , pp. , . . this, then, is the nature of the connection between morals and art. now, secondly, i have asserted the foundation of both these, at least hitherto, in war. the reason of this too manifest fact is, that, until now it has been impossible for any nation, except a warrior one, to fix its mind wholly on its men, instead of their possessions. every great soldier nation thinks, necessarily, first of multiplying its bodies and souls of men, in good temper and strict discipline. as long as this is its political aim, it does not matter what it temporarily suffers, or loses, either in numbers or in wealth; its morality and its arts (if it have national art-gift) advance together; but so soon as it ceases to be a warrior nation, it thinks of its possessions instead of its men; and then the moral and poetic powers vanish together. . it is thus, however, absolutely necessary to the virtue of war that it should be waged by personal strength, not by money or machinery. a nation that fights with a mercenary force, or with torpedoes instead of its own arms, is dying. not but that there is more true courage in modern than even in ancient war; but this is, first, because all the remaining life of european nations is with a morbid intensity thrown into their soldiers; and, secondly, because their present heroism is the culmination of centuries of inbred and traditional valor, which athena taught them by forcing them to govern the foam of the sea-wave and of the horse,--not the steam of kettles. . and further, note this, which is vital to us in the present crisis: if war is to be made by money and machinery, the nation which is the largest and most covetous multitude will win. you may be as scientific as you choose; the mob that can pay more for sulphuric acid and gunpowder will at last poison its bullets, throw acid in your faces, and make an end of you; of itself, also, in good time, but of you first. and to the english people the choice of its fate is very near now. it may spasmodically defend its property with iron walls a fathom thick, a few years longer--a very few. no walls will defend either it, or its havings, against the multitude that is breeding and spreading faster than the clouds, over the habitable earth. we shall be allowed to live by small pedler's business, and iron-mongery--since we have chosen those for our line of life--as long as we are found useful black servants to the americans, and are content to dig coals and sit in the cinders; and have still coals to dig,--they once exhausted, or got cheaper elsewhere, we shall be abolished. but if we think more wisely, while there is yet time, and set our minds again on multiplying englishmen, and not on cheapening english wares, if we resolve to submit to wholesome laws of labor and economy, and setting our political squabbles aside, try how many strong creatures, friendly and faithful to each other, we can crowd into every spot of english dominion, neither poison nor iron will prevail against us; nor traffic, nor hatred; the noble nation will yet, by the grace of heaven, rule over the ignoble, and force of heart hold its own against fireballs. . but there is yet a further reason for the dependence of the arts on war. the vice and injustice of the world are constantly springing anew, and are only to be subdued by battle; the keepers of order and law must always be soldiers. and now, going back to the myth of athena, we see that though she is first a warrior maid, she detests war for its own sake; she arms achilles and ulysses in just quarrels, but she disarms ares. she contends, herself, continually against disorder and convulsion, in the earth giants; she stands by hercules' side in victory over all monstrous evil; in justice only she judges and makes war. but in this war of hers she is wholly implacable. she has little notion of converting criminals. there is no faculty of mercy in her when she has been resisted. her word is only, "i will mock when your fear cometh." note the words that follow: "when your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction as a whirlwind;" for her wrath is of irresistible tempest: once roused, it is blind and deaf,--rabies--madness of anger-- darkness of the dies iræ. and that is, indeed, the sorrowfullest fact we have to know about our own several lives. wisdom never forgives. whatever resistance we have offered to her loaw, she avenges forever; the lost hour can never be redeemed, and the accomplished wrong never atoned for. the best that can be done afterwards, but for that, had been better; the falsest of all the cries of peace, where there is no peace, is that of the pardon of sin, as the mob expect it. wisdom can "put away" sin, but she cannot pardon it; and she is apt, in her haste, to put away the sinner as well, when the black ægis is on her breast. . and this is also a fact we have to know about our national life, that it is ended as soon as it has lost the power of noble anger. when it paints over, and apologizes for its pitiful criminalities; and endures its false weights, and its adulterated food; dares not to decide practically between good and evil, and can neither honor the one, nor smite the other, but sneers at the good, as if it were hidden evil, and consoles the evil with pious sympathy, and conserves it in the sugar of its leaden heart,--the end is come. . the first sign, then, of athena's presence with any people is that they become warriors, and that the chief thought of every man of them is to stand rightly in his rank, and not fail from his brother's side in battle. wealth, and pleasure, and even love, are all, under athena's orders, sacrificed to this duty of standing fast in the rank of war. but further: athena presides over industry, as well as battle; typically, over women's industry; that brings comfort with pleasantness. her word to us all is: "be well exercised, and rightly clothed. clothed, and in your right minds; not insane and in rags, nor in soiled fine clothes clutched from each other's shoulders. fight and weave. then i myself will answer for the course of the lance, and the colors of the loom." and now i will ask the reader to look with some care through these following passages respecting modern multitudes and their occupations, written long ago, but left in fragmentary form, in which they must now stay, and be of what use they can. . it is not political economy to put a number of strong men down on an acre of ground, with no lodging, and nothing to eat. nor is it political economy to build a city on good ground, and fill it with store of corn and treasure, and put a score of lepers to live in it. political economy creates together the means of life, and the living persons who are to use them; and of both, the best and the most that it can, but imperatively the best, not the most. a few good and healthy men, rather than a multitude of diseased rogues; and a little real milk and wine rather than much chalk and petroleum; but the gist of the whole business is that the men and their property must both be produced together--not one to the loss of the other. property must not be created in lands desolate by exile of their people, nor multiplied and depraved humanity, in lands barren of bread. . nevertheless, though the men and their possessions are to be increased at the same time, the first object of thought is always to be the multiplication of a worthy people. the strength of the nation is in its multitude, not in its territory; but only in its sound multitude. it is one thing, both in a man and a nation, to gain flesh, and another to be swollen with putrid humors. not that multitude ever ought to be inconsistent with virtue. two men should be wiser than one, and two thousand than two; nor do i know another so gross fallacy in the records of human stupidity as that excuse for neglect of crime by greatness of cities. as if the first purpose of congregation were not to devise laws and repress crimes! as if bees and wasps could live honestly in flocks-- men, only in separate dens! as if it were easy to help one another on the opposite sides of a mountain, and impossible on the opposite sides of a street! but when the men are true and good, and stand shoulder to shoulder, the strength of any nation is in its quantity of life, not in its land nor gold. the more good men a state has, in proportion to its territory, the stronger the state. and as it has been the madness of economists to seek for gold instead of life, so it has been the madness of kings to seek for land instead of life. they want the town on the other side of the river, and seek it at the spear point; it never enters their stupid heads that to double the honest souls in the town on this side of the river would make them stronger kings; and that this doubling might be done by the ploughshare instead of the spear, and through happiness instead of misery. therefore, in brief, this is the only object of all true policy and true economy: "utmost multitude of good men on every given space of ground"-- imperatively always good, sound, honest men,--not a mob of white-faced thieves. so that, on the one hand all aristocracy is wrong which is inconsistent with numbers; and on the other all numbers are wrong which are inconsistent with breeding. . then, touching the accumulation of wealth for the maintenance of such men, observe, that you must never use the terms "money" and "wealth" as synonymous. wealth consists of the good, and therefore useful, things in the possession of the nation; money is only the written or coined sign of the relative quantities of wealth in each person's possession. all money is a divisible title-deed, of immense importance as an expression of right to property, but absolutely valueless as property itself. thus, supposing a nation isolated from all others, the money in its possession is, at its maximum value, worth all the property of the nation, and no more, because no more can be got for it. and the money of all nations is worth, at its maximum, the property of all nations, and no more, for no more can be got for it. thus, every article of property produced increases, by its value, the value of all the money in the world, and every article of property destroyed, diminishes the value of all the money in the world. if ten men are cast away on a rock, with a thousand pounds in their pockets, and there is on the rock, neither food nor shelter, their money is worth simply nothing, for nothing is to be had for it. if they built ten huts, and recover a cask of biscuit from the wreck, then their thousand pounds, at its maximum value, is worth ten huts and a cask of biscuit. if they make their thousand pounds into two thousand by writing new notes, their two thousand pounds are still worth ten huts and a cask of biscuit. and the law of relative value is the same for all the world, and all the people in it, and all their property, as for ten men on a rock. therefore, money is truly and finally lost in the degree in which its value is taken from it (ceasing in that degree to be money at all); and it is truly gained in the degree in which value is added to it. thus, suppose the money coined by the nation be a fixed sum, and divided very minutely (say into francs and cents), and neither to be added to nor diminished. then every grain of food and inch of lodging added to its possessions makes every cent in its pockets worth proportionally more, and every gain of food it consumes, and inch of roof it allows to fall to ruin, makes every cent in its pockets worth less; and this with mathematical precision. the immediate value of the money at particular times and places depends, indeed, on the humors of the possessors of property; but the nation is in the one case gradually getting richer, and will feel the pressure of poverty steadily everywhere relaxing, whatever the humors of individuals may be; and, in the other case, is gradually growing poorer, and the pressure of its poverty will every day tell more and more, in ways that it cannot explain, but will most bitterly feel. . the actual quantity of money which it coins, in relation to its real property, is therefore only of consequence for convenience of exchange; but the proportion in which this quantity of money is divided among individuals expresses their various rights to greater or less proportions of the national property, and must not, therefore, be tampered with. the government may at any time, with perfect justice, double its issue of coinage, if it gives every man who has ten pounds in his pocket another ten pounds, and every man who had ten pence another ten pence; for it thus does not make any of them richer; it merely divides their counters for them into twice the number. but if it gives the newly-issued coins to other people, or keeps them itself, it simply robs the former holders to precisely that extent. this most important function of money, as a title-deed, on the non-violation of which all national soundness of commerce and peace of life depend, has been never rightly distinguished by economists from the quite unimportant function of money as a means of exchange. you can exchange goods--at some inconvenience, indeed, but you can still contrive to do it--without money at all; but you cannot maintain your claim to the savings of your past life without a document declaring the amount of them, which the nation and its government will respect. . and as economists have lost sight of this great function of money in relation to individual rights, so they have equally lost sight of its function as a representative of good things. that, for every good thing produced, so much money is put into everybody's pocket, is the one simple and primal truth for the public to know, and for economists to teach. how many of them have taught it? some have; but only incidentally; and others will say it is a truism. if it be, do the public know it? does your ordinary english householder know that every costly dinner he gives has destroyed forever as much money as it is worth? does every well-educated girl--do even the women in high political position--know that every fine dress they wear themselves, or cause to be worn, destroys precisely so much of the national money as the labor and material of it are worth? if this be a truism, it is one that needs proclaiming somewhat louder. . that, then, is the relation of money and goods. so much goods, so much money; so little goods, so little money. but, as there is this true relation between money and "goods," or good things, so there is a false relation between money and "bads," or bad things. many bad things will fetch a price in exchange; but they do not increase the wealth of the country. good wine is wealth, drugged wine is not; good meat is wealth, putrid meat is not; good pictures are wealth, bad pictures are not. a thing is worth precisely what it can do for you; not what you choose to pay for it. you may pay a thousand pounds for a cracked pipkin, if you please; but you do not by that transaction make the cracked pipkin worth one that will hold water, nor that, nor any pipkin whatsoever, worth more than it was before you paid such sum for it. you may, perhaps, induce many potters to manufacture fissured pots, and many amateurs of clay to buy them; but the nation is, through the whole business so encouraged, rich by the addition to its wealth of so many potsherds,--and there an end. the thing is worth what it can do for you, not what you think it can; and most national luxuries, nowadays, are a form of potsherd, provided for the solace of a self-complacent job, voluntary sedent on his ash-heap. . and, also, so far as good things already exist, and have become media of exchange, the variations in their prices are absolutely indifferent to the nation. whether mr. a. buys a titian from mr. b. for twenty, or for two thousand, pounds, matters not sixpence to the national revenue; that is to say, it matters in nowise to the revenue whether mr. a. has the picture, and mr. b. the money, or mr. b. the picture, and mr. a. the money. which of them will spend the money most wisely, and which of them will keep the picture most carefully, is, indeed, a matter of some importance; but this cannot be known by the mere fact of exchange. . the wealth of a nation then, first, and its peace and well-being besides, depend on the number of persons it can employ in making good and useful things. i say its well-being also, for the character of men depends more on their occupations than on any teaching we can give them, or principles with which we can imbue them. the employment forms the habits of body and mind, and these are the constitution of the man,--the greater part of his moral or persistent nature, whatever effort, under special excitement, he may make to change or overcome them. employment is the half, and the primal half, of education--it is the warp of it; and the fineness or the endurance of all subsequently woven pattern depends wholly on its straightness and strength. and, whatever difficulty there may be in tracing through past history the remoter connections of event and cause, one chain of sequence is always clear: the formation, namely, of the character of nations by their employments, and the determination of their final fate by their character. the moment, and the first direction of decisive revolutions, often depend on accident; but their persistent course, and their consequences, depend wholly on the nature of the people. the passing of the reform bill by the late english parliament may have been more or less accidental; the results of the measure now rest on the character of the english people, as it has been developed by their recent interests, occupations, and habits of life. whether, as a body, they employ their new powers for good or evil will depend, not on their facilities of knowledge, nor even on the general intelligence they may possess, but on the number of persons among them whom wholesome employments have rendered familiar with the duties, and modest in their estimate of the promises, of life. . but especially in framing laws respecting the treatment or employment of improvident and more or less vicious persons, it is to be remembered that as men are not made heroes by the performance of an act of heroism, but must be brave before they can perform it, so they are not made villains by the commission of a crime, but were villains before they committed it; and the right of public interference with their conduct begins when they begin to corrupt themselves,--not merely at the moment when they have proved themselves hopelessly corrupt. all measures of reformation are effective in exact proportion to their timeliness: partial decay may be cut away and cleansed; incipient error corrected; but there is a point at which corruption can be no more stayed, nor wandering recalled. it has been the manner of modern philanthropy to remain passive until that precise period, and to leave the sick to perish, and the foolish to stray, while it spends itself in frantic exertions to raise the dead, and reform the dust. the recent direction of a great weight of public opinion against capital punishment is, i trust, the sign of an awakening perception that punishment is the last and worst instrument in the hands of the legislator for the prevention of crime. the true instruments of reformation are employment and reward; not punishment. aid the willing, honour the virtuous, and compel the idle into occupation, and there will be no deed for the compelling of any into the great and last indolence of death. . the beginning of all true reformation among the criminal classes depends on the establishment of institutions for their active employment, while their criminality is still unripe, and their feelings of self-respect, capacities of affection, and sense of justice, not altogether quenched. that those who are desirous of employment should always be able to find it, will hardly, at the present day, be disputed; but that those who are undesirous of employment should of all persons be the most strictly compelled to it, the public are hardly yet convinced; and they must be convinced. if the danger of the principal thoroughfares in their capital city, and the multiplication of crimes more ghastly than ever yet disgraced a nominal civilization, are not enough, they will not have to wait long before they receive sterner lessons. for our neglect of the lower orders has reached a point at which it begins to bear its necessary fruit, and every day makes the fields, not whiter, but more stable, to harvest. . the general principles by which employment should be regulated may be briefly stated as follows: i. there being three great classes of mechanical powers at our disposal, namely, (a) vital or muscular power; (b) natural mechanical power of wind, water, and electricity; and (c) artificially produced mechanical power; it is the first principle of economy to use all available vital power first, then the inexpensive natural forces, and only at last have recourse to artificial power. and this because it is always better for a man to work with his own hands to feed and clothe himself, than to stand idle while a machine works for him; and if he cannot by all the labor healthily possible to him feed and clothe himself, then it is better to use an inexpensive machine--as a windmill or watermill--than a costly one like a steam-engine, so long as we have natural force enough at our disposal. whereas at present we continually hear economists regret that the water-power of the cascades or streams of a country should be lost, but hardly ever that the muscular power of its idle inhabitants should be lost; and, again, we see vast districts, as the south of provence, where a strong wind* blows steadily all day long for six days out of seven throughout the year, without a windmill, while men are continually employed at a hundred miles to the north, in digging fuel to obtain artificial power. but the principal point of all to be kept in view is, that in every idle arm and shoulder throughout the country there is a certain quantity of force, equivalent to the force of so much fuel; and that it is mere insane waste to dig for coal for our force, while the vital force is unused, and not only unused, but in being so, corrupting and polluting itself. we waste our coal, and spoil our humanity at one and the same instant. therefore, wherever there is an idle arm, always save coal with it, and the stores of england will last all the longer. and precisely the same argument answers the common one about "taking employment out of the hands of the industrious laborer." why, what is "employment" but the putting out of vital force instead of mechanical force? we are continually in search of means to pull, to hammer, to fetch, to carry. we waste our future resources to get this strength, while we leave all the living fuel to burn itself out in mere pestiferous breath, and production of its variously noisome forms of ashes! clearly, if we want fire for force, we want men for force first. the industrious hands must already have so much to do that they can do no more, or else we need not use machines to help them. then use the idle hands first. instead of dragging petroleum with a steam-engine, put it on a canal, and drag it with human arms and shoulders. petroluem cannot possibly be in a hurry to arrive anywhere. we can always order that, and many other things, time enough before we want it. so, the carriage of everything which does not spoil by keeping may most wholesomely and safely be done by water-traction and sailing-vessels; and no healthier work can men be put to, nor better discipline, than such active porterage. * in order fully to utilize this natural power, we only require machinery to turn the variable into a constant velocity--no insurmountable difficulty. . ( d.) in employing all the muscular power at our disposal we are to make the employments we choose as educational as possible; for a wholesome human employment is the first and best method of education, mental as well as bodily. a man taught to plough, row, or steer well, and a woman taught to cook properly, and make a dress neatly, are already educated in many essential moral habits. labor considered as a discipline has hitherto been thought of only for criminals; but the real and noblest function of labor is to prevent crime, and not to be reformatory, but formatory. . the third great principle of employment is, that whenever there is pressure of poverty to be met, all enforced occupation should be directed to the production of useful articles only; that is to say, of food, of simple clothing, of lodging, or of the means of conveying, distributing, and preserving these. it is yet little understood by economists, and not at all by the public, that the employment of persons in a useless business cannot relieve ultimate distress. the money given to employ riband-makers at coventry is merely so much money withdrawn from what would have employed lace-makers at honiton; or makers of something else, as useless, elsewhere. we must spend our money in some way, at some time, and it cannot at any time be spent without employing somebody. if we gamble it away, the person who wins it must spend it; if we lose it in a railroad speculation, it has gone into some one else's pockets, or merely gone to pay navies for making a useless embankment, instead of to pay riband or button makers for making useless ribands or buttons; we cannot lose it (unless by actually destroying it) without giving employment of some kind; and, therefore, whatever quantity of money exists, the relative quantity of employment must some day come out of it; but the distress of the nation signifies that the employments given have produced nothing that will support its existence. men cannot live on ribands, or buttons, or velvet, or by going quickly from place to place; and every coin spent in useless ornament, or useless motion, is so much withdrawn from the national means of life. one of the most beautiful uses of railroads is to enable a to travel from the town of x to take away the business of b in the town of y; while, in the mean time, b travels from the town of y to take away a's business in the town of x. but the national wealth is not increased by these operations. whereas every coin spent in cultivating ground, in repairing lodging, in making necessary and good roads, in preventing danger by sea or land, and in carriage of food or fuel where they are required, is so much absolute and direct gain to the whole nation. to cultivate land round coventry makes living easier at honiton, and every acre of sand gained from the sea in lincolnshire, makes life easier all over england. th, and lastly. since for every idle person some one else must be working somewhere to provide him with clothes and food, and doing, therefore, double the quantity of work that would be enough for his own needs, it is only a matter of pure justice to compel the idle person to work for his maintenance himself. the conscription has been used in many countries to take away laborers who supported their families, from their useful work, and maintain them for purposes chiefly of military display at the public expense. since this has been long endured by the most civilized nations, let it not be thought they would not much more gladly endure a conscription which should seize only the vicious and idle, already living by criminal procedures at the public expense; and which should discipline and educate them to labor which would not only maintain themselves, but be serviceable to the commonwealth. the question is simply this: we must feed the drunkard, vagabond, and thief; but shall we do so by letting them steal their food, and do no work for it? or shall we give them their food in appointed quantity, and enforce their doing work which shall be worth it, and which, in process of time, will redeem their own characters and make them happy and serviceable members of society? i find by me a violent little fragment of undelivered lecture, which puts this, perhaps, still more clearly. your idle people (it says), as they are now, are not merely waste coal-beds. they are explosive coal-beds, which you pay a high annual rent for. you are keeping all these idle persons, remember, at far greater cost than if they were busy. do you think a vicious person eats less than an honest one? or that it is cheaper to keep a bad man drunk, than a good man sober? there is, i suppose, a dim idea in the mind of the public, that they don't pay for the maintenance of people they don't employ. those staggering rascals at the street corner, grouped around its splendid angle of public-house, we fancy that they are no servants of ours! that we pay them no wages! that no cash out of our pockets is spent over that beer-stained counter! whose cash is it then they are spending? it is not got honestly by work. you know that much. where do they get it from? who has paid for their dinner and their pot? those fellows can only live in one of two ways--by pillage or beggary. their annual income by thieving comes out of the public pocket, you will admit. they are not cheaply fed, so far as they are fed by theft. but the rest of their living--all that they don't steal--they must beg. not with success from you, you think. wise, as benevolent, you never gave a penny in "indiscriminate charity." well, i congratulate you on the freedom of your conscience from that sin, mine being bitterly burdened with the memory of many a sixpence given to beggars of whom i knew nothing but that they had pale faces and thin waists. but it is not that kind of street beggary that is the worst beggars' trade. home alms which it is their worst degradation to receive. those scamps know well enough that you and your wisdom are worth nothing to them. they won't beg of you. they will beg of their sisters, and mothers, and wives, and children, and of any one else who is enough ashamed of being of the same blood with them to pay to keep them out of sight. every one of those blackguards is the bane of a family. that is the deadly "indiscriminate charity"--the charity which each household pays to maintain its own private curse. . and you think that is no affair of yours? and that every family ought to watch over and subdue its own living plague? put it to yourselves this way, then: suppose you knew every one of those families kept an idol in an inner room--a big-bellied bronze figure, to which daily sacrifice and oblation was made; at whose feet so much beer and brandy was poured out every morning on the ground; and before which, every night, good meat, enough for two men's keep, was set, and left, till it was putrid, and then carried out and thrown on the dunghill; you would put an end to that form of idolatry with your best diligence, i suppose. you would understand then that the beer, and brandy, and meat, were wasted; and that the burden imposed by each household on itself lay heavily through them on the whole community? but, suppose further, that this idol were not of silent and quiet bronze only, but an ingenious mechanism, wound up every morning, to run itself down into automatic blasphemies; that it struck and tore with its hands the people who set food before it; that it was anointed with poisonous unguents, and infected the air for miles round. you would interfere with the idolatry then, straightway? will you not interfere with it now, when the infection that they venomous idol spreads is not merely death, but sin? . so far the old lecture. returning to cool english, the end of the matter is, that, sooner or later, we shall have to register our people; and to know how they live; and to make sure, if they are capable of work, that right work is given them to do. the different classes of work for which bodies of men could be consistently organized, might ultimately become numerous; these following divisions of occupation may all at once be suggested: i. road-making.--good roads to be made, wherever needed, and kept in repair; and the annual loss on unfrequented roads, in spoiled horses, strained wheels, and time, done away with. ii. bringing in of waste land.--all waste lands not necessary for public health, to be made accessible and gradually reclaimed; chiefly our wide and waste seashores. not our mountains nor moorland. our life depends on them, more than on the best arable we have. iii. harbor-making.--the deficiencies of safe or convenient harborage in our smaller ports to be remedied; other harbors built at dangerous points of coast, and a disciplined body of men always kept in connection with the pilot and life-boat services. there is room for every order of intelligence in this work, and for a large body of superior officers. iv. porterage.--all heavy goods, not requiring speed in transit, to be carried (under preventative duty on transit, by railroad) by canal-boats, employing men for draught; and the merchant-shipping service extended by sea; so that no ships may be wrecked for want of hands, while there are idle ones in mischief on shore. v. repair of buildings.--a body of men in various trades to be kept at the disposal of the authorities in every large town, for repair of buildings, especially the houses of the poorer orders, who, if no such provision were made, could not employ workmen on their own houses, but would simply live with rent walls and roofs. vi. dressmaking.--substantial dress, of standard material and kind, strong shoes, and stout bedding, to be manufactured for the poor, so as to render it unnecessary for them, unless by extremity of improvidence, to wear cast clothes, or be without sufficiency of clothing. vii. works of art.--schools to be established on thoroughly sound principles of manufacture, and use of materials, and with sample and, for given periods, unalterable modes of work; first, in pottery, and embracing gradually metal work, sculpture, and decorative painting; the two points insisted upon, in distinction from ordinary commercial establishments, being perfectness of material to the utmost attainable degree; and the production of everything by hand-work, for the special purpose of developing personal power and skill in the workman. the last two departments, and some subordinate branches of others, would include the service of women and children. i give now, for such further illustrations as they contain of the points i desire most to insist upon with respect both to education and employment, a portion of the series of notes published some time ago in the "art journal," on the opposition of modesty and liberty, and the unescapable law of wise restraint. i am sorry that they are written obscurely--and it may be thought affectedly; but the fact is, i have always had three different ways of writing: one, with the single view of making myself understood, in which i necessarily omit a great deal of what comes into my head; another, in which i say what i think ought to be said, in what i suppose to be the best words i can find for it (which is in reality an affected style--be it good or bad); and my third way of writing is to say all that comes into my head for my own pleasure, in the first words that come, retouching them afterward into (approximate) grammar. these notes for the "art journal" were so written; and i like them myself, of course; but ask the reader's pardon for their confusedness. . "sir, it cannot be better done." we will insist, with the reader's permission, on this comfortful saying of albert dürer's in order to find out, if we may, what modesty is; which it will be well for painters, readers, and especially critics, to know, before going farther. what it is; or, rather, who she is, her fingers being among the deftest in laying the ground-threads of aglaia's cestus. for this same opinion of albert's is entertained by many other people respecting their own doings--a very prevalent opinion, indeed, i find it; and the answer itself, though rarely made with the nuremberger's crushing decision, is nevertheless often enough intimated, with delicacy, by artists of all countries, in their various dialects. neither can it always be held an entirely modest one, as it assuredly was in the man who would sometimes estimate a piece of his unconquerable work at only the worth of a plate of fruit, or a flask of wine--would have taken even one "fig for it," kindly offered; or given it royally for nothing, to show his hand to a fellow-king of his own, or any other craft--as gainsborough gave the "boy at the stile" for a solo on the violin. an entirely modest saying, i repeat, in him--not always in us. for modesty is "the measuring virtue," the virtue of modes or limits. she is, indeed, said to be only the third or youngest of the children of the cardinal virtue, temperance; and apt to be despised, being more given to arithmetic, and other vulgar studies (cinderella-like), than her elder sisters; but she is useful in the household, and arrives at great results with her yard-measure and slate-pencil--a pretty little marchande des modes, cutting her dress always according to the silk (if this be the proper feminine reading of "coat according to the cloth"), so that, consulting with her carefully of a morning, men get to know not only their income, but their in being--to know themselves, that is, in a gauger's manner, round, and up and down--surface and contents; what is in them and what may be got out of them; and in fine, their entire canon of weight and capacity. that yard-measure of modesty's, lent to those who will use it, is a curious musical reed, and will go round and round waists that are slender enough, with latent melody in every joint of it, the dark root only being soundless, moist from the wave wherein "null' altra pianta che facesse fronda o che 'n durasse, vi puote aver vita."* * "purgatorio," i. , . but when the little sister herself takes it in hand, to measure things outside of us with, the joints shoot out in an amazing manner: the four-square walls even of celestial cities being measurable enough by that reed; and the way pointed to them, though only to be followed, or even seen, in the dim starlight shed down from worlds amidst which there is no name of measure any more, though the reality of it always. for, indeed, to all true modesty the necessary business is not inlook, but outlook, and especially uplook: it is only her sister shamefacedness, who is known by the drooping lashes--modesty, quite otherwise, by her large eyes full of wonder; for she never contemns herself, nor is ashamed of herself, but forgets herself--at least until she has done something worth memory. it is easy to peep and potter about one's own deficiencies in a quiet immodest discontent; but modesty is so pleased with other people's doings, that she has no leisure to lament her own: and thus, knowing the fresh feeling of contentment, unstained with thought of self, she does not fear being pleased, when there is cause, with her own rightness, as with another's, as with another's, saying calmly, "be it mine or yours, or whose else's it may, it is no matter; this also is well." but the right to say such a thing depends on continual reverence and manifold sense of failure. if you have known yourself to have failed, you may trust, when it comes, the strange consciousness of success; if you have faithfully loved the noble work of others, you need not fear to speak with respect of things duly done, of your own. . but the principal good that comes of art being followed in this reverent feeling is of it. men who know their place can take it and keep it, be it low or high, contentedly and firmly, neither yielding nor grasping; and the harmony of hand and thought follows, rendering all great deeds of art possible--deeds in which the souls of men meet like the jewels in the windows of aladdin's palace, the little gems and the large all equally pure, needing no cement but the fitting of facets; while the associative work of immodest men is all jointless, and astir with wormy ambition; putridly dissolute, and forever on the crawl: so that if it come together for a time, it can only be by metamorphosis through a flash of volcanic fire out of the vale of siddim, vitrifying the clay of it, and fastening the slime, only to end in wilder scattering; according to the fate of those oldest, mightiest, immodestest of builders, of whom it is told in scorn, "they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar." . the first function of modesty, then, being this recognition of place, her second is the recognition of law, and delight in it, for the sake of law itself, whether her part be to assert it, or obey. for as it belongs to all immodesty to defy or deny law, and assert privilege and license, according to its own pleasure (it being therefore rightly called "insolent," that is, "custom-breaking," violating some usual and appointed order to attain for itself greater forwardness or power), so it is the habit of all modesty to love the constancy and "solemnity," or, literally, "accustomedness," of law, seeking first what are the solemn, appointed, inviolable customs and general orders of nature, and of the master of nature, touching the matter in hand; and striving to put itself, as habitually and inviolably, in compliance with them. out of which habit, once established, arises what is rightly called "conscience," nor "science" merely, but "with-science," a science "with us," such as only modest creatures can have--with or within them--and within all creation besides, every member of it, strong or weak, witnessing together, and joining in the happy consciousness that each one's work is good; the bee also being profoundly of that opinion; and the lark; and the swallow, in that noisy, but modestly upside-down, babel of hers, under the eaves, with its unvolcanic slime for mortar; and the two ants who are asking of each other at the turn of that little ant's-foot-worn bath through the moss "lor via e lor fortuna;" and the builders also, who built yonder pile of cloud-marble in the west, and the gilder who gilded it, and is gone down behind it. . but i think we shall better understand what we ought of the nature of modesty, and of her opposite, by taking a simple instance of both, in the practice of that art of music which the wisest have agreed in thinking the first element of education; only i must ask the reader's patience with me through a parenthesis. among the foremost men whose power has had to assert itself, though with conquest, yet with countless loss, through peculiarly english disadvantages of circumstance, are assuredly to be ranked together, both for honor, and for mourning, thomas bewick and george cruikshank. there is, however, less cause for regret in the instance of bewick. we may understand that it was well for us once to see what an entirely keen and true man's temper, could achieve, together, unhelped, but also unharmed, among the black bans and wolds of tyne. but the genius of cruikshank has been cast away in an utterly ghastly and lamentable manner: his superb line-work, worthy of any class of subject, and his powers of conception and composition, of which i cannot venture to estimate the range in their degraded application, having been condemned, by his fate, to be spent either in rude jesting, or in vain war with conditions of vice too low alike for record or rebuke, among the dregs of the british populace. yet perhaps i am wrong in regretting even this: it may be an appointed lesson for futurity, that the art of the best english etcher in the nineteenth century, spent on illustrations of the lives of burglars and drunkards, should one day be seen in museums beneath greek vases fretted with drawings of the wars of troy, or side by side with dürer's "knight and death." . be that as it may, i am at present glad to be able to refer to one of these perpetuations, by his strong hand, of such human character as our faultless british constitution occasionally produces in out-of-the-way corners. it is among his illustrations of the irish rebellion, and represents the pillage and destruction of a gentleman's house by the mob. they have made a heap in the drawing-room of the furniture and books, to set first fire to; and are tearing up the floor for its more easily kindled planks, the less busily-disposed meanwhile hacking round in rage, with axes, and smashing what they can with butt-ends of guns. i do not care to follow with words the ghastly truth of the picture into its detail; but the most expressive incident of the whole, and the one immediately to my purpose, is this, that one fellow has sat himself at the piano, on which, hitting down fiercely with his clenched fists, he plays, grinning, such tune as may be so producible, to which melody two of his companions, flourishing knotted sticks, dance, after their manner, on the top of the instrument. . i think we have in this conception as perfect an instance as we require of the lowest supposable phase of immodest or licentious art in music; the "inner consciousness of good" being dim, even in the musician and his audience, and wholly unsympathized with, and unacknowledged by the delphian, vestal, and all other prophetic and cosmic powers. this represented scene came into my mind suddenly one evening, a few weeks ago, in contrast with another which i was watching in its reality; namely, a group of gentle school-girls, leaning over mr. charles hallê, as he was playing a variation on "home, sweet home." they had sustained with unwonted courage the glance of subdued indignation with which, having just closed a rippling melody of sebastian bach's (much like what one might fancy the singing of nightingales would be if they fed on honey instead of flies), he turned to the slight, popular air. but they had their own associations with it, and besought for, and obtained it, and pressed close, at first, in vain, to see what no glance could follow, the traversing of the fingers. they soon thought no more of seeing. the wet eyes, round-open, and the little scarlet upper lips, lifted, and drawn slightly together, in passionate glow of utter wonder, became picture-like, porcelain-like, in motionless joy, as the sweet multitude of low notes fell, in their timely infinities, like summer rain. only la robbia himself (nor even he, unless with tenderer use of color than is usual in his work) could have rendered some image of that listening. . but if the reader can give due vitality in his fancy to these two scenes, he will have in them representative types, clear enough for all future purpose, of the several agencies of debased and perfect art. and the interval may easily and continuously be filled by mediate gradations. between the entirely immodeset, unmeasured, and (in evil sense) unmannered, execution with the fist; and the entirely modest, measured, and (in the noblest sense) mannered, or moral'd execution with the finger; between the impatient and unpractised doing, containing in itself the witness of lasting impatience and idleness through all previous life, and the patient and practised doing, containing in itself the witness of self-restraint and unwearied toil through all previous life; between the expressed subject and sentiment of home violation, and the expressed subject and sentiment of home love; between the sympathy of audience, given in irreverent and contemptuous rage, joyless as the rabidness of a dog, and the sympathy of audience given in an almost appalled humility of intense, rapturous, and yet entirely reasoning and reasonable pleasure; between these two limits of octave, the reader will find he can class, according to its modesty, usefulness and grace, or becomingness, all other musical art. for although purity of purpose and fineness of execution by no means go together, degree to degree (since fine, and indeed all but the finest, work is often spent in the most wanton purpose --as in all our modern opera--and the rudest execution is again often joined with purest purpose, as in a mother's song to her child), still the entire accomplishment of music is only in the union of both. for the difference between that "all but" finest and "finest" is an infinite one; and besides this, however the power of the performer, once attained, may be afterwards misdirected, in slavery to popular passion or childishness, and spend itself, at its sweetest, in idle melodies, cold and ephemeral (like michael angelo's snow statue in the other art), or else in vicious difficulty and miserable noise--crackling of thorns under the pot of public sensuality--still, the attainment of this power, and the maintenance of it, involve always in the executant some virtue or courage of high kind; the understanding of which, and of the difference between the discipline which develops it and the disorderly efforts of the amateur, it will be one of our first businesses to estimate rightly. and though not indeed by degree to degree, yet in essential relation (as of winds to waves, the one being always the true cause of the other, though they are not necessarily of equal force at the same time,) we shall find vice in its varieties, with art-failure,--and virtue in its varieties, with art-success,--fall and rise together; the peasant-girl's song at her spinning-wheel, the peasant laborer's "to the oaks and rills,"--domestic music, feebly yet sensitively skilful,--music for the multitude, of beneficent or of traitorous power,--dance-melodies, pure and orderly, or foul and frantic,--march-music, blatant in mere fever of animal pugnacity, or majestic with force of national duty and memory,-- song-music, reckless, sensual, sickly, slovenly, forgetful even of the foolish words it effaces with foolish noise,--or thoughtful, sacred, healthful, artful, forever sanctifying noble thought with separately distinguished loveliness of belonging sound,--all these families and graduations of good or evil, however mingled, follow, in so far as they are good, one constant law of virtue (or "life-strength," which is the literal meaning of the word, and its intended one, in wise men's mouths), and in so far as they are evil, are evil by outlawry and unvirtue, or death-weakness. then, passing wholly beyond the domain of death, we may still imagine the ascendant nobleness of the art, through all the concordant life of incorrupt creatures, and a continually deeper harmony of "puissant words and murmurs made to bless," until we reach "the undisturbed song of pure consent, aye sung before the sapphire-colored throne." . and so far as the sister arts can be conceived to have place or office, their virtues are subject to a law absolutely the same as that of music, only extending its authority into more various conditions, owing to the introduction of a distinctly representative and historical power, which acts under logical as well as mathematical restrictions, and is capable of endlessly changeful fault, fallacy, and defeat, as well as of endlessly manifold victory. . next to modesty, and her delight in measures, let us reflect a little on the character of her adversary, the goddess of liberty, and her delight in absence of measures, or in false ones. it is true that there are liberties and liberties. yonder torrent, crystal-clear, and arrow-swift, with its spray leaping into the air like white troops of fawns, is free enough. lost, presently, amidst bankless, boundless marsh --soaking in slow shallowness, as it will, hither and thither, listless among the poisonous reeds and unresisting slime--it is free also. we may choose which liberty we like,--the restraint of voiceful rock, or the dumb and edgeless shore of darkened sand. of that evil liberty which men are now glorifying and proclaiming as essence of gospel to all the earth, and will presently, i suppose, proclaim also to the stars, with invitation to them out of their courses,--and of its opposite continence, which is the clasp and 'chrusee perone' of aglaia's cestus, we must try to find out something true. for no quality of art has been more powerful in its influence on public mind; none is more frequently the subject of popular praise, or the end of vulgar effort, than what we call "freedom." it is necessary to determine the justice or injustice of this popular praise. . i said, a little while ago, that the practical teaching of the masters of art was summed by the o of giotto. "you may judge my masterhood of craft," giotto tells us, "by seeing that i can draw a circle unerringly." and we may safely believe him, understanding him to mean that, though more may be necessary to an artist than such a power, at least this power is necessary. the qualities of hand and eye needful to do this are the first conditions of artistic craft. . try to draw a circle yourself with the "free" hand, and with a single line. you cannot do it if your hand trembles, nor if it is in the common sense of the word "free." so far from being free, it must be as if it were fastened to an inflexible bar of steel. and yet it must move, under this necessary control, with perfect, untormented serenity of ease. . that is the condition of all good work whatsoever. all freedom is error. every line you lay down is either right or wrong; it may be timidly and awkwardly wrong, or fearlessly and impudently wrong. the aspect of the impudent wrongness is pleasurable to vulgar persons, and is what they commonly call "free" execution; the timid, tottering, hesitating wrongness is rarely so attractive; yet sometimes, if accompanied with good qualities, and right aims in other directions, it becomes in a manner charming, like the inarticulateness of a child; but, whatever the charm or manner of the error, there is but one question ultimately to be asked respecting every line you draw, is it right or wrong? if right, it most assuredly is not a "free" line, but an intensely continent, restrained, and considered line; and the action of the hand in laying it is just as decisive, and just as "free," as the hand of a first-rate surgeon in a critical incision. a great operator told me that his hand could check itself within about the two-hundredth of an inch, in penetrating a membrane; and this, of course, without the help of sight, by sensation only. with help of sight, and in action on a substance which does not quiver or yield, a fine artist's line is measurable in its proposed direction to considerably less than the thousandth of an inch. a wide freedom, truly! . the conditions of popular art which most foster the common ideas about freedom, are merely results of irregularly energetic effort by men imperfectly educated; these conditions being variously mingled with cruder mannerisms resulting from timidity, or actual imperfection of body. northern hands and eyes are, of course, never so subtle as southern; and in very cold countries, artistic execution is palsied. the effort to break through this timidity, or to refine the bluntness, may lead to a licentious impetuosity, or an ostentatious minuteness. every man's manner has this kind of relation to some defect in his physical powers or modes of thought; so that in the greatest work there is no manner visible. it is at first uninteresting from its quietness; the majesty of restrained power only dawns gradually upon us, as we walk towards its horizon. there is, indeed, often great delightfulness in the innocent manners of artists who have real power and honesty, and draw in this way or that, as best they can, under such and such untoward circumstances of life. but the greater part of the looseness, flimsiness, or audacity of modern work is the expression of an inner spirit of license in mind and heart, connected, as i said, with the peculiar folly of this age, its hope of, and trust in, "liberty," of which we must reason a little in more general terms. . i believe we can nowhere find a better type of a perfectly free creature than in the common house-fly. nor free only, but brave; and irreverent to a degree which i think no human republican could by any philosophy exalt himself to. there is no courtesy in him; he does not care whether it is king or clown whom he teases; and in every step of his swift mechanical march, and in every pause of his resolute observation, there is one and the same expression of perfect egotism, perfect independence and self-confidence, and conviction of the world's having been made for flies. strike at him with your hand, and to him, the mechanical fact and external aspect of the matter is, what to you it would be if an acre of red clay, ten feet thick, tore itself up from the ground in one massive field, hovered over you in the air for a second, and came crashing down with an aim. that is the external aspect of it; the inner aspect, to his fly's mind, is of a quite natural and unimportant occurrence--one of the momentary conditions of his active life. he steps out of the way of your hand, and alights on the back of it. you cannot terrify him, nor govern him, nor persuade him, nor convince him. he has his own positive opinion on all matters; not an unwise one, usually, for his own ends; and will ask no advice of yours. he has no work to do--no tyrannical instinct to obey. the earthworm has his digging; the bee her gathering and building; the spider her cunning network; the ant her treasury and accounts. all these are comparatively slaves, or people of vulgar business. but your fly, free in the air, free in the chamber--a black incarnation of caprice, wandering, investigating, flitting, flirting, feasting at his will, with rich variety of choice in feast, from the heaped sweets in the grocer's window to those of the butcher's back-yard, and from the galled place on your cab-horse's back, to the brown spot in the road, from which, as the hoof disturbs him, he rises with angry republican buzz--what freedom is like his? . for captivity, again, perhaps your poor watch-dog is as sorrowful a type as you will easily find. mine certainly is. the day is lovely, but i must write this, and cannot go out with him. he is chained in the yard because i do not like dogs in rooms, and the gardener does not like dogs in gardens. he has no books,--nothing but his own weary thoughts for company, and a group of those free flies, whom he snaps at, with sullen ill success. such dim hope as he may have that i may take him out with me, will be, hour by hour, wearily disappointed; or, worse, darkened at once into a leaden despair by an authoritative "no"--too well understood. his fidelity only seals his fate; if he would not watch for me, he would be sent away, and go hunting with some happier master: but he watches, and is wise, and faithful, and miserable; and his high animal intellect only gives him the wistful powers of wonder, and sorrow, and desire, and affection, which embitter his captivity. yet of the two, would we rather be watch-dog or fly? . indeed, the first point we have all to determine is not how free we are, but what kind of creatures we are. it is of small importance to any of us whether we get liberty; but of the greatest that we deserve it. whether we can win it, fate must determine; but that we will be worthy of it we may ourselves determine; and the sorrowfullest fate of all that we can suffer is to have it without deserving it. . i have hardly patience to hold my pen and go on writing, as i remember (i would that it were possible for a few consecutive instants to forget) the infinite follies of modern thought in this matter, centred in the notion that liberty is good for a man, irrespectively of the use he is likely to make of it. folly unfathomable! unspeakable! unendurable to look in the full face of, as the laugh of a cretin. you will send your child, will you, into a room where the table is loaded with sweet wine and fruit--some poisoned, some not?--you will say to him, "choose freely, my little child! it is so good for you to have freedom of choice; it forms your character--your individuality! if you take the wrong cup or the wrong berry, you will die before the day is over, but you will have acquired the dignity of a free child?" . you think that puts the case too sharply? i tell you, lover of liberty, there is no choice offered to you, but it is similarly between life and death. there is no act, nor option of act, possible, but the wrong deed or option has poison in it which will stay in your veins thereafter forever. never more to all eternity can you be as you might have been had you not done that--chosen that. you have "formed your character," forsooth! no; if you have chosen ill, you have de-formed it, and that for ever! in some choices it had been better for you that a red-hot iron bar struck you aside, scarred and helpless, than that you had so chosen. "you will know better next time!" no. next time will never come. next time the choice will be in quite another aspect-- between quite different things,--you, weaker than you were by the evil into which you have fallen; it, more doubtful than it was, by the increased dimness of your sight. no one ever gets wiser by doing wrong, nor stronger. you will get wiser and stronger only by doing right, whether forced or not; the prime, the one need is to do that, under whatever compulsion, until you can do it without compulsion. and then you are a man. . "what!" a wayward youth might perhaps answer, incredulously, "no one ever gets wiser by doing wrong? shall i not know the world best by trying the wrong of it, and repenting? have i not, even as it is, learned much by many of my errors?" indeed, the effort by which partially you recovered yourself was precious; that part of your thought by which you discerned the error was precious. what wisdom and strength you kept, and rightly used, are rewarded; and in the pain and the repentance, and in the acquaintance with the aspects of folly and sin, you have learned something; how much less than you would have learned in right paths can never be told, but that it is less is certain. your liberty of choice has simply destroyed for you so much life and strength never regainable. it is true, you now know the habits of swine, and the taste of husks; do you think your father could not have taught you to know better habits and pleasanter tastes, if you had stayed in his house; and that the knowledge you have lost would not have been more, as well as sweeter, than that you have gained? but "it so forms my individuality to be free!" your individuality was given you by god, and in your race, and if you have any to speak of, you will want no liberty. you will want a den to work in, and peace, and light--no more,--in absolute need; if more, in anywise, it will still not be liberty, but direction, instruction, reproof, and sympathy. but if you have no individuality, if there is no true character nor true desire in you, then you will indeed want to be free. you will begin early, and, as a boy, desire to be a man; and, as a man, think yourself as good as every other. you will choose freely to eat, freely to drink, freely to stagger and fall, freely, at last, to curse yourself and die. death is the only real freedom possible to us; and that is consummate freedom, permission for every particle in the rotting body to leave its neighbor particle, and shift for itself. you call it "corruption" in the flesh; but before it comes to that, all liberty is an equal corruption in mind. you ask for freedom of thought; but if you have not sufficient grounds for thought, you have no business to think; and if you have sufficient grounds, you have no business to think wrong. only one thought is possible to you if you are wise--your liberty is geometrically proportionate to your folly. . "but all this glory and activity of our age; what are they owing to, but to freedom of thought?" in a measure, they are owing--what good is in them--to the discovery of many lies, and the escape from the power of evil. not to liberty, but to the deliverance from evil or cruel masters. brave men have dared to examine lies which had long been taught, not because they were free-thinkers, but because they were such stern and close thinkers that the lie could no longer escape them. of course the restriction of thought, or of its expression, by persecution, is merely a form of violence, justifiable or not, as other violence is, according to the character of the persons against whom it is exercised, and the divine and eternal laws which it vindicates or violates. we must not burn a man alive for saying that the athanasian creed is ungrammatical, nor stop a bishop's salary because we are getting the worst of an argument with him; neither must we let drunken men howl in the public streets at night. there is much that is true in the part of mr. mill's essay on liberty which treats of freedom of thought; some important truths are there beautifully expressed, but many, quite vital, are omitted; and the balance, therefore, is wrongly struck. the liberty of expression, with a great nation, would become like that in a well-educated company, in which there is indeed freedom of speech, but not of clamor; or like that in an orderly senate, in which men who deserve to be heard, are heard in due time, and under determined restrictions. the degree of liberty you can rightly grant to a number of men is in the inverse ratio of their desire for it; and a general hush, or call to order, would be often very desirable in this england of ours. for the rest, of any good or evil extent, it is impossible to say what measure is owing to restraint, and what to license where the right is balanced between them. i was not a little provoked one day, a summer or two since, in scotland, because the duke of athol hindered me from examining the gneiss and slate junctions in glen tilt, at the hour convenient to me; but i saw them at last, and in quietness; and to the very restriction that annoyed me, owed, probably, the fact of their being in existence, instead of being blasted away by a mob-company; while the "free" paths and inlets of loch katrine and the lake of geneva are forever trampled down and destroyed, not by one duke, but by tens of thousands of ignorant tyrants. . so, a dean and chapter may, perhaps, unjustifiably charge me twopence for seeing a cathedral; but your free mob pulls spire and all down about my ears, and i can see it no more forever. and even if i cannot get up to the granite junctions in the glen, the stream comes down from them pure to the garry; but in beddington park i am stopped by the newly-erected fence of a building speculator; and the bright wandel, divine of waters as castaly, is filled by the free public with old shoes, obscene crockery, and ashes. . in fine, the arguments for liberty may in general be summed in a few very simple forms, as follows: misguiding is mischievous: therefore guiding is. if the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch: therefore, nobody should lead anybody. lambs and fawns should be left free in the fields; much more bears and wolves. if a man's gun and shot are his own, he may fire in any direction he pleases. a fence across a road is inconvenient; much more one at the side of it. babes should not be swaddled with their hands bound down to their sides: therefore they should be thrown out to roll in the kennels naked. none of these arguments are good, and the practical issues of them are worse. for there are certain eternal laws for human conduct which are quite clearly discernible by human reason. so far as these are discovered and obeyed, by whatever machinery or authority the obedience is procured, there follow life and strength. so far as they are disobeyed, by whatever good intention the disobedience is brought about, there follow ruin and sorrow. and the first duty of every man in the world is to find his true master, and, for his own good, submit to him; and to find his true inferior, and, for that inferior's good, conquer him. the punishment is sure, if we either refuse the reverence, or are too cowardly and indolent to enforce the compulsion. a base nation crucifies or poisons its wise men, and lets its fools rave and rot in the streets. a wise nation obeys the one, restrains the other, and cherishes all. . the best examples of the results of wise normal evidence in art will be found in whatever evidence remains respecting the lives of great italian painters, though, unhappily, in eras of progress, but just in proportion to the admirableness and efficiency of the life, will be usually the scantiness of its history. the individualities and liberties which are causes of destruction may be recorded; but the loyal conditions of daily breath are never told. because leonardo made models of machines, dug canals, built fortifications, and dissipated half his art-power in capricious ingenuities, we have many anecdotes of him;--but no picture of importance on canvas, and only a few withered stains of one upon a wall. but because his pupil, or reputed pupil, luini, labored in constant and successful simplicity, we have no anecdotes of him;--only hundreds of noble works. luini is, perhaps, the best central type of the highly-trained italian painter. he is the only man who entirely united the religious temper which was the spirit-life of art, with the physical power which was its bodily life. he joins the purity and passion of angelico to the strength of veronese: the two elements, poised in perfect balance, are so calmed and restrained, each by the other, that most of us lose the sense of both. the artist does not see the strength, by reason of the chastened spirit in which it is used: and the religious visionary does not recognize the passion, by reason of the frank human truth with which it is rendered. he is a man ten times greater than leonardo;--a mighty colorist, while leonardo was only a fine draughtsman in black, staining the chiaroscuro drawing, like a colored print: he perceived and rendered the delicatest types of human beauty that have been painted since the days of the greeks, while leonardo depraved his finer instincts by caricature, and remained to the end of his days the slave of an archaic smile: and he is a designer as frank, instinctive, and exhaustless as tintoret, while leonardo's design is only an agony of science, admired chiefly because it is painful, and capable of analysis in its best accomplishment. luini has left nothing behind him that is not lovely; but of his life i believe hardly anything is known beyond remnants of tradition which murmur about lugano and saronno, and which remain ungleaned. this only is certain, that he was born in the loveliest district of north italy, where hills, and streams, and air meet in softest harmonies. child of the alps, and of their divinest lake, he is taught, without doubt or dismay, a lofty religious creed, and a sufficient law of life, and of its mechanical arts. whether lessoned by leonardo himself, or merely one of many disciplined in the system of the milanese school, he learns unerringly to draw, unerringly and enduringly to paint. his tasks are set him without question day by day, by men who are justly satisfied with his work, and who accept it without any harmful praise, or senseless blame. place, scale, and subject are determined for him on the cloister wall or the church dome; as he is required, and for sufficient daily bread, and little more, he paints what he has been taught to design wisely, and has passion to realize gloriously: every touch he lays is eternal, every thought he conceives is beautiful and pure: his hand moves always in radiance of blessing; from day to day his life enlarges in power and peace; it passes away cloudlessly, the starry twilight remaining arched far against the night. . oppose to such a life as this that of a great painter amidst the elements of modern english liberty. take the life of turner, in whom the artistic energy and inherent love of beauty were at least as strong as in luini: but, amidst the disorder and ghastliness of the lower streets of london, his instincts in early infancy were warped into toleration of evil, or even into delight in it. he gathers what he can of instruction by questioning and prying among half-informed masters; spells out some knowledge of classical fable; educates himself, by an admirable force, to the production of wildly majestic or pathetically tender and pure pictures, by which he cannot live. there is no one to judge them, or to command him: only some of the english upper classes hire him to paint their houses and parks, and destroy the drawings afterwards by the most wanton neglect. tired of laboring carefully, without either reward or praise, he dashes out into various experimental and popular works--makes himself the servant of the lower public, and is dragged hither and thither at their will; while yet, helpless and guideless, he indulges his idiosyncrasies till they change into insanities; the strength of his soul increasing its sufferings, and giving force to its errors; all the purpose of life degenerating into instinct; and the web of his work wrought, at last, of beauties too subtle to be understood, his liberty, with vices too singular to be forgiven--all useless, because magnificent idiosyncrasy had become solitude, or contention, in the midst of a reckless populace, instead of submitting itself in loyal harmony to the art-laws of an understanding nation. and the life passed away in darkness; and its final work, in all the best beauty of it, has already perished, only enough remaining to teach us what we have lost. . these are the opposite effects of law and of liberty on men of the highest powers. in the case of inferiors the contrast is still more fatal: under strict law, they become the subordinate workers in great schools, healthily aiding, echoing, or supplying, with multitudinous force of hand, the mind of the leading masters: they are the nameless carvers of great architecture--stainers of glass--hammerers of iron-- helpful scholars, whose work ranks round, if not with, their master's, and never disgraces it. but the inferiors under a system of license for the most part perish in miserable effort;* a few struggle into pernicious eminence--harmful alike to themselves and to all who admire them; many die of starvation; many insane, either in weakness of insolent egotism, like haydon, or in a conscientious agony of beautiful purpose and warped power, like blake. there is no probability of the persistence of a licentious school in any good accidentally discovered by them; there is an approximate certainty of their gathering, with acclaim, round any shadow of evil, and following it to whatever quarter of destruction it may lead. * as i correct this sheet for press, my "pall mall gazette" of last saturday, april , is lying on the table by me. i print a few lines out of it: "an artist's death.--a sad story was told at an inquest held in st. pancras last night by dr. lankester on the body of . . ., aged fifty-nine, a french artist who was found dead in his bed at his rooms in . . . street. m. . . ., also an artist, said he had known the deceased for fifteen years. he once held a high position, and being anxious to make a name in the world, he five years ago commenced a large picture, which he hoped, when completed, to have in the gallery at versailles; and with that view he sent a photograph of it to the french emperor. he also had an idea of sending it to the english royal academy. he labored on this picture, neglecting other work which would have paid him well, and gradually sank lower and lower into poverty. his friends assisted him, but being absorbed in his great work, he did not heed their advice, and they left him. he was, however, assisted by the french ambassador, and last saturday, he (the witness) saw deceased, who was much depressed in spirits, as he expected the brokers to be put in possession for rent. he said his troubles were so great that he feared his brain would give way. the witness gave him a shilling for which he appeared very thankful. on monday the witness called upon him, but received no answer to his knock. he went again on tuesday, and entered the deceased's bedroom and found him dead. dr. george ross said that when called into the deceased he had been dead at least two days. the room was in a filthy, dirty condition, and the picture referred to--certainly a very fine one--was in that room. the post-mortem examination showed that the cause of death was fatty degeneration of the heart, the latter probably having ceased its action through the mental excitement of the deceased." . thus far the notes of freedom. now, lastly, here is some talk which i tried at the time to make intelligible; and with which i close this volume, because it will serve sufficiently to express the practical relation in which i think the art and imagination of the greeks stand to our own; and will show the reader that my view of that relation is unchanged, from the first day on which i began to write, until now. *** the hercules of camarina. address to the students of the art school of south lambert, march , . . among the photographers of greek coins which present so many admirable subjects for your study, i must speak for the present of one only: the hercules of camarina. you have, represented by a greek workman, in that coin, the face of a man and the skin of a lion's head. and the man's face is like a man's face, but the lion's skin is not like a lion's skin. . now there are some people who will tell you that greek art is fine, because it is true; and because it carves men's faces as like men's as it can. and there are other people who will tell you that greek art is fine, because it is not true; and carves a lion's skin so as to look not at all like a lion's skin. and you fancy that one or the other of these sets of people must be wrong, and are perhaps much puzzled to find out which you should believe. but neither of them are wrong, and you will have eventually to believe, or rather to understand and know, in reconciliation, the truths taught by each; but for the present, the teachers of the first group are those you must follow. it is they who tell you the deepest and usefullest truth, which involves all others in time. greek art, and all other art, is fine when it makes a man's face as like a man's face as it can. hold to that. all kinds of nonsense are talked to you, nowadays, ingeniously and irrelevantly about art. therefore, for the most part of the day, shut your ears, and keep your eyes open: and understand primarily, what you may, i fancy, easily understand, that the greatest masters of all greatest schools--phidias, donatello, titian, velasquez, or sir joshua reynolds--all tried to make human creatures as like human creatures as they could; and that anything less like humanity than their work, is not so good as theirs. get that well driven into your heads; and don't let it out again, at your peril. . having got it well in, you may then further understand, safely, that three is a great deal of secondary work in pots, and pans, and floors, and carpets, and shawls, and architectural ornament, which ought essentially, to be unlike reality, and to depend for its charm on quite other qualities than imitative ones. but all such art is inferior and secondary--much of it more or less instinctive and animal, and a civilized human creature can only learn those principles rightly, by knowing those of great civilized art first--which is always the representation, to the utmost of its power, of whatever it has got to show--made to look as like the thing as possible. go into the national gallery, and look at the foot of correggio's venus there. correggio made it as like a foot as he could, and you won't easily find anything liker. now, you will find on any greek vase something meant for a foot, or a hand, which is not at all like one. the greek vase is a good thing in its way, but correggio's picture is the best work. . so, again, go into the turner room of the national gallery, and look at turner's drawing of "ivy bridge." you will find the water in it is like real water, and the ducks in it are like real ducks. then go into the british museum, and look for an egyptian landscape, and you will find the water in that constituted of blue zigzags, not at all like water; and ducks in the middle of it made of blue lines, looking not in the least as if they could stand stuffing with sage and onions. they are very good in their way, but turner's are better. . i will not pause to fence my general principle against what you perfectly well know of the due contradiction,--that a thing may be painted very like, yet painted ill. rest content with knowing that it must be like, if it is painted well; and take this further general law: imitation is like charity. when it is done for love it is lovely; when it is done for show, hateful. . well, then, this greek coin is fine, first because the face is like a face. perhaps you think there is something particularly handsome in the face, which you can't see in the photograph, or can't at present appreciate. but there is nothing of the kind. it is a very regular, quiet, commonplace sort of face; and any average english gentleman's, of good descent, would be far handsomer. . fix that in your heads also, therefore, that greek faces are not particularly beautiful. of that much nonsense against which you are to keep your ears shut, that which is talked to you of the greek ideal of beauty is the absolutest. there is not a single instance of a very beautiful head left by the highest school of greek art. on coins, there is even no approximately beautiful one. the juno of argos is a virago; the athena of athens grotesque, the athena of corinth is insipid; and of thurium, sensual. the siren ligeia, and fountain of arethusa, on the coins of terina and syracuse, are prettier, but totally without expression, and chiefly set off by their well-curled hair. you might have expected something subtle in mercuries; but the mercury of Ænus is a very stupid-looking fellow, in a cap like a bowl, with a knob on the top of it. the bacchus of thasos is a drayman with his hair pomatum'd. the jupiter of syracurse is, however, calm and refined; and the apollo of clazomenæ would have been impressive, if he had not come down to us, much flattened by friction. but on the whole, the merit of greek coins does not primarily depend on beauty of features, nor even, in the period of highest art, that of the statues. you make take the venus of melos as a standard of beauty of the central greek type. she has tranquil, regular, and lofty features; but could not hold her own for a moment against the beauty of a simple english girl, of pure race and kind heart. . and the reason that greek art, on the whole, bores you (and you know it does), is that you are always forced to look in it for something that is not there; but which may be seen every day, in real life, all round you; and which you are naturally disposed to delight in, and ought to delight in. for the greek race was not at all one of exalted beauty, but only of general and healthy completeness of form. they were only, and could be only, beautiful in body to the degree that they were beautiful in soul (for you will find, when you read deeply into the matter, that the body is only the soul made visible). and the greeks were indeed very good people, much better people than most of us think, or than many of us are; but there are better people alive now than the best of them, and lovelier people to be seen now than the loveliest of them. . then what are the merits of this greek art, which make it so exemplary for you? well, not that it is beautiful, but that it is right.* all that it desires to do, it does, and all that it does, does well. you will find, as you advance in the knowledge of art, that its laws of self-restraint are very marvelous; that its peace of heart, and contentment in doing a simple thing, with only one or two qualities, restrictedly desired, and sufficiently attained, are a most wholesome element of education for you, as opposed to the wild writhing, and wrestling, and longing for the moon, and tilting at windmills, and agony of eyes, and torturing of fingers, and general spinning out of one's soul into fiddle-strings, which constitute the ideal life of a modern artist. * compare above, § . also observe, there is an entire masterhood of its business up to the required point. a greek does not reach after other people's strength, nor outreach his own. he never tries to paint before he can draw; he never tries to lay on flesh where there are no bones; and he never expects to find the bones of anything in his inner consciousness. those are his first merits--sincere and innocent purpose, strong common-sense and principle, and all the strength that follows on that strength. . but, secondly, greek art is always exemplary in disposition of masses, which is a thing that in modern days students rarely look for, artists not enough, and the public never. but, whatever else greek work may fail of, you may always be sure its masses are well placed, and their placing has been the object of the most subtle care. look, for instance, at the inscription in front of this hercules of the name of the town-- camarina. you can't read it, even though you may know greek, without some pains; for the sculptor knew well enough that it mattered very little whether you read it or not, for the camarina hercules could tell his own story; but what did above all things matter was, that no k or a or m should come in a wrong place with respect to the outline of the head, and divert the eye from it, or spoil any of its lines. so the whole inscription is thrown into a sweeping curve of gradually diminishing size, continuing from the lion's paws, round the neck, up to the forehead, and answering a decorative purpose as completely as the curls of the mane opposite. of these, again, you cannot change or displace one without mischief; they are almost as even in reticulation as a piece of basket-work; but each has a different form and a due relation to the rest, and if you set to work to draw that mane rightly, you will find that, whatever time you give to it, you can't get the tresses quite into their places, and that every tress out of its place does an injury. if you want to test your powers of accurate drawing, you may make that lion's mane your pons asinorum, i have never yet met with a student who didn't make an ass in a lion's skin of himself when he tried it. . granted, however, that these tresses may be finely placed, still they are not like a lion's mane. so we come back to the question,--if the face is to be like a man's face, why is not the lion's mane to be like a lion's mane? well, because it can't be like a lion's mane without too much trouble,--and inconvenience after that, and poor success, after all. too much trouble, in cutting the die into fine fringes and jags; inconvenience after that,--because, though you can easily stamp cheeks and foreheads smooth at a blow, you can't stamp projecting tresses fine at a blow, whatever pains you take with your die. so your greek uses his common sense, wastes no time, uses no skill, and says to you, "here is beautifully set tresses, which i have carefully designed and easily stamped. enjoy them, and if you cannot understand that they mean lion's mane, heaven mend your wits." . see, then, you have in this work well-founded knowledge, simple and right aims, thorough mastery of handicraft, splendid invention in arrangement, unerring common sense in treatment,--merits, these, i think, exemplary enough to justify our tormenting you a little with greek art. but it has one merit more than these, the greatest of all. it always means something worth saying. not merely worth saying for that time only, but for all time. what do you think this helmet of lion's hide is always given to hercules for? you can't suppose it means only that he once killed a lion, and always carried its skin afterwards to show that he had, as indian sportsmen sent home stuffed rugs, with claws at the corners, and a lump in the middle which one tumbles over every time one stirs the fire. what was this nemean lion, whose spoils were evermore to cover hercules from the cold? not merely a large specimen of felis leo, ranging the fields of nemea, be sure of that. this nemean cub was one of a bad litter. born of typhon and echidna,--of the whirlwind and the snake,--cerberus his brother, the hydra of lerna his sister,--it must have been difficult to get his hide off him. he had to be found in darkness, too, and dealt upon without weapons, by grip at the throat-- arrows and club of no avail against him. what does all that mean? . it means that the nemean lion is the first great adversary of life, whatever that may be--to hercules, or to any of us, then or now. the first monster we have to strangle, or be destroyed by, fighting in the dark, and with none to help us, only athena standing by to encourage with her smile. every man's nemean lion lies in wait for him somewhere. the slothful man says, there is a lion in the path. he says well. the quiet unslothful man says the same, and knows it too. but they differ in their further reading of the text. the slothful man says, i shall be slain, and the unslothful, it shall be. it is the first ugly and strong enemy that rises against us, all future victory depending on victory over that. kill it; and through all the rest of your life, what was once dreadful is your armor, and you are clothed with that conquest for every other, and helmed with its crest of fortitude for evermore. alas, we have most of us to walk bare-headed; but that is the meaning of the story of nemea,--worth laying to heart and thinking of sometimes, when you see a dish garnished with parsley, which was the crown at the nemean games. . how far, then, have we got in our list of the merits of greek art now? sound knowledge. simple aims. mastered craft. vivid invention. strong common sense. and eternally true and wise meaning. are these not enough? here is one more, then, which will find favor, i should think, with the british lion. greek art is never frightened at anything; it is always cool. . it differs essentially from all other art, past or present, in this incapability of being frightened. half the power and imagination of every other school depend on a certain feverish terror mingling with their sense of beauty,--the feeling that a child has in a dark room, or a sick person in seeing ugly dreams. but the greeks never have ugly dreams. they cannot draw anything ugly when they try. sometimes they put themselves to their wits'-end to draw an ugly thing,--the medusa's head, for instance,--but they can't do it, not they, because nothing frightens them. they widen the mouth, and grind the teeth, and puff the cheeks, and set the eyes a goggling; and the thing is only ridiculous after all, not the least dreadful, for there is no dread in their hearts. pensiveness; amazement; often deepest grief and desolateness. all these; but terror never. everlasting calm in the presence of all fate; and joy such as they could win, not indeed in a perfect beauty, but in beauty at perfect rest! a kind of art this, surely, to be looked at, and thought upon sometimes with profit, even in these latter days. . to be looked at sometimes. not continually, and never as a model for imitation. for you are not greeks; but, for better or worse, english creatures; and cannot do, even if it were a thousand times better worth doing, anything well, except what your english hearts shall prompt, and your english skies teach you. for all good art is the natural utterance of its own people in its own day. but also, your own art is a better and brighter one than ever this greek art was. many motives, powers, and insights have been added to those elder ones. the very corruptions into which we have fallen are signs of a subtle life, higher than theirs was, and therefore more fearful in its faults and death. christianity has neither superceded, nor, by itself, excelled heathenism; but it has added its own good, won also by many a nemean contest in dark valleys, to all that was good and noble in heathenism; and our present thoughts and work, when they are right, are nobler than the heathen's. and we are not reverent enough to them, because we possess too much of them. that sketch of four cherub heads from and english girl, by sir joshua reynolds, at kensington, is an incomparably finer thing than ever the greeks did. ineffably tender in the touch, yet herculean in power; innocent, yet exalted in feeling; pure in color as a pearl; reserved and decisive in design, as this lion crest, --if it alone existed of such,--if it were a picture by zeuxis, the only one left in the world, and you build a shrine for it, and were allowed to see it only seven days in a year, it alone would teach you all of art that you ever needed to know. but you do not learn from this or any other such work, because you have not reverence enough for them, and are trying to learn from all at once, and from a hundred other masters besides. . here, then, is the practical advice which i would venture to deduce from what i have tried to show you. use greek art as a first, not a final, teacher. learn to draw carefully from greek work; above all, to place forms correctly, and to use light and shade tenderly. never allow yourselves black shadows. it is easy to make things look round and projecting; but the things to exercise yourselves in are the placing of the masses, and the modelling of the lights. it is an admirable exercise to take a pale wash of color for all the shadows, never reinforcing it everywhere, but drawing the statue as if it were in far distance, making all the darks one flat pale tint. then model from those into the lights, rounding as well as you can, on those subtle conditions. in your chalk drawings, separate the lights from the darks at once all over; then reinforce the darks slightly where absolutely necessary, and put your whole strength on the lights and their limits. then, when you have learned to draw thoroughly, take one master for your painting, as you would have done necessarily in old times by being put into his school (were i to choose for you, it should be among six men only--titian, correggio, paul veronese, velasquez, reynolds, or holbein). if you are a landscapist, turner must be your only guide (for no other great landscape painter has yet lived); and having chosen, do your best to understand your own chosen master, and obey him, and no one else, till you have strength to deal with the nature itself round you, and then, be your own master, and see with your own eyes. if you have got masterhood or sight in you, that is the way to make the most of them; and if you have neither, you will at least be sound in your work, prevented from immodest and useless effort, and protected from vulgar and fantastic error. and so i wish you all, good speed, and the favor of hercules and of the muses; and to those who shall best deserve them, the crown of parsley first and then of the laurel. old greek folk stories told anew by josephine preston peabody publishers' note. hawthorne, in his _wonder-book_ and _tanglewood tales_, has told, in a manner familiar to multitudes of american children and to many more who once were children, a dozen of the old greek folk stories. they have served to render the persons and scenes known as no classical dictionary would make them known. but hawthorne chose a few out of the many myths which are constantly appealing to the reader not only of ancient but of modern literature. the group contained in the collection which follows will help to fill out the list; it is designed to serve as a complement to the _wonder-book_ and _tanglewood tales_, so that the references to the stories in those collections are brief and allusive only. in order to make the entire series more useful, the index added to this number of the _riverside literature series_ is made to include also the stories contained in the other numbers of the series which contain hawthorne's two books. thus the index serves as a tolerably full clue to the best-known characters in greek mythology. _once upon a time, men made friends with the earth. they listened to all that woods and waters might say; their eyes were keen to see wonders in silent country places and in the living creatures that had not learned to be afraid. to this wise world outside the people took their joy and sorrow; and because they loved the earth, she answered them._ _it was not strange that pan himself sometimes brought home a shepherd's stray lamb. it was not strange, if one broke the branches of a tree, that some fair life within wept at the hurt. even now, the earth is glad with us in springtime, and we grieve for her when the leaves go. but in the old days there was a closer union, clearer speech between men and all other creatures, earth and the stars about her._ _out of the life that they lived together, there have come down to us these wonderful tales; and, whether they be told well or ill, they are too good to be forgotten._ contents. the wood-folk the judgment of midas prometheus the deluge orpheus and eurydice icarus and daedalus phaethon niobe admetus and the shepherd alcestis apollo's sister i. diana and actaeon ii. diana and endymion the calydonian hunt atalanta's race arachne pyramus and thisbe pygmalion and galatea oedipus cupid and psyche the trial of psyche stories op the trojan war i. the apple of discord ii. the rousing of the heroes iii. the wooden horse the house of agamemnon the adventures of odysseus i. the curse of polyphemus ii. the wandering of odysseus iii. the home-coming the wood-folk. pan led a merrier life than all the other gods together. he was beloved alike by shepherds and countrymen, and by the fauns and satyrs, birds and beasts, of his own kingdom. the care of flocks and herds was his, and for home he had all the world of woods and waters; he was lord of everything out-of-doors! yet he felt the burden of it no more than he felt the shadow of a leaf when he danced, but spent the days in laughter and music among his fellows. like him, the fauns and satyrs had furry, pointed ears, and little horns that sprouted above their brows; in fact, they were all enough like wild creatures to seem no strangers to anything untamed. they slept in the sun, piped in the shade, and lived on wild grapes and the nuts that every squirrel was ready to share with them. the woods were never lonely. a man might wander away into those solitudes and think himself friendless; but here and there a river knew, and a tree could tell, a story of its own. beautiful creatures they were, that for one reason or another had left off human shape. some had been transformed against their will, that they might do no more harm to their fellow-men. some were changed through the pity of the gods, that they might share the simple life of pan, mindless of mortal cares, glad in rain and sunshine, and always close to the heart of the earth. there was dryope, for instance, the lotus-tree. once a careless, happy woman, walking among the trees with her sister iole and her own baby, she had broken a lotus that held a live nymph hidden, and blood dripped from the wounded plant. too late, dryope saw her heedlessness; and there her steps had taken root, and there she had said good-by to her child, and prayed iole to bring him sometimes to play beneath her shadow. poor mother-tree! perhaps she took comfort with the birds and gave a kindly shelter to some nest. there, too, was echo, once a wood-nymph who angered the goddess juno with her waste of words, and was compelled now to wait till others spoke, and then to say nothing but their last word, like any mocking-bird. one day she saw and loved the youth narcissus, who was searching the woods for his hunting companions. "come hither!" he called, and echo cried "hither!" eager to speak at last. "here am i,--come!" he repeated, looking about for the voice. "i come," said echo, and she stood before him. but the youth, angry at such mimicry, only stared at her and hastened away. from that time she faded to a voice, and to this day she lurks hidden and silent till you call. but narcissus himself was destined to fall in love with a shadow. for, leaning over the edge of a brook one day, he saw his own beautiful face looking up at him like a water-nymph. he leaned nearer, and the face rose towards him, but when he touched the surface it was gone in a hundred ripples. day after day he besought the lovely creature to have pity and to speak; but it mocked him with his own tears and smiles, and he forgot all else, until he changed into a flower that leans over to see its image in the pool. there, too, was the sunflower clytie, once a maiden who thought nothing so beautiful as the sun-god phoebus apollo. all the day long she used to look after him as he journeyed across the heavens in his golden chariot, until she came to be a fair rooted plant that ever turns its head to watch the sun. many like were there. daphne the laurel, hyacinthus (once a beautiful youth, slain by mischance), who lives and renews his bloom as a flower,--these and a hundred others. the very weeds were friendly.... but there were wise, immortal voices in certain caves and trees. men called them oracles; for here the gods spoke in answer to the prayers of folk in sorrow or bewilderment. sometimes they built a temple around such a befriending voice, and kings would journey far to hear it speak. as for pan, only one grief had he, and in the end a glad thing came of it. one day, when he was loitering in arcadia, he saw the beautiful wood-nymph syrinx. she was hastening to join diana at the chase, and she herself was as swift and lovely as any bright bird that one longs to capture. so pan thought, and he hurried after to tell her. but syrinx turned, caught one glimpse of the god's shaggy locks and bright eyes, and the two little horns on his head (he was much like a wild thing, at a look), and she sprang away down the path in terror. begging her to listen, pan followed; and syrinx, more and more frightened by the patter of his hoofs, never heeded him, but went as fast as light till she came to the brink of the river. only then she paused, praying her friends, the water-nymphs, for some way of escape. the gentle, bewildered creatures, looking up through the water, could think of but one device. just as the god overtook syrinx and stretched out his arms to her, she vanished like a mist, and he found himself grasping a cluster of tall reeds. poor pan! the breeze that sighed whenever he did--and oftener--shook the reeds and made a sweet little sound,--a sudden music. pan heard it, half consoled. "is it your voice, syrinx?" he said. "shall we sing together?" he bound a number of the reeds side by side; to this day, shepherds know how. he blew across the hollow pipes and they made music! the judgment of midas pan came at length to be such a wonderful piper with his syrinx (for so he named his flute) that he challenged apollo to make better music if he could. now the sun-god was also the greatest of divine musicians, and he resolved to punish the vanity of the country-god, and so consented to the test. for judge they chose the mountain tmolus, since no one is so old and wise as the hills. and, since tmolus could not leave his home, to him went pan and apollo, each with his followers, oreads and dryads, fauns, satyrs, and centaurs. among the worshippers of pan was a certain midas, who had a strange story. once a king of great wealth, he had chanced to befriend dionysus, god of the vine; and when he was asked to choose some good gift in return, he prayed that everything he touched might be turned into gold. dionysus smiled a little when he heard this foolish prayer, but he granted it. within two days, king midas learned the secret of that smile, and begged the god to take away the gift that was a curse. he had touched everything that belonged to him, and little joy did he have of his possessions! his palace was as yellow a home as a dandelion to a bee, but not half so sweet. row upon row of stiff golden trees stood in his garden; they no longer knew a breeze when they heard it. when he sat down to eat, his feast turned to treasure uneatable. he learned that a king may starve, and he came to see that gold cannot replace the live, warm gifts of the earth. kindly dionysus took back the charm, but from that day king midas so hated gold that he chose to live far from luxury, among the woods and fields. even here he was not to go free from misadventure. tmolus gave the word, and pan uprose with his syrinx, and blew upon the reeds a melody so wild and yet so coaxing that the squirrels came, as if at a call, and the birds hopped down in rows. the trees swayed with a longing to dance, and the fauns looked at one another and laughed for joy. to their furry little ears, it was the sweetest music that could be. but tmolus bowed before apollo, and the sun-god rose with his golden lyre in his hands. as he moved, light shook out of his radiant hair as raindrops are showered from the leaves. his trailing robes were purple, like the clouds that temper the glory of a sunset, so that one may look upon it. he touched the strings of his lyre, and all things were silent with joy. he made music, and the woods dreamed. the fauns and satyrs were quite still; and the wild creatures crouched, blinking, under a charm of light that they could not understand. to hear such a music cease was like bidding farewell to father and mother. with one accord they fell at the feet of apollo, and tmolus proclaimed the victory his. only one voice disputed that award. midas refused to acknowledge apollo lord of music,--perhaps because the looks of the god dazzled his eyes unpleasantly, and put him in mind of his foolish wish years before. for him there was no music in a golden lyre! but apollo would not leave such dull ears unpunished. at a word from him they grew long, pointed, furry, and able to turn this way and that (like a poplar leaf),--a plain warning to musicians. midas had the ears of an ass, for every one to see! for a long time the poor man hid this oddity with such skill that we might never have heard of it. but one of his servants learned the secret, and suffered so much from keeping it to himself that he had to unburden his mind at last. out into the meadows he went, hollowed a little place in the turf, whispered the strange news into it quite softly, and heaped the earth over again. alas! a bed of reeds sprang up there before long, and whispered in turn to the grass-blades. year after year they grew again, ever gossipping among themselves; and to this day, with every wind that sets them nodding together, they murmur, laughing, "_midas has the ears of an ass: oh, hush, hush!_" prometheus. in the early days of the universe, there was a great struggle for empire between zeus and the titans. the titans, giant powers of heaven and earth, were for seizing whatever they wanted, with no more ado than a whirlwind. prometheus, the wisest of all their race, long tried to persuade them that good counsel would avail more than violence; but they refused to listen. then, seeing that such rulers would soon turn heaven and earth into chaos again, prometheus left them to their own devices, and went over to zeus, whom he aided so well that the titans were utterly overthrown. down into tartarus they went, to live among the hidden fires of the earth; and there they spent a long term of bondage, muttering like storm, and shaking the roots of mountains. one of them was enceladus, who lay bound under aetna; and one, atlas, was made to stand and bear up the weight of the sky on his giant shoulders. zeus was left king of gods and men. like any young ruler, he was eager to work great changes with his new power. among other plans, he proposed to destroy the race of men then living, and to replace it with some new order of creatures. prometheus alone heard this scheme with indignation. not only did he plead for the life of man and save it, but ever after he spent his giant efforts to civilize the race, and to endow it with a wit near to that of gods. in the golden age, men had lived free of care. they took no heed of daily wants, since zeus gave them all things needful, and the earth brought forth fruitage and harvest without asking the toil of husbandmen. if mortals were light of heart, however, their minds were empty of great enterprise. they did not know how to build or plant or weave; their thoughts never flew far, and they had no wish to cross the sea. but prometheus loved earthly folk, and thought that they had been children long enough. he was a mighty workman, with the whole world for a workshop; and little by little he taught men knowledge that is wonderful to know, so that they grew out of their childhood, and began to take thought for themselves. some people even say that he knew how to make men,--as we make shapes out of clay,--and set their five wits going. however that may be, he was certainly a cunning workman. he taught men first to build huts out of clay, and to thatch roofs with straw. he showed them how to make bricks and hew marble. he taught them numbers and letters, the signs of the seasons, and the coming and going of the stars. he showed them how to use for their healing the simple herbs that once had no care save to grow and be fragrant. he taught them how to till the fields; how to tame the beasts, and set them also to work; how to build ships that ride the water, and to put wings upon them that they may go faster, like birds. with every new gift, men desired more and more. they set out to see unknown lands, and their ambitions grew with their knowledge. they were like a race of poor gods gifted with dreams of great glory and the power to fashion marvellous things; and, though they had no endless youth to spend, the gods were troubled. last of all, prometheus went up secretly to heaven after the treasure of the immortals. he lighted a reed at the flame of the sun, and brought down the holy fire which is dearest to the gods. for with the aid of fire all things are possible, all arts are perfected. this was his greatest gift to man, but it was a theft from the immortal gods, and zeus would endure no more. he could not take back the secret of fire; but he had prometheus chained to a lofty crag in the caucasus, where every day a vulture came to prey upon his body, and at night the wound would heal, so that it was ever to suffer again. it was a bitter penalty for so noble-hearted a rebel, and as time went by, and zeus remembered his bygone services, he would have made peace once more. he only waited till prometheus should bow his stubborn spirit, but this the son of titans would not do. haughty as rock beneath his daily torment, believing that he suffered for the good of mankind, he endured for years. one secret hardened his spirit. he was sure that the empire of zeus must fall some day, since he knew of a danger that threatened it. for there was a certain beautiful sea-nymph, thetis, whom zeus desired for his wife. (this was before his marriage to queen juno.) prometheus alone knew that thetis was destined to have a son who should be far greater than his father. if she married some mortal, then, the prophecy was not so wonderful; but if she were to marry the king of gods and men, and her son should be greater than he, there could be no safety for the kingdom. this knowledge prometheus kept securely hidden; but he ever defied zeus, and vexed him with dark sayings about a danger that threatened his sovereignty. no torment could wring the secret from him. year after year, lashed by the storms and scorched by the heat of the sun, he hung in chains and the vulture tore his vitals, while the young oceanides wept at his feet, and men sorrowed over the doom of their protector. at last that earlier enmity between the gods and the titans came to an end. the banished rebels were set free from tartarus, and they themselves came and besought their brother, prometheus, to hear the terms of zeus. for the king of gods and men had promised to pardon his enemy, if he would only reveal this one troublous secret. in all heaven and earth there was but one thing that marred the new harmony,--this long struggle between zeus and prometheus; and the titan relented. he spoke the prophecy, warned zeus not to marry thetis, and the two were reconciled. the hero heracles (himself an earthly son of zeus) slew the vulture and set prometheus free. but it was still needful that a life should be given to expiate that ancient sin,--the theft of fire. it happened that chiron, noblest of all the centaurs (who are half horses and half men), was wandering the world in agony from a wound that he had received by strange mischance. for, at a certain wedding-feast among the lapithae of thessaly, one of the turbulent centaurs had attempted to steal away the bride. a fierce struggle followed, and in the general confusion, chiron, blameless as he was, had been wounded by a poisoned arrow. ever tormented with the hurt and never to be healed, the immortal centaur longed for death, and begged that he might be accepted as an atonement for prometheus. the gods heard his prayer and took away his pain and his immortality. he died like any wearied man, and zeus set him as a shining archer among the stars. so ended a long feud. from the day of prometheus, men spent their lives in ceaseless enterprise, forced to take heed for food and raiment, since they knew how, and to ply their tasks of art and handicraft, they had taken unresting toil upon them, but they had a wondrous servant at their beck and call,--the bright-eyed fire that is the treasure of the gods. the deluge. even with the gifts of prometheus, men could not rest content. as years went by, they lost all the innocence of the early world; they grew more and more covetous and evil-hearted. not satisfied with the fruits of the earth, or with the fair work of their own hands, they delved in the ground after gold and jewels; and for the sake of treasure nations made war upon each other and hate sprang up in households. murder and theft broke loose and left nothing sacred. at last zeus spoke. calling the gods together, he said: "ye see what the earth has become through the baseness of men. once they were deserving of our protection; now they even neglect to ask it. i will destroy them with my thunderbolts and make a new race." but the gods withheld him from this impulse. "for," they said, "let not the earth, the mother of all, take fire and perish. but seek out some means to destroy mankind and leave her unhurt." so zeus unloosed the waters of the world and there was a great flood. the streams that had been pent in narrow channels, like wild steeds bound to the ploughshare, broke away with exultation; the springs poured down from the mountains, and the air was blind with rain. valleys and uplands were covered; strange countries were joined in one great sea; and where the highest trees had towered, only a little greenery pricked through the water, as weeds show in a brook. men and women perished with the flocks and herds. wild beasts from the forest floated away on the current with the poor sheep. birds, left homeless, circled and flew far and near seeking some place of rest, and, finding none, they fell from weariness and died with human folk, that had no wings. then for the first time the sea-creatures--nymphs and dolphins--ventured far from their homes, up, up through the swollen waters, among places that they had never seen before,--forests whose like they had not dreamed, towns and deluged farmsteads. they went in and out of drowned palaces, and wondered at the strange ways of men. and in and out the bright fish darted, too, without a fear. wonderful man was no more. his hearth was empty; and fire, his servant, was dead on earth. one mountain alone stood high above this ruin. it was parnassus, sacred to the gods; and here one man and woman had found refuge. strangely enough, this husband and wife were of the race of the titans,--deucalion, a son of prometheus, and pyrrha, a child of epimetheus, his brother; and these alone had lived pure and true of heart. warned by prometheus of the fate in store for the earth, they had put off from their home in a little boat, and had made the crest of parnassus their safe harbor. the gods looked down on these two lonely creatures, and, beholding all their past lives clear and just, suffered them to live on. zeus bade the rain cease and the floods withdraw. once more the rivers sought their wonted channels, and the sea-gods and the nymphs wandered home reluctantly with the sinking seas. the sun came out; and they hastened more eagerly to find cool depths. little by little the forest trees rose from the shallows as if they were growing anew. at last the surface of the world lay clear to see, but sodden and deserted, the fair fields covered with ooze, the houses rank with moss, the temples cold and lightless. deucalion and pyrrha saw the bright waste of water sink and grow dim and the hills emerge, and the earth show green once more. but even their thankfulness of heart could not make them merry. "are we to live on this great earth all alone?" they said. "ah! if we had but the wisdom and cunning of our fathers, we might make a new race of men to bear us company. but now what remains to us? we have only each other for all our kindred." "take heart, dear wife," said deucalion at length, "and let us pray to the gods in yonder temple." they went thither hand in hand. it touched their hearts to see the sacred steps soiled with the water-weeds,--the altar without fire; but they entered reverently, and besought the oracle to help them. "go forth," answered the spirit of the place, "with your faces veiled and your robes ungirt; and cast behind you, as ye go, the bones of your mother." deucalion and pyrrha heard with amazement. the strange word was terrible to them. "we may never dare do this," whispered pyrrha. "it would be impious to strew our mother's bones along the way." in sadness and wonder they went out together and took thought, a little comforted by the firmness of the dry earth beneath their feet. suddenly deucalion pointed to the ground. "behold the earth, our mother!" said he. "surely it was this that the oracle meant. and what should her bones be but the rocks that are a foundation for the clay, and the pebbles that strew the path?" uncertain, but with lighter hearts, they veiled their faces, ungirt their garments, and, gathering each an armful of the stones, flung them behind, as the oracle had bidden. and, as they walked, every stone that deucalion flung became a man; and every one that pyrrha threw sprang up a woman. and the hearts of these two were filled with joy and welcome. down from the holy mountain they went, all those new creatures, ready to make them homes and to go about human work. for they were strong to endure, fresh and hardy of spirit, as men and women should be who are true children of our mother earth. orpheus and eurydice. when gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the day of musicians! but the triumph of phoebus apollo himself was not so wonderful as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on earth, though some say that he came of divine lineage. this was orpheus, that best of harpers, who went with the grecian heroes of the great ship argo in search of the golden fleece. after his return from the quest, he won eurydice for his wife, and they were as happy as people can be who love each other and every one else. the very wild beasts loved them, and the trees clustered about their home as if they were watered with music. but even the gods themselves were not always free from sorrow, and one day misfortune came upon that harper orpheus whom all men loved to honor. eurydice, his lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs, unwittingly trod upon a serpent in the grass. surely, if orpheus had been with her, playing upon his lyre, no creature could have harmed her. but orpheus came too late. she died of the sting, and was lost to him in the underworld. for days he wandered from his home, singing the story of his loss and his despair to the helpless passers-by. his grief moved the very stones in the wilderness, and roused a dumb distress in the hearts of savage beasts. even the gods on mount olympus gave ear, but they held no power over the darkness of hades. wherever orpheus wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to forbid him entrance; and at length he found unguarded that very cave that leads to the underworld where pluto rules the spirits of the dead. he went down without fear. the fire in his living heart found him a way through the gloom of that place. he crossed the styx, the black river that the gods name as their most sacred oath. charon, the harsh old ferryman who takes the shades across, forgot to ask of him the coin that every soul must pay. for orpheus sang. there in the underworld the song of apollo would not have moved the poor ghosts so much. it would have amazed them, like a star far off that no one understands. but here was a human singer, and he sang of things that grow in every human heart, youth and love and death, the sweetness of the earth, and the bitterness of losing aught that is dear to us. now the dead, when they go to the underworld, drink of the pool of lethe; and forgetfulness of all that has passed comes upon them like a sleep, and they lose their longing for the world, they lose their memory of pain, and live content with that cool twilight. but not the pool of lethe itself could withstand the song of orpheus; and in the hearts of the shades all the old dreams awoke wondering. they remembered once more the life of men on earth, the glory of the sun and moon, the sweetness of new grass, the warmth of their homes, all the old joy and grief that they had known. and they wept. even the furies were moved to pity. those, too, who were suffering punishment for evil deeds ceased to be tormented for themselves, and grieved only for the innocent orpheus who had lost eurydice. sisyphus, that fraudulent king (who is doomed to roll a monstrous boulder uphill forever), stopped to listen. the daughters of danaus left off their task of drawing water in a sieve. tantalus forgot hunger and thirst, though before his eyes hung magical fruits that were wont to vanish out of his grasp, and just beyond reach bubbled the water that was a torment to his ears; he did not hear it while orpheus sang. so, among a crowd of eager ghosts, orpheus came, singing with all his heart, before the king and queen of hades. and the queen proserpina wept as she listened and grew homesick, remembering the fields of enna and the growing of the wheat, and her own beautiful mother, demeter. then pluto gave way. they called eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to the darkness of the underworld. she was to return with orpheus, but on one condition. if he turned to look at her once before they reached the upper air, he must lose her again and go back to the world alone. rapt with joy, the happy orpheus hastened on the way, thinking only of eurydice, who was following him. past lethe, across the styx they went, he and his lovely wife, still silent as a shade. but the place was full of gloom, the silence weighed upon him, he had not seen her for so long; her footsteps made no sound; and he could hardly believe the miracle, for pluto seldom relents. when the first gleam of upper daylight broke through the cleft to the dismal world, he forgot all, save that he must know if she still followed. he turned to see her face, and the promise was broken! she smiled at him forgivingly, but it was too late. he stretched out his arms to take her, but she faded from them, as the bright snow, that none may keep, melts in our very hands. a murmur of farewell came to his ears,--no more. she was gone. he would have followed, but charon, now on guard, drove him back. seven days he lingered there between the worlds of life and death, but after the broken promise, hades would not listen to his song. back to the earth he wandered, though it was sweet to him no longer. he died young, singing to the last, and round about the place where his body rested, nightingales nested in the trees. his lyre was set among the stars; and he himself went down to join eurydice, unforbidden. those two had no need of lethe, for their life on earth had been wholly fair, and now that they are together they no longer own a sorrow. icarus and daedalus. among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets of the gods, none was more cunning than daedalus. he once built, for king minos of crete, a wonderful labyrinth of winding ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once inside, you could never find your way out again without a magic clue. but the king's favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his master architect imprisoned in a tower. daedalus managed to escape from his cell; but it seemed impossible to leave the island, since every ship that came or went was well guarded by order of the king. at length, watching the sea-gulls in the air,--the only creatures that were sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young son icarus, who was captive with him. little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. he fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. when they were done, daedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two efforts, he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and cleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. he held himself aloft, wavered this way and that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling, he learned to fly. without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy icarus, and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash adventures among the stars. "remember," said the father, "never to fly very low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you down, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if you go too near." for icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. who could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? are birds careful? not they! and not an idea remained in the boy's head but the one joy of escape. the day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. the father bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he waited to see that all was well with icarus, for the two could not fly hand in hand. up they rose, the boy after his father. the hateful ground of crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a glimpse of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a vision of the gods,--apollo, perhaps, with cupid after him. at first there was a terror in the joy. the wide vacancy of the air dazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. but when a great wind filled their wings, and icarus felt himself sustained, like a halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his mother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. he forgot crete and the other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that winged thing in the distance before him that was his father daedalus. he longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his captivity: he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the highest heavens. alas for him! warmer and warmer grew the air. those arms, that had seemed to uphold him, relaxed. his wings wavered, drooped. he fluttered his young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he remembered. the heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the feathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none to help. he fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that overtook daedalus far away. when he returned, and sought high and low for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on the water, and he knew that icarus was drowned. the nearest island he named icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in heavy grief, went to the temple of apollo in sicily, and there hung up his wings as an offering. never again did he attempt to fly. phaethon. once upon a time, the reckless whim of a lad came near to destroying the earth and robbing the spheres of their wits. there were two playmates, said to be of heavenly parentage. one was epaphus, who claimed zeus as a father; and one was phaethon, the earthly child of phoebus apollo (or helios, as some name the sun-god). one day they were boasting together, each of his own father, and epaphus, angry at the other's fine story, dared him to go prove his kinship with the sun. full of rage and humiliation, phaethon went to his mother, clymene, where she sat with his young sisters, the heliades. "it is true, my child," she said, "i swear it in the light of yonder sun. if you have any doubt, go to the land whence he rises at morning and ask of him any gift you will; he is your father, and he cannot refuse you." as soon as might be, phaethon set out for the country of sunrise. he journeyed by day and by night far into the east, till he came to the palace of the sun. it towered high as the clouds, glorious with gold and all manner of gems that looked like frozen fire, if that might be. the mighty walls were wrought with images of earth and sea and sky. vulcan, the smith of the gods, had made them in his workshop (for mount-aetna is one of his forges, and he has the central fires of the earth to help him fashion gold and iron, as men do glass). on the doors blazed the twelve signs of the zodiac, in silver that shone like snow in the sunlight. phaethon was dazzled with the sight, but when he entered the palace hall he could hardly bear the radiance. in one glimpse through his half-shut eyes, he beheld a glorious being, none other than phoebus himself, seated upon a throne. he was clothed in purple raiment, and round his head there shone a blinding light, that enveloped even his courtiers upon the right and upon the left,--the seasons with their emblems, day, month, year, and the beautiful young hours in a row. in one glance of those all-seeing eyes, the sun-god knew his child; but in order to try him he asked the boy his errand. "o my father," stammered phaethon, "if you are my father indeed," and then he took courage; for the god came down from his throne, put off the glorious halo that hurt mortal eyes, and embraced him tenderly. "indeed, thou art my son," said he. "ask any gift of me and it shall be thine; i call the styx to witness." "ah!" cried phaethon rapturously. "let me drive thy chariot for one day!" for an instant the sun's looks clouded. "choose again, my child," said he. "thou art only a mortal, and this task is mine alone of all the gods. not zeus himself dare drive the chariot of the sun. the way is full of terrors, both for the horses and for all the stars along the roadside, and for the earth, who has all blessings from me. listen, and choose again." and therewith he warned phaethon of all the dangers that beset the way,--the great steep that the steeds must climb, the numbing dizziness of the height, the fierce constellations that breathe out fire, and that descent in the west where the sun seems to go headlong. but these counsels only made the reckless boy more eager to win honor of such a high enterprise. "i will take care; only let me go," he begged. now phoebus' had sworn by the black river styx, an oath that none of the gods dare break, and he was forced to keep his promise. already aurora, goddess of dawn, had thrown open the gates of the east and the stars were beginning to wane. the hours came forth to harness the four horses, and phaethon looked with exultation at the splendid creatures, whose lord he was for a day. wild, immortal steeds they were, fed with ambrosia, untamed as the winds; their very pet names signified flame, and all that flame can do,--pyrois, eoüs, aethon, phlegon. as the lad stood by, watching, phoebus anointed his face with a philter that should make him strong to endure the terrible heat and light, then set the halo upon his head, with a last word of counsel. "follow the road," said he, "and never turn aside. go not too high or too low, for the sake of heavens and earth; else men and gods will suffer. the fates alone know whether evil is to come of this. yet if your heart fails you, as i hope, abide here and i will make the journey, as i am wont to do." but phaethon held to his choice and bade his father farewell. he took his place in the chariot, gathered up the reins, and the horses sprang away, eager for the road. as they went, they bent their splendid necks to see the meaning of the strange hand upon the reins,--the slender weight in the chariot. they turned their wild eyes upon phaethon, to his secret foreboding, and neighed one to another. this was no master-charioteer, but a mere lad, a feather riding the wind. it was holiday for the horses of the sun, and away they went. grasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy, phaethon looked down from the fearful ascent and saw the earth far beneath him, dim and fair. he was blind with dizziness and bewilderment. his hold slackened and the horses redoubled their speed, wild with new liberty. they left the old tracks. before he knew where he was, they had startled the constellations and well-nigh grazed the serpent, so that it woke from its torpor and hissed. the steeds took fright. this way and that they went, terrified by the monsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of their silver quiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing as far to the south among new wonders. the heavens were full of terror. up, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the defenceless earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the sun. great rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were consumed. harvests perished like a moth that is singed in a candle-flame. in vain did phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins. as in a hideous dream, he saw his own earth, his beautiful home and the home of all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad chariot, and blackening beneath him. the ground cracked open and the sea shrank. heedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the shallows, were left gasping like bright fishes. the dryads shrank, and tried to cover themselves from the scorching heat. the poor earth lifted her withered face in a last prayer to zeus to save them if he might. then zeus, calling all the gods to witness that there was no other means of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and phaethon knew no more. his body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting-star; and the horses of the sun dashed homeward with the empty chariot. poor clymene grieved sore over the boy's death; but the young heliades, daughters of the sun, refused all comfort. day and night they wept together about their brother's grave by the river, until the gods took pity and changed them all into poplar-trees. and ever after that they wept sweet tears of amber, clear as sunlight. niobe. there are so many tales of the vanity of kings and queens that the half of them cannot be told. there was cassiopaeia, queen of aethiopia, who boasted that her beauty outshone the beauty of all the sea-nymphs, so that in anger they sent a horrible sea-serpent to ravage the coast. the king prayed of an oracle to know how the monster might be appeased, and learned that he must offer up his own daughter, andromeda. the maiden was therefore chained to a rock by the sea-side, and left to her fate. but who should come to rescue her but a certain young hero, perseus, who was hastening homeward after a perilous adventure with the snaky-haired gorgons. filled with pity at the story of andromeda, he waited for the dragon, met and slew him, and set the maiden free. as for the boastful queen, the gods forgave her, and at her death she was set among the stars. that story ended well. but there was once a queen of thebes, niobe, fortunate above all women, and yet arrogant in the face of the gods. very beautiful she was, and nobly born, but above all things she boasted of her children, for she had seven sons and seven daughters. now there came the day when the people were wont to celebrate the feast of latona, mother of apollo and diana; and niobe, as she stood looking upon the worshippers on their way to the temple, was filled with overweening pride. "why do you worship latona before me?" she cried out. "what does she possess that i have not in greater abundance? she has but two children, while i have seven sons and as many daughters. nay, if she robbed me out of envy, i should still be rich. go back to your houses; you have not eyes to know the rightful goddess." such impiety was enough to frighten any one, and her subjects returned to their daily work, awestruck and silent. but apollo and diana were filled with wrath at this insult to their divine mother. not only was she a great goddess and a power in the heavens, but during her life on earth she had suffered many hardships for their sake. the serpent python had been sent to torment her; and, driven from land to land, under an evil spell, beset with dangers, she had found no resting-place but the island of delos, held sacred ever after to her and her children. once she had even been refused water by some churlish peasants, who could not believe in a goddess if she appeared in humble guise and travel-worn. but these men were all changed into frogs. it needed no word from latona herself to rouse her children to vengeance. swift as a thought, the two immortal archers, brother and sister, stood in thebes, upon the towers of the citadel. near by, the youth were pursuing their sports, while the feast of latona went neglected. the sons of queen niobe were there, and against them apollo bent his golden bow. an arrow crossed the air like a sunbeam, and without a word the eldest prince fell from his horse. one by one his brothers died by the same hand, so swiftly that they knew not what had befallen them, till all the sons of the royal house lay slain. only the people of thebes, stricken with terror, bore the news to queen niobe, where she sat with her seven daughters. she would not believe in such a sorrow. "savage latona," she cried, lifting her arms against the heavens, "never think that you have conquered. i am still the greater." at that moment one of her daughters sank beside her. diana had sped an arrow from her bow that is like the crescent moon. without a cry, nay, even as they murmured words of comfort, the sisters died, one by one. it was all as swift and soundless as snowfall. only the guilty mother was left, transfixed with grief. tears flowed from her eyes, but she spoke not a word, her heart never softened; and at last she turned to stone, and the tears flowed down her cold face forever. admetus and the shepherd. apollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most glorious of the gods. one day, in anger with the cyclopes who work at the forges of vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of all the gods, but especially of zeus. (for the cyclopes always make his thunderbolts, and make them well.) even the divine archer could not go unpunished, and as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a year. some say one year and some say nine, but in those days time passed quickly; and as for the gods, they took no heed of it. now there was a certain king in thessaly, admetus by name, and there came to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the palace. none knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when they questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high trust. so without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the royal flocks. every day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river amphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. the country-folk that passed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. he seemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the ills of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe for hours in the sun. a simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know much more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the people wished him sunny weather. indeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and, like the shepherd, found the place friendly. nowhere else were the flocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright sky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. then the grasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks, and the country-men gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the slaying of the monster python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a lovely maiden, daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. in time the rumor of these things drew the king himself to listen; and admetus, who had been to see the world in the ship argo, knew at once that this was no earthly shepherd, but a god. from that day, like a true king, he treated his guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions; and the god was well pleased. now it came to pass that admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden, alcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father pelias had laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. only that man who should come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion might ever marry alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a king. as for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and left the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. if the sun had gone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. the king himself went, late in the day, to walk by the river amphrysus, and wonder if his gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time of need. but at that very moment, whom should he see returning from the woods but the shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a lion and a boar, as gentle as two sheep! the very next morning, with joy and gratitude, admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of pelias, and there he wooed and won alcestis, the most loving wife that was ever heard of. it was well for admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the year was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. the strange man came to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended. "blessed be your flocks, admetus," he said, smiling. "they shall prosper even though i leave them. and, because you can discern the gods that come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go far from your home, but ever return to be your guest. no man may live on earth forever, but this one gift have i obtained for you. when your last hour draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your stead, he shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length of days. such kings deserve long life." so ended the happy year when apollo tended sheep. alcestis. for many years the remembrance of apollo's service kept thessaly full of sunlight. where a god could work, the people took heart to work also. flocks and herds throve, travellers were befriended, and men were happy under the rule of a happy king and queen. but one day admetus fell ill, and he grew weaker and weaker until he lay at death's door. then, when no remedy was found to help him and the hope of the people was failing, they remembered the promise of the fates to spare the king if some one else would die in his stead. this seemed a simple matter for one whose wishes are law, and whose life is needed by all his fellow-men. but, strange to say, the substitute did not come forward at once. among the king's most faithful friends, many were afraid to die. men said that they would gladly give their lives in battle, but that they could not die in bed at home like helpless old women. the wealthy had too much to live for; and the poor, who possessed nothing but life, could not bear to give up that. even the aged parents of admetus shrunk from the thought of losing the few years that remained to them, and thought it impious that any one should name such a sacrifice. all this time, the three fates were waiting to cut the thread of life, and they could not wait longer. then, seeing that even the old and wretched clung to their gift of life, who should offer herself but the young and lovely queen, alcestis? sorrowful but resolute, she determined to be the victim, and made ready to die for the sake of her husband. she took leave of her children and commended them to the care of admetus. all his pleading could not change the decree of the fates. alcestis prepared for death as for some consecration. she bathed and anointed her body, and, as a mortal illness seized her, she lay down to die, robed in fair raiment, and bade her kindred farewell. the household was filled with mourning, but it was too late. she waned before the eyes of the king, like daylight that must be gone. at this grievous moment heracles, mightiest of all men, who was journeying on his way to new adventures, begged admittance to the palace, and inquired the cause of such grief in that hospitable place. he was told of the misfortune that had befallen admetus, and, struck with pity, he resolved to try what his strength might do for this man who had been a friend of gods. already death had come out of hades for alcestis, and as heracles stood at the door of her chamber he saw that awful form leading away the lovely spirit of the queen, for the breath had just departed from her body. then the might that he had from his divine father zeus stood by the hero. he seized death in his giant arms and wrestled for victory. now death is a visitor that comes and goes. he may not tarry in the upper world; its air is not for him; and at length, feeling his power give way, he loosed his grasp of the queen, and, weak with the struggle, made escape to his native darkness of hades. in the chamber where the royal kindred were weeping, the body of alcestis lay, fair to see, and once more the breath stirred in her heart, like a waking bird. back to its home came her lovely spirit, and for long years after she lived happily with her husband, king admetus. apollo's sister. i. diana and actaeon. like the sun-god, whom men dreaded as the divine archer and loved as the divine singer, diana, his sister, had two natures, as different as day from night. on earth she delighted in the wild life of the chase, keeping holiday among the dryads, and hunting with all those nymphs that loved the boyish pastime. she and her maidens shunned the fellowship of men and would not hear of marriage, for they disdained all household arts; and there are countless tales of their cruelty to suitors. syrinx and atalanta were of their company, and arethusa, who was changed into a fountain and ever pursued by alpheus the river-god, till at last the two were united. there was daphne, too, who disdained the love of apollo himself, and would never listen to a word of his suit, but fled like syrinx, and prayed like syrinx for escape; but daphne was changed into a fair laurel-tree, held sacred by apollo forever after. all these maidens were as untamed and free of heart as the wild creatures they loved to hunt, and whoever molested them did so at his peril. none dared trespass in the home of diana and her nymphs, not even the riotous fauns and satyrs who were heedless enough to go a-swimming in the river styx, if they had cared to venture near such a dismal place. but the maiden goddess laid a spell upon their unruly wits, even as the moon controls the tides of the sea. her precincts were holy. there was one man, however, whose ill-timed curiosity brought heavy punishment upon him. this was actaeon, a grandson of the great king cadmus. wearied with hunting, one noon, he left his comrades and idled through the forest, perhaps to spy upon those woodland deities of whom he had heard. chance brought him to the very grove where diana and her nymphs were wont to bathe. he followed the bright thread of the brook, never turning aside, though mortal reverence should have warned him that the place was for gods. the air was wondrous clear and sweet; a throng of fair trees drooped their branches in the way, and from a sheltered grotto beyond fell a mingled sound of laughter and running waters. but actaeon would not turn back. roughly pushing aside the laurel branches that hid the entrance of the cave, he looked in, startling diana and her maidens. in an instant a splash of water shut his eyes, and the goddess, reading his churlish thought, said: "go now, if thou wilt, and boast of this intrusion." he turned to go, but a stupid bewilderment had fallen upon him. he looked back to speak, and could not. he put his hand to his head, and felt antlers branching above his forehead. down he fell on hands and feet; these likewise changed. the poor offender! crouching by the brook that he had followed, he looked in, and saw nothing but the image of a stag, bending to drink, as only that morning he had seen the creature they had come out to kill. with an impulse of terror he fled away, faster than he had ever run before, crashing through bush and bracken, the noise of his own flight ever after him like an enemy. suddenly he heard the blast of a horn close by, then the baying of hounds. his comrades, who had rested and were ready for the chase, made after him. this time he was their prey. he tried to call and could not. his antlers caught in the branches, his breath came with pain, and the dogs were upon him,--his own dogs! with all the eagerness that he had often praised in them, they fell upon him, knowing not their own master. and so he perished, hunter and hunted. only the goddess of the chase could have devised so terrible a revenge. ii. diana and endymion. but with the daylight, all of diana's joy in the wild life of the woods seemed to fade. by night, as goddess of the moon, she watched over the sleep of the earth,--measured the tides of the ocean, and went across the wide path of heaven, slow and fair to see. and although she bore her emblem of the bow, like a silver crescent, she was never terrible, but beneficent and lovely. indeed, there was once a young shepherd, endymion, who used to lead his flocks high up the slopes of mount latmos to the purer air; and there, while the sheep browsed, he spent his days and nights dreaming on the solitary uplands. he was a beautiful youth and very lonely. looking down one night from the heavens near by and as lonely as he, diana saw him, and her heart was moved to tenderness for his weariness and solitude. she cast a spell of sleep upon him, with eternal youth, white and untroubled as moonlight. and there, night after night, she watched his sheep for him, like any peasant maid who wanders slowly through the pastures after the flocks, spinning white flax from her distaff as she goes, alone and quite content. endymion dreamed such beautiful dreams as come only to happy poets. even when he woke, life held no care for him, but he seemed to walk in a light that was for him alone. and all this time, just as the sun-god watched over the sheep of king admetus, diana kept the flocks of endymion, but it was for love's sake. the calydonian hunt. in that day of the chase, there was one enterprise renowned above all others,--the great hunt of calydon. thither, in search of high adventure, went all the heroes of greece, just as they joined the quest of the golden fleece, and, in a later day, went to the rescue of fair helen in the trojan war. for oeneus, king of calydon, had neglected the temples of diana, and she had sent a monstrous boar to lay waste all the fields and farms in the country. the people had never seen so terrible a beast, and they soon wished that they had never offended the goddess who keeps the woods clear of such monsters. no mortal device availed against it, and, after a hundred disasters, prince meleager, the son of oeneus, summoned the heroes to join him in this perilous hunt. the prince had a strange story. soon after his birth, althea, the queen, had seen in a vision the three fates spinning the thread of life and crooning over their work. for clotho spins the thread, lachesis draws it out, and atropos waits to cut it off with her glittering shears. so the queen beheld them, and heard them foretell that her baby should live no longer than a brand that was then burning on the hearth. horror inspired the mother. quick as a thought she seized the brand, put out the flame, and laid it by in some safe and secret place where no harm could touch it. so the child gathered strength and grew up to manhood. he was a mighty hunter, and the other heroes came gladly to bear him company. many of the argonauts were there,--jason, theseus, nestor, even atalanta, that valorous maiden who had joined the rowers of the argo, a beloved charge of diana. boyish in her boldness for wild sports, she was fleet of foot and very lovely to behold, altogether a bride for a princely hunter. so meleager thought, the moment that he saw her face. together they all set out for the lair of the boar, the heroes and the men of calydon,--meleager and his two uncles. phlexippus and toxeus, brothers of queen althea. all was ready. nets were stretched from tree to tree, and the dogs were let loose. the heroes lay in wait. suddenly the monster, startled by the shouts of the company, rose hideous and unwieldy from his hiding-place and rushed upon them. what were hounds to such as he, or nets spread for a snare? jason's spear missed and fell. nestor only saved his life by climbing the nearest tree. several of the heroes were gored by the tusks of the boar before they could make their escape. in the midst of this horrible tumult, atalanta sped an arrow at the creature and wounded him. meleager saw it with joy, and called upon the others to follow. one by one they tried without success, but he, after one false thrust, drove his spear into the side of the monster and laid him dead. the heroes crowded to do him honor, but he turned to atalanta, who had first wounded the boar, and awarded her the shaggy hide that was her fair-won trophy. this was too much for the warriors, who had been outdone by a girl. phlexippus and toxeus were so enraged that they snatched the prize from the maiden, churlishly, and denied her victory. maddened at this, meleager forgot everything but the insult offered to atalanta, and he fell upon the two men and stabbed them. only when they lay dead before him did he remember that they were his own kinsmen. in the mean time news had flown to the city that the pest was slain, and queen althea was on her way to the temple to give thanks for their deliverance. at the very gates she came upon a multitude of men surrounding a litter, and drawing near she saw the bodies of her two brothers. swift upon this horror came a greater shock,--the name of the murderer, her own son meleager. all pity left the mother's heart when she heard it; she thought only of revenge. in a lightning-flash she remembered that brand which she had plucked from the fire when her son was but a new-born babe,--the brand that was to last with his life. she ordered a pyre to be built and lighted, and straightway she went to that hiding-place where she had kept the precious thing all these, years, and brought it back and stood before the flames. at the last moment her soul was torn between love for her son and grief for her murdered brothers. she stretched forth the brand, and plucked it again from the tongues of fire. she cried out in despair that the honor of her house should require such an expiation. but, covering her eyes, she flung the brand into the flames. at the same time, far away with his companions, and unwitting of these things, meleager was struck through with a sudden pang. wondering and helpless, the heroes gathered about, to behold him dying of some unknown agony, while he strove to conquer his pain. even as the brand burned in the fire before the wretched queen, meleager was consumed by a mysterious death, blessing with his last breath friends and kindred, his dear atalanta, and the mother who had brought him to this doom, though he knew it not. at last the brand fell into ashes, and in the forest the hero lay dead. the king and queen fell into such grief when all was known, that diana took pity upon them and changed them into birds. atalanta's race. even if prince meleager had lived, it is doubtful if he could ever have won atalanta to be his wife. the maiden was resolved to live unwed, and at last she devised a plan to be rid of all her suitors. she was known far and wide as the swiftest runner of her time; and so she said that she would only marry that man who could outstrip her in the race, but that all who dared to try and failed must be put to death. this threat did not dishearten all of the suitors, however, and to her grief, for she was not cruel, they held her to her promise. on a certain day the few bold men who were to try their fortune made ready, and chose young hippomenes as judge. he sat watching them before the word was given, and sadly wondered that any brave man should risk his life merely to win a bride. but when atalanta stood ready for the contest, he was amazed by her beauty. she looked like hebe, goddess of young health, who is a glad serving-maiden to the gods when they sit at feast. the signal was given, and, as she and the suitors darted away, flight made her more enchanting than ever. just as a wind brings sparkles to the water and laughter to the trees, haste fanned her loveliness to a glow. alas for the suitors! she ran as if hermes had lent her his winged sandals. the young men, skilled as they were, grew heavy with weariness and despair. for all their efforts, they seemed to lag like ships in a calm, while atalanta flew before them in some favoring breeze--and reached the goal! to the sorrow of all on-lookers, the suitors were led away; but the judge himself, hippomenes, rose and begged leave to try his fortune. as atalanta listened, and looked at him, her heart was filled with pity, and she would willingly have let him win the race to save him from defeat and death; for he was comely and younger than the others. but her friends urged her to rest and make ready, and she consented, with an unwilling heart. meanwhile hippomenes prayed within himself to venus: "goddess of love, give ear, and send me good speed. let me be swift to win as i have been swift to love her." now venus, who was not far off,--for she had already moved the heart of hippomenes to love,--came to his side invisibly, slipped into his hand three wondrous golden apples, and whispered a word of counsel in his ear. the signal was given; youth and maiden started over the course. they went so like the wind that they left not a footprint. the people cheered on hippomenes, eager that such valor should win. but the course was long, and soon fatigue seemed to clutch at his throat, the light shook before his eyes, and, even as he pressed on, the maiden passed him by. at that instant hippomenes tossed ahead one of the golden apples. the rolling bright thing caught atalanta's eye, and full of wonder she stooped to pick it up. hippomenes ran on. as he heard the flutter of her tunic close behind him, he flung aside another golden apple, and another moment was lost to the girl. who could pass by such a marvel? the goal was near and hippomenes was ahead, but once again atalanta caught up with him, and they sped side by side like two dragon-flies. for an instant his heart failed him; then, with a last prayer to venus, he flung down the last apple. the maiden glanced at it, wavered, and would have left it where it had fallen, had not venus turned her head for a second and given her a sudden wish to possess it. against her will she turned to pick up the golden apple, and hippomenes touched the goal. so he won that perilous maiden; and as for atalanta, she was glad to marry such a valorous man. by this time she understood so well what it was like to be pursued, that she had lost a little of her pleasure in hunting. arachne. not among mortals alone were there contests of skill, nor yet among the gods, like pan and apollo. many sorrows befell men because they grew arrogant in their own devices and coveted divine honors. there was once a great hunter, orion, who outvied the gods themselves, till they took him away from his hunting-grounds and set him in the heavens, with his sword and belt, and his hound at his heels. but at length jealousy invaded even the peaceful arts, and disaster came of spinning! there was a certain maiden of lydia, arachne by name, renowned throughout the country for her skill as a weaver. she was as nimble with her fingers as calypso, that nymph who kept odysseus for seven years in her enchanted island. she was as untiring as penelope, the hero's wife, who wove day after day while she watched for his return. day in and day out, arachne wove too. the very nymphs would gather about her loom, naiads from the water and dryads from the trees. "maiden," they would say, shaking the leaves or the foam from their hair, in wonder, "pallas athena must have taught you!" but this did not please arachne. she would not acknowledge herself a debtor, even to that goddess who protected all household arts, and by whose grace alone one had any skill in them. "i learned not of athena," said she, "if she can weave better, let her come and try." the nymphs shivered at this, and an aged woman, who was looking on, turned to arachne. "be more heedful of your words, my daughter," said she. "the goddess may pardon you if you ask forgiveness, but do not strive for honors with the immortals." arachne broke her thread, and the shuttle stopped humming. "keep your counsel," she said. "i fear not athena; no, nor any one else." as she frowned at the old woman, she was amazed to see her change suddenly into one tall, majestic, beautiful,--a maiden of gray eyes and golden hair, crowned with a golden helmet. it was athena herself. the bystanders shrank in fear and reverence; only arachne was unawed and held to her foolish boast. in silence the two began to weave, and the nymphs stole nearer, coaxed by the sound of the shuttles, that seemed to be humming with delight over the two webs,--back and forth like bees. they gazed upon the loom where the goddess stood plying her task, and they saw shapes and images come to bloom out of the wondrous colors, as sunset clouds grow to be living creatures when we watch them. and they saw that the goddess, still merciful, was spinning, as a warning for arachne, the pictures of her own triumph over reckless gods and mortals. in one corner of the web she made a story of her conquest over the sea-god poseidon. for the first king of athens had promised to dedicate the city to that god who should bestow upon it the most useful gift. poseidon gave the horse. but athena gave the olive,--means of livelihood,--symbol of peace and prosperity, and the city was called after her name. again she pictured a vain woman of troy, who had been turned into a crane for disputing the palm of beauty with a goddess. other corners of the web held similar images, and the whole shone like a rainbow. meanwhile arachne, whose head was quite turned with vanity, embroidered her web with stories against the gods, making light of zeus himself and of apollo, and portraying them as birds and beasts. but she wove with marvellous skill; the creatures seemed to breathe and speak, yet it was all as fine as the gossamer that you find on the grass before rain. athena herself was amazed. not even her wrath at the girl's insolence could wholly overcome her wonder. for an instant she stood entranced; then she tore the web across, and three times she touched arachne's forehead with her spindle. "live on, arachne," she said. "and since it is your glory to weave, you and yours must weave forever." so saying, she sprinkled upon the maiden a certain magical potion. away went arachne's beauty; then her very human form shrank to that of a spider, and so remained. as a spider she spent all her days weaving and weaving; and you may see something like her handiwork any day among the rafters. pyramus and thisbe. venus did not always befriend true lovers, as she had befriended hippomenes, with her three golden apples. sometimes, in the enchanted island of cyprus, she forgot her worshippers far away, and they called on her in vain. so it was in the sad story of hero and leander, who lived on opposite borders of the hellespont. hero dwelt at sestos, where she served as a priestess, in the very temple of venus; and leander's home was in abydos, a town on the opposite shore. but every night this lover would swim across the water to see hero, guided by the light which she was wont to set in her tower. even such loyalty could not conquer fate. there came a great storm, one night, that put out the beacon, and washed leander's body up with the waves to hero, and she sprang into the water to rejoin him, and so perished. not wholly unlike this was the fate of halcyone, a queen of thessaly, who dreamed that her husband ceyx had been drowned, and on waking hastened to the shore to look for him. there she saw her dream come true,--his lifeless body floating towards her on the tide; and as she flung herself after him, mad with grief, the air upheld her and she seemed to fly. husband and wife were changed into birds; and there on the very water, at certain seasons, they build a nest that floats unhurt,--a portent of calm for many days and safe voyage for the ships. so it is that seamen love these birds and look for halcyon weather. but there once lived in babylonia two lovers named pyramus and thisbe, who were parted by a strange mischance. for they lived in adjoining houses; and although their parents had forbidden them to marry, these two had found a means of talking together through a crevice in the wall. here, again and again, pyramus on his side of the wall and thisbe on hers, they would meet to tell each other all that had happened during the day, and to complain of their cruel parents. at length they decided that they would endure it no longer, but that they would leave their homes and be married, come what might. they planned to meet, on a certain evening, by a mulberry-tree near the tomb of king ninus, outside the city gates. once safely met, they were resolved to brave fortune together. so far all went well. at the appointed time, thisbe, heavily veiled, managed to escape from home unnoticed, and after a stealthy journey through the streets of babylon, she came to the grove of mulberries near the tomb of ninus. the place was deserted, and once there she put off the veil from her face to see if pyramus waited anywhere among the shadows. she heard the sound of a footfall and turned to behold--not pyramus, but a creature unwelcome to any tryst--none other than a lioness crouching to drink from the pool hard by. without a cry, thisbe fled, dropping her veil as she ran. she found a hiding-place among the rocks at some distance, and there she waited, not knowing what else to do. the lioness, having quenched her thirst (after some ferocious meal), turned from the spring and, coming upon the veil, sniffed at it curiously, tore and tossed it with her reddened jaws,--as she would have done with thisbe herself,--then dropped the plaything and crept away to the forest once more. it was but a little after this that pyramus came hurrying to the meeting-place, breathless with eagerness to find thisbe and tell her what had delayed him. he found no thisbe there. for a moment he was confounded. then he looked about for some sign of her, some footprint by the pool. there was the trail of a wild beast in the grass, and near by a woman's veil, torn and stained with blood; he caught it up and knew it for thisbe's. so she had come at the appointed hour, true to her word; she had waited there for him alone and defenceless, and she had fallen a prey to some beast from the jungle! as these thoughts rushed upon the young man's mind, he could endure no more. "was it to meet me, thisbe, that you came to such a death!" cried he. "and i followed all too late. but i will atone. even now i come lagging, but by no will of mine!" so saying, the poor youth drew his sword and fell upon it, there at the foot of that mulberry-tree which he had named as the trysting-place, and his life-blood ran about the roots. during these very moments, thisbe, hearing no sound and a little reassured, had stolen from her hiding-place and was come to the edge of the grove. she saw that the lioness had left the spring, and, eager to show her lover that she had dared all things to keep faith, she came slowly, little by little, back to the mulberry-tree. she found pyramus there, according to his promise. his own sword was in his heart, the empty scabbard by his side, and in his hand he held her veil still clasped. thisbe saw these things as in a dream, and suddenly the truth awoke her. she saw the piteous mischance of all; and when the dying pyramus opened his eyes and fixed them upon her, her heart broke. with the same sword she stabbed herself, and the lovers died together. there the parents found them, after a weary search, and they were buried together in the same tomb. but the berries of the mulberry-tree turned red that day, and red they have remained ever since. pygmalion and galatea. the island of cyprus was dear to the heart of venus. there her temples were kept with honor, and there, some say, she watched with the loves and graces over the long enchanted sleep of adonis. this youth, a hunter whom she had dearly loved, had died of a wound from the tusk of a wild boar; but the bitter grief of venus had won over even the powers of hades. for six months of every year, adonis had to live as a shade in the world of the dead; but for the rest of time he was free to breathe the upper air. here in cyprus the people came to worship him as a god, for the sake of venus who loved him; and here, if any called upon her, she was like to listen. now there once lived in cyprus a young sculptor, pygmalion by name, who thought nothing on earth so beautiful as the white marble folk that live without faults and never grow old. indeed, he said that he would never marry a mortal woman, and people began to think that his daily life among marble creatures was hardening his heart altogether. but it chanced that pygmalion fell to work upon an ivory statue of a maiden, so lovely that it must have moved to envy every breathing creature that came to look upon it. with a happy heart the sculptor wrought day by day, giving it all the beauty of his dreams, until, when the work was completed, he felt powerless to leave it. he was bound to it by the tie of his highest aspiration, his most perfect ideal, his most patient work. day after day the ivory maiden looked down at him silently, and he looked back at her until he felt that he loved her more than anything else in the world. he thought of her no longer as a statue, but as the dear companion of his life; and the whim grew upon him like an enchantment. he named her galatea, and arrayed her like a princess; he hung jewels about her neck, and made all his home beautiful and fit for such a presence. now the festival of venus was at hand, and pygmalion, like all who loved beauty, joined the worshippers. in the temple victims were offered, solemn rites were held, and votaries from many lands came to pray the favor of the goddess. at length pygmalion himself approached the altar and made his prayer. "goddess," he said, "who hast vouchsafed to me this gift of beauty, give me a perfect love, likewise, and let me have for bride, one like my ivory maiden." and venus heard. home to his house of dreams went the sculptor, loath to be parted for a day from his statue, galatea. there she stood, looking down upon him silently, and he looked back at her. surely the sunset had shed a flush of life upon her whiteness. he drew near in wonder and delight, and felt, instead of the chill air that was wont to wake him out of his spell, a gentle warmth around her, like the breath of a plant. he touched her hand, and it yielded like the hand of one living! doubting his senses, yet fearing to reassure himself, pygmalion kissed the statue. in an instant the maiden's face bloomed like a waking rose, her hair shone golden as returning sunlight; she lifted her ivory eyelids and smiled at him. the statue herself had awakened, and she stepped down from the pedestal, into the arms of her creator, alive! there was a dream that came true. oedipus. behind the power of the gods and beyond all the efforts of men, the three fates sat at their spinning. no one could tell whence these sisters were, but by some strange necessity they spun the web of human life and made destinies without knowing why. it was not for clotho to decree whether the thread of a life should be stout or fragile, nor for lachesis to choose the fashion of the web; and atropos herself must sometimes have wept to cut a life short with her shears, and let it fall unfinished. but they were like spinners for some power that said of life, as of a garment, _thus it must be_. that power neither gods nor men could withstand. there was once a king named laius (a grandson of cadmus himself), who ruled over thebes, with jocasta his wife. to them an oracle had foretold that if a son of theirs lived to grow up, he would one day kill his father and marry his own mother. the king and queen resolved to escape such a doom, even at terrible cost. accordingly laius gave his son, who was only a baby, to a certain herdsman, with instructions to put him to death. this was not to be. the herdsman carried the child to a lonely mountain-side, but once there, his heart failed him. hardly daring to disobey the king's command, yet shrinking from murder, he hung the little creature by his feet to the branches of a tree, and left him there to die. but there chanced to come that way with his flocks, a man who served king polybus of corinth. he found the baby perishing in the tree, and, touched with pity, took him home to his master. the king and queen of corinth were childless, and some power moved them to take this mysterious child as a gift. they called him oedipus (swollen-foot) because of the wounds they had found upon him, and, knowing naught of his parentage, they reared him as their own son. so the years went by. now, when oedipus had come to manhood, he went to consult the oracle at delphi, as all great people were wont, to learn what fortune had in store for him. but for him the oracle had only a sentence of doom. according to the fates, he would live to kill his own father and wed his mother. filled with dismay, and resolved in his turn to conquer fate, oedipus fled from corinth; for he had never dreamed that his parents were other than polybus and merope the queen. thinking to escape crime, he took the road towards thebes, so hastening into the very arms of his evil destiny. it happened that king laius, with one attendant, was on his way to delphi from the city thebes. in a narrow road he met this strange young man, also driving in a chariot, and ordered him to quit the way. oedipus, who had been reared to princely honors, refused to obey; and the king's charioteer, in great anger, killed one of the young man's horses. at this insult oedipus fell upon master and servant; mad with rage, he slew them both, and went on his way, not knowing the half of what he had done. the first saying of the oracle was fulfilled. but the prince was to have his day of triumph before the doom. there was a certain wonderful creature called the sphinx, which had been a terror to thebes for many days. in form half woman and half lion, she crouched always by a precipice near the highway, and put the same mysterious question to every passer-by. none had ever been able to answer, and none had ever lived to warn men of the riddle; for the sphinx fell upon every one as he failed, and hurled him down the abyss, to be dashed in pieces. this way came oedipus towards the city thebes, and the sphinx crouched, face to face with him, and spoke the riddle that none had been able to guess. "_what animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three?_" oedipus, hiding his dread of the terrible creature, took thought, and answered "man. in childhood he creeps on hands and knees, in manhood he walks erect, but in old age he has need of a staff." at this reply the sphinx uttered a cry, sprang headlong from the rock into the valley below, and perished. oedipus had guessed the answer. when he came to the city and told the thebans that their torment was gone, they hailed him as a deliverer. not long after, they married him with great honor to their widowed queen, jocasta, his own mother. the destiny was fulfilled. for years oedipus lived in peace, unwitting; but at length upon that unhappy city there fell a great pestilence and famine. in his distress the king sent to the oracle at delphi, to know what he or the thebans had done, that they should be so sorely punished. then for the third time the oracle spoke his own fateful sentence; and he learned all. jocasta died, and oedipus took the doom upon himself, and left thebes. blinded by his own hand, he wandered away into the wilderness. never again did he rule over men; and he had one only comrade, his faithful daughter antigone. she was the truest happiness in his life of sorrow, and she never left him till he died. cupid and psyche. once upon a time, through that destiny that overrules the gods, love himself gave up his immortal heart to a mortal maiden. and thus it came to pass. there was a certain king who had three beautiful daughters. the two elder married princes of great renown; but psyche, the youngest, was so radiantly fair that no suitor seemed worthy of her. people thronged to see her pass through the city, and sang hymns in her praise, while strangers took her for the very goddess of beauty herself. this angered venus, and she resolved to cast down her earthly rival. one day, therefore, she called hither her son love (cupid, some name him), and bade him sharpen his weapons. he is an archer more to be dreaded than apollo, for apollo's arrows take life, but love's bring joy or sorrow for a whole life long. "come, love," said venus. "there is a mortal maid who robs me of my honors in yonder city. avenge your mother. wound this precious psyche, and let her fall in love with some churlish creature mean in the eyes of all men." cupid made ready his weapons, and flew down to earth invisibly. at that moment psyche was asleep in her chamber; but he touched her heart with his golden arrow of love, and she opened her eyes so suddenly that he started (forgetting that he was invisible), and wounded himself with his own shaft. heedless of the hurt, moved only by the loveliness of the maiden, he hastened to pour over her locks the healing joy that he ever kept by him, undoing all his work. back to her dream the princess went, unshadowed by any thought of love. but cupid, not so light of heart, returned to the heavens, saying not a word of what had passed. venus waited long; then, seeing that psyche's heart had somehow escaped love, she sent a spell upon the maiden. from that time, lovely as she was, not a suitor came to woo; and her parents, who desired to see her a queen at least, made a journey to the oracle, and asked counsel. said the voice: "the princess psyche shall never wed a mortal. she shall be given to one who waits for her on yonder mountain; he overcomes gods and men." at this terrible sentence the poor parents were half distraught, and the people gave themselves up to grief at the fate in store for their beloved princess. psyche alone bowed to her destiny. "we have angered venus unwittingly," she said, "and all for sake of me, heedless maiden that i am! give me up, therefore, dear father and mother. if i atone, it may be that the city will prosper once more." so she besought them, until, after many unavailing denials, the parents consented; and with a great company of people they led psyche up the mountain,--as an offering to the monster of whom the oracle had spoken,--and left her there alone. full of courage, yet in a secret agony of grief, she watched her kindred and her people wind down the mountain-path, too sad to look back, until they were lost to sight. then, indeed, she wept, but a sudden breeze drew near, dried her tears, and caressed her hair, seeming to murmur comfort. in truth, it was zephyr, the kindly west wind, come to befriend her; and as she took heart, feeling some benignant presence, he lifted her in his arms, and carried her on wings as even as a sea-gull's, over the crest of the fateful mountain and into a valley below. there he left her, resting on a bank of hospitable grass, and there the princess fell asleep. when she awoke, it was near sunset. she looked about her for some sign of the monster's approach; she wondered, then, if her grievous trial had been but a dream. near by she saw a sheltering forest, whose young trees seemed to beckon as one maid beckons to another; and eager for the protection of the dryads, she went thither. the call of running waters drew her farther and farther, till she came out upon an open place, where there was a wide pool. a fountain fluttered gladly in the midst of it, and beyond there stretched a white palace wonderful to see. coaxed by the bright promise of the place, she drew near, and, seeing no one, entered softly. it was all kinglier than her father's home, and as she stood in wonder and awe, soft airs stirred about her. little by little the silence grew murmurous like the woods, and one voice, sweeter than the rest, took words. "all that you see is yours, gentle high princess," it said. "fear nothing; only command us, for we are here to serve you." full of amazement and delight, psyche followed the voice from hall to hall, and through the lordly rooms, beautiful with everything that could delight a young princess. no pleasant thing was lacking. there was even a pool, brightly tiled and fed with running waters, where she bathed her weary limbs; and after she had put on the new and beautiful raiment that lay ready for her, she sat down to break her fast, waited upon and sung to by the unseen spirits. surely he whom the oracle had called her husband was no monster, but some beneficent power, invisible like all the rest. when daylight waned he came, and his voice, the beautiful voice of a god, inspired her to trust her strange destiny and to look and long for his return. often she begged him to stay with her through the day, that she might see his face; but this he would not grant. "never doubt me, dearest psyche," said he. "perhaps you would fear if you saw me, and love is all i ask. there is a necessity that keeps me hidden now. only believe." so for many days psyche was content; but when she grew used to happiness, she thought once more of her parents mourning her as lost, and of her sisters who shared the lot of mortals while she lived as a goddess. one night she told her husband of these regrets, and begged that her sisters at least might come to see her. he sighed, but did not refuse. "zephyr shall bring them hither," said he. and on the following morning, swift as a bird, the west wind came over the crest of the high mountain and down into the enchanted valley, bearing her two sisters. they greeted psyche with joy and amazement, hardly knowing how they had come hither. but when this fairest of the sisters led them through her palace and showed them all the treasures that were hers, envy grew in their hearts and choked their old love. even while they sat at feast with her, they grew more and more bitter; and hoping to find some little flaw in her good fortune, they asked a thousand questions. "where is your husband?" said they. "and why is he not here with you?" "ah," stammered psyche. "all the day long--he is gone, hunting upon the mountains." "but what does he look like?" they asked; and psyche could find no answer. when they learned that she had never seen him, they laughed her faith to scorn. "poor psyche," they said. "you are walking in a dream. wake, before it is too late. have you forgotten what the oracle decreed,--that you were destined for a dreadful creature, the fear of gods and men? and are you deceived by this show of kindliness? we have come to warn you. the people told us, as we came over the mountain, that your husband is a dragon, who feeds you well for the present, that he may feast the better, some day soon. what is it that you trust? good words! but only take a dagger some night, and when the monster is asleep go, light a lamp, and look at him. you can put him to death easily, and all his riches will be yours--and ours." psyche heard this wicked plan with horror. nevertheless, after her sisters were gone, she brooded over what they had said, not seeing their evil intent; and she came to find some wisdom in their words. little by little, suspicion ate, like a moth, into her lovely mind; and at nightfall, in shame and fear, she hid a lamp and a dagger in her chamber. towards midnight, when her husband was fast asleep, up she rose, hardly daring to breathe; and coming softly to his side, she uncovered the lamp to see some horror. but there the youngest of the gods lay sleeping,--most beautiful, most irresistible of all immortals. his hair shone golden as the sun, his face was radiant as dear springtime, and from his shoulders sprang two rainbow wings. poor psyche was overcome with self-reproach. as she leaned towards him, filled with worship, her trembling hands held the lamp ill, and some burning oil fell upon love's shoulder and awakened him. he opened his eyes, to see at once his bride and the dark suspicion in her heart. "o doubting psyche!" he exclaimed with sudden grief,--and then he flew away, out of the window. wild with sorrow, psyche tried to follow, but she fell to the ground instead. when she recovered her senses, she stared about her. she was alone, and the place was beautiful no longer. garden and palace had vanished with love. the trial of psyche. over mountains and valleys psyche journeyed alone until she came to the city where her two envious sisters lived with the princes whom they had married. she stayed with them only long enough to tell the story of her unbelief and its penalty. then she set out again to search for love. as she wandered one day, travel-worn but not hopeless, she saw a lofty palace on a hill near by, and she turned her steps thither. the place seemed deserted. within the hall she saw no human being,--only heaps of grain, loose ears of corn half torn from the husk, wheat and barley, alike scattered in confusion on the floor. without delay, she set to work binding the sheaves together and gathering the scattered ears of corn in seemly wise, as a princess would wish to see them. while she was in the midst of her task, a voice startled her, and she looked up to behold demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest, smiling upon her with good will. "dear psyche," said demeter, "you are worthy of happiness, and you may find it yet. but since you have displeased venus, go to her and ask her favor. perhaps your patience will win her pardon." these motherly words gave psyche heart, and she reverently took leave of the goddess and set out for the temple of venus. most humbly she offered up her prayer, but venus could not look at her earthly beauty without anger. "vain girl," said she, "perhaps you have come to make amends for the wound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. such clever people can always find work!" then she led psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled grain, beans, and lintels (the food of her doves), and bade her separate them all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night. heracles would have been helpless before such a vexatious task; and poor psyche, left alone in this desert of grain, had not courage to begin. but even as she sat there, a moving thread of black crawled across the floor from a crevice in the wall; and bending nearer, she saw that a great army of ants in columns had come to her aid. the zealous little creatures worked in swarms, with such industry over the work they like best, that, when venus came at night, she found the task completed. "deceitful girl," she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with impatience, "this is my son's work, not yours. but he will soon forget you. eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind with sleep. to-morrow you will need more wit." psyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. but when morning came, venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to the wood across the water, said, "go now to yonder grove where the sheep with the golden fleece are wont to browse. bring me a golden lock from every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back again." this seemed not difficult, and psyche obediently bade the goddess farewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. but as venus disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river, looking up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: "nay, nay, have a care, psyche. this flock has not the gentle ways of sheep. while the sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but when the shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees; and you may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off the briers in the pasture." thanking the water-creatures, psyche sat down to rest near them, and when the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel. by twilight she returned to venus with her arms full of shining fleece. "no mortal wit did this," said venus angrily. "but if you care to prove your readiness, go now, with this little box, down to proserpina and ask her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for i have grown pale in caring for my wounded son." it needed not the last taunt to sadden psyche. she knew that it was not for mortals to go into hades and return alive; and feeling that love had forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might be. but even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice detained her. "stay, psyche, i know your grief. only give ear and you shall learn a safe way through all these trials." and the voice went on to tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of hades and come out unscathed. (but such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with the rest of the story.) "and be sure," added the voice, "when proserpina has returned the box, not to open it, however much you may long to do so." psyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her way into hades safely, and made her errand known to proserpina, and was soon in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful. "surely love has not forgotten me," she said. "but humbled as i am and worn with toil, how shall i ever please him? venus can never need all the beauty in this casket; and since i use it for love's sake, it must be right to take some." so saying, she opened the box, heedless as pandora! the spells and potions of hades are not for mortal maids, and no sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one dead, quite overcome. but it happened that love himself was recovered from his wound, and he had secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue psyche. he found her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what remained of the philter, and awoke his beloved. "take comfort," he said, smiling. "return to our mother and do her bidding till i come again." away he flew; and while psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up to olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to intercede for him with his angry mother. they heard his story and their hearts were touched. zeus himself coaxed venus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that anger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. all the younger gods were for welcoming psyche at once, and hermes was sent to bring her hither. the maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. she took the cup that hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and became immortal. light came to her face like moonrise, two radiant wings sprang from her shoulders; and even as a butterfly bursts from its dull cocoon, so the human psyche blossomed into immortality. love took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more. stories of the trojan war. i. the apple of discord. there was once a war so great that the sound of it has come ringing down the centuries from singer to singer, and will never die. the rivalries of men and gods brought about many calamities, but none so heavy as this; and it would never have come to pass, they say, if it had not been for jealousy among the immortals,--all because of a golden apple! but destiny has nurtured ominous plants from little seeds; and this is how one evil grew great enough to overshadow heaven and earth. the sea-nymph thetis (whom zeus himself had once desired for his wife) was given in marriage to a mortal, peleus, and there was a great wedding-feast in heaven. thither all the immortals were bidden, save one, eris, the goddess of discord, ever an unwelcome guest. but she came unbidden. while the wedding-guests sat at feast, she broke in upon their mirth, flung among them a golden apple, and departed with looks that boded ill. some one picked up the strange missile and read its inscription: _for the fairest_; and at once discussion arose among the goddesses. they were all eager to claim the prize, but only three persisted. venus, the very goddess of beauty, said that it was hers by right; but juno could not endure to own herself less fair than another, and even athena coveted the palm of beauty as well as of wisdom, and would not give it up! discord had indeed come to the wedding-feast. not one of the gods dared to decide so dangerous a question,--not zeus himself,--and the three rivals were forced to choose a judge among mortals. now there lived on mount ida, near the city of troy, a certain young shepherd by the name of paris. he was as comely as ganymede himself,--that trojan youth whom zeus, in the shape of an eagle, seized and bore away to olympus, to be a cup-bearer to the gods. paris, too, was a trojan of royal birth, but like oedipus he had been left on the mountain in his infancy, because the oracle had foretold that he would be the death of his kindred and the ruin of his country. destiny saved and nurtured him to fulfil that prophecy. he grew up as a shepherd and tended his flocks on the mountain, but his beauty held the favor of all the wood-folk there and won the heart of the nymph oenone. to him, at last, the three goddesses entrusted the judgment and the golden apple. juno first stood before him in all her glory as queen of gods and men, and attended by her favorite peacocks as gorgeous to see as royal fan-bearers. "use but the judgment of a prince, paris," she said, "and i will give thee wealth and kingly power." such majesty and such promises would have moved the heart of any man; but the eager paris had at least to hear the claims of the other rivals. athena rose before him, a vision welcome as daylight, with her sea-gray eyes and golden hair beneath a golden helmet. "be wise in honoring me, paris," she said, "and i will give thee wisdom that shall last forever, great glory among men, and renown in war." last of all, venus shone upon him, beautiful as none can ever hope to be. if she had come, unnamed, as any country maid, her loveliness would have dazzled him like sea-foam in the sun; but she was girt with her magical cestus, a spell of beauty that no one can resist. without a bribe she might have conquered, and she smiled upon his dumb amazement, saying, "paris, thou shalt yet have for wife the fairest woman in the world." at these words, the happy shepherd fell on his knees and offered her the golden apple. he took no heed of the slighted goddesses, who vanished in a cloud that boded storm. from that hour he sought only the counsel of venus, and only cared to find the highway to his new fortunes. from her he learned that he was the son of king priam of troy, and with her assistance he deserted the nymph oenone, whom he had married, and went in search of his royal kindred. for it chanced at that time that priam proclaimed a contest of strength between his sons and certain other princes, and promised as prize the most splendid bull that could be found among the herds of mount ida. thither came the herdsmen to choose, and when they led away the pride of paris's heart, he followed to troy, thinking that he would try his fortune and perhaps win back his own. the games took place before priam and hecuba and all their children, including those noble princes hector and helenus, and the young cassandra, their sister. this poor maiden had a sad story, in spite of her royalty; for, because she had once disdained apollo, she was fated to foresee all things, and ever to have her prophecies disbelieved. on this fateful day, she alone was oppressed with strange forebodings. but if he who was to be the ruin of his country had returned, he had come victoriously. paris won the contest. at the very moment of his honor, poor cassandra saw him with her prophetic eyes; and seeing as well all the guilt and misery that he was to bring upon them, she broke into bitter lamentations, and would have warned her kindred against the evil to come. but the trojans gave little heed; they were wont to look upon her visions as spells of madness. paris had come back to them a glorious youth and a victor; and when he made known the secret of his birth, they cast the words of the oracle to the winds, and received the shepherd as a long-lost prince. thus far all went happily. but venus, whose promise had not yet been fulfilled, bade paris procure a ship and go in search of his destined bride. the prince said nothing of this quest, but urged his kindred to let him go; and giving out a rumor that he was to find his father's lost sister hesione, he set sail for greece, and finally landed at sparta. there he was kindly received by menelaus, the king, and his wife, fair helen. this queen had been reared as the daughter of tyndarus and queen leda, but some say that she was the child of an enchanted swan, and there was indeed a strange spell about her. all the greatest heroes of greece had wooed her before she left her father's palace to be the wife of king menelaus; and tyndarus, fearing for her peace, had bound her many suitors by an oath. according to this pledge, they were to respect her choice, and to go to the aid of her husband if ever she should be stolen away from him. for in all greece there was nothing so beautiful as the beauty of helen. she was the fairest woman in the world. now thus did venus fulfil her promise and the shepherd win his reward with dishonor. paris dwelt at the court of menelaus for a long time, treated with a royal courtesy which he ill repaid. for at length while the king was absent on a journey to crete, his guest won the heart of fair helen, and persuaded her to forsake her husband and sail away to troy. king menelaus returned to find the nest empty of the swan. paris and the fairest woman in the world were well across the sea. ii. the rousing of the heroes. when this treachery came to light, all greece took fire with indignation. the heroes remembered their pledge, and wrath came upon them at the wrong done to menelaus. but they were less angered with fair helen than with paris, for they felt assured that the queen had been lured from her country and out of her own senses by some spell of enchantment. so they took counsel how they might bring back fair helen to her home and husband. years had come and gone since that wedding-feast when eris had flung the apple of discord, like a firebrand, among the guests. but the spark of dissension that had smouldered so long burst into flame now, and, fanned by the enmities of men and the rivalries of the gods, it seemed like to fire heaven and earth. a few of the heroes answered the call to arms unwillingly. time had reconciled them to the loss of fair helen, and they were loath to leave home and happiness for war, even in her cause. one of these was odysseus, king of ithaca, who had married penelope, and was quite content with his kingdom and his little son telemachus. indeed, he was so unwilling to leave them that he feigned madness in order to escape service, appeared to forget his own kindred, and went ploughing the seashore and sowing salt in the furrows. but a messenger, palamedes, who came with the summons to war, suspected that this sudden madness might be a stratagem, for the king was far famed as a man of many devices. he therefore stood by, one day (while odysseus, pretending to take no heed of him, went ploughing the sand), and he laid the baby telemachus directly in the way of the ploughshare. for once the wise man's craft deserted him. odysseus turned the plough sharply, caught up the little prince, and there his fatherly wits were manifest! after this he could no longer play madman. he had to take leave of his beloved wife penelope and set out to join the heroes, little dreaming that he was not to return for twenty years. once embarked, however, he set himself to work in the common cause of the heroes, and was soon as ingenious as palamedes in rousing laggard warriors. there remained one who was destined to be the greatest warrior of all. this was achilles, the son of thetis,--foretold in the day of prometheus as a man who should far outstrip his own father in glory and greatness. years had passed since the marriage of thetis to king peleus, and their son achilles was now grown to manhood, a wonder of strength indeed, and, moreover, invulnerable. for his mother, forewarned of his death in the trojan war, had dipped him in the sacred river styx when he was a baby, so that he could take no hurt from any weapon. from head to foot she had plunged him in, only forgetting the little heel that she held him by, and this alone could be wounded by any chance. but even with such precautions thetis was not content. fearful at the rumors of war to be, she had her son brought up, in woman's dress, among the daughters of king lycomedes of scyros, that he might escape the notice of men and cheat his destiny. to this very palace, however, came odysseus in the guise of a merchant, and he spread his wares before the royal household,--jewels and ivory, fine fabrics, and curiously wrought weapons. the king's daughters chose girdles and veils and such things as women delight in; but achilles, heedless of the like, sought out the weapons, and handled them with such manly pleasure that his nature stood revealed. so he, too, yielded to his destiny and set out to join the heroes. everywhere men were banded together, building the ships and gathering supplies. the allied forces of greece (the achaeans, as they called themselves) chose agamemnon for their commander-in-chief. he was a mighty man, king of mycenae and argos, and the brother of the wronged menelaus. second to achilles in strength was the giant ajax; after him diomedes, then wise odysseus, and nestor, held in great reverence because of his experienced age and fame. these were the chief heroes. after two years of busy preparation, they reached the port of aulis, whence they were to sail for troy. but here delay held them. agamemnon had chanced to kill a stag which was sacred to diana, and the army was visited by pestilence, while a great calm kept the ships imprisoned. at length the oracle made known the reason of this misfortune and demanded for atonement the maiden iphigenia, agamemnon's own daughter. in helpless grief the king consented to offer her up as a victim, and the maiden was brought ready for sacrifice. but at the last moment diana caught her away in a cloud, leaving a white hind in her place, and carried her to tauris in scythia, there to serve as a priestess in the temple. in the mean time, her kinsfolk, who were at a loss to understand how she had disappeared, mourned her as dead. but diana had accepted their child as an offering, and healing came to the army, and the winds blew again. so the ships set sail. meanwhile, in troy across the sea, the aged priam and hecuba gave shelter to their son paris and his stolen bride. they were not without misgivings as to these guests, but they made ready to defend their kindred and the citadel. there were many heroes among the trojans and their allies, brave and upright men, who little deserved that such reproach should be brought upon them by the guilt of prince paris. there were aeneas and deiphobus, glaucus and sarpedon, and priam's most noble son hector, chief of all the forces, and the very bulwark of troy. these and many more were bitterly to regret the day that had brought paris back to his home. but he had taken refuge with his own people, and the trojans had to take up his cause against the hostile fleet that was coming across the sea. even the gods took sides. juno and athena, who had never forgiven the judgment of paris, condemned all troy with, him and favored the greeks, as did also poseidon, god of the sea. but venus, true to her favorite, furthered the interests of the trojans with all her power, and persuaded the warlike mars to do likewise. zeus and apollo strove to be impartial, but they were yet to aid now one side, now another, according to the fortunes of the heroes whom they loved. over the sea came the great embassy of ships, sped hither safely by the god poseidon; and the heroes made their camp on the plain before troy. first of all odysseus and king menelaus himself went into the city and demanded that fair helen should be given back to her rightful husband. this the trojans refused; and so began the siege of troy. iii. the wooden horse. nine years the greeks laid siege to troy, and troy held out against every device. on both sides the lives of many heroes were spent, and they were forced to acknowledge each other enemies of great valor. sometimes the chief warriors fought in single combat, while the armies looked on, and the old men of troy, with the women, came out to watch far off from the city walls. king priam and queen hecuba would come, and cassandra, sad with foreknowledge of their doom, and andromache, the lovely young wife of hector, with her little son whom the people called _the city king_. sometimes fair helen came to look across the plain to the fellow-countrymen whom she had forsaken; and although she was the cause of all this war, the trojans half forgave her when she passed by, because her beauty was like a spell, and warmed hard hearts as the sunshine mellows apples. so for nine years the greeks plundered the neighboring towns, but the city troy stood fast, and the grecian ships waited with folded wings. the half of that story cannot be told here, but in the tenth year of the war many things came to pass, and the end drew near. of this tenth year alone, there are a score of tales. for the greeks fell to quarrelling among themselves over the spoils of war, and the great achilles left the camp in anger and refused to fight. nothing would induce him to return, till his friend patroclus was slain by prince hector. at that news, indeed, achilles rose in great might and returned to the greeks; and he went forth clad in armor that had been wrought for him by vulcan, at the prayer of thetis. by the river scamander, near to troy, he met and slew hector, and afterwards dragged the hero's body after his chariot across the plain. how the aged priam went alone by night to the tent of achilles to ransom his son's body, and how achilles relented, and moreover granted a truce for the funeral honors of his enemy,--all these things have been so nobly sung that they can never be fitly spoken. hector, the bulwark of troy, had fallen, and the ruin of the city was at hand. achilles himself did not long survive his triumph, and, ruthless as he was, he ill-deserved the manner of his death. he was treacherously slain by that paris who would never have dared to meet him in the open field. paris, though he had brought all this disaster upon troy, had left the danger to his countrymen. but he lay in wait for achilles in a temple sacred to apollo, and from his hiding-place he sped a poisoned arrow at the hero. it pierced his ankle where the water of the styx had not charmed him against wounds, and of that venom the great achilles died. paris himself died soon after by another poisoned arrow, but that was no long grief to anybody! still troy held out, and the greeks, who could not take it by force, pondered how they might take it by craft. at length, with the aid of odysseus, they devised a plan. a portion of the grecian host broke up camp and set sail as if they were homeward bound; but, once out of sight, they anchored their ships behind a neighboring island. the rest of the army then fell to work upon a great image of a horse. they built it of wood, fitted and carved, and with a door so cunningly concealed that none might notice it. when it was finished, the horse looked like a prodigious idol; but it was hollow, skilfully pierced here and there, and so spacious that a band of men could lie hidden within and take no harm. into this hiding-place went odysseus, menelaus, and the other chiefs, fully armed, and when the door was shut upon them, the rest of the grecian army broke camp and went away. meanwhile, in troy, the people had seen the departure of the ships, and the news had spread like wildfire. the great enemy had lost heart,--after ten years of war! part of the army had gone,--the rest were going. already the last of the ships had set sail, and the camp was deserted. the tents that had whitened the plain were gone like a frost before the sun. the war was over! the whole city went wild with joy. like one who has been a prisoner for many years, it flung off all restraint, and the people rose as a single man to test the truth of new liberty. the gates were thrown wide, and the trojans--men, women, and children--thronged over the plain and into the empty camp of the enemy. there stood the wooden horse. no one knew what it could be. fearful at first, they gathered around it, as children gather around a live horse; they marvelled at its wondrous height and girth, and were for moving it into the city as a trophy of war. at this, one man interposed,--laocoön, a priest of poseidon. "take heed, citizens," said he. "beware of all that comes from the greeks. have you fought them for ten years without learning their devices? this is some piece of treachery." but there was another outcry in the crowd, and at that moment certain of the trojans dragged forward a wretched man who wore the garments of a greek. he seemed the sole remnant of the grecian army, and as such they consented to spare his life, if he would tell them the truth. sinon, for this was the spy's name, said that he had been left behind by the malice of odysseus, and he told them that the greeks had built the wooden horse as an offering to athena, and that they had made it so huge in order to keep it from being moved out of the camp, since it was destined to bring triumph to its possessors. at this, the joy of the trojans was redoubled, and they set their wits to find out how they might soonest drag the great horse across the plain and into the city to ensure victory. while they stood talking, two immense serpents rose out of the sea and made towards the camp. some of the people took flight, others were transfixed with terror; but all, near and far, watched this new omen. rearing their crests, the sea-serpents crossed the shore, swift, shining, terrible as a risen water-flood that descends upon a helpless little town. straight through the crowd they swept, and seized the priest laocoön where he stood, with his two sons, and wrapped them all round and round in fearful coils. there was no chance of escape. father and sons perished together; and when the monsters had devoured the three men, into the sea they slipped again, leaving no trace of the horror. the terrified trojans saw an omen in this. to their minds, punishment had come upon laocoön for his words against the wooden horse. surely, it was sacred to the gods; he had spoken blasphemy, and had perished before their eyes. they flung his warning to the winds. they wreathed the horse with garlands, amid great acclaim; and then, all lending a hand, they dragged it, little by little, out of the camp and into the city of troy. with the close of that victorious day, they gave up every memory of danger and made merry after ten years of privation. that very night sinon the spy opened the hidden door of the wooden horse, and in the darkness, odysseus, menelaus, and the other chiefs who had lain hidden there crept out and gave the signal to the grecian army. for, under cover of night, those ships that had been moored behind the island had sailed back again, and the greeks were come upon troy. not a trojan was on guard. the whole city was at feast when the enemy rose in its midst, and the warning of laocoön was fulfilled. priam and his warriors fell by the sword, and their kingdom was plundered of all its fair possessions, women and children and treasure. last of all, the city itself was burned to its very foundations. homeward sailed the greeks, taking as royal captives poor cassandra and andromache and many another trojan. and home at last went fair helen, the cause of all this sorrow, eager to be forgiven by her husband, king menelaus. for she had awakened from the enchantment of venus, and even before the death of paris she had secretly longed for her home and kindred. home to sparta she came with the king after a long and stormy voyage, and there she lived and died the fairest of women. but the kingdom of troy was fallen. nothing remained of all its glory but the glory of its dead heroes and fair women, and the ruins of its citadel by the river scamander. there even now, beneath the foundations of later homes that were built and burned, built and burned, in the wars of a thousand years after, the ruins of ancient troy lie hidden, like mouldered leaves deep under the new grass. and there, to this very day, men who love the story are delving after the dead city as you might search for a buried treasure. the house of agamemnon. the greeks had won back fair helen, and had burned the city of troy behind them, but theirs was no triumphant voyage home. many were driven far and wide before they saw their land again, and one who escaped such hardships came home to find a bitter welcome. this was the chief of all the hosts, agamemnon, king of mycenae and argos. he it was who had offered his own daughter iphigenia to appease the wrath of diana before the ships could sail for troy. an ominous leave-taking was his, and calamity was there to greet him home again. he had entrusted the cares of the state to his cousin aegisthus, commending also to his protection queen clytemnestra with her two remaining children, electra and orestes. now clytemnestra was a sister of helen of troy, and a beautiful woman to see; but her heart was as evil as her face was fair. no sooner had her husband gone to the wars than she set up aegisthus in his place, as if there were no other king of argos. for years this faithless pair lived arrogantly in the face of the people, and controlled the affairs of the kingdom. but as time went by and the child orestes grew to be a youth, aegisthus feared lest the argives should stand by their own prince, and drive him away as an usurper. he therefore planned the death of orestes, and even won the consent of the queen, who was no gentle mother! but the princess electra, suspecting their plot, secretly hurried her brother away to the court of king strophius in phocis, and so saved his life. she was not, however, to save a second victim. the ten years of war went by, and the chief, agamemnon, came home in triumph, heralded by all the argives, who were as exultant over the return of their lawful king as over the fall of troy. into the city came the remnant of his own men, bearing the spoils of war, and, in the midst of a jubilant multitude, king agamemnon sharing his chariot with the captive princess, cassandra. queen clytemnestra went out to greet him with every show of joy and triumph. she had a cloth of purple spread before the palace, that her husband might come with state into his home once more; and before all beholders she protested that the ten years of his absence had bereaved her of all happiness. the unsuspicious king left his chariot and entered the palace; but the princess cassandra hesitated and stood by in fear. poor cassandra! her kindred were slain and the doom of her city was fulfilled, but the curse of prophecy still followed her. she felt the shadow of coming evil, and there before the door she recoiled, and cried out that there was blood in the air. at length, despairing of her fate, she too went in. even while the argives stood about the gates, pitying her madness, the prophecy came true. clytemnestra, like any anxious wife, had led the travel-worn king to a bath; and there, when he had laid by his arms, she and aegisthus threw a net over him, as they would have snared any beast of prey, and slew him, defenceless. in the same hour cassandra, too, fell into their hands, and they put an end to her warnings. so died the chief of the great army and his royal captive. the murderers proclaimed themselves king and queen before all the people, and none dared rebel openly against such terrible authority. but aegisthus was still uneasy at the thought that the prince orestes might return some day to avenge his father. indeed, electra had sent from time to time secret messages to phocis, entreating her brother to come and take his rightful place, and save her from her cruel mother and aegisthus. but there came to argos one day a rumor that orestes himself had died in phocis, and the poor princess gave up all hope of peace; while clytemnestra and aegisthus made no secret of their relief, but even offered impious thanks in the temple, as if the gods were of their mind! they were soon undeceived. two young phocians came to the palace with news of the last days of orestes, so they said; and they were admitted to the presence of the king and queen. they were, in truth, orestes himself and his friend pylades (son of king strophius), who had ventured safety and all to avenge agamemnon. then and there orestes killed aegisthus and clytemnestra, and appeared before the argives as their rightful prince. but not even so did he find peace. in slaying clytemnestra, wicked as she was, he had murdered his own mother, a deed hateful to gods and men. day and night he was haunted by the furies. these dread sisters never leave hades save to pursue and torture some guilty conscience. they wear black raiment, like the wings of a bat; their hair writhes with serpents fierce as remorse, and in their hands they carry flaming torches that make all shapes look greater and more fearful than they are. no sleep can soothe the mind of him they follow. they come between his eyes and the daylight; at night their torches drive away all comfortable darkness. poor orestes, though he had punished two murderers, felt that he was no less a murderer himself. from land to land he wandered in despair that grew to madness, with one only comrade, the faithful pylades, who was his very shadow. at length he took refuge in athens, under the protection of athena, and gave himself up to be tried by the court of the areopagus. there he was acquitted; but not all the furies left him, and at last he besought the oracle of apollo to befriend him. "go to tauris, in scythia," said the voice, "and bring from thence the image of diana which fell from the heavens." so he set out with his pylades and sailed to the shore of scythia. now the taurians were a savage people, who strove to honor diana, to their rude minds, by sacrificing all the strangers that fell into their hands. there was a temple not far from the seaside, and its priestess was a grecian maiden, one iphigenia, who had miraculously appeared there years before, and was held in especial awe by thoas, the king of the country round about. sorely against her will, she had to hallow the victims offered at this shrine; and into her presence orestes and pylades were brought by the men who had seized them. on learning that they were grecians and argives (for they withheld their names), the priestess was moved to the heart. she asked them many questions concerning the fate of agamemnon, clytemnestra, and the warriors against troy, which they answered as best they could. at length she said that she would help one of them to escape, if he would swear to take a message from her to one in argos. "my friend shall bear it home," said orestes. "as for me, i stay and endure my fate." "nay," said pylades; "how can i swear? for i might lose this letter by shipwreck or some other mischance." "hear the message, then," said the high-priestess. "and thou wilt keep it by thee with thy life. to orestes, son of agamemnon, say iphigenia, his sister, is dead indeed unto her parents, but not to him. say that diana has had charge over her these many years since she was snatched away at aulis, and that she waits until her brother shall come to rescue her from this duty of bloodshed and take her home." at these words their amazement knew no bounds. orestes embraced his lost sister and told her all his story, and the three, breathless with eagerness, planned a way of escape. the king of tauris had already come to witness the sacrifice. but iphigenia took in her hands the sacred image of diana, and went out to tell him that the rites must be delayed. one of the strangers, said she, was guilty of the murder of his mother, the other sharing his crime; and these unworthy victims must be cleansed with pure sea-water before they could be offered to diana. the sacred image had been desecrated by their touch, and that, too, must be solemnly purged by no other hands than hers. to this the king consented. he remained to burn lustral fires in the temple; the people withdrew to their houses to escape pollution, and the priestess with her victims reached the seaside in safety. once there, with the sacred image which was to bring them good fortune, they hastened to the grecian galley and put off from that desolate shore. so, with his new-found sister and his new hope, orestes went over the seas to argos, to rebuild the honor of the royal house. the adventures of odysseus. i. the curse of polyphemus. of all the heroes that wandered far and wide before they came to their homes again after the fall of troy, none suffered so many hardships as odysseus. there was, indeed, one other man whose adventures have been likened to his, and this was aeneas, a trojan hero. he escaped from the burning city with a band of fugitives, his countrymen; and after years of peril and wandering he came to found a famous race in italy. on the way, he found one hospitable resting-place in carthage, where queen dido received him with great kindliness; and when he left her she took her own life, out of very grief. but there were no other hardships such as beset odysseus, between the burning of troy and his return to ithaca, west of the land of greece. ten years did he fight against troy, but it was ten years more before he came to his home and his wife penelope and his son telemachus. now all these latter years of wandering fell to his lot because of poseidon's anger against him. for poseidon had favored the grecian cause, and might well have sped home this man who had done so much to win the grecian victory. but as evil destiny would have it, odysseus mortally angered the god of the sea by blinding his son, the cyclops polyphemus. and thus it came to pass. odysseus set out from troy with twelve good ships. he touched first at ismarus, where his first misfortune took place, and in a skirmish with the natives he lost a number of men from each ship's crew. a storm then drove them to the land of the lotus-eaters, a wondrous people, kindly and content, who spend their lives in a day-dream and care for nothing else under the sun. no sooner had the sailors eaten of this magical lotus than they lost all their wish to go home, or to see their wives and children again. by main force, odysseus drove them back to the ships and saved them from the spell. thence they came one day to a beautiful strange island, a verdant place to see, deep with soft grass and well watered with springs. here they ran the ships ashore, and took their rest and feasted for a day. but odysseus looked across to the mainland, where he saw flocks and herds, and smoke going up softly from the homes of men; and he resolved to go across and find out what manner of people lived there. accordingly, next morning, he took his own ship's company and they rowed across to the mainland. now, fair as the place was, there dwelt in it a race of giants, the cyclopes, great rude creatures, having each but one eye, and that in the middle of his forehead. one of them was polyphemus, the son of poseidon. he lived by himself as a shepherd, and it was to his cave that odysseus came, by some evil chance. it was an enormous grotto, big enough to house the giant and all his flocks, and it had a great courtyard without. but odysseus, knowing nought of all this, chose out twelve men, and with a wallet of corn and a goatskin full of wine they left the ship and made a way to the cave, which they had seen from the water. much they wondered who might be the master of this strange house. polyphemus was away with his sheep, but many lambs and kids were penned there, and the cavern was well stored with goodly cheeses and cream and whey. without delay, the wearied men kindled a fire and sat down to eat such things as they found, till a great shadow came dark against the doorway, and they saw the cyclops near at hand, returning with his flocks. in an instant they fled into the darkest corner of the cavern. polyphemus drove his flocks into the place and cast off from his shoulders a load of young trees for firewood. then he lifted and set in the entrance of the cave a gigantic boulder of a door-stone. not until he had milked the goats and ewes and stirred up the fire did his terrible one eye light upon the strangers. "what are ye?" he roared then, "robbers or rovers?" and odysseus alone had heart to answer. "we are achaeans of the army of agamemnon," said he. "and by the will of zeus we have lost our course, and are come to you as strangers. forget not that zeus has a care for such as we, strangers and suppliants." loud laughed the cyclops at this. "you are a witless churl to bid me heed the gods!" said he. "i spare or kill to please myself and none other. but where is your cockle-shell that brought you hither?" then odysseus answered craftily: "alas, my ship is gone! only i and my men escaped alive from the sea." but polyphemus, who had been looking them over with his one eye, seized two of the mariners and dashed them against the wall and made his evening meal of them, while their comrades stood by helpless. this done, he stretched himself through the cavern and slept all night long, taking no more heed of them than if they had been flies. no sleep came to the wretched seamen, for, even had they been able to slay him, they were powerless to move away the boulder from the door. so all night long odysseus took thought how they might possibly escape. at dawn the cyclops woke, and his awakening was like a thunderstorm. again he kindled the fire, again he milked the goats and ewes, and again he seized two of the king's comrades and served them up for his terrible repast. then the savage shepherd drove his flocks out of the cave, only turning back to set the boulder in the doorway and pen up odysseus and his men in their dismal lodging. but the wise king had pondered well. in the sheepfold he had seen a mighty club of olive-wood, in size like the mast of a ship. as soon as the cyclops was gone, odysseus bade his men cut off a length of this club and sharpen it down to a point. this done, they hid it away under the earth that heaped the floor; and they waited in fear and torment for their chance of escape. at sundown, home came the cyclops. just as he had done before, he drove in his flocks, barred the entrance, milked the goats and ewes, and made his meal of two more hapless men, while their fellows looked on with burning eyes. then odysseus stood forth, holding a bowl of the wine that he had brought with him; and, curbing his horror of polyphemus, he spoke in friendly fashion: "drink, cyclops, and prove our wine, such as it was, for all was lost with our ship save this. and no other man will ever bring you more, since you are such an ungentle host." the cyclops tasted the wine and laughed with delight so that the cave shook. "ho, this is a rare drink!" said he. "i never tasted milk so good, nor whey, nor grape-juice either. give me the rest, and tell me your name, that i may thank you for it." twice and thrice odysseus poured the wine and the cyclops drank it off; then he answered: "since you ask it, cyclops, my name is noman." "and i will give you this for your wine, noman," said the cyclops; "you shall be eaten last of all!" as he spoke his head drooped, for his wits were clouded with drink, and he sank heavily out of his seat and lay prone, stretched along the floor of the cavern. his great eye shut and he fell asleep. odysseus thrust the stake under the ashes till it was glowing hot; and his fellows stood by him, ready to venture all. then together they lifted the club and drove it straight into the eye of polyphemus and turned it around and about. the cyclops gave a horrible cry, and, thrusting away the brand, he called on all his fellow-giants near and far. odysseus and his men hid in the uttermost corners of the cave, but they heard the resounding steps of the cyclopes who were roused, and their shouts as they called, "what ails thee, polyphemus? art thou slain? who has done thee any hurt?" "noman!" roared the blinded cyclops; "noman is here to slay me by treachery." "then if no man hath hurt thee," they called again, "let us sleep." and away they went to their homes once more. but polyphemus lifted away the boulder from the door and sat there in the entrance, groaning with pain and stretching forth his hands to feel if any one were near. then, while he sat in double darkness, with the light of his eye gone out, odysseus bound together the rams of the flock, three by three, in such wise that every three should save one of his comrades. for underneath the mid ram of each group a man clung, grasping his shaggy fleece; and the rams on each side guarded him from discovery. odysseus himself chose out the greatest ram and laid hold of his fleece and clung beneath his shaggy body, face upward. now, when dawn came, the rams hastened out to pasture, and polyphemus felt of their backs as they huddled along together; but he knew not that every three held a man bound securely. last of all came the kingly ram that was dearest to his rude heart, and he bore the king of ithaca. once free of the cave, odysseus and his fellows loosed their hold and took flight, driving the rams in haste to the ship, where, without delay, they greeted their comrades and went aboard. but as they pushed from shore, odysseus could not refrain from hailing the cyclops with taunts, and at the sound of that voice polyphemus came forth from his cave and hurled a great rock after the ship. it missed and upheaved the water like an earthquake. again odysseus called, saying: "cyclops, if any shall ask who blinded thine eye, say that it was odysseus, son of laertes of ithaca." then polyphemus groaned and cried: "an oracle foretold it, but i waited for some man of might who should overcome me by his valor,--not a weakling! and now"--he lifted his hands and prayed,--"father poseidon, my father, look upon odysseus, the son of laertes of ithaca, and grant me this revenge,--let him never see ithaca again! yet, if he must, may he come late, without a friend, after long wandering, to find evil abiding by his hearth!" so he spoke and hurled another rock after them, but the ship outstripped it, and sped by to the island where the other good ships waited for odysseus. together they put out from land and hastened on their homeward voyage. but poseidon, who is lord of the sea, had heard the prayer of his son, and that homeward voyage was to wear through ten years more, with storm and irksome calms and misadventure. ii. the wandering of odysseus. now odysseus and his men sailed on and on till they came to aeolia, where dwells the king of the winds, and here they came nigh to good fortune. aeolus received them kindly, and at their going he secretly gave to odysseus a leathern bag in which all contrary winds were tied up securely, that only the favoring west wind might speed them to ithaca. nine days the ships went gladly before the wind, and on the tenth day they had sight of ithaca, lying like a low cloud in the west. then, so near his haven, the happy odysseus gave up to his weariness and fell asleep, for he had never left the helm. but while he slept his men saw the leathern bag that he kept by him, and, in the belief that it was full of treasure, they opened it. out rushed the ill-winds! in an instant the sea was covered with white caps; the waves rose mountain high; the poor ships struggled against the tyranny of the gale and gave way. back they were driven,--back, farther and farther; and when odysseus woke, ithaca was gone from sight, as if it had indeed been only a low cloud in the west! straight to the island of aeolus they were driven once more. but when the king learned what greed and treachery had wasted his good gift, he would give them nothing more. "surely thou must be a man hated of the gods, odysseus," he said, "for misfortune bears thee company. depart now; i may not help thee." so, with a heavy heart, odysseus and his men departed. for many days they rowed against a dead calm, until at length they came to the land of the laestrygonians. and, to cut a piteous tale short, these giants destroyed all their fleet save one ship,--that of odysseus himself, and in this he made escape to the island of circe. what befell there, how the greedy seamen were turned into swine and turned back into men, and how the sorceress came to befriend odysseus,--all this has been related. there in aeaea the voyagers stayed a year before circe would let them go. but at length she bade odysseus seek the region of hades, and ask of the sage tiresias how he might ever return to ithaca. how odysseus followed this counsel, none may know; but by some mysterious journey, and with the aid of a spell, he came to the borders of hades. there he saw and spoke with many renowned shades, old and young, even his own friends who had fallen on the plain of troy. achilles he saw, patroclus and ajax and agamemnon, still grieving over the treachery of his wife. he saw, too, the phantom of heracles, who lives with honor among the gods, and has for his wife hebe, the daughter of zeus and juno. but though he would have talked with the heroes for a year and more, he sought out tiresias. "the anger of poseidon follows thee," said the sage. "wherefore, odysseus, thy return is yet far off. but take heed when thou art come to thrinacia, where the sacred kine of the sun have their pastures. do them no hurt, and thou shalt yet come home. _but if they be harmed in any wise_, ruin shall come upon thy men; and even if thou escape, thou shalt come home to find strange men devouring thy substance and wooing thy wife." with this word in his mind, odysseus departed and came once more to aeaea. there he tarried but a little time, till circe had told him all the dangers that beset his way. many a good counsel and crafty warning did she give him against the sirens that charm with their singing, and against the monster scylla and the whirlpool charybdis, and the clashing rocks, and the cattle of the sun. so the king and his men set out from the island of aeaea. now very soon they came to the sirens who sing so sweetly that they lure to death every man who listens. for straightway he is mad to be with them where they sing; and alas for the man that would fly without wings! but when the ship drew near the sirens' island, odysseus did as circe had taught him. he bade all his shipmates stop up their ears with moulded wax, so that they could not hear. he alone kept his hearing: but he had himself lashed to the mast so that he could in no wise move, and he forbade them to loose him, however he might plead, under the spell of the sirens. as they sailed near, his soul gave way. he heard a wild sweetness coaxing the air, as a minstrel coaxes the harp; and there, close by, were the sirens sitting in a blooming meadow that hid the bones of men. beautiful, winning maidens they looked; and they sang, entreating odysseus by name to listen and abide and rest. their voices were golden-sweet above the sound of wind and wave, like drops of amber floating on the tide; and for all his wisdom, odysseus strained at his bonds and begged his men to let him go free. but they, deaf alike to the song and the sorcery, rowed harder than ever. at length, song and island faded in the distance. odysseus came to his wits once more, and his men loosed his bonds and set him free. but they were close upon new dangers. no sooner had they avoided the clashing rocks (by a device of circe's) than they came to a perilous strait. on one hand they saw the whirlpool where, beneath a hollow fig-tree, charybdis sucks down the sea horribly. and, while they sought to escape her, on the other hand monstrous scylla upreared from the cave, snatched six of their company with her six long necks, and devoured them even while they called upon odysseus to save them. so, with bitter peril, the ship passed by and came to the island of thrinacia; and here are goodly pastures for the flocks and herds of the sun. odysseus, who feared lest his men might forget the warning of tiresias, was very loath to land. but the sailors were weary and worn to the verge of mutiny, and they swore, moreover, that they would never lay hands on the sacred kine. so they landed, thinking to depart next day. but with the next day came a tempest that blew for a month without ceasing, so that they were forced to beach the ship and live on the island with their store of corn and wine. when that was gone they had to hunt and fish, and it happened that, while odysseus was absent in the woods one day, his shipmates broke their oath. "for," said they, "when we are once more in ithaca we will make amends to helios with sacrifice. but let us rather drown than waste to death with hunger." so they drove off the best of the cattle of the sun and slew them. when the king returned, he found them at their fateful banquet; but it was too late to save them from the wrath of the gods. as soon as they were fairly embarked once more, the sun ceased to shine. the sea rose high, the thunderbolt of zeus struck that ship, and all its company was scattered abroad upon the waters. not one was left save odysseus. he clung to a fragment of his last ship, and so he drifted, borne here and there, and lashed by wind and wave, until he was washed up on the strand of the island ogygia, the home of the nymph calypso. he was not to leave this haven for seven years. here, after ten years of war and two of wandering, he found a kindly welcome. the enchanted island was full of wonders, and the nymph calypso was more than mortal fair, and would have been glad to marry the hero; yet he pined for ithaca. nothing could win his heart away from his own country and his own wife penelope, nothing but lethe itself, and that no man may drink till he dies. so for seven years calypso strove to make him forget his longing with ease and pleasant living and soft raiment. day by day she sang to him while she broidered her web with gold; and her voice was like a golden strand that twines in and out of silence, making it beautiful. she even promised that she would make him immortal, if he would stay and be content; but he was heartsick for home. at last his sorrow touched even the heart of athena in heaven, for she loved his wisdom and his many devices. so she besought zeus and all the other gods until they consented to shield odysseus from the anger of poseidon. hermes himself bound on his winged sandals and flew down to ogygia, where he found calypso at her spinning. after many words, the nymph consented to give up her captive, for she was kind of heart, and all her graces had not availed to make him forget his home. with her help, odysseus built a raft and set out upon his lonely voyage,--the only man remaining out of twelve good ships that had left troy nigh unto ten years before. the sea roughened against him, but (to shorten a tale of great peril) after many days, sore spent and tempest-tossed, he came to the land of the phaeacians, a land dear to the immortal gods, abounding in gifts of harvest and vintage, in godlike men and lovely women. here the shipwrecked king met the princess nausicaa by the seaside, as she played ball with her maidens; and she, when she had heard of his plight, gave him food and raiment, and bade him follow her home. so he followed her to the palace of king alcinous and queen arete, and abode with them, kindly refreshed, and honored with feasting and games and song. but it came to pass, as the minstrel sang before them of the trojan war and the wooden horse, that odysseus wept over the story, it was written so deep in his own heart. then for the first time he told them his true name and all his trials. they would gladly have kept so great a man with them forever, but they had no heart to keep him longer from his home; so they bade him farewell and set him upon one of their magical ships, with many gifts of gold and silver, and sent him on his way. wonderful seamen are the phaeacians. the ocean is to them as air to the bird,--the best path for a swift journey! odysseus was glad enough to trust the way to them, and no sooner had they set out than a sweet sleep fell upon his eyelids. but the good ship sped like any bee that knows the way home. in a marvellous short time they came even to the shore of the kingdom of ithaca. while odysseus was still sleeping, unconscious of his good fortune, the phaeacians lifted him from the ship with kindly joy and laid him upon his own shore; and beside him they set the gifts of gold and silver and fair work of the loom. so they departed; and thus it was that odysseus came to ithaca after twenty years. iii. the home-coming. now all these twenty years, in the island of ithaca, penelope had watched for her husband's return. at first with high hopes and then in doubt and sorrow (when news of the great war came by some traveller), she had waited, eager and constant as a young bride. but now the war was long past; her young son telemachus had come to manhood; and as for odysseus, she knew not whether he was alive or dead. for years there had been trouble in ithaca. it was left a kingdom without a king, and penelope was fair and wise. so suitors came from all the islands round about to beg her hand in marriage, since many loved the queen and as many more loved her possessions, and desired to rule over them. moreover, every one thought or said that king odysseus must be dead. neither penelope nor her aged father-in-law laertes could rid the place of these troublesome suitors. some were nobles and some were adventurers, but they all thronged the palace like a pest of crickets, and devoured the wealth of the kingdom with feasts in honor of penelope and themselves and everybody else; and they besought the queen to choose a husband from their number. for a long time she would hear none of this; but they grew so clamorous in their suit that she had to put them off with craft. for she saw that there would be danger to her country, and her son, and herself, unless odysseus came home some day and turned the suitors out of doors. she therefore spoke them fair, and gave them some hope of her marriage, to make peace. "ye princely wooers," she said, "now i believe that the king odysseus, my husband, must long since have perished in a strange land; and i have bethought me once more of marriage. have patience, therefore, till i shall have finished the web that i am weaving. for it is a royal shroud that i must make against the day that laertes may die (the father of my lord and husband). this is the way of my people," said she; "and when the web is done, i will choose another king for ithaca." she had set up in the hall a great loom, and day by day she wrought there at the web, for she was a marvellous spinner, patient as arachne, but dear to athena. all day long she would weave, but every night in secret she would unravel what she had wrought in the daytime, so that the web might never be done. for although she believed her dear husband to be dead, yet her hope would put forth buds again and again, just as spring, that seems to die each year, will come again. so she ever looked to see odysseus coming. three years and more she held off the suitors with this wile, and they never perceived it. for, being men, they knew nothing of women's handicraft. it was all alike a marvel to them, both the beauty of the web and this endless toil in the making! as for penelope, all day long she wove; but at night she would unravel her work and weep bitterly, because she had another web to weave and another day to watch, all for nothing, since odysseus never came. in the fourth year, though, a faithless servant betrayed this secret to the wooers, and there came an end to peace and the web, too! matters grew worse and worse. telemachus set out to find his father, and the poor queen was left without husband or son. but the suitors continued to live about the palace like so many princes, and to make merry on the wealth of odysseus, while he was being driven from land to land and wreck to wreck. so it came true, that prophecy that, if the herds of the sun were harmed, odysseus should reach his home alone in evil plight to find sorrow in his own household. but in the end he was to drive her forth. now, when odysseus woke, he did not know his own country. gone were the phaeacians and their ship; only the gifts beside him told him that he had not dreamed. while he looked about, bewildered, athena, in the guise of a young countryman, came to his aid, and told him where he was. then, smiling upon his amazement and joy, she shone forth in her own form, and warned him not to hasten home, since the palace was filled with the insolent suitors of penelope, whose heart waited empty for him as the nest for the bird. moreover, athena changed his shape into that of an aged pilgrim, and led him to the hut of a certain swineherd, eumaeus, his old and faithful servant. this man received the king kindly, taking him for a travel-worn wayfarer, and told him all the news of the palace, and the suitors and the poor queen, who was ever ready to hear the idle tales of any traveller if he had aught to tell of king odysseus. now who should come to the hut at this time but the prince telemachus, whom athena had hastened safely home from his quest! eumaeus received his young master with great joy, but the heart of odysseus was nigh to bursting, for he had never seen his son since he left him, an infant, for the trojan war. when eumaeus left them together, he made himself known; and for that moment athena gave him back his kingly looks, so that telemachus saw him with exultation, and they two wept over each other for joy. by this time news of her son's return had come to penelope, and she was almost happy, not knowing that the suitors were plotting to kill telemachus. home he came, and he hastened to assure his mother that he had heard good news of odysseus; though, for the safety of all, he did not tell her that odysseus was in ithaca. meanwhile eumaeus and his aged pilgrim came to the city and the palace gates. they were talking to a goatherd there, when an old hound that lay in the dust-heap near by pricked up his ears and stirred his tail feebly as at a well-known voice. he was the faithful argus, named after a monster of many eyes that once served juno as a watchman. indeed, when the creature was slain, juno had his eyes set in the feathers of her pet peacocks, and there they glisten to this day. but the end of this argus was very different. once the pride of the king's heart, he was now so old and infirm that he could barely move; but though his master had come home in the guise of a strange beggar, he knew the voice, and he alone, after twenty years. odysseus, seeing him, could barely restrain his tears; but the poor old hound, as if he had lived but to welcome his master home, died that very same day. into the palace hall went the swineherd and the pilgrim, among the suitors who were feasting there. now how odysseus begged a portion of meat and was shamefully insulted by these men, how he saw his own wife and hid his joy and sorrow, but told her news of himself as any beggar might,--all these things are better sung than spoken. it is a long story. but the end was near. the suitors had demanded the queen's choice, and once more the constant penelope tried to put it off. she took from her safe treasure-chamber the great bow of odysseus, and she promised that she would marry that one of the suitors who should send his arrow through twelve rings ranged in a line. all other weapons were taken away by the care of telemachus; there was nothing but the great bow and quiver. and when all was ready, penelope went away to her chamber to weep. but, first of all, no one could string the bow. suitor after suitor tried and failed. the sturdy wood stood unbent against the strongest. last of all, odysseus begged leave to try, and was laughed to scorn. telemachus, however, as if for courtesy's sake, gave him the bow; and the strange beggar bent it easily, adjusted the cord, and before any could stay his hand he sped the arrow from the string. singing with triumph, it flew straight through the twelve rings and quivered in the mark! "now for another mark!" cried odysseus in the king's own voice. he turned upon the most evil-hearted suitor. another arrow hissed and struck, and the man fell pierced. telemachus sprang to his father's side, eumaeus stood by him, and the fighting was short and bitter. one by one they slew those insolent suitors; for the right was theirs, and athena stood by them, and the time was come. every one of the false-hearted wooers they laid low, and every corrupt servant in that house; then they made the place clean and fair again. but the old nurse eurycleia hastened up to queen penelope, where she sat in fear and wonder, crying, "odysseus is returned! come and see with thine own eyes!" after twenty years of false tales, the poor queen could not believe her ears. she came down into the hall bewildered, and looked at the stranger as one walking in a dream. even when athena had given him back his youth and kingly looks, she stood in doubt, so that her own son reproached her and odysseus was grieved in spirit. but when he drew near and called her by her name, entreating her by all the tokens that she alone knew, her heart woke up and sang like a brook set free in spring! she knew him then for her husband odysseus, come home at last. surely that was happiness enough to last them ever after. old greek stories by james baldwin new york: cincinnati: chicago american book company preface. perhaps no other stories have ever been told so often or listened to with so much pleasure as the classic tales of ancient greece. for many ages they have been a source of delight to young people and old, to the ignorant and the learned, to all who love to hear about and contemplate things mysterious, beautiful, and grand. they have become so incorporated into our language and thought, and so interwoven with our literature, that we could not do away with them now if we would. they are a portion of our heritage from the distant past, and they form perhaps as important a part of our intellectual life as they did of that of the people among whom they originated. that many of these tales should be read by children at an early age no intelligent person will deny. sufficient reason for this is to be found in the real pleasure that every child derives from their perusal: and in the preparation of this volume no other reason has been considered. i have here attempted to tell a few stories of jupiter and his mighty company and of some of the old greek heroes, _simply as stories_, nothing more. i have carefully avoided every suggestion of interpretation. attempts at analysis and explanation will always prove fatal to a child's appreciation and enjoyment of such stories. to inculcate the idea that these tales are merely descriptions of certain natural phenomena expressed in narrative and poetic form, is to deprive them of their highest charm; it is like turning precious gold into utilitarian iron: it is changing a delightful romance into a dull scientific treatise. the wise teacher will take heed not to be guilty of such an error. it will be observed that while each of the stories in this volume is wholly independent of the others and may be read without any knowledge of those which precede it, there is nevertheless a certain continuity from the first to the last, giving to the collection a completeness like that of a single narrative. in order that the children of our own country and time may be the better able to read these stories in the light in which they were narrated long ago, i have told them in simple language, keeping the supernatural element as far as possible in the background, and nowhere referring to jupiter and his mighty company as gods. i have hoped thus to free the narrative still more from everything that might detract from its interest simply as a story. j.b. contents. jupiter and his mighty company the golden age the story of prometheus the flood the story of io the wonderful weaver the lord of the silver bow admetus and alcestis cadmus and europa the quest of medusa's head the story of atalanta the horse and the olive the adventures of theseus the wonderful artisan the cruel tribute persons and places mentioned. adme'tus aege'an sea ae'geus (jus) aegi'na aescula'pius ae'thra aido'neus alces'tis althe'a andro'geos androm'eda apol'lo araech'ne arca'dia ar'gos ar'gus ariad'ne ar'temis a'sia atalan'ta athe'na ath'ens at'ropos bac'chus bos'phorus cadme'ia cad'mus cal'ydon cau'casus ce'crops cer'cyon ce'res chei'ron clo'tho coro'nis cran'aë crete cyclo'pes cy'prus dae'dalus dan'aë daph'ne de'los del'phi deuca'lion dian'a e'gypt eleu'sis epime'theus (thus) euro'pa eu'rope gor'gons greece ha'des härmo'nia he'lios hel'las hel'len hel'lenes her'cules ica'rian sea ic'arus i'o iol'cus ju'no ju'piter lab'yrinth lach'esis le'to mars mede'a medu'sa meg'ara meila'nion melea'ger mer'cury miner'va mi'nos min'otaur myce'nae nep'tune nile oe'neus (nus) os'sa pando'ra pärnas'sus par'nes pe'lias pene'us per'dix perigu'ne per'seus (sus) pit'theus plu'to posei'don procrus'tes prome'theus (thus) pros'erpine pyr'rha pyth'ia py'thon saron'ic sea sat'urn sci'ron sic'ily si'nis tem'pe thebes the'seus (sus) thes'saly ti'ryns ti'tans troe'zen ve'nus ves'ta vul'can zeus (zus) [illustration] old greek stories. jupiter and his mighty company. a long time ago, when the world was much younger than it is now, people told and believed a great many wonderful stories about wonderful things which neither you nor i have ever seen. they often talked about a certain mighty being called jupiter, or zeus, who was king of the sky and the earth; and they said that he sat most of the time amid the clouds on the top of a very high mountain where he could look down and see everything that was going on in the earth beneath. he liked to ride on the storm-clouds and hurl burning thunderbolts right and left among the trees and rocks; and he was so very, very mighty that when he nodded, the earth quaked, the mountains trembled and smoked, the sky grew black, and the sun hid his face. jupiter had two brothers, both of them terrible fellows, but not nearly so great as himself. the name of one of them was neptune, or poseidon, and he was the king of the sea. he had a glittering, golden palace far down in the deep sea-caves where the fishes live and the red coral grows; and whenever he was angry the waves would rise mountain high, and the storm-winds would howl fearfully, and the sea would try to break over the land; and men called him the shaker of the earth. the other brother of jupiter was a sad pale-faced being, whose kingdom was underneath the earth, where the sun never shone and where there was darkness and weeping and sorrow all the time. his name was pluto, or aidoneus, and his country was called the lower world, or the land of shadows, or hades. men said that whenever any one died, pluto would send his messenger, or shadow leader, to carry that one down into his cheerless kingdom; and for that reason they never spoke well of him, but thought of him only as the enemy of life. a great number of other mighty beings lived with jupiter amid the clouds on the mountain top,--so many that i can name a very few only. there was venus, the queen of love and beauty, who was fairer by far than any woman that you or i have ever seen. there was athena, or minerva, the queen of the air, who gave people wisdom and taught them how to do very many useful things. there was juno, the queen of earth and sky, who sat at the right hand of jupiter and gave him all kinds of advice. there was mars, the great warrior, whose delight was in the din of battle. there was mercury, the swift messenger, who had wings on his cap and shoes, and who flew from place to place like the summer clouds when they are driven before the wind. there was vulcan, a skillful blacksmith, who had his forge in a burning mountain and wrought many wonderful things of iron and copper and gold. and besides these, there were many others about whom you will learn by and by, and about whom men told strange and beautiful stories. they lived in glittering, golden mansions, high up among the clouds--so high indeed that the eyes of men could never see them. but they could look down and see what men were doing, and oftentimes they were said to leave their lofty homes and wander unknown across the land or over the sea. and of all these mighty folk, jupiter was by far the mightiest. [illustration] the golden age. jupiter and his mighty folk had not always dwelt amid the clouds on the mountain top. in times long past, a wonderful family called titans had lived there and had ruled over all the world. there were twelve of them--six brothers and six sisters--and they said that their father was the sky and their mother the earth. they had the form and looks of men and women, but they were much larger and far more beautiful. the name of the youngest of these titans was saturn; and yet he was so very old that men often called him father time. he was the king of the titans, and so, of course, was the king of all the earth besides. men were never so happy as they were during saturn's reign. it was the true golden age then. the springtime lasted all the year. the woods and meadows were always full of blossoms, and the music of singing birds was heard every day and every hour. it was summer and autumn, too, at the same time. apples and figs and oranges always hung ripe from the trees; and there were purple grapes on the vines, and melons and berries of every kind, which the people had but to pick and eat. of course nobody had to do any kind of work in that happy time. there was no such thing as sickness or sorrow or old age. men and women lived for hundreds and hundreds of years and never became gray or wrinkled or lame, but were always handsome and young. they had no need of houses, for there were no cold days nor storms nor anything to make them afraid. nobody was poor, for everybody had the same precious things--the sunlight, the pure air, the wholesome water of the springs, the grass for a carpet, the blue sky for a roof, the fruits and flowers of the woods and meadows. so, of course, no one was richer than another, and there was no money, nor any locks or bolts; for everybody was everybody's friend, and no man wanted to get more of anything than his neighbors had. when these happy people had lived long enough they fell asleep, and their bodies were seen no more. they flitted away through the air, and over the mountains, and across the sea, to a flowery land in the distant west. and some men say that, even to this day, they are wandering happily hither and thither about the earth, causing babies to smile in their cradles, easing the burdens of the toilworn and sick, and blessing mankind everywhere. what a pity it is that this golden age should have come to an end! but it was jupiter and his brothers who brought about the sad change. it is hard to believe it, but men say that jupiter was the son of the old titan king, saturn, and that he was hardly a year old when he began to plot how he might wage war against his father. as soon as he was grown up, he persuaded his brothers, neptune and pluto, and his sisters, juno, ceres, and vesta, to join him; and they vowed that they would drive the titans from the earth. then followed a long and terrible war. but jupiter had many mighty helpers. a company of one-eyed monsters called cyclopes were kept busy all the time, forging thunderbolts in the fire of burning mountains. three other monsters, each with a hundred hands, were called in to throw rocks and trees against the stronghold of the titans; and jupiter himself hurled his sharp lightning darts so thick and fast that the woods were set on fire and the water in the rivers boiled with the heat. of course, good, quiet old saturn and his brothers and sisters could not hold out always against such foes as these. at the end of ten years they had to give up and beg for peace. they were bound in chains of the hardest rock and thrown into a prison in the lower worlds; and the cyclopes and the hundred-handed monsters were sent there to be their jailers and to keep guard over them forever. then men began to grow dissatisfied with their lot. some wanted to be rich and own all the good things in the world. some wanted to be kings and rule over the others. some who were strong wanted to make slaves of those who were weak. some broke down the fruit trees in the woods, lest others should eat of the fruit. some, for mere sport, hunted the timid animals which had always been their friends. some even killed these poor creatures and ate their flesh for food. at last, instead of everybody being everybody's friend, everybody was everybody's foe. so, in all the world, instead of peace, there was war; instead of plenty, there was starvation; instead of innocence, there was crime; and instead of happiness, there was misery. and that was the way in which jupiter made himself so mighty; and that was the way in which the golden age came to an end. [illustration] the story of prometheus. i. how fire was given to men. in those old, old times, there lived two brothers who were not like other men, nor yet like those mighty ones who lived upon the mountain top. they were the sons of one of those titans who had fought against jupiter and been sent in chains to the strong prison-house of the lower world. the name of the elder of these brothers was prometheus, or forethought; for he was always thinking of the future and making things ready for what might happen to-morrow, or next week, or next year, or it may be in a hundred years to come. the younger was called epimetheus, or afterthought; for he was always so busy thinking of yesterday, or last year, or a hundred years ago, that he had no care at all for what might come to pass after a while. for some cause jupiter had not sent these brothers to prison with the rest of the titans. prometheus did not care to live amid the clouds on the mountain top. he was too busy for that. while the mighty folk were spending their time in idleness, drinking nectar and eating ambrosia, he was intent upon plans for making the world wiser and better than it had ever been before. he went out amongst men to live with them and help them; for his heart was filled with sadness when he found that they were no longer happy as they had been during the golden days when saturn was king. ah, how very poor and wretched they were! he found them living in caves and in holes of the earth, shivering with the cold because there was no fire, dying of starvation, hunted by wild beasts and by one another--the most miserable of all living creatures. "if they only had fire," said prometheus to himself, "they could at least warm themselves and cook their food; and after a while they could learn to make tools and build themselves houses. without fire, they are worse off than the beasts." then he went boldly to jupiter and begged him to give fire to men, that so they might have a little comfort through the long, dreary months of winter. "not a spark will i give," said jupiter. "no, indeed! why, if men had fire they might become strong and wise like ourselves, and after a while they would drive us out of our kingdom. let them shiver with cold, and let them live like the beasts. it is best for them to be poor and ignorant, that so we mighty ones may thrive and be happy." prometheus made no answer; but he had set his heart on helping mankind, and he did not give up. he turned away, and left jupiter and his mighty company forever. as he was walking by the shore of the sea he found a reed, or, as some say, a tall stalk of fennel, growing; and when he had broken it off he saw that its hollow center was filled with a dry, soft pith which would burn slowly and keep on fire a long time. he took the long stalk in his hands, and started with it towards the dwelling of the sun in the far east. "mankind shall have fire in spite of the tyrant who sits on the mountain top," he said. he reached the place of the sun in the early morning just as the glowing, golden orb was rising from the earth and beginning his daily journey through the sky. he touched the end of the long reed to the flames, and the dry pith caught on fire and burned slowly. then he turned and hastened back to his own land, carrying with him the precious spark hidden in the hollow center of the plant. he called some of the shivering men from their caves and built a fire for them, and showed them how to warm themselves by it and how to build other fires from the coals. soon there was a cheerful blaze in every rude home in the land, and men and women gathered round it and were warm and happy, and thankful to prometheus for the wonderful gift which he had brought to them from the sun. it was not long until they learned to cook their food and so to eat like men instead of like beasts. they began at once to leave off their wild and savage habits; and instead of lurking in the dark places of the world, they came out into the open air and the bright sunlight, and were glad because life had been given to them. after that, prometheus taught them, little by little, a thousand things. he showed them how to build houses of wood and stone, and how to tame sheep and cattle and make them useful, and how to plow and sow and reap, and how to protect themselves from the storms of winter and the beasts of the woods. then he showed them how to dig in the earth for copper and iron, and how to melt the ore, and how to hammer it into shape and fashion from it the tools and weapons which they needed in peace and war; and when he saw how happy the world was becoming he cried out: "a new golden age shall come, brighter and better by far than the old!" ii. how diseases and cares came among men. things might have gone on very happily indeed, and the golden age might really have come again, had it not been for jupiter. but one day, when he chanced to look down upon the earth, he saw the fires burning, and the people living in houses, and the flocks feeding on the hills, and the grain ripening in the fields, and this made him very angry. "who has done all this?" he asked. and some one answered, "prometheus!" "what! that young titan!" he cried. "well, i will punish him in a way that will make him wish i had shut him up in the prison-house with his kinsfolk. but as for those puny men, let them keep their fire. i will make them ten times more miserable than they were before they had it." of course it would be easy enough to deal with prometheus at any time, and so jupiter was in no great haste about it. he made up his mind to distress mankind first; and he thought of a plan for doing it in a very strange, roundabout way. in the first place, he ordered his blacksmith vulcan, whose forge was in the crater of a burning mountain, to take a lump of clay which he gave him, and mold it into the form of a woman. vulcan did as he was bidden; and when he had finished the image, he carried it up to jupiter, who was sitting among the clouds with all the mighty folk around him. it was nothing but a mere lifeless body, but the great blacksmith had given it a form more perfect than that of any statue that has ever been made. "come now!" said jupiter, "let us all give some goodly gift to this woman;" and he began by giving her life. then the others came in their turn, each with a gift for the marvelous creature. one gave her beauty; and another a pleasant voice; and another good manners; and another a kind heart; and another skill in many arts; and, lastly, some one gave her curiosity. then they called her pandora, which means the all-gifted, because she had received gifts from them all. pandora was so beautiful and so wondrously gifted that no one could help loving her. when the mighty folk had admired her for a time, they gave her to mercury, the light-footed; and he led her down the mountain side to the place where prometheus and his brother were living and toiling for the good of mankind. he met epimetheus first, and said to him: "epimetheus, here is a beautiful woman, whom jupiter has sent to you to be your wife." [illustration: "'epimetheus, here is a beautiful woman.'"] prometheus had often warned his brother to beware of any gift that jupiter might send, for he knew that the mighty tyrant could not be trusted; but when epimetheus saw pandora, how lovely and wise she was, he forgot all warnings, and took her home to live with him and be his wife. pandora was very happy in her new home; and even prometheus, when he saw her, was pleased with her loveliness. she had brought with her a golden casket, which jupiter had given her at parting, and which he had told her held many precious things; but wise athena, the queen of the air, had warned her never, never to open it, nor look at the things inside. "they must be jewels," she said to herself; and then she thought of how they would add to her beauty if only she could wear them. "why did jupiter give them to me if i should never use them, nor so much as look at them?" she asked. the more she thought about the golden casket, the more curious she was to see what was in it; and every day she took it down from its shelf and felt of the lid, and tried to peer inside of it without opening it. "why should i care for what athena told me?" she said at last. "she is not beautiful, and jewels would be of no use to her. i think that i will look at them, at any rate. athena will never know. nobody else will ever know." she opened the lid a very little, just to peep inside. all at once there was a whirring, rustling sound, and before she could shut it down again, out flew ten thousand strange creatures with death-like faces and gaunt and dreadful forms, such as nobody in all the world had ever seen. they fluttered for a little while about the room, and then flew away to find dwelling-places wherever there were homes of men. they were diseases and cares; for up to that time mankind had not had any kind of sickness, nor felt any troubles of mind, nor worried about what the morrow might bring forth. these creatures flew into every house, and, without any one seeing them, nestled down in the bosoms of men and women and children, and put an end to all their joy; and ever since that day they have been flitting and creeping, unseen and unheard, over all the land, bringing pain and sorrow and death into every household. if pandora had not shut down the lid so quickly, things would have gone much worse. but she closed it just in time to keep the last of the evil creatures from getting out. the name of this creature was foreboding, and although he was almost half out of the casket, pandora pushed him back and shut the lid so tight that he could never escape. if he had gone out into the world, men would have known from childhood just what troubles were going to come to them every day of their lives, and they would never have had any joy or hope so long as they lived. and this was the way in which jupiter sought to make mankind more miserable than they had been before prometheus had befriended them. iii. how the friend of men was punished. the next thing that jupiter did was to punish prometheus for stealing fire from the sun. he bade two of his servants, whose names were strength and force, to seize the bold titan and carry him to the topmost peak of the caucasus mountains. then he sent the blacksmith vulcan to bind him with iron chains and fetter him to the rocks so that he could not move hand or foot. vulcan did not like to do this, for he was a friend of prometheus, and yet he did not dare to disobey. and so the great friend of men, who had given them fire and lifted them out of their wretchedness and shown them how to live, was chained to the mountain peak; and there he hung, with the storm-winds whistling always around him, and the pitiless hail beating in his face, and fierce eagles shrieking in his ears and tearing his body with their cruel claws. yet he bore all his sufferings without a groan, and never would he beg for mercy or say that he was sorry for what he had done. year after year, and age after age, prometheus hung there. now and then old helios, the driver of the sun car, would look down upon him and smile; now and then flocks of birds would bring him messages from far-off lands; once the ocean nymphs came and sang wonderful songs in his hearing; and oftentimes men looked up to him with pitying eyes, and cried out against the tyrant who had placed him there. then, once upon a time, a white cow passed that way,--a strangely beautiful cow, with large sad eyes and a face that seemed almost human. she stopped and looked up at the cold gray peak and the giant body which was chained there. prometheus saw her and spoke to her kindly: "i know who you are," he said. "you are io who was once a fair and happy maiden in distant argos; and now, because of the tyrant jupiter and his jealous queen, you are doomed to wander from land to land in that unhuman form. but do not lose hope. go on to the southward and then to the west; and after many days you shall come to the great river nile. there you shall again become a maiden, but fairer and more beautiful than before; and you shall become the wife of the king of that land, and shall give birth to a son, from whom shall spring the hero who will break my chains and set me free. as for me, i bide in patience the day which not even jupiter can hasten or delay. farewell!" poor io would have spoken, but she could not. her sorrowful eyes looked once more at the suffering hero on the peak, and then she turned and began her long and tiresome journey to the land of the nile. ages passed, and at last a great hero whose name was hercules came to the land of the caucasus. in spite of jupiter's dread thunderbolts and fearful storms of snow and sleet, he climbed the rugged mountain peak; he slew the fierce eagles that had so long tormented the helpless prisoner on those craggy heights; and with a mighty blow, he broke the fetters of prometheus and set the grand old hero free. "i knew that you would come," said prometheus. "ten generations ago i spoke of you to io, who was afterwards the queen of the land of the nile." "and io," said hercules, "was the mother of the race from which i am sprung." [illustration] the flood. in those very early times there was a man named deucalion, and he was the son of prometheus. he was only a common man and not a titan like his great father, and yet he was known far and wide for his good deeds and the uprightness of his life. his wife's name was pyrrha, and she was one of the fairest of the daughters of men. after jupiter had bound prometheus on mount caucasus and had sent diseases and cares into the world, men became very, very wicked. they no longer built houses and tended their flocks and lived together in peace; but every man was at war with his neighbor, and there was no law nor safety in all the land. things were in much worse case now than they had been before prometheus had come among men, and that was just what jupiter wanted. but as the world became wickeder and wickeder every day, he began to grow weary of seeing so much bloodshed and of hearing the cries of the oppressed and the poor. "these men," he said to his mighty company, "are nothing but a source of trouble. when they were good and happy, we felt afraid lest they should become greater than ourselves; and now they are so terribly wicked that we are in worse danger than before. there is only one thing to be done with them, and that is to destroy them every one." so he sent a great rain-storm upon the earth, and it rained day and night for a long time; and the sea was filled to the brim, and the water ran over the land and covered first the plains and then the forests and then the hills. but men kept on fighting and robbing, even while the rain was pouring down and the sea was coming up over the land. no one but deucalion, the son of prometheus, was ready for such a storm. he had never joined in any of the wrong doings of those around him, and had often told them that unless they left off their evil ways there would be a day of reckoning in the end. once every year he had gone to the land of the caucasus to talk with his father, who was hanging chained to the mountain peak. "the day is coming," said prometheus, "when jupiter will send a flood to destroy mankind from the earth. be sure that you are ready for it, my son." and so when the rain began to fall, deucalion drew from its shelter a boat which he had built for just such a time. he called fair pyrrha, his wife, and the two sat in the boat and were floated safely on the rising waters. day and night, day and night, i cannot tell how long, the boat drifted hither and thither. the tops of the trees were hidden by the flood, and then the hills and then the mountains; and deucalion and pyrrha could see nothing anywhere but water, water, water--and they knew that all the people in the land had been drowned. after a while the rain stopped falling, and the clouds cleared away, and the blue sky and the golden sun came out overhead. then the water began to sink very fast and to run off the land towards the sea; and early the very next day the boat was drifted high upon a mountain called parnassus, and deucalion and pyrrha stepped out upon the dry land. after that, it was only a short time until the whole country was laid bare, and the trees shook their leafy branches in the wind, and the fields were carpeted with grass and flowers more beautiful than in the days before the flood. but deucalion and pyrrha were very sad, for they knew that they were the only persons who were left alive in all the land. at last they started to walk down the mountain side towards the plain, wondering what would become of them now, all alone as they were in the wide world. while they were talking and trying to think what they should do, they heard a voice behind them. they turned and saw a noble young prince standing on one of the rocks above them. he was very tall, with blue eyes and yellow hair. there were wings on his shoes and on his cap, and in his hands he bore a staff with golden serpents twined around it. they knew at once that he was mercury, the swift messenger of the mighty ones, and they waited to hear what he would say. "is there anything that you wish?" he asked. "tell me, and you shall have whatever you desire." "we should like, above all things," said deucalion, "to see this land full of people once more; for without neighbors and friends, the world is a very lonely place indeed." "go on down the mountain," said mercury, "and as you go, cast the bones of your mother over your shoulders behind you;" and, with these words, he leaped into the air and was seen no more. "what did he mean?" asked pyrrha. "surely i do not know," said deucalion. "but let us think a moment. who is our mother, if it is not the earth, from whom all living things have sprung? and yet what could he mean by the bones of our mother?" [illustration: "as they walked they picked up the loose stones in their way."] "perhaps he meant the stones of the earth," said pyrrha. "let us go on down the mountain, and as we go, let us pick up the stones in our path and throw them over our shoulders behind us." "it is rather a silly thing to do," said deucalion; "and yet there can be no harm in it, and we shall see what will happen." and so they walked on, down the steep slope of mount parnassus, and as they walked they picked up the loose stones in their way and cast them over their shoulders; and strange to say, the stones which deucalion threw sprang up as full-grown men, strong, and handsome, and brave; and the stones which pyrrha threw sprang up as full-grown women, lovely and fair. when at last they reached the plain they found themselves at the head of a noble company of human beings, all eager to serve them. so deucalion became their king, and he set them in homes, and taught them how to till the ground, and how to do many useful things; and the land was filled with people who were happier and far better than those who had dwelt there before the flood. and they named the country hellas, after hellen, the son of deucalion and pyrrha; and the people are to this day called hellenes. but we call the country greece. [illustration] the story of io. in the town of argos there lived a maiden named io. she was so fair and good that all who knew her loved her, and said that there was no one like her in the whole world. when jupiter, in his home in the clouds, heard of her, he came down to argos to see her. she pleased him so much, and was so kind and wise, that he came back the next day and the next and the next; and by and by he stayed in argos all the time so that he might be near her. she did not know who he was, but thought that he was a prince from some far-off land; for he came in the guise of a young man, and did not look like the great king of earth and sky that he was. but juno, the queen who lived with jupiter and shared his throne in the midst of the clouds, did not love io at all. when she heard why jupiter stayed from home so long, she made up her mind to do the fair girl all the harm that she could; and one day she went down to argos to try what could be done. jupiter saw her while she was yet a great way off, and he knew why she had come. so, to save io from her, he changed the maiden to a white cow. he thought that when juno had gone back home, it would not be hard to give io her own form again. but when the queen saw the cow, she knew that it was io. "oh, what a fine cow you have there!" she said. "give her to me, good jupiter, give her to me!" jupiter did not like to do this; but she coaxed so hard that at last he gave up, and let her have the cow for her own. he thought that it would not be long till he could get her away from the queen, and change her to a girl once more. but juno was too wise to trust him. she took the cow by her horns, and led her out of the town. "now, my sweet maid," she said, "i will see that you stay in this shape as long as you live." then she gave the cow in charge of a strange watchman named argus, who had, not two eyes only, as you and i have, but ten times ten. and argus led the cow to a grove, and tied her by a long rope to a tree, where she had to stand and eat grass, and cry, "moo! moo!" from morn till night; and when the sun had set, and it was dark, she lay down on the cold ground and wept, and cried, "moo! moo!" till she fell asleep. but no kind friend heard her, and no one came to help her; for none but jupiter and juno knew that the white cow who stood in the grove was io, whom all the world loved. day in and day out, argus, who was all eyes, sat on a hill close by and kept watch; and you could not say that he went to sleep at all, for while half of his eyes were shut, the other half were wide awake, and thus they slept and watched by turns. jupiter was grieved when he saw to what a hard life io had been doomed, and he tried to think of some plan to set her free. one day he called sly mercury, who had wings on his shoes, and bade him go and lead the cow away from the grove where she was kept. mercury went down and stood near the foot of the hill where argus sat, and began to play sweet tunes on his flute. this was just what the strange watchman liked to hear; and so he called to mercury, and asked him to come up and sit by his side and play still other tunes. mercury did as he wished, and played such strains of sweet music as no one in all the world has heard from that day to this. and as he played, queer old argus lay down upon the grass and listened, and thought that he had not had so great a treat in all his life. but by and by those sweet sounds wrapped him in so strange a spell that all his eyes closed at once, and he fell into a deep sleep. this was just what mercury wished. it was not a brave thing to do, and yet he drew a long, sharp knife from his belt and cut off the head of poor argus while he slept. then he ran down the hill to loose the cow and lead her to the town. but juno had seen him kill her watchman, and she met him on the road. she cried out to him and told him to let the cow go; and her face was so full of wrath that, as soon as he saw her, he turned and fled, and left poor io to her fate. juno was so much grieved when she saw argus stretched dead in the grass on the hilltop, that she took his hundred eyes and set them in the tail of a peacock; and there you may still see them to this day. then she found a great gadfly, as big as a bat, and sent it to buzz in the white cow's ears, and to bite her and sting her so that she could have no rest all day long. poor io ran from place to place to get out of its way; but it buzzed and buzzed, and stung and stung, till she was wild with fright and pain, and wished that she were dead. day after day she ran, now through the thick woods, now in the long grass that grew on the treeless plains, and now by the shore of the sea. [illustration: "she cried out to him and told him to let the cow go."] by and by she came to a narrow neck of the sea, and, since the land on the other side looked as though she might find rest there, she leaped into the waves and swam across; and that place has been called bosphorus--a word which means the sea of the cow--from that time till now, and you will find it so marked on the maps which you use at school. then she went on through a strange land on the other side, but, let her do what she would, she could not get rid of the gadfly. after a time she came to a place where there were high mountains with snow-capped peaks which seemed to touch the sky. there she stopped to rest a while; and she looked up at the calm, cold cliffs above her and wished that she might die where all was so grand and still. but as she looked she saw a giant form stretched upon the rocks midway between earth and sky, and she knew at once that it was prometheus, the young titan, whom jupiter had chained there because he had given fire to men. "my sufferings are not so great as his," she thought; and her eyes were filled with tears. then prometheus looked down and spoke to her, and his voice was very mild and kind. "i know who you are," he said; and then he told her not to lose hope, but to go south and then west, and she would by and by find a place in which to rest. she would have thanked him if she could; but when she tried to speak she could only say, "moo! moo!" then prometheus went on and told her that the time would come when she should be given her own form again, and that she should live to be the mother of a race of heroes. "as for me," said he, "i bide the time in patience, for i know that one of those heroes will break my chains and set me free. farewell!" then io, with a brave heart, left the great titan and journeyed, as he had told her, first south and then west. the gadfly was worse now than before, but she did not fear it half so much, for her heart was full of hope. for a whole year she wandered, and at last she came to the land of egypt in africa. she felt so tired now that she could go no farther, and so she lay down near the bank of the great river nile to rest. all this time jupiter might have helped her had he not been so much afraid of juno. but now it so chanced that when the poor cow lay down by the bank of the nile, queen juno, in her high house in the clouds, also lay down to take a nap. as soon as she was sound asleep, jupiter like a flash of light sped over the sea to egypt. he killed the cruel gadfly and threw it into the river. then he stroked the cow's head with his hand, and the cow was seen no more; but in her place stood the young girl io, pale and frail, but fair and good as she had been in her old home in the town of argos. jupiter said not a word, nor even showed himself to the tired, trembling maiden. he hurried back with all speed to his high home in the clouds, for he feared that juno might waken and find out what he had done. the people of egypt were kind to io, and gave her a home in their sunny land; and by and by the king of egypt asked her to be his wife, and made her his queen; and she lived a long and happy life in his marble palace on the bank of the nile. ages afterward, the great-grandson of the great-grandson of io's great-grandson broke the chains of prometheus and set that mighty friend of mankind free. the name of the hero was hercules. [illustration] [illustration] the wonderful weaver. i. the warp. there was a young girl in greece whose name was arachne. her face was pale but fair, and her eyes were big and blue, and her hair was long and like gold. all that she cared to do from morn till noon was to sit in the sun and spin; and all that she cared to do from noon till night was to sit in the shade and weave. and oh, how fine and fair were the things which she wove in her loom! flax, wool, silk--she worked with them all; and when they came from her hands, the cloth which she had made of them was so thin and soft and bright that men came from all parts of the world to see it. and they said that cloth so rare could not be made of flax, or wool, or silk, but that the warp was of rays of sunlight and the woof was of threads of gold. then as, day by day, the girl sat in the sun and span, or sat in the shade and wove, she said: "in all the world there is no yarn so fine as mine, and in all the world there is no cloth so soft and smooth, nor silk so bright and rare." [illustration: "'arachne, i am athena, the queen of the air.'"] "who taught you to spin and weave so well?" some one asked. "no one taught me," she said. "i learned how to do it as i sat in the sun and the shade; but no one showed me." "but it may be that athena, the queen of the air, taught you, and you did not know it." "athena, the queen of the air? bah!" said arachne. "how could she teach me? can she spin such skeins of yarn as these? can she weave goods like mine? i should like to see her try. i can teach her a thing or two." she looked up and saw in the doorway a tall woman wrapped in a long cloak. her face was fair to see, but stern, oh, so stern! and her gray eyes were so sharp and bright that arachne could not meet her gaze. "arachne," said the woman, "i am athena, the queen of the air, and i have heard your boast. do you still mean to say that i have not taught you how to spin and weave?" "no one has taught me," said arachne; "and i thank no one for what i know;" and she stood up, straight and proud, by the side of her loom. "and do you still think that you can spin and weave as well as i?" said athena. arachne's cheeks grew pale, but she said: "yes. i can weave as well as you." "then let me tell you what we will do," said athena. "three days from now we will both weave; you on your loom, and i on mine. we will ask all the world to come and see us; and great jupiter, who sits in the clouds, shall be the judge. and if your work is best, then i will weave no more so long as the world shall last; but if my work is best, then you shall never use loom or spindle or distaff again. do you agree to this?" "i agree," said arachne. "it is well," said athena. and she was gone. ii. the woof. when the time came for the contest in weaving, all the world was there to see it, and great jupiter sat among the clouds and looked on. arachne had set up her loom in the shade of a mulberry tree, where butterflies were flitting and grasshoppers chirping all through the livelong day. but athena had set up her loom in the sky, where the breezes were blowing and the summer sun was shining; for she was the queen of the air. then arachne took her skeins of finest silk and began to weave. and she wove a web of marvelous beauty, so thin and light that it would float in the air, and yet so strong that it could hold a lion in its meshes; and the threads of warp and woof were of many colors, so beautifully arranged and mingled one with another that all who saw were filled with delight. "no wonder that the maiden boasted of her skill," said the people. and jupiter himself nodded. then athena began to weave. and she took of the sunbeams that gilded the mountain top, and of the snowy fleece of the summer clouds, and of the blue ether of the summer sky, and of the bright green of the summer fields, and of the royal purple of the autumn woods,--and what do you suppose she wove? the web which she wove in the sky was full of enchanting pictures of flowers and gardens, and of castles and towers, and of mountain heights, and of men and beasts, and of giants and dwarfs, and of the mighty beings who dwell in the clouds with jupiter. and those who looked upon it were so filled with wonder and delight, that they forgot all about the beautiful web which arachne had woven. and arachne herself was ashamed and afraid when she saw it; and she hid her face in her hands and wept. "oh, how can i live," she cried, "now that i must never again use loom or spindle or distaff?" and she kept on, weeping and weeping and weeping, and saying, "how can i live?" then, when athena saw that the poor maiden would never have any joy unless she were allowed to spin and weave, she took pity on her and said: "i would free you from your bargain if i could, but that is a thing which no one can do. you must hold to your agreement never to touch loom or spindle again. and yet, since you will never be happy unless you can spin and weave, i will give you a new form so that you can carry on your work with neither spindle nor loom." then she touched arachne with the tip of the spear which she sometimes carried; and the maiden was changed at once into a nimble spider, which ran into a shady place in the grass and began merrily to spin and weave a beautiful web. i have heard it said that all the spiders which have been in the world since then are the children of arachne; but i doubt whether this be true. yet, for aught i know, arachne still lives and spins and weaves; and the very next spider that you see may be she herself. [illustration] the lord of the silver bow. i. delos. long before you or i or anybody else can remember, there lived with the mighty folk on the mountain top a fair and gentle lady named leto. so fair and gentle was she that jupiter loved her and made her his wife. but when juno, the queen of earth and sky, heard of this, she was very angry; and she drove leto down from the mountain and bade all things great and small refuse to help her. so leto fled like a wild deer from land to land and could find no place in which to rest. she could not stop, for then the ground would quake under her feet, and the stones would cry out, "go on! go on!" and birds and beasts and trees and men would join in the cry; and no one in all the wide land took pity on her. one day she came to the sea, and as she fled along the beach she lifted up her hands and called aloud to great neptune to help her. neptune, the king of the sea, heard her and was kind to her. he sent a huge fish, called a dolphin, to bear her away from the cruel land; and the fish, with leto sitting on his broad back, swam through the waves to delos, a little island which lay floating on top of the water like a boat. there the gentle lady found rest and a home; for the place belonged to neptune, and the words of cruel juno were not obeyed there. neptune put four marble pillars under the island so that it should rest firm upon them; and then he chained it fast, with great chains which reached to the bottom of the sea, so that the waves might never move it. by and by twin babes were born to leto in delos. one was a boy whom she called apollo, the other a girl whom she named artemis, or diana. when the news of their birth was carried to jupiter and the mighty folk on the mountain top, all the world was glad. the sun danced on the waters, and singing swans flew seven times round the island of delos. the moon stooped to kiss the babes in their cradle; and juno forgot her anger, and bade all things on the earth and in the sky be kind to leto. the two children grew very fast. apollo became tall and strong and graceful; his face was as bright as the sunbeams; and he carried joy and gladness with him wherever he went. jupiter gave him a pair of swans and a golden chariot, which bore him over sea and land wherever he wanted to go; and he gave him a lyre on which he played the sweetest music that was ever heard, and a silver bow with sharp arrows which never missed the mark. when apollo went out into the world, and men came to know about him, he was called by some the bringer of light, by others the master of song, and by still others the lord of the silver bow. diana was tall and graceful, too, and very handsome. she liked to wander in the woods with her maids, who were called nymphs; she took kind care of the timid deer and the helpless creatures which live among the trees; and she delighted in hunting wolves and bears and other savage beasts. she was loved and feared in every land, and jupiter made her the queen of the green woods and the chase. ii. delphi. "where is the center of the world?" this is the question which some one asked jupiter as he sat in his golden hall. of course the mighty ruler of earth and sky was too wise to be puzzled by so simple a thing, but he was too busy to answer it at once. so he said: "come again in one year from to-day, and i will show you the very place." then jupiter took two swift eagles which could fly faster than the storm-wind, and trained them till the speed of the one was the same as that of the other. at the end of the year he said to his servants: "take this eagle to the eastern rim of the earth, where the sun rises out of the sea; and carry his fellow to the far west, where the ocean is lost in darkness and nothing lies beyond. then, when i give you the sign, loosen both at the same moment." the servants did as they were bidden, and carried the eagles to the outermost edges of the world. then jupiter clapped his hands. the lightning flashed, the thunder rolled, and the two swift birds were set free. one of them flew straight back towards the west, the other flew straight back towards the east; and no arrow ever sped faster from the bow than did these two birds from the hands of those who had held them. on and on they went like shooting stars rushing to meet each other; and jupiter and all his mighty company sat amid the clouds and watched their flight. nearer and nearer they came, but they swerved not to the right nor to the left. nearer and nearer--and then with a crash like the meeting of two ships at sea, the eagles came together in mid-air and fell dead to the ground. "who asked where is the center of the world?" said jupiter. "the spot where the two eagles lie--that is the center of the world." they had fallen on the top of a mountain in greece which men have ever since called parnassus. "if that is the center of the world," said young apollo, "then i will make my home there, and i will build a house in that place, so that my light may be seen in all lands." so apollo went down to parnassus, and looked about for a spot in which to lay the foundations of his house. the mountain itself was savage and wild, and the valley below it was lonely and dark. the few people who lived there kept themselves hidden among the rocks as if in dread of some great danger. they told apollo that near the foot of the mountain where the steep cliff seemed to be split in two there lived a huge serpent called the python. this serpent often seized sheep and cattle, and sometimes even men and women and children, and carried them up to his dreadful den and devoured them. "can no one kill this beast?" said apollo. and they said, "no one; and we and our children and our flocks shall all be slain by him." then apollo with his silver bow in his hands went up towards the place where the python lay. the monster had worn great paths through the grass and among the rocks, and his lair was not hard to find. when he caught sight of apollo, he uncoiled himself, and came out to meet him. the bright prince saw the creature's glaring eyes and blood-red mouth, and heard the rush of his scaly body over the stones. he fitted an arrow to his bow, and stood still. the python saw that his foe was no common man, and turned to flee. then the arrow sped from the bow--and the monster was dead. "here i will build my house," said apollo. close to the foot of the steep cliff, and beneath the spot where jupiter's eagles had fallen, he laid the foundations; and soon where had been the lair of the python, the white walls of apollo's temple arose among the rocks. then the poor people of the land came and built their houses near by; and apollo lived among them many years, and taught them to be gentle and wise, and showed them how to be happy. the mountain was no longer savage and wild, but was a place of music and song; the valley was no longer dark and lonely, but was filled with beauty and light. "what shall we call our city?" the people asked. "call it delphi, or the dolphin," said apollo; "for it was a dolphin that carried my mother across the sea." iii. daphne. in the vale of tempe, which lies far north of delphi, there lived a young girl whose name was daphne. she was a strange child, wild and shy as a fawn, and as fleet of foot as the deer that feed on the plains. but she was as fair and good as a day in june, and none could know her but to love her. daphne spent the most of her time in the fields and woods, with the birds and blossoms and trees; and she liked best of all to wander along the banks of the river peneus, and listen to the ripple of the water as it flowed among the reeds or over the shining pebbles. very often she would sing and talk to the river as if it were a living thing, and could hear her; and she fancied that it understood what she said, and that it whispered many a wonderful secret to her in return. the good people who knew her best said: "she is the child of the river." "yes, dear river," she said, "let me be your child." the river smiled and answered her in a way which she alone could understand; and always, after that, she called it "father peneus." one day when the sun shone warm, and the air was filled with the perfume of flowers, daphne wandered farther away from the river than she had ever gone before. she passed through a shady wood and climbed a hill, from the top of which she could see father peneus lying white and clear and smiling in the valley below. beyond her were other hills, and then the green slopes and wooded top of great mount ossa. ah, if she could only climb to the summit of ossa, she might have a view of the sea, and of other mountains close by, and of the twin peaks of mount parnassus, far, far to the south! "good-by, father peneus," she said. "i am going to climb the mountain; but i will come back soon." the river smiled, and daphne ran onward, climbing one hill after another, and wondering why the great mountain seemed still so far away. by and by she came to the foot of a wooded slope where there was a pretty waterfall and the ground was bespangled with thousands of beautiful flowers; and she sat down there a moment to rest. then from the grove on the hilltop above her, came the sound of the loveliest music she had ever heard. she stood up and listened. some one was playing on a lyre, and some one was singing. she was frightened; and still the music was so charming that she could not run away. then, all at once, the sound ceased, and a young man, tall and fair and with a face as bright as the morning sun, came down the hillside towards her. "daphne!" he said; but she did not stop to hear. she turned and fled like a frightened deer, back towards the vale of tempe. "daphne!" cried the young man. she did not know that it was apollo, the lord of the silver bow; she only knew that the stranger was following her, and she ran as fast as her fleet feet could carry her. no young man had ever spoken to her before, and the sound of his voice filled her heart with fear. "she is the fairest maiden that i ever saw," said apollo to himself. "if i could only look at her face again and speak with her, how happy i should be." through brake, through brier, over rocks and the trunks of fallen trees, down rugged slopes, across mountain streams, leaping, flying, panting, daphne ran. she looked not once behind her, but she heard the swift footsteps of apollo coming always nearer; she heard the rattle of the silver bow which hung from his shoulders; she heard his very breath, he was so close to her. at last she was in the valley where the ground was smooth and it was easier running, but her strength was fast leaving her. right before her, however, lay the river, white and smiling in the sunlight. she stretched out her arms and cried: "o father peneus, save me!" [illustration: "she turned and fled like a frightened deer."] then it seemed as though the river rose up to meet her. the air was filled with a blinding mist. for a moment apollo lost sight of the fleeing maiden. then he saw her close by the river's bank, and so near to him that her long hair, streaming behind her, brushed his cheek. he thought that she was about to leap into the rushing, roaring waters, and he reached out his hands to save her. but it was not the fair, timid daphne that he caught in his arms; it was the trunk of a laurel tree, its green leaves trembling in the breeze. "o daphne! daphne!" he cried, "is this the way in which the river saves you? does father peneus turn you into a tree to keep you from me?" whether daphne had really been turned into a tree, i know not; nor does it matter now--it was so long ago. but apollo believed that it was so, and hence he made a wreath of the laurel leaves and set it on his head like a crown, and said that he would wear it always in memory of the lovely maiden. and ever after that, the laurel was apollo's favorite tree, and, even to this day, poets and musicians are crowned with its leaves. iv. deluded. apollo did not care to live much of the time with his mighty kinsfolk on the mountain top. he liked better to go about from place to place and from land to land, seeing people at their work and making their lives happy. when men first saw his fair boyish face and his soft white hands, they sneered and said he was only an idle, good-for-nothing fellow. but when they heard him speak, they were so charmed that they stood, spellbound, to listen; and ever after that they made his words their law. they wondered how it was that he was so wise; for it seemed to them that he did nothing but stroll about, playing on his wonderful lyre and looking at the trees and blossoms and birds and bees. but when any of them were sick they came to him, and he told them what to find in plants or stones or brooks that would heal them and make them strong again. they noticed that he did not grow old, as others did, but that he was always young and fair; and, even after he had gone away,--they knew not how, nor whither,--it seemed as though the earth were a brighter and sweeter place to live in than it had been before his coming. in a mountain village beyond the vale of tempe, there lived a beautiful lady named coronis. when apollo saw her, he loved her and made her his wife; and for a long time the two lived together, and were happy. by and by a babe was born to them,--a boy with the most wonderful eyes that anybody ever saw,--and they named him aesculapius. then the mountains and the woods were filled with the music of apollo's lyre, and even the mighty folk on the mountain top were glad. one day apollo left coronis and her child, and went on a journey to visit his favorite home on mount parnassus. "i shall hear from you every day," he said at parting. "the crow will fly swiftly every morning to parnassus, and tell me whether you and the child are well, and what you are doing while i am away." for apollo had a pet crow which was very wise, and could talk. the bird was not black, like the crows which you have seen, but as white as snow. men say that all crows were white until that time, but i doubt whether anybody knows. apollo's crow was a great tattler, and did not always tell the truth. it would see the beginning of something, and then, without waiting to know anything more about it, would hurry off and make up a great story about it. but there was no one else to carry news from coronis to apollo; for, as you know, there were no postmen in those days, and there was not a telegraph wire in the whole world. all went well for several days. every morning the white bird would wing its way over hills and plains and rivers and forests until it found apollo, either in the groves on the top of parnassus or in his own house at delphi. then it would alight upon his shoulder and say, "coronis is well! coronis is well!" one day, however, it had a different story. it came much earlier than ever before, and seemed to be in great haste. "cor--cor--cor!" it cried; but it was so out of breath that it could not speak her whole name. "what is the matter?" cried apollo, in alarm. "has anything happened to coronis? speak! tell me the truth!" "she does not love you! she does not love you!" cried the crow. "i saw a man--i saw a man,--" and then, without stopping to take breath, or to finish the story, it flew up into the air, and hurried homeward again. apollo, who had always been so wise, was now almost as foolish as his crow. he fancied that coronis had really deserted him for another man, and his mind was filled with grief and rage. with his silver bow in his hands he started at once for his home. he did not stop to speak with any one; he had made up his mind to learn the truth for himself. his swan-team and his golden chariot were not at hand--for, now that he was living with men, he must travel like men. the journey had to be made on foot, and it was no short journey in those days when there were no roads. but after a time, he came to the village where he had lived happily for so many years, and soon he saw his own house half-hidden among the dark-leaved olive trees. in another minute he would know whether the crow had told him the truth. he heard the footsteps of some one running in the grove. he caught a glimpse of a white robe among the trees. he felt sure that this was the man whom the crow had seen, and that he was trying to run away. he fitted an arrow to his bow quickly. he drew the string. twang! and the arrow which never missed sped like a flash of light through the air. apollo heard a sharp, wild cry of pain; and he bounded forward through the grove. there, stretched dying on the grass, he saw his dear coronis. she had seen him coming, and was running gladly to greet him, when the cruel arrow pierced her heart. apollo was overcome with grief. he took her form in his arms, and tried to call her back to life again. but it was all in vain. she could only whisper his name, and then she was dead. a moment afterwards the crow alighted on one of the trees near by. "cor--cor--cor," it began; for it wanted now to finish its story. but apollo bade it begone. "cursed bird," he cried, "you shall never say a word but 'cor--cor--cor!' all your life; and the feathers of which you are so proud shall no longer be white, but black as midnight." and from that time to this, as you very well know, all crows have been black; and they fly from one dead tree to another, always crying, "cor--cor--cor!" v. disgraced. soon after this, apollo took the little aesculapius in his arms and carried him to a wise old schoolmaster named cheiron, who lived in a cave under the gray cliffs of a mountain close by the sea. "take this child," he said, "and teach him all the lore of the mountains, the woods, and the fields. teach him those things which he most needs to know in order to do great good to his fellow-men." and aesculapius proved to be a wise child, gentle and sweet and teachable; and among all the pupils of cheiron he was the best loved. he learned the lore of the mountains, the woods, and the fields. he found out what virtue there is in herbs and flowers and senseless stones; and he studied the habits of birds and beasts and men. but above all he became skillful in dressing wounds and healing diseases; and to this day physicians remember and honor him as the first and greatest of their craft. when he grew up to manhood his name was heard in every land, and people blessed him because he was the friend of life and the foe of death. as time went by, aesculapius cured so many people and saved so many lives that pluto, the pale-faced king of the lower world, became alarmed. "i shall soon have nothing to do," he said, "if this physician does not stop keeping people away from my kingdom." and he sent word to his brother jupiter, and complained that aesculapius was cheating him out of what was his due. great jupiter listened to his complaint, and stood up among the storm clouds, and hurled his thunderbolts at aesculapius until the great physician was cruelly slain. then all the world was filled with grief, and even the beasts and the trees and the stones wept because the friend of life was no more. when apollo heard of the death of his son, his grief and wrath were terrible. he could not do anything against jupiter and pluto, for they were stronger than he; but he went down into the smithy of vulcan, underneath the smoking mountains, and slew the giant smiths who had made the deadly thunderbolts. then jupiter, in his turn, was angry, and ordered apollo to come before him and be punished for what he had done. he took away his bow and arrows and his wonderful lyre and all his beauty of form and feature; and after that jupiter clothed him in the rags of a beggar and drove him down from the mountain, and told him that he should never come back nor be himself again until he had served some man a whole year as a slave. and so apollo went out, alone and friendless, into the world; and no one who saw him would have dreamed that he was once the sun-bright lord of the silver bow. [illustration] [illustration] admetus and alcestis. i. the slave. in a little town north of delphi, and not very far from the sea, there lived a young man named admetus. he was the ruler of the town, and hence was called its king; but his kingdom was so small that he could walk all round it in half a day. he knew the name of every man and woman and child in the town, and everybody loved him because he was so gentle and kind and at the same time a king. late one day, when the rain was falling and the wind was blowing cold from the mountains, a beggar came to his door. the man was ragged and dirty and half starved, and admetus knew that he must have come from some strange land, for in his own country no one ever went hungry. so the kind king took him into the house and fed him; and after the man had bathed he gave him his own warm cloak, and bade the servants make a place for him to sleep through the night. in the morning admetus asked the poor man his name, but he shook his head and made no answer. then admetus asked him about his home and his country; and all that the man would say was: "make me your slave, master! make me your slave, and let me serve you for a year." the young king did not need another servant. but he saw that the poorest slave in the land was better off than this man, and so he took pity on him. "i will do as you ask," he said. "i will give you a home and food and clothing; and you shall serve me and be my slave for one year." there was but little that the stranger knew how to do, and so he was sent to the hills to take care of the king's sheep and goats. for a whole year he tended the flocks, finding the greenest pastures and the freshest water for them, and keeping the wolves away. admetus was very kind to him, as he was to all his servants, and the food and clothing which he gave him were of the best in the land. but the stranger did not tell his name nor say anything about his kindred or his home. when a year and a day had passed, it so happened that admetus was walking out among the hills to see his sheep. all at once the sound of music fell upon his ear. it was no such music as shepherds play, but sweeter and richer than any he had ever heard before. he looked to see where the sound came from. ah! who was that sitting on the hilltop, with the sheep around him listening to his music? surely it was not his shepherd? it was a tall and handsome young man, clad in robes lighter and finer than any king might wear. his face was as bright as sunbeams, and his eyes gleamed like lightning. upon his shoulder was a silver bow, from his belt hung a quiver of sharp arrows, and in his hands was a golden lyre. admetus stood still and wondered. then the stranger spoke: "king admetus," he said, "i am the poor beggar whom you fed--your slave to whom you were so kind. i have served you, as i agreed, for a whole year, and now i am going home. is there anything i can do for you?" "yes," said admetus; "tell me your name." "my name is apollo," was the answer. "twelve months ago my father, mighty jupiter, drove me away from before his face and bade me go out friendless and alone upon the earth; and he told me that i should not turn again towards home until i had served a year as some man's slave. i came to you, ragged and half starved, and you fed and clothed me; and i became your slave, and you were as kind to me as though i were your son. what shall i give you to reward you?" "lord of the silver bow," said the king, "i have all that any man can want. i am happy in the thought that i have been of some help to you. i can ask for nothing more." "very well," said apollo; "but if the time should ever come when you need my help, let me know." then the bright prince walked swiftly away, playing sweet music as he went; and admetus with glad heart returned to his home. ii. the chariot. from the place where admetus lived it was only a few miles to iolcus, a rich city by the sea. the king of iolcus was a cruel tyrant named pelias, who cared for nobody in all the world but himself. this pelias had a daughter named alcestis, who was as fair as any rose in june and so gentle and good that everybody praised her. many a prince from over the sea had come to woo alcestis for his wife; and the noblest young men in greece had tried to win her favor. but there was only one to whom she would listen, and that was her young neighbor, king admetus. so admetus went before gruff king pelias to ask him whether he might wed alcestis. "no one shall have my daughter," said the old king, "until he proves that he is worthy to be my son-in-law. if you want her, you must come for her in a chariot drawn by a lion and a wild boar. if you come in any other way, she shall not be your wife." and pelias laughed, and drove the young man out of his palace. admetus went away feeling very sad; for who had ever heard of harnessing a lion and a wild boar together in a chariot? the bravest man in the world could not do such a thing as that. as he walked along and saw the sheep and goats feeding on the hilltops near his own town, he chanced to think of apollo and of the last words that he had heard him say: "when you need my help, let me know." "i will let him know," said admetus. early the next morning he built an altar of stones in the open field; and when he had killed the fattest goat of the flock, he built a fire on the altar and laid the thighs of the goat in the flames. then when the smell of the burning flesh went up into the air, he lifted his hands towards the mountain tops and called to apollo. "lord of the silver bow," he cried, "if ever i have shown kindness to the poor and the distressed, come now and help me. for i am in sore need, and i remember your promise." hardly was he done speaking when bright apollo, bearing his bow and his quiver of arrows, came down and stood before him. "kindest of kings," he said, "tell me how i can help you." then admetus told him all about the fair alcestis, and how her father would give her only to the man who should come for her in a chariot drawn by a lion and a wild boar. "come with me," said apollo, "and i will help you." then the two went together into the forest, the lord of the silver bow leading the way. soon they started a lion from its lair and gave chase to it. the fleet-footed apollo seized the beast by its mane, and although it howled and snapped with its fierce jaws it did not touch him. then admetus started a wild boar from a thicket. apollo gave chase to it, too, making the lion run beside him like a dog. when he had caught the boar, he went on through the forest, leading the two beasts, one with his right hand, the other with his left; and admetus followed behind. [illustration: "it was a strange team."] it was not yet noon when they came to the edge of the woods and saw the sea and the city of iolcus only a little way off. a golden chariot stood by the roadside as if waiting for them, and the lion and the boar were soon harnessed to it. it was a strange team, and the two beasts tried hard to fight each other; but apollo lashed them with a whip and tamed them until they lost their fierceness and were ready to mind the rein. then admetus climbed into the chariot; and apollo stood by his side and held the reins and the whip, and drove into iolcus. old king pelias was astonished when he saw the wonderful chariot and the glorious charioteer; and when admetus again asked him for the fair alcestis, he could not refuse. a day was set for the wedding, and apollo drove his team back to the forest and set the lion and the wild boar free. and so admetus and alcestis were married, and everybody in the two towns, except gruff old king pelias, was glad. apollo himself was one of the guests at the wedding feast, and he brought a present for the young bridegroom; it was a promise from the mighty folk upon the mountain top that if admetus should ever be sick and in danger of death, he might become well again if some one who loved him would die for him. iii. the shadow leader. admetus and alcestis lived together happily for a long time, and all the people in their little kingdom loved and blessed them. but at last admetus fell sick, and, as he grew worse and worse every day, all hope that he would ever get well was lost. then those who loved him remembered the wedding gift which apollo had given him, and they began to ask who would be willing to die in his stead. his father and mother were very old and could hope to live but a short time at best, and so it was thought that one of them would be glad to give up life for the sake of their son. but when some one asked them about it, they shook their heads and said that though life was short they would cling to it as long as they could. then his brothers and sisters were asked if they would die for admetus, but they loved themselves better than their brother, and turned away and left him. there were men in the town whom he had befriended and who owed their lives to him; they would have done everything else for him, but this thing they would not do. now while all were shaking their heads and saying "not i," the beautiful alcestis went into her own room and called to apollo and asked that she might give up her life to save her husband. then without a thought of fear she lay down upon her bed and closed her eyes; and a little while afterward, when her maidens came into the room they found her dead. at the very same time admetus felt his sickness leave him, and he sprang up as well and strong as he had ever been. wondering how it was that he had been so quickly cured, he made haste to find alcestis and tell her the good news. but when he went into her room, he saw her lying lifeless on her couch, and he knew at once that she had died for him. his grief was so great that he could not speak, and he wished that death had taken him and spared the one whom he loved. in all the land every eye was wet with weeping for alcestis, and the cries of the mourners were heard in every house. admetus sat by the couch where his young queen lay, and held her cold hand in his own. the day passed, and night came, but he would not leave her. all through the dark hours he sat there alone. the morning dawned, but he did not want to see the light. at last the sun began to rise in the east, and then admetus was surprised to feel the hand which he held growing warm. he saw a red tinge coming into the pale cheeks of alcestis. a moment later the fair lady opened her eyes and sat up, alive and well and glad. how was it that alcestis had been given back to life? when she died and left her body, the shadow leader, who knows no pity, led her, as he led all others, to the cheerless halls of proserpine, the queen of the lower world. "who is this who comes so willingly?" asked the pale-faced queen. and when she was told how alcestis, so young and beautiful, had given her life to save that of her husband, she was moved with pity; and she bade the shadow leader take her back again to the joy and sunlight of the upper world. so it was that alcestis came to life; and for many years she and admetus lived in their little kingdom not far from the sea; and the mighty ones on the mountain top blessed them; and, at last, when they had become very old, the shadow leader led them both away together. [illustration] [illustration] cadmus and europa. i. the bull. in asia there lived a king who had two children, a boy and a girl. the boy's name was cadmus, and the girl's name was europa. the king's country was a very small one. he could stand on his house top and see the whole of it. on one side of it there were mountains, and on the other side was the sea. the king thought that it was the center of the world, and he did not know much about other lands and people. yet he was very happy in his own little kingdom, and very fond of his children. and he had good reason to be proud of them; for cadmus grew up to be the bravest young man in the land, and europa to be the fairest maiden that had ever been seen. but sad days came to them all at last. one morning europa went out into a field near the seashore to pick flowers. her father's cattle were in the field, grazing among the sweet clover. they were all very tame, and europa knew every one of them by name. the herdsman was lying in the shade under a tree, trying to make music on a little flute of straw. europa had played in the field a thousand times before, and no one had ever thought of any harm befalling her. that morning she noticed that there was a strange bull with the herd. he was very large and as white as snow; and he had soft brown eyes which somehow made him look very gentle and kind. at first he did not even look at europa, but went here and there, eating the tender grass which grew among the clover. but when she had gathered her apron full of daisies and buttercups, he came slowly towards her. she was not at all afraid of him; and so she stopped to look at him, he was so handsome. he came close to her, and rubbed her arm with his nose to say "good-morning!" she stroked his head and neck, and he seemed much pleased. then she made a wreath of daisies, and hung it round his neck. he looked at her with his soft kind eyes, and seemed to thank her; and in a little while, he lay down among the clover. europa then made a smaller wreath, and climbed upon his back to twine it round his horns. but all at once he sprang up, and ran away so swiftly that europa could not help herself. she did not dare to jump off while he was going so fast, and all that she could think to do was to hold fast to his neck and scream very loud. the herdsman under the tree heard her scream, and jumped up to see what was the matter. he saw the bull running with her towards the shore. he ran after them as fast as he could, but it was of no use. the bull leaped into the sea, and swam swiftly away, with poor europa on his back. several other people had seen him, and now they ran to tell the king. soon the whole town was alarmed. everybody ran out to the shore and looked. all that could be seen was something white moving very fast over the calm, blue water; and soon it was out of sight. the king sent out his fastest ship to try to overtake the bull. the sailors rowed far out to sea, much farther than any ship had ever gone before; but no trace of europa could be found. when they came back, everybody felt that there was no more hope. all the women and children in the town wept for the lost europa. the king shut himself up in his house, and did not eat nor drink for three days. then he called his son cadmus, and bade him take a ship and go in search of his sister; and he told him that, no matter what dangers might be in his way, he must not come back until she was found. cadmus was glad to go. he chose twenty brave young men to go with him, and set sail the very next day. it was a great undertaking; for they were to pass through an unknown sea, and they did not know what lands they would come to. indeed, it was feared that they would never come to any land at all. ships did not dare to go far from the shore in those days. but cadmus and his friends were not afraid. they were ready to face any danger. in a few days they came to a large island called cyprus. cadmus went on shore, and tried to talk with the strange people who lived there. they were very kind to him, but they did not understand his language. at last he made out by signs to tell them who he was, and to ask them if they had seen his little sister europa or the white bull that had carried her away. they shook their heads and pointed to the west. then the young men sailed on in their little ship. they came to many islands, and stopped at every one, to see if they could find any trace of europa; but they heard no news of her at all. at last, they came to the country which we now call greece. it was a new country then, and only a few people lived there, and cadmus soon learned to speak their language well. for a long time he wandered from one little town to another, always telling the story of his lost sister. ii. the pythia. one day an old man told cadmus that if he would go to delphi and ask the pythia, perhaps she could tell him all about europa. cadmus had never heard of delphi or of the pythia, and he asked the old man what he meant. "i will tell you," said the man. "delphi is a town, built near the foot of mount parnassus, at the very center of the earth. it is the town of apollo, the bringer of light; and there is a temple there, built close to the spot where apollo killed a black serpent, many, many years ago. the temple is the most wonderful place in the world. in the middle of the floor there is a wide crack, or crevice; and this crevice goes down, down into the rock, nobody knows how deep. a strange odor comes up out of the crevice; and if any one breathes much of it, he is apt to fall over and lose his senses." "but who is the pythia that you spoke about?" asked cadmus. "i will tell you," said the old man. "the pythia is a wise woman, who lives in the temple. when anybody asks her a hard question, she takes a three-legged stool, called a tripod, and sets it over the crevice in the floor. then she sits on the stool and breathes the strange odor; and instead of losing her senses as other people would do, she talks with apollo; and apollo tells her how to answer the question. men from all parts of the world go there to ask about things which they would like to know. the temple is full of the beautiful and costly gifts which they have brought for the pythia. sometimes she answers them plainly, and sometimes she answers them in riddles; but what she says always comes true." so cadmus went to delphi to ask the pythia about his lost sister. the wise woman was very kind to him; and when he had given her a beautiful golden cup to pay her for her trouble, she sat down on the tripod and breathed the strange odor which came up through the crevice in the rock. then her face grew pale, and her eyes looked wild, and she seemed to be in great pain; but they said that she was talking with apollo. cadmus asked her to tell him what had become of europa. she said that jupiter, in the form of a white bull, had carried her away, and that it would be of no use to look for her any more. "but what shall i do?" said cadmus. "my father told me not to turn back till i should find her." "your father is dead," said the pythia, "and a strange king rules in his place. you must stay in greece, for there is work here for you to do." "what must i do?" said cadmus. "follow the white cow," said the pythia; "and on the hill where she lies down, you must build a city." cadmus did not understand what she meant by this; but she would not speak another word. "this must be one of her riddles," he said, and he left the temple. iii. the dragon. when cadmus went out of the temple, he saw a snow-white cow standing not far from the door. she seemed to be waiting for him, for she looked at him with her large brown eyes, and then turned and walked away. cadmus thought of what the pythia had just told him, and so he followed her. all day and all night he walked through a strange wild country where no one lived; and two of the young men who had sailed with cadmus from his old home were with him. when the sun rose the next morning, they saw that they were on the top of a beautiful hill, with woods on one side and a grassy meadow on the other. there the cow lay down. "here we will build our city," said cadmus. then the young men made a fire of dry sticks, and cadmus killed the cow. they thought that if they should burn some of her flesh, the smell of it would go up to the sky and be pleasing to jupiter and the mighty folk who lived with him among the clouds; and in this way they hoped to make friends with jupiter so that he would not hinder them in their work. but they needed water to wash the flesh and their hands; and so one of the young men went down the hill to find some. he was gone so long that the other young man became uneasy and went after him. cadmus waited for them till the fire had burned low. he waited and waited till the sun was high in the sky. he called and shouted, but no one answered him. at last he took his sword in his hand and went down to see what was the matter. he followed the path which his friends had taken, and soon came to a fine stream of cold water at the foot of a hill. he saw something move among the bushes which grew near it. it was a fierce dragon, waiting to spring upon him. there was blood on the grass and leaves, and it was not hard to guess what had become of the two young men. the beast sprang at cadmus, and tried to seize him with its sharp claws. but cadmus leaped quickly aside and struck it in the neck with his long sword. a great stream of black blood gushed out, and the dragon soon fell to the ground dead. cadmus had seen many fearful sights, but never anything so dreadful as this beast. he had never been in so great danger before. he sat down on the ground and trembled; and, all the time, he was weeping for his two friends. how now was he to build a city, with no one to help him? iv. the city. while cadmus was still weeping he was surprised to hear some one calling him. he stood up and looked around. on the hillside before him was a tall woman who had a helmet on her head and a shield in her hand. her eyes were gray, and her face, though not beautiful, was very noble. cadmus knew at once that she was athena, the queen of the air--she who gives wisdom to men. athena told cadmus that he must take out the teeth of the dragon and sow them in the ground. he thought that would be a queer kind of seed. but she said that if he would do this, he would soon have men enough to help him build his city; and, before he could say a word, she had gone out of his sight. [illustration: "soon they began to fight among themselves."] the dragon had a great many teeth--so many that when cadmus had taken them out they filled his helmet heaping full. the next thing was to find a good place to sow them. just as he turned away from the stream, he saw a yoke of oxen standing a little way off. he went to them and found that they were hitched to a plow. what more could he want? the ground in the meadow was soft and black, and he drove the plow up and down, making long furrows as he went. then he dropped the teeth, one by one, into the furrows and covered them over with the rich soil. when he had sown all of them in this way, he sat down on the hillside and watched to see what would happen. in a little while the soil in the furrows began to stir. then, at every place that a tooth had been dropped, something bright grew up. it was a brass helmet. the helmets pushed their way up, and soon the faces of men were seen underneath, then their shoulders, then their arms, then their bodies; and then, before cadmus could think, a thousand warriors leaped out of the furrows and shook off the black earth which was clinging to them. every man was clothed in a suit of brass armor; and every one had a long spear in his right hand and a shield in his left. cadmus was frightened when he saw the strange crop which had grown up from the dragon's teeth. the men looked so fierce that he feared they would kill him if they saw him. he hid himself behind his plow and then began to throw stones at them. the warriors did not know where the stones came from, but each thought that his neighbor had struck him. soon they began to fight among themselves. man after man was killed, and in a little while only five were left alive. then cadmus ran towards them and called out: "hold! stop fighting! you are my men, and must come with me. we will build a city here." the men obeyed him. they followed cadmus to the top of the hill; and they were such good workmen that in a few days they had built a house on the spot where the cow had lain down. after that they built other houses, and people came to live in them. they called the town cadmeia, after cadmus who was its first king. but when the place had grown to be a large city, it was known by the name of thebes. cadmus was a wise king. the mighty folk who lived with jupiter amid the clouds were well pleased with him and helped him in more ways than one. after a while he married harmonia, the beautiful daughter of mars. all the mighty ones were at the wedding; and athena gave the bride a wonderful necklace about which you may learn something more at another time. but the greatest thing that cadmus did is yet to be told. he was the first schoolmaster of the greeks, and taught them the letters which were used in his own country across the sea. they called the first of these letters _alpha_ and the second _beta_, and that is why men speak of the _alphabet_ to this day. and when the greeks had learned the alphabet from cadmus, they soon began to read and write, and to make beautiful and useful books. as for the maiden europa, she was carried safe over the sea to a distant shore. she may have been happy in the new, strange land to which she was taken--i cannot tell; but she never heard of friends or home again. whether it was really jupiter in the form of a bull that carried her away, nobody knows. it all happened so long ago that there may have been some mistake about the story; and i should not think it strange if it were a sea robber who stole her from her home, and a swift ship with white sails that bore her away. of one thing i am very sure: she was loved so well by all who knew her that the great unknown country to which she was taken has been called after her name ever since--europe. [illustration:] the quest of medusa's head. i. the wooden chest. there was a king of argos who had but one child, and that child was a girl. if he had had a son, he would have trained him up to be a brave man and great king; but he did not know what to do with this fair-haired daughter. when he saw her growing up to be tall and slender and wise, he wondered if, after all, he would have to die some time and leave his lands and his gold and his kingdom to her. so he sent to delphi and asked the pythia about it. the pythia told him that he would not only have to die some time, but that the son of his daughter would cause his death. this frightened the king very much, and he tried to think of some plan by which he could keep the pythia's words from coming true. at last he made up his mind that he would build a prison for his daughter and keep her in it all her life. so he called his workmen and had them dig a deep round hole in the ground, and in this hole they built a house of brass which had but one room and no door at all, but only a small window at the top. when it was finished, the king put the maiden, whose name was danaë, into it; and with her he put her nurse and her toys and her pretty dresses and everything that he thought she would need to make her happy. "now we shall see that the pythia does not always tell the truth," he said. so danaë was kept shut up in the prison of brass. she had no one to talk to but her old nurse; and she never saw the land or the sea, but only the blue sky above the open window and now and then a white cloud sailing across. day after day she sat under the window and wondered why her father kept her in that lonely place, and whether he would ever come and take her out. i do not know how many years passed by, but danaë grew fairer every day, and by and by she was no longer a child, but a tall and beautiful woman; and jupiter amid the clouds looked down and saw her and loved her. one day it seemed to her that the sky opened and a shower of gold fell through the window into the room; and when the blinding shower had ceased, a noble young man stood smiling before her. she did not know--nor do i--that it was mighty jupiter who had thus come down in the rain; but she thought that he was a brave prince who had come from over the sea to take her out of her prison-house. after that he came often, but always as a tall and handsome youth; and by and by they were married, with only the nurse at the wedding feast, and danaë was so happy that she was no longer lonesome even when he was away. but one day when he climbed out through the narrow window there was a great flash of light, and she never saw him again. not long afterwards a babe was born to danaë, a smiling boy whom she named perseus. for four years she and the nurse kept him hidden, and not even the women who brought their food to the window knew about him. but one day the king chanced to be passing by and heard the child's prattle. when he learned the truth, he was very much alarmed, for he thought that now, in spite of all that he had done, the words of the pythia might come true. the only sure way to save himself would be to put the child to death before he was old enough to do any harm. but when he had taken the little perseus and his mother out of the prison and had seen how helpless the child was, he could not bear the thought of having him killed outright. for the king, although a great coward, was really a kind-hearted man and did not like to see anything suffer pain. yet something must be done. so he bade his servants make a wooden chest that was roomy and watertight and strong; and when it was done, he put danaë and the child into it and had it taken far out to sea and left there to be tossed about by the waves. he thought that in this way he would rid himself of both daughter and grandson without seeing them die; for surely the chest would sink after a while, or else the winds would cause it to drift to some strange shore so far away that they could never come back to argos again. all day and all night and then another day, fair danaë and her child drifted over the sea. the waves rippled and played before and around the floating chest, the west wind whistled cheerily, and the sea birds circled in the air above; and the child was not afraid, but dipped his hands in the curling waves and laughed at the merry breeze and shouted back at the screaming birds. but on the second night all was changed. a storm arose, the sky was black, the billows were mountain high, the winds roared fearfully; yet through it all the child slept soundly in his mother's arms. and danaë sang over him this song: "sleep, sleep, dear child, and take your rest upon your troubled mother's breast; for you can lie without one fear of dreadful danger lurking near. wrapped in soft robes and warmly sleeping, you do not hear your mother weeping; you do not see the mad waves leaping, nor heed the winds their vigils keeping. the stars are hid, the night is drear, the waves beat high, the storm is here; but you can sleep, my darling child, and know naught of the uproar wild." at last the morning of the third day came, and the chest was tossed upon the sandy shore of a strange island where there were green fields and, beyond them, a little town. a man who happened to be walking near the shore saw it and dragged it far up on the beach. then he looked inside, and there he saw the beautiful lady and the little boy. he helped them out and led them just as they were to his own house, where he cared for them very kindly. and when danaë had told him her story, he bade her feel no more fear; for they might have a home with him as long as they should choose to stay, and he would be a true friend to them both. ii. the magic slippers. so danaë and her son stayed in the house of the kind man who had saved them from the sea. years passed by, and perseus grew up to be a tall young man, handsome, and brave, and strong. the king of the island, when he saw danaë, was so pleased with her beauty that he wanted her to become his wife. but he was a dark, cruel man, and she did not like him at all; so she told him that she would not marry him. the king thought that perseus was to blame for this, and that if he could find some excuse to send the young man on a far journey, he might force danaë to have him whether she wished or not. one day he called all the young men of his country together and told them that he was soon to be wedded to the queen of a certain land beyond the sea. would not each of them bring him a present to be given to her father? for in those times it was the rule, that when any man was about to be married, he must offer costly gifts to the father of the bride. "what kind of presents do you want?" said the young men. "horses," he answered; for he knew that perseus had no horse. "why don't you ask for something worth the having?" said perseus; for he was vexed at the way in which the king was treating him. "why don't you ask for medusa's head, for example?" "medusa's head it shall be!" cried the king. "these young men may give me horses, but you shall bring medusa's head." "i will bring it," said perseus; and he went away in anger, while his young friends laughed at him because of his foolish words. what was this medusa's head which he had so rashly promised to bring? his mother had often told him about medusa. far, far away, on the very edge of the world, there lived three strange monsters, sisters, called gorgons. they had the bodies and faces of women, but they had wings of gold, and terrible claws of brass, and hair that was full of living serpents. they were so awful to look upon, that no man could bear the sight of them, but whoever saw their faces was turned to stone. two of these monsters had charmed lives, and no weapon could ever do them harm; but the youngest, whose name was medusa, might be killed, if indeed anybody could find her and could give the fatal stroke. when perseus went away from the king's palace, he began to feel sorry that he had spoken so rashly. for how should he ever make good his promise and do the king's bidding? he did not know which way to go to find the gorgons, and he had no weapon with which to slay the terrible medusa. but at any rate he would never show his face to the king again, unless he could bring the head of terror with him. he went down to the shore and stood looking out over the sea towards argos, his native land; and while he looked, the sun went down, and the moon arose, and a soft wind came blowing from the west. then, all at once, two persons, a man and a woman, stood before him. both were tall and noble. the man looked like a prince; and there were wings on his cap and on his feet, and he carried a winged staff, around which two golden serpents were twined. he asked perseus what was the matter; and the young man told him how the king had treated him, and all about the rash words which he had spoken. then the lady spoke to him very kindly; and he noticed that, although she was not beautiful, she had most wonderful gray eyes, and a stern but lovable face and a queenly form. and she told him not to fear, but to go out boldly in quest of the gorgons; for she would help him obtain the terrible head of medusa. "but i have no ship, and how shall i go?" said perseus. "you shall don my winged slippers," said the strange prince, "and they will bear you over sea and land." "shall i go north, or south, or east, or west?" asked perseus. "i will tell you," said the tall lady. "you must go first to the three gray sisters, who live beyond the frozen sea in the far, far north. they have a secret which nobody knows, and you must force them to tell it to you. ask them where you shall find the three maidens who guard the golden apples of the west; and when they shall have told you, turn about and go straight thither. the maidens will give you three things, without which you can never obtain the terrible head; and they will show you how to wing your way across the western ocean to the edge of the world where lies the home of the gorgons." then the man took off his winged slippers, and put them on the feet of perseus; and the woman whispered to him to be off at once, and to fear nothing, but be bold and true. and perseus knew that she was none other than athena, the queen of the air, and that her companion was mercury, the lord of the summer clouds. but before he could thank them for their kindness, they had vanished in the dusky twilight. then he leaped into the air to try the magic slippers. iii. the gray sisters. swifter than an eagle, perseus flew up towards the sky. then he turned, and the magic slippers bore him over the sea straight towards the north. on and on he went, and soon the sea was passed; and he came to a famous land, where there were cities and towns and many people. and then he flew over a range of snowy mountains, beyond which were mighty forests and a vast plain where many rivers wandered, seeking for the sea. and farther on was another range of mountains; and then there were frozen marshes and a wilderness of snow, and after all the sea again,--but a sea of ice. on and on he winged his way, among toppling icebergs and over frozen billows and through air which the sun never warmed, and at last he came to the cavern where the three gray sisters dwelt. these three creatures were so old that they had forgotten their own age, and nobody could count the years which they had lived. the long hair which covered their heads had been gray since they were born; and they had among them only a single eye and a single tooth which they passed back and forth from one to another. perseus heard them mumbling and crooning in their dreary home, and he stood very still and listened. "we know a secret which even the great folk who live on the mountain top can never learn; don't we, sisters?" said one. "ha! ha! that we do, that we do!" chattered the others. "give me the tooth, sister, that i may feel young and handsome again," said the one nearest to perseus. "and give me the eye that i may look out and see what is going on in the busy world," said the sister who sat next to her. "ah, yes, yes, yes, yes!" mumbled the third, as she took the tooth and the eye and reached them blindly towards the others. then, quick as thought, perseus leaped forward and snatched both of the precious things from her hand. "where is the tooth? where is the eye?" screamed the two, reaching out their long arms and groping here and there. "have you dropped them, sister? have you lost them?" perseus laughed as he stood in the door of their cavern and saw their distress and terror. "i have your tooth and your eye," he said, "and you shall never touch them again until you tell me your secret. where are the maidens who keep the golden apples of the western land? which way shall i go to find them?" "you are young, and we are old," said the gray sisters; "pray, do not deal so cruelly with us. pity us, and give us our eye." then they wept and pleaded and coaxed and threatened. but perseus stood a little way off and taunted them; and they moaned and mumbled and shrieked, as they found that their words did not move him. "sisters, we must tell him," at last said one. "ah, yes, we must tell him," said the others. "we must part with the secret to save our eye." and then they told him how he should go to reach the western land, and what road he should follow to find the maidens who kept the golden apples. when they had made everything plain to him perseus gave them back their eye and their tooth. "ha! ha!" they laughed; "now the golden days of youth have come again!" and, from that day to this, no man has ever seen the three gray sisters, nor does any one know what became of them. but the winds still whistle through their cheerless cave, and the cold waves murmur on the shore of the wintry sea, and the ice mountains topple and crash, and no sound of living creature is heard in all that desolate land. iv. the western maidens. as for perseus, he leaped again into the air, and the magic slippers bore him southward with the speed of the wind. very soon he left the frozen sea behind him and came to a sunny land, where there were green forests and flowery meadows and hills and valleys, and at last a pleasant garden where were all kinds of blossoms and fruits. he knew that this was the famous western land, for the gray sisters had told him what he should see there. so he alighted and walked among the trees until he came to the center of the garden. there he saw the three maidens of the west dancing around a tree which was full of golden apples, and singing as they danced. for the wonderful tree with its precious fruit belonged to juno, the queen of earth and sky; it had been given to her as a wedding gift, and it was the duty of the maidens to care for it and see that no one touched the golden apples. perseus stopped and listened to their song: "we sing of the old, we sing of the new,-- our joys are many, our sorrows are few; singing, dancing, all hearts entrancing, we wait to welcome the good and the true. the daylight is waning, the evening is here, the sun will soon set, the stars will appear. singing, dancing, all hearts entrancing, we wait for the dawn of a glad new year. the tree shall wither, the apples shall fall, sorrow shall come, and death shall call, alarming, grieving, all hearts deceiving,-- but hope shall abide to comfort us all. soon the tale shall be told, the song shall be sung, the bow shall be broken, the harp unstrung, alarming, grieving, all hearts deceiving, till every joy to the winds shall be flung. but a new tree shall spring from the roots of the old, and many a blossom its leaves shall unfold, cheering, gladdening, with joy maddening,-- for its boughs shall be laden with apples of gold." [illustration: perseus stopped and listened to their song] then perseus went forward and spoke to the maidens. they stopped singing, and stood still as if in alarm. but when they saw the magic slippers on his feet, they ran to him, and welcomed him to the western land and to their garden. "we knew that you were coming," they said, "for the winds told us. but why do you come?" perseus told them of all that had happened to him since he was a child, and of his quest of medusa's head; and he said that he had come to ask them to give him three things to help him in his fight with the gorgons. the maidens answered that they would give him not three things, but four. then one of them gave him a sharp sword, which was crooked like a sickle, and which she fastened to the belt at his waist; and another gave him a shield, which was brighter than any looking-glass you ever saw; and the third gave him a magic pouch, which she hung by a long strap over his shoulder. "these are three things which you must have in order to obtain medusa's head; and now here is a fourth, for without it your quest must be in vain." and they gave him a magic cap, the cap of darkness; and when they had put it upon his head, there was no creature on the earth or in the sky--no, not even the maidens themselves--that could see him. when at last he was arrayed to their liking, they told him where he would find the gorgons, and what he should do to obtain the terrible head and escape alive. then they kissed him and wished him good luck, and bade him hasten to do the dangerous deed. and perseus donned the cap of darkness, and sped away and away towards the farthermost edge of the earth; and the three maidens went back to their tree to sing and to dance and to guard the golden apples until the old world should become young again. v. the dreadful gorgons. with the sharp sword at his side and the bright shield upon his arm, perseus flew bravely onward in search of the dreadful gorgons; but he had the cap of darkness upon his head, and you could no more have seen him than you can see the wind. he flew so swiftly that it was not long until he had crossed the mighty ocean which encircles the earth, and had come to the sunless land which lies beyond; and then he knew, from what the maidens had told him, that the lair of the gorgons could not be far away. he heard a sound as of some one breathing heavily, and he looked around sharply to see where it came from. among the foul weeds which grew close to the bank of a muddy river there was something which glittered in the pale light. he flew a little nearer; but he did not dare to look straight forward, lest he should all at once meet the gaze of a gorgon, and be changed into stone. so he turned around, and held the shining shield before him in such a way that by looking into it he could see objects behind him as in a mirror. ah, what a dreadful sight it was! half hidden among the weeds lay the three monsters, fast asleep, with their golden wings folded about them. their brazen claws were stretched out as though ready to seize their prey; and their shoulders were covered with sleeping snakes. the two largest of the gorgons lay with their heads tucked under their wings as birds hide their heads when they go to sleep. but the third, who lay between them, slept with her face turned up towards the sky; and perseus knew that she was medusa. very stealthily he went nearer and nearer, always with his back towards the monsters and always looking into his bright shield to see where to go. then he drew his sharp sword and, dashing quickly downward, struck a back blow, so sure, so swift, that the head of medusa was cut from her shoulders and the black blood gushed like a river from her neck. quick as thought he thrust the terrible head into his magic pouch and leaped again into the air, and flew away with the speed of the wind. then the two older gorgons awoke, and rose with dreadful screams, and spread their great wings, and dashed after him. they could not see him, for the cap of darkness hid him from even their eyes; but they scented the blood of the head which he carried in the pouch, and like hounds in the chase, they followed him, sniffing the air. and as he flew through the clouds he could hear their dreadful cries and the clatter of their golden wings and the snapping of their horrible jaws. but the magic slippers were faster than any wings, and in a little while the monsters were left far behind, and their cries were heard no more; and perseus flew on alone. vi. the great sea beast. perseus soon crossed the ocean and came again to the land of the west. far below him he could see the three maidens dancing around the golden tree; but he did not stop, for, now that he had the head of medusa safe in the pouch at his side, he must hasten home. straight east he flew over the great sea, and after a time he came to a country where there were palm trees and pyramids and a great river flowing from the south. here, as he looked down, a strange sight met his eyes: he saw a beautiful girl chained to a rock by the seashore, and far away a huge sea beast swimming towards her to devour her. quick as thought, he flew down and spoke to her; but, as she could not see him for the cap of darkness which he wore, his voice only frightened her. then perseus took off his cap, and stood upon the rock; and when the girl saw him with his long hair and wonderful eyes and laughing face, she thought him the handsomest young man in the world. "oh, save me! save me!" she cried as she reached out her arms towards him. perseus drew his sharp sword and cut the chain which held her, and then lifted her high up upon the rock. but by this time the sea monster was close at hand, lashing the water with his tail and opening his wide jaws as though he would swallow not only perseus and the young girl, but even the rock on which they were standing. he was a terrible fellow, and yet not half so terrible as the gorgon. as he came roaring towards the shore, perseus lifted the head of medusa from his pouch and held it up; and when the beast saw the dreadful face he stopped short and was turned into stone; and men say that the stone beast may be seen in that selfsame spot to this day. then perseus slipped the gorgon's head back into the pouch and hastened to speak with the young girl whom he had saved. she told him that her name was andromeda, and that she was the daughter of the king of that land. she said that her mother, the queen, was very beautiful and very proud of her beauty; and every day she went down to the seashore to look at her face as it was pictured in the quiet water; and she had boasted that not even the nymphs who live in the sea were as handsome as she. when the sea nymphs heard about this, they were very angry and asked great neptune, the king of the sea, to punish the queen for her pride. so neptune sent a sea monster to crush the king's ships and kill the cattle along the shore and break down all the fishermen's huts. the people were so much distressed that they sent at last to ask the pythia what they should do; and the pythia said that there was only one way to save the land from destruction,--that they must give the king's daughter, andromeda, to the monster to be devoured. the king and the queen loved their daughter very dearly, for she was their only child; and for a long time they refused to do as the pythia had told them. but day after day the monster laid waste the land, and threatened to destroy not only the farms, but the towns; and so they were forced in the end to give up andromeda to save their country. this, then, was why she had been chained to the rock by the shore and left there to perish in the jaws of the beast. while perseus was yet talking with andromeda, the king and the queen and a great company of people came down the shore, weeping and tearing their hair; for they were sure that by this time the monster had devoured his prey. but when they saw her alive and well, and learned that she had been saved by the handsome young man who stood beside her, they could hardly hold themselves for joy. and perseus was so delighted with andromeda's beauty that he almost forgot his quest which was not yet finished; and when the king asked him what he should give him as a reward for saving andromeda's life, he said: "give her to me for my wife." this pleased the king very much; and so, on the seventh day, perseus and andromeda were married, and there was a great feast in the king's palace, and everybody was merry and glad. and the two young people lived happily for some time in the land of palms and pyramids; and, from the sea to the mountains, nothing was talked about but the courage of perseus and the beauty of andromeda. [illustration: "the king saw it and was turned into stone."] vii. the timely rescue. but perseus had not forgotten his mother; and so, one fine summer day, he and andromeda sailed in a beautiful ship to his own home; for the magic slippers could not carry both him and his bride through the air. the ship came to land at the very spot where the wooden chest had been cast so many years before; and perseus and his bride walked through the fields towards the town. now, the wicked king of that land had never ceased trying to persuade danaë to become his wife; but she would not listen to him, and the more he pleaded and threatened, the more she disliked him. at last when he found that she could not be made to have him, he declared that he would kill her; and on this very morning he had started out, sword in hand, to take her life. so, as perseus and andromeda came into the town, whom should they meet but his mother fleeing to the altar of jupiter, and the king following after, intent on killing her? danaë was so frightened that she did not see perseus, but ran right on towards the only place of safety. for it was a law of that land that not even the king should be allowed to harm any one who took refuge on the altar of jupiter. when perseus saw the king rushing like a madman after his mother, he threw himself before him and bade him stop. but the king struck at him furiously with his sword. perseus caught the blow on his shield, and at the same moment took the head of medusa from his magic pouch. "i promised to bring you a present, and here it is!" he cried. the king saw it, and was turned into stone, just as he stood, with his sword uplifted and that terrible look of anger and passion in his face. the people of the island were glad when they learned what had happened, for no one loved the wicked king. they were glad, too, because perseus had come home again, and had brought with him his beautiful wife, andromeda. so, after they had talked the matter over among themselves, they went to him and asked him to be their king. but he thanked them, and said that he would rule over them for one day only, and that then he would give the kingdom to another, so that he might take his mother back to her home and her kindred in distant argos. on the morrow therefore, he gave the kingdom to the kind man who had saved his mother and himself from the sea; and then he went on board his ship, with andromeda and danaë, and sailed away across the sea towards argos. viii. the deadly quoit. when danaë's old father, the king of argos, heard that a strange ship was coming over the sea with his daughter and her son on board, he was in great distress; for he remembered what the pythia had foretold about his death. so, without waiting to see the vessel, he left his palace in great haste and fled out of the country. "my daughter's son cannot kill me if i will keep out of his way," he said. but perseus had no wish to harm him; and he was very sad when he learned that his poor grandfather had gone away in fear and without telling any one where he was going. the people of argos welcomed danaë to her old home; and they were very proud of her handsome son, and begged that he would stay in their city, so that he might some time become their king. it happened soon afterwards that the king of a certain country not far away was holding games and giving prizes to the best runners and leapers and quoit throwers. and perseus went thither to try his strength with the other young men of the land; for if he should be able to gain a prize, his name would become known all over the world. no one in that country knew who he was, but all wondered at his noble stature and his strength and skill; and it was easy enough for him to win all the prizes. one day, as he was showing what he could do, he threw a heavy quoit a great deal farther than any had been thrown before. it fell in the crowd of lookers-on, and struck a stranger who was standing there. the stranger threw up his hands and sank upon the ground; and when perseus ran to help him, he saw that he was dead. now this man was none other than danaë's father, the old king of argos. he had fled from his kingdom to save his life, and in doing so had only met his death. perseus was overcome with grief, and tried in every way to pay honor to the memory of the unhappy king. the kingdom of argos was now rightfully his own, but he could not bear to take it after having killed his grandfather. so he was glad to exchange with another king who ruled over two rich cities, not far away, called mycenae and tiryns. and he and andromeda lived happily in mycenae for many years. [illustration] the story of atalanta i. the bear on the mountain. in a sunny land in greece called arcadia there lived a king and a queen who had no children. they wanted very much to have a son who might live to rule over arcadia when the king was dead, and so, as the years went by, they prayed to great jupiter on the mountain top that he would send them a son. after a while a child was born to them, but it was a little girl. the father was in a great rage with jupiter and everybody else. "what is a girl good for?" he said. "she can never do anything but sing, and spin, and spend money. if the child had been a boy, he might have learned to do many things,--to ride, and to hunt, and to fight in the wars,--and by and by he would have been king of arcadia. but this girl can never be a king." then he called to one of his men and bade him take the babe out to a mountain where there was nothing but rocks and thick woods, and leave it there to be eaten up by the wild bears that lived in the caves and thickets. it would be the easiest way, he said, to get rid of the useless little creature. the man carried the child far up on the mountain side and laid it down on a bed of moss in the shadow of a great rock. the child stretched out its baby hands towards him and smiled, but he turned away and left it there, for he did not dare to disobey the king. for a whole night and a whole day the babe lay on its bed of moss, wailing for its mother; but only the birds among the trees heard its pitiful cries. at last it grew so weak for want of food that it could only moan and move its head a little from side to side. it would have died before another day if nobody had cared for it. just before dark on the second evening, a she-bear came strolling down the mountain side from her den. she was out looking for her cubs, for some hunters had stolen them that very day while she was away from home. she heard the moans of the little babe, and wondered if it was not one of her lost cubs; and when she saw it lying so helpless on the moss she went to it and looked at it kindly. was it possible that a little bear could be changed into a pretty babe with fat white hands and with a beautiful gold chain around its neck? the old bear did not know; and as the child looked at her with its bright black eyes, she growled softly and licked its face with her warm tongue and then lay down beside it, just as she would have done with her own little cubs. the babe was too young to feel afraid, and it cuddled close to the old bear and felt that it had found a friend. after a while it fell asleep; but the bear guarded it until morning and then went down the mountain side to look for food. in the evening, before dark, the bear came again and carried the child to her own den under the shelter of a rock where vines and wild flowers grew; and every day after that she came and gave the child food and played with it. and all the bears on the mountain learned about the wonderful cub that had been found, and came to see it; but not one of them offered to harm it. and the little girl grew fast and became strong, and after a while could walk and run among the trees and rocks and brambles on the round top of the mountain; but her bear mother would not allow her to wander far from the den beneath the rock where the vines and the wild flowers grew. one day some hunters came up the mountain to look for game, and one of them pulled aside the vines which grew in front of the old bear's home. he was surprised to see the beautiful child lying on the grass and playing with the flowers which she had gathered. but at sight of him she leaped to her feet and bounded away like a frightened deer. she led the hunters a fine chase among the trees and rocks; but there were a dozen of them, and it was not long till they caught her. the hunters had never taken such game as that before, and they were so well satisfied that they did not care to hunt any more that day. the child struggled and fought as hard as she knew how, but it was of no use. the hunters carried her down the mountain, and took her to the house where they lived on the other side of the forest. at first she cried all the time, for she sadly missed the bear that had been a mother to her so long. but the hunters made a great pet of her, and gave her many pretty things to play with, and were very kind; and it was not long till she began to like her new home. the hunters named her atalanta, and when she grew older, they made her a bow and arrows, and taught her how to shoot; and they gave her a light spear, and showed her how to carry it and how to hurl it at the game or at an enemy. then they took her with them when they went hunting, and there was nothing in the world that pleased her so much as roaming through the woods and running after the deer and other wild animals. her feet became very swift, so that she could run faster than any of the men; and her arms were so strong and her eyes so sharp and true that with her arrow or her spear she never missed the mark. and she grew up to be very tall and graceful, and was known throughout all arcadia as the fleet-footed huntress. ii. the brand on the hearth. now, not very far from the land of arcadia there was a little city named calydon. it lay in the midst of rich wheat fields and fruitful vineyards; but beyond the vineyards there was a deep dense forest where many wild beasts lived. the king of calydon was named oeneus, and he dwelt in a white palace with his wife althea and his boys and girls. his kingdom was so small that it was not much trouble to govern it, and so he spent the most of his time in hunting or in plowing or in looking after his grape vines. he was said to be a very brave man, and he was the friend of all the great heroes of that heroic time. the two daughters of oeneus and althea were famed all over the world for their beauty; and one of them was the wife of the hero hercules, who had freed prometheus from his chains, and done many other mighty deeds. the six sons of oeneus and althea were noble, handsome fellows; but the noblest and handsomest of them all was meleager, the youngest. when meleager was a tiny babe only seven days old, a strange thing happened in the white palace of the king. queen althea awoke in the middle of the night, and saw a fire blazing on the hearth. she wondered what it could mean; and she lay quite still by the side of the babe, and looked and listened. three strange women were standing by the hearth. they were tall, and two of them were beautiful, and the faces of all were stern. althea knew at once that they were the fates who give gifts of some kind to every child that is born, and who say whether his life shall be a happy one or full of sadness and sorrow. "what shall we give to this child?" said the eldest and sternest of the three strangers. her name was atropos, and she held a pair of sharp shears in her hand. "i give him a brave heart," said the youngest and fairest. her name was clotho, and she held a distaff full of flax, from which she was spinning a golden thread. "and i give him a gentle, noble mind," said the dark-haired one, whose name was lachesis. she gently drew out the thread which clotho spun, and turning to stern atropos, said: "lay aside those shears, sister, and give the child your gift." "i give him life until this brand shall be burned to ashes," was the answer; and atropos took a small stick of wood and laid it on the burning coals. the three sisters waited till the stick was ablaze, and then they were gone. althea sprang up quickly. she saw nothing but the fire on the hearth and the stick burning slowly away. she made haste to pour water upon the blaze, and when every spark was put out, she took the charred stick and put it into a strong chest where she kept her treasures, and locked it up. "i know that the child's life is safe," she said, "so long as that stick is kept unburned." and so, as the years went by, meleager grew up to be a brave young man, so gentle and noble that his name became known in every land of greece. he did many daring deeds and, with other heroes, went on a famous voyage across the seas in search of a marvelous fleece of gold; and when he returned to calydon the people declared that he was the worthiest of the sons of oeneus to become their king. iii. the gifts on the altars. now it happened one summer that the vineyards of calydon were fuller of grapes than they had ever been before, and there was so much wheat in the fields that the people did not know what to do with it. "i will tell you what to do," said king oeneus. "we will have a thanksgiving day, and we will give some of the grain and some of the fruit to the mighty beings who sit among the clouds on the mountain top. for it is from them that the sunshine and the fair weather and the moist winds and the warm rains have come; and without their aid we could never have had so fine a harvest." the very next day the king and the people of calydon went out into the fields and vineyards to offer up their thank offerings. here and there they built little altars of turf and stones and laid dry grass and twigs upon them; and then on top of the twigs they put some of the largest bunches of grapes and some of the finest heads of wheat, which they thought would please the mighty beings who had sent them so great plenty. there was one altar for ceres, who had shown men how to sow grain, and one for bacchus, who had told them about the grape, and one for wing-footed mercury, who comes in the clouds, and one for athena, the queen of the air, and one for the keeper of the winds, and one for the giver of light, and one for the driver of the golden sun car, and one for the king of the sea, and one--which was the largest of all--for jupiter, the mighty thunderer who sits upon the mountain top and rules the world. and when everything was ready, king oeneus gave the word, and fire was touched to the grass and the twigs upon the altars; and the grapes and the wheat that had been laid there were burned up. then the people shouted and danced, for they fancied that in that way the thank offerings were sent right up to ceres and bacchus and mercury and athena and all the rest. and in the evening they went home with glad hearts, feeling that they had done right. but they had forgotten one of the mighty beings. they had not raised any altar to diana, the fair huntress and queen of the woods, and they had not offered her a single grape or a single grain of wheat. they had not intended to slight her; but, to tell the truth, there were so many others that they had never once thought about her. i do not suppose that diana cared anything at all for the fruit or the grain; but it made her very angry to think that she should be forgotten. "i'll show them that i am not to be slighted in this way," she said. all went well, however, until the next summer; and the people of calydon were very happy, for it looked as though there would be a bigger harvest than ever. "i tell you," said old king oeneus, looking over his fields and his vineyards, "it pays to give thanks. we'll have another thanksgiving as soon as the grapes begin to ripen." but even then he did not think of diana. the very next day the largest and fiercest wild boar that anybody had ever seen came rushing out of the forest. he had two long tusks which stuck far out of his mouth on either side and were as sharp as knives, and the stiff bristles on his back were as large and as long as knitting needles. as he went tearing along towards calydon, champing his teeth and foaming at the mouth, he was a frightful thing to look at, i tell you. everybody fled before him. he rushed into the wheat fields and tore up all the grain; he went into the vineyards and broke down all the vines; he rooted up all the trees in the orchards; and, when there was nothing else to do, he went into the pasture lands among the hills and killed the sheep that were feeding there. he was so fierce and so fleet of foot that the bravest warrior hardly dared to attack him. his thick skin was proof against arrows and against such spears as the people of calydon had; and i do not know how many men he killed with those terrible razor tusks of his. for weeks he had pretty much his own way, and the only safe place for anybody was inside of the walls. when he had laid waste the whole country he went back into the edge of the forest; but the people were so much afraid of him that they lived in dread every day lest he should come again and tear down the gates of the city. "we must have forgotten somebody when we gave thanks last year," said king oeneus. "who could it have been?" and then he thought of diana. "diana, the queen of the chase," said he, "has sent this monster to punish us for forgetting her. i am sure that we shall remember her now as long as we live." then he sent messengers into all the countries near calydon, asking the bravest men and skillfullest hunters to come at a certain time and help him hunt and kill the great wild boar. very many of these men had been with meleager in that wonderful voyage in search of the golden fleece, and he felt sure they would come. iv. the hunt in the forest. when the day came which king oeneus had set, there was a wonderful gathering of men at calydon. the greatest heroes in the world were there; and every one was fully armed, and expected to have fine sport hunting the terrible wild boar. with the warriors from the south there came a tall maiden armed with bow and arrows and a long hunting spear. it was our friend atalanta, the huntress. "my daughters are having a game of ball in the garden," said old king oeneus. "wouldn't you like to put away your arrows and your spear, and go and play with them?" atalanta shook her head and lifted her chin as if in disdain. "perhaps you would rather stay with the queen, and look at the women spin and weave," said oeneus. "no," answered atalanta, "i am going with the warriors to hunt the wild boar in the forest!" how all the men opened their eyes! they had never heard of such a thing as a girl going out with heroes to hunt wild boars. "if she goes, then i will not," said one. "nor i, either," said another. "nor i," said a third. "why, the whole world would laugh at us, and we should never hear the end of it." several threatened to go home at once; and two brothers of queen althea, rude, unmannerly fellows, loudly declared that the hunt was for heroes and not for puny girls. but atalanta only grasped her spear more firmly and stood up, tall and straight, in the gateway of the palace. just then a handsome young man came forward. it was meleager. "what's this?" he cried. "who says that atalanta shall not go to the hunt? you are afraid that she'll be braver than you--that is all. pretty heroes you are! let all such cowards go home at once." but nobody went, and it was settled then and there that the maiden should have her own way. and yet the brothers of queen althea kept on muttering and complaining. for nine days the heroes and huntsmen feasted in the halls of king oeneus, and early on the tenth they set out for the forest. soon the great beast was found, and he came charging out upon his foes. the heroes hid behind the trees or climbed up among the branches, for they had not expected to see so terrible a creature. he stood in the middle of a little open space, tearing up the ground with his tusks. the white foam rolled from his mouth, his eyes glistened red like fire, and he grunted so fiercely that the woods and hills echoed with fearful sounds. [illustration: you ought to have seen the tall huntress maiden then] then one of the bravest of the men threw his spear. but that only made the beast fiercer than ever; he charged upon the warrior, caught him before he could save himself, and tore him in pieces with his tusks. another man ventured too far from his hiding-place and was also overtaken and killed. one of the oldest and noblest of the heroes leveled his spear and threw it with all his force; but it only grazed the boar's tough skin and glanced upward and pierced the heart of a warrior on the other side. the boar was getting the best of the fight. atalanta now ran forward and threw her spear. it struck the boar in the back, and a great stream of blood gushed out. a warrior let fly an arrow which put out one of the beast's eyes. then meleager rushed up and pierced his heart with his spear. the boar could no longer stand up; but he fought fiercely for some moments, and then rolled over, dead. the heroes then cut off the beast's head. it was as much as six of them could carry. then they took the skin from his great body and offered it to meleager as a prize, because he had given the death wound to the wild boar. but meleager said: "it belongs to atalanta, because it was she who gave him the very first wound." and he gave it to her as the prize of honor. you ought to have seen the tall huntress maiden then, as she stood among the trees with the boar's skin thrown over her left shoulder and reaching down to her feet. she had never looked so much like the queen of the woods. but the rude brothers of queen althea were vexed to think that a maiden should win the prize, and they began to make trouble. one of them snatched atalanta's spear from her hand, and dragged the prize from her shoulders, and the other pushed her rudely and bade her go back to arcadia and live again with the she-bears on the mountain side. all this vexed meleager, and he tried to make his uncles give back the spear and the prize, and stop their unmannerly talk. but they grew worse and worse, and at last set upon meleager, and would have killed him if he had not drawn his sword to defend himself. a fight followed, and the rude fellows struck right and left as though they were blind. soon both were stretched dead upon the ground. some who did not see the fight said that meleager killed them, but i would rather believe that they killed each other in their drunken fury. and now all the company started back to the city. some carried the boar's huge head, and some the different parts of his body, while others had made biers of the green branches, and bore upon them the dead bodies of those who had been slain. it was indeed a strange procession. a young man who did not like meleager, had run on in front and had reached the city before the rest of the company had fairly started. queen althea was standing at the door of the palace, and when she saw him she asked what had happened in the forest he told her at once that meleager had killed her brothers, for he knew that, with all their faults, she loved them very dearly. it was terrible to see her grief. she shrieked, and tore her hair, and rushed wildly about from room to room. her senses left her, and she did not know what she was doing. it was the custom at that time for people to avenge the death of their kindred, and her only thought was how to punish the murderer of her brothers. in her madness she forgot that meleager was her son. then she thought of the three fates and of the unburned firebrand which she had locked up in her chest so many years before. she ran and got the stick and threw it into the fire that was burning on the hearth. it kindled at once, and she watched it as it blazed up brightly. then it began to turn into ashes, and as the last spark died out, the noble meleager, who was walking by the side of atalanta, dropped to the ground dead. when they carried the news to althea she said not a word, for then she knew what she had done, and her heart was broken. she turned silently away and went to her own room. when the king came home a few minutes later, he found her dead. so ended the hunt in the wood of calydon. v. the race for a wife. after the death of meleager, atalanta went back to her old home among the mountains of arcadia. she was still the swift-footed huntress, and she was never so happy as when in the green woods wandering among the trees or chasing the wild deer. all the world had heard about her, however; and the young heroes in the lands nearest to arcadia did nothing else but talk about her beauty and her grace and her swiftness of foot and her courage. of course every one of these young fellows wanted her to become his wife; and she might have been a queen any day if she had only said the word, for the richest king in greece would have been glad to marry her. but she cared nothing for any of the young men, and she liked the freedom of the green woods better than all the fine things she might have had in a palace. the young men would not take "no!" for an answer, however. they could not believe that she really meant it, and so they kept coming and staying until the woods of arcadia were full of them, and there was no getting along with them at all. so, when she could think of no other way to get rid of them, atalanta called them together and said: "you want to marry me, do you? well, if any one of you would like to run a race with me from this mountain to the bank of the river over there, he may do so; and i will be the wife of the one who outruns me." "agreed! agreed!" cried all the young fellows. "but, listen!" she said. "whoever tries this race must also agree that if i outrun him, he must lose his life." ah, what long faces they all had then! about half of them drew away and went home. "but won't you give us the start of you a little?" asked the others. "oh, yes," she answered. "i will give you the start by a hundred paces. but remember, if i overtake any one before he reaches the river, he shall lose his head that very day." several others now found that they were in ill health or that business called them home; and when they were next looked for, they were not to be found. but a good many who had had some practice in sprinting across the country stayed and made up their minds to try their luck. could a mere girl outrun such fine fellows as they? nonsense! and so it happened that a race was run almost every day. and almost every day some poor fellow lost his head; for the fleetest-footed sprinter in all greece was overtaken by atalanta long before he could reach the river bank. but other young men kept coming and coming, and no sooner had one been put out of the way than another took his place. one day there came from a distant town a handsome, tall young man named meilanion. "you'd better not run with me," said atalanta, "for i shall be sure to overtake you, and that will be the end of you." "we'll see about that," said meilanion. now meilanion, before coming to try his chance, had talked with venus, the queen of love, who lived with jupiter among the clouds on the mountain top. and he was so handsome and gentle and wise that venus took pity on him, and gave him three golden apples and told him what to do. well, when all was ready for the race, atalanta tried again to persuade meilanion not to run, for she also took pity on him. "i'll be sure to overtake you," she said. "all right!" said meilanion, and away he sped; but he had the three golden apples in his pocket. atalanta gave him a good start, and then she followed after, as swift as an arrow shot from the bow. meilanion was not a very fast runner, and it would not be hard for her to overtake him. she thought that she would let him get almost to the goal, for she really pitied him. he heard her coming close behind him; he heard her quick breath as she gained on him very fast. then he threw one of the golden apples over his shoulder. now, if there was anything in the world that atalanta admired, it was a bright stone or a pretty piece of yellow gold. as the apple fell to the ground she saw how beautiful it was, and she stopped to pick it up; and while she was doing this, meilanion gained a good many paces. but what of that? in a minute she was as close behind him as ever. and yet, she really did pity him. just then meilanion threw the second apple over his shoulder. it was handsomer and larger than the first, and atalanta could not bear the thought of allowing some one else to get it. so she stopped to pick it up from among the long grass, where it had fallen. it took somewhat longer to find it than she had expected, and when she looked up again meilanion was a hundred feet ahead of her. but that was no matter. she could easily overtake him. and yet, how she did pity the foolish young man! meilanion heard her speeding like the wind behind him. he took the third apple and threw it over to one side of the path where the ground sloped towards the river. atalanta's quick eye saw that it was far more beautiful than either of the others. if it were not picked up at once it would roll down into the deep water and be lost, and that would never do. she turned aside from her course and ran after it. it was easy enough to overtake the apple, but while she was doing so meilanion gained upon her again. he was almost to the goal. how she strained every muscle now to overtake him! but, after all, she felt that she did not care very much. he was the handsomest young man that she had ever seen, and he had given her three golden apples. it would be a great pity if he should have to die. and so she let him reach the goal first. after that, of course, atalanta became meilanion's wife. and he took her with him to his distant home, and there they lived happily together for many, many years. [illustration:] the horse and the olive i. finding a king. on a steep stony hill in greece there lived in early times a few very poor people who had not yet learned to build houses. they made their homes in little caves which they dug in the earth or hollowed out among the rocks; and their food was the flesh of wild animals, which they hunted in the woods, with now and then a few berries or nuts. they did not even know how to make bows and arrows, but used slings and clubs and sharp sticks for weapons; and the little clothing which they had was made of skins. they lived on the top of the hill, because they were safe there from the savage beasts of the great forest around them, and safe also from the wild men who sometimes roamed through the land. the hill was so steep on every side that there was no way of climbing it save by a single narrow footpath which was always guarded by some one at the top. one day when the men were hunting in the woods, they found a strange youth whose face was so fair and who was dressed so beautifully that they could hardly believe him to be a man like themselves. his body was so slender and lithe, and he moved so nimbly among the trees, that they fancied him to be a serpent in the guise of a human being; and they stood still in wonder and alarm. the young man spoke to them, but they could not understand a word that he said; then he made signs to them that he was hungry, and they gave him something to eat and were no longer afraid. had they been like the wild men of the woods, they might have killed him at once. but they wanted their women and children to see the serpent man, as they called him, and hear him talk; and so they took him home with them to the top of the hill. they thought that after they had made a show of him for a few days, they would kill him and offer his body as a sacrifice to the unknown being whom they dimly fancied to have some sort of control over their lives. but the young man was so fair and gentle that, after they had all taken a look at him, they began to think it would be a great pity to harm him. so they gave him food and treated him kindly; and he sang songs to them and played with their children, and made them happier than they had been for many a day. in a short time he learned to talk in their language; and he told them that his name was cecrops, and that he had been shipwrecked on the seacoast not far away; and then he told them many strange things about the land from which he had come and to which he would never be able to return. the poor people listened and wondered; and it was not long until they began to love him and to look up to him as one wiser than themselves. then they came to ask him about everything that was to be done, and there was not one of them who refused to do his bidding. so cecrops--the serpent man, as they still called him--became the king of the poor people on the hill. he taught them how to make bows and arrows, and how to set nets for birds, and how to take fish with hooks. he led them against the savage wild men of the woods, and helped them kill the fierce beasts that had been so great a terror to them. he showed them how to build houses of wood and to thatch them with the reeds which grew in the marshes. he taught them how to live in families instead of herding together like senseless beasts as they had always done before. and he told them about great jupiter and the mighty folk who lived amid the clouds on the mountain top. ii. choosing a name. by and by, instead of the wretched caves among the rocks, there was a little town on the top of the hill, with neat houses and a market place; and around it was a strong wall with a single narrow gate just where the footpath began to descend to the plain. but as yet the place had no name. one morning while the king and his wise men were sitting together in the market place and planning how to make the town become a rich, strong city, two strangers were seen in the street. nobody could tell how they came there. the guard at the gate had not seen them; and no man had ever dared to climb the narrow footway without his leave. but there the two strangers stood. one was a man, the other a woman; and they were so tall, and their faces were so grand and noble, that those who saw them stood still and wondered and said not a word. the man had a robe of purple and green wrapped round his body, and he bore in one hand a strong staff with three sharp spear points at one end. the woman was not beautiful, but she had wonderful gray eyes; and in one hand she carried a spear and in the other a shield of curious workmanship. "what is the name of this town?" asked the man. the people stared at him in wonder, and hardly understood his meaning. then an old man answered and said, "it has no name. we who live on this hill used to be called cranae; but since king cecrops came, we have been so busy that we have had no time to think of names." "where is this king cecrops?" asked the woman. "he is in the market place with the wise men," was the answer. "lead us to him at once," said the man. when cecrops saw the two strangers coming into the market place, he stood up and waited for them to speak. the man spoke first: "i am neptune," said he, "and i rule the sea." "and i am athena," said the woman, "and i give wisdom to men." "i hear that you are planning to make your town become a great city," said neptune, "and i have come to help you. give my name to the place, and let me be your protector and patron, and the wealth of the whole world shall be yours. ships from every land shall bring you merchandise and gold and silver; and you shall be the masters of the sea." "my uncle makes you fair promises," said athena; "but listen to me. give my name to your city, and let me be your patron, and i will give you that which gold cannot buy: i will teach you how to do a thousand things of which you now know nothing. i will make your city my favorite home, and i will give you wisdom that shall sway the minds and hearts of all men until the end of time." the king bowed, and turned to the people, who had all crowded into the market place. "which of these mighty ones shall we elect to be the protector and patron of our city?" he asked. "neptune offers us wealth; athena promises us wisdom. which shall we choose?" "neptune and wealth!" cried many. "athena and wisdom!" cried as many others. at last when it was plain that the people could not agree, an old man whose advice was always heeded stood up and said: "these mighty ones have only given us promises, and they have promised things of which we are ignorant. for who among us knows what wealth is or what wisdom is? now, if they would only give us some real gift, right now and right here, which we can see and handle, we should know better how to choose." "that is true! that is true!" cried the people. "very well, then," said the strangers, "we will each give you a gift, right now and right here, and then you may choose between us." neptune gave the first gift. he stood on the highest point of the hill where the rock was bare, and bade the people see his power. he raised his three-pointed spear high in the air, and then brought it down with great force. lightning flashed, the earth shook, and the rock was split half way down to the bottom of the hill. then out of the yawning crevice there sprang a wonderful creature, white as milk, with long slender legs, an arching neck, and a mane and tail of silk. the people had never seen anything like it before, and they thought it a new kind of bear or wolf or wild boar that had come out of the rock to devour them. some of them ran and hid in their houses, while others climbed upon the wall, and still others grasped their weapons in alarm. but when they saw the creature stand quietly by the side of neptune, they lost their fear and came closer to see and admire its beauty. "this is my gift," said neptune. "this animal will carry your burdens for you; he will draw your chariots; he will pull your wagons and your plows; he will let you sit on his back and will run with you faster than the wind." [illustration: "out of the yawning crevice there sprang a wonderful creature"] "what is his name?" asked the king. "his name is horse," answered neptune. then athena came forward. she stood a moment on a green grassy plot where the children of the town liked to play in the evening. then she drove the point of her spear deep down in the soil. at once the air was filled with music, and out of the earth there sprang a tree with slender branches and dark green leaves and white flowers and violet green fruit. "this is my gift," said athena. "this tree will give you food when you are hungry; it will shelter you from the sun when you are faint; it will beautify your city; and the oil from its fruit will be sought by all the world." "what is it called?" asked the king. "it is called olive," answered athena. then the king and his wise men began to talk about the two gifts. "i do not see that horse will be of much use to us," said the old man who had spoken before. "for, as to the chariots and wagons and plows, we have none of them, and indeed do not know what they are; and who among us will ever want to sit on this creature's back and be borne faster than the wind? but olive will be a thing of beauty and a joy for us and our children forever." "which shall we choose?" asked the king, turning to the people. "athena has given us the best gift," they all cried, "and we choose athena and wisdom!" "be it so," said the king, "and the name of our city shall be athens." from that day the town grew and spread, and soon there was not room on the hilltop for all the people. then houses were built in the plain around the foot of the hill, and a great road was built to the sea, three miles away; and in all the world there was no city more fair than athens. in the old market place on the top of the hill the people built a temple to athena, the ruins of which may still be seen. the olive tree grew and nourished; and, when you visit athens, people will show you the very spot where it stood. many other trees sprang from it, and in time became a blessing both to greece and to all the other countries round the great sea. as for the horse, he wandered away across the plains towards the north and found a home at last in distant thessaly beyond the river peneus. and i have heard it said that all the horses in the world have descended from that one which neptune brought out of the rock; but of the truth of this story there may be some doubts. [illustration] the adventures of theseus. i. aegeus and aethra. there was once a king of athens whose name was aegeus. he had no son; but he had fifty nephews, and they were waiting for him to die, so that one of them might be king in his stead. they were wild, worthless fellows, and the people of athens looked forward with dread to the day when the city should be in their power. yet so long as aegeus lived they could not do much harm, but were content to spend their time in eating and drinking at the king's table and in quarreling among themselves. it so happened one summer that aegeus left his kingdom in the care of the elders of the city and went on a voyage across the saronic sea to the old and famous city of troezen, which lay nestled at the foot of the mountains on the opposite shore. troezen was not fifty miles by water from athens, and the purple-peaked island of aegina lay between them; but to the people of that early time the distance seemed very great, and it was not often that ships passed from one place to the other. and as for going by land round the great bend of the sea, that was a thing so fraught with danger that no man had ever dared try it. king pittheus of troezen was right glad to see aegeus, for they had been boys together, and he welcomed him to his city and did all that he could to make his visit a pleasant one. so, day after day, there was feasting and merriment and music in the marble halls of old troezen, and the two kings spent many a happy hour in talking of the deeds of their youth and of the mighty heroes whom both had known. and when the time came for the ship to sail back to athens, aegeus was not ready to go. he said he would stay yet a little longer in troezen, for that the elders of the city would manage things well at home; and so the ship returned without him. but aegeus tarried, not so much for the rest and enjoyment which he was having in the home of his old friend, as for the sake of aethra, his old friend's daughter. for aethra was as fair as a summer morning, and she was the joy and pride of troezen; and aegeus was never so happy as when in her presence. so it happened that some time after the ship had sailed, there was a wedding in the halls of king pittheus; but it was kept a secret, for aegeus feared that his nephews, if they heard of it, would be very angry and would send men to troezen to do him harm. month after month passed by, and still aegeus lingered with his bride and trusted his elders to see to the affairs of athens. then one morning, when the gardens of troezen were full of roses and the heather was green on the hills, a babe was born to aethra--a boy with a fair face and strong arms and eyes as sharp and as bright as the mountain eagle's. and now aegeus was more loth to return home than he had been before, and he went up on the mountain which overlooks troezen, and prayed to athena, the queen of the air, to give him wisdom and show him what to do. even while he prayed there came a ship into the harbor, bringing a letter to aegeus and alarming news from athens. "come home without delay"--these were words of the letter which the elders had sent--"come home quickly, or athens will be lost. a great king from beyond the sea, minos of crete, is on the way with ships and a host of fighting men; and he declares that he will carry sword and fire within our walls, and will slay our young men and make our children his slaves. come and save us!" "it is the call of duty," said aegeus; and with a heavy heart he made ready to go at once across the sea to the help of his people. but he could not take aethra and her babe, for fear of his lawless nephews, who would have slain them both. "best of wives," he said, when the hour for parting had come, "listen to me, for i shall never see your father's halls, nor dear old troezen, nor perhaps your own fair face, again. do you remember the old plane tree which stands on the mountain side, and the great flat stone which lies a little way beyond it, and which no man but myself has ever been able to lift? under that stone, i have hidden my sword and the sandals which i brought from athens. there they shall lie until our child is strong enough to lift the stone and take them for his own. care for him, aethra, until that time; and then, and not till then, you may tell him of his father, and bid him seek me in athens." then aegeus kissed his wife and the babe, and went on board the ship; the sailors shouted; the oars were dipped into the waves; the white sail was spread to the breeze; and aethra from her palace window saw the vessel speed away over the blue waters towards aegina and the distant attic shore. ii. sword and sandals. year after year went by, and yet no word reached aethra from her husband on the other side of the sea. often and often she would climb the mountain above troezen, and sit there all day, looking out over the blue waters and the purple hills of aegina to the dim, distant shore beyond. now and then she could see a white-winged ship sailing in the offing; but men said that it was a cretan vessel, and very likely was filled with fierce cretan warriors, bound upon some cruel errand of war. then it was rumored that king minos had seized upon all the ships of athens, and had burned a part of the city, and had forced the people to pay him a most grievous tribute. but further than this there was no news. in the meanwhile aethra's babe had grown to be a tall, ruddy-cheeked lad, strong as a mountain lion; and she had named him theseus. on the day that he was fifteen years old he went with her up to the top of the mountain, and with her looked out over the sea. "ah, if only your father would come!" she sighed. "my father?" said theseus. "who is my father, and why are you always watching and waiting and wishing that he would come? tell me about him." and she answered: "my child, do you see the great flat stone which lies there, half buried in the ground, and covered with moss and trailing ivy? do you think you can lift it?" "i will try, mother," said theseus. and he dug his fingers into the ground beside it, and grasped its uneven edges, and tugged and lifted and strained until his breath came hard and his arms ached and his body was covered with sweat; but the stone was moved not at all. at last he said, "the task is too hard for me until i have grown stronger. but why do you wish me to lift it?" "when you are strong enough to lift it," answered aethra, "i will tell you about your father." after that the boy went out every day and practiced at running and leaping and throwing and lifting; and every day he rolled some stone out of its place. at first he could move only a little weight, and those who saw him laughed as he pulled and puffed and grew red in the face, but never gave up until he had lifted it. and little by little he grew stronger, and his muscles became like iron bands, and his limbs were like mighty levers for strength. then on his next birthday he went up on the mountain with his mother, and again tried to lift the great stone. but it remained fast in its place and was not moved. "i am not yet strong enough, mother," he said. "have patience, my son," said aethra. so he went on again with his running and leaping and throwing and lifting; and he practiced wrestling, also, and tamed the wild horses of the plain, and hunted the lions among the mountains; and his strength and swiftness and skill were the wonder of all men, and old troezen was filled with tales of the deeds of the boy theseus. yet when he tried again on his seventeenth birthday, he could not move the great flat stone that lay near the plane tree on the mountain side. "have patience, my son," again said aethra; but this time the tears were standing in her eyes. so he went back again to his exercising; and he learned to wield the sword and the battle ax and to throw tremendous weights and to carry tremendous burdens. and men said that since the days of hercules there was never so great strength in one body. then, when he was a year older, he climbed the mountain yet another time with his mother, and he stooped and took hold of the stone, and it yielded to his touch; and, lo, when he had lifted it quite out of the ground, he found underneath it a sword of bronze and sandals of gold, and these he gave to his mother. "tell me now about my father," he said. [illustration: "she buckled the sword to his belt."] aethra knew that the time had come for which she had waited so long, and she buckled the sword to his belt and fastened the sandals upon his feet. then she told him who his father was, and why he had left them in troezen, and how he had said that when the lad was strong enough to lift the great stone, he must take the sword and sandals and go and seek him in athens. theseus was glad when he heard this, and his proud eyes flashed with eagerness as he said: "i am ready, mother; and i will set out for athens this very day." then they walked down the mountain together and told king pittheus what had happened, and showed him the sword and the sandals. but the old man shook his head sadly and tried to dissuade theseus from going. "how can you go to athens in these lawless times?" he said. "the sea is full of pirates. in fact, no ship from troezen has sailed across the saronic sea since your kingly father went home to the help of his people, eighteen years ago." then, finding that this only made theseus the more determined, he said: "but if you must go, i will have a new ship built for you, stanch and stout and fast sailing; and fifty of the bravest young men in troezen shall go with you; and mayhap with fair winds and fearless hearts you shall escape the pirates and reach athens in safety." "which is the most perilous way?" asked theseus--"to go by ship or to make the journey on foot round the great bend of land?" "the seaway is full enough of perils," said his grandfather, "but the landway is beset with dangers tenfold greater. even if there were good roads and no hindrances, the journey round the shore is a long one and would require many days. but there are rugged mountains to climb, and wide marshes to cross, and dark forests to go through. there is hardly a footpath in all that wild region, nor any place to find rest or shelter; and the woods are full of wild beasts, and dreadful dragons lurk in the marshes, and many cruel robber giants dwell in the mountains." "well," said theseus, "if there are more perils by land than by sea, then i shall go by land, and i go at once." "but you will at least take fifty young men, your companions, with you?" said king pittheus. "not one shall go with me," said theseus; and he stood up and played with his sword hilt, and laughed at the thought of fear. then when there was nothing more to say, he kissed his mother and bade his grandfather good-by, and went out of troezen towards the trackless coastland which lay to the west and north. and with blessings and tears the king and aethra followed him to the city gates, and watched him until his tall form was lost to sight among the trees which bordered the shore of the sea. iii. rough roads and robbers. with a brave heart theseus walked on, keeping the sea always upon his right. soon the old city of troezen was left far behind, and he came to the great marshes, where the ground sank under him at every step, and green pools of stagnant water lay on both sides of the narrow pathway. but no fiery dragon came out of the reeds to meet him; and so he walked on and on till he came to the rugged mountain land which bordered the western shore of the sea. then he climbed one slope after another, until at last he stood on the summit of a gray peak from which he could see the whole country spread out around him. then downward and onward he went again, but his way led him through dark mountain glens, and along the edges of mighty precipices, and underneath many a frowning cliff, until he came to a dreary wood where the trees grew tall and close together and the light of the sun was seldom seen. in that forest there dwelt a robber giant, called club-carrier, who was the terror of all the country. for oftentimes he would go down into the valleys where the shepherds fed their flocks, and would carry off not only sheep and lambs, but sometimes children and the men themselves. it was his custom to hide in the thickets of underbrush, close to a pathway, and, when a traveler passed that way, leap out upon him and beat him to death. when he saw theseus coming through the woods, he thought that he would have a rich prize, for he knew from the youth's dress and manner that he must be a prince. he lay on the ground, where leaves of ivy and tall grass screened him from view, and held his great iron club ready to strike. but theseus had sharp eyes and quick ears, and neither beast nor robber giant could have taken him by surprise. when club-carrier leaped out of his hiding place to strike him down, the young man dodged aside so quickly that the heavy club struck the ground behind him; and then, before the robber giant could raise it for a second stroke, theseus seized the fellow's legs and tripped him up. club-carrier roared loudly, and tried to strike again; but theseus wrenched the club out of his hands, and then dealt him such a blow on the head that he never again harmed travelers passing through the forest. then the youth went on his way, carrying the huge club on his shoulder, and singing a song of victory, and looking sharply around him for any other foes that might be lurking among the trees. just over the ridge of the next mountain he met an old man who warned him not to go any farther. he said that close by a grove of pine trees, which he would soon pass on his way down the slope, there dwelt a robber named sinis, who was very cruel to strangers. "he is called pine-bender," said the old man; "for when he has caught a traveler, he bends two tall, lithe pine trees to the ground and binds his captive to them--a hand and a foot to the top of one, and a hand and a foot to the top of the other. then he lets the trees fly up, and he roars with laughter when he sees the traveler's body torn in sunder." "it seems to me," said theseus, "that it is full time to rid the world of such a monster;" and he thanked the kind man who had warned him, and hastened onward, whistling merrily as he went down towards the grove of pines. soon he came in sight of the robber's house, built near the foot of a jutting cliff. behind it was a rocky gorge and a roaring mountain stream; and in front of it was a garden wherein grew all kinds of rare plants and beautiful flowers. but the tops of the pine trees below it were laden with the bones of unlucky travelers, which hung bleaching white in the sun and wind. on a stone by the roadside sat sinis himself; and when he saw theseus coming, he ran to meet him, twirling a long rope in his hands and crying out: "welcome, welcome, dear prince! welcome to our inn--the true traveler's rest!" "what kind of entertainment have you?" asked theseus. "have you a pine tree bent down to the ground and ready for me?" "ay; two of them!" said the robber. "i knew that you were coming, and i bent two of them for you." as he spoke he threw his rope towards theseus and tried to entangle him in its coils. but the young man leaped aside, and when the robber rushed upon him, he dodged beneath his hands and seized his legs, as he had seized club-carrier's, and threw him heavily to the ground. then the two wrestled together among the trees, but not long, for sinis was no match for his lithe young foe; and theseus knelt upon the robber's back as he lay prone among the leaves, and tied him with his own cord to the two pine trees which were already bent down. "as you would have done unto me, so will i do unto you," he said. then pine-bender wept and prayed and made many a fair promise; but theseus would not hear him. he turned away, the trees sprang up, and the robber's body was left dangling from their branches. now this old pine-bender had a daughter named perigune, who was no more like him than a fair and tender violet is like the gnarled old oak at whose feet it nestles; and it was she who cared for the flowers and the rare plants which grew in the garden by the robber's house. when she saw how theseus had dealt with her father, she was afraid and ran to hide herself from him. "oh, save me, dear plants!" she cried, for she often talked to the flowers as though they could understand her. "dear plants, save me; and i will never pluck your leaves nor harm you in any way so long as i live." there was one of the plants which up to that time had had no leaves, but came up out of the ground looking like a mere club or stick. this plant took pity on the maiden. it began at once to send out long feathery branches with delicate green leaves, which grew so fast that perigune was soon hidden from sight beneath them. theseus knew that she must be somewhere in the garden, but he could not find her, so well did the feathery branches conceal her. so he called to her: "perigune," he said, "you need not fear me; for i know that you are gentle and good, and it is only against things dark and cruel that i lift up my hand." the maiden peeped from her hiding-place, and when she saw the fair face of the youth and heard his kind voice, she came out, trembling, and talked with him. and theseus rested that evening in her house, and she picked some of her choicest flowers for him and gave him food. but when in the morning the dawn began to appear in the east, and the stars grew dim above the mountain peaks, he bade her farewell and journeyed onward over the hills. and perigune tended her plants and watched her flowers in the lone garden in the midst of the piny grove; but she never plucked the stalks of asparagus nor used them for food, and when she afterwards became the wife of a hero and had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, she taught them all to spare the plant which had taken pity upon her in her need. the road which theseus followed now led him closer to the shore, and by and by he came to a place where the mountains seemed to rise sheer out of the sea, and there was only a, narrow path high up along the side of the cliff. far down beneath his feet he could hear the waves dashing evermore against the rocky wall, while above him the mountain eagles circled and screamed, and gray crags and barren peaks glistened in the sunlight. but theseus went on fearlessly and came at last to a place where a spring of clear water bubbled out from a cleft in the rock; and there the path was narrower still, and the low doorway of a cavern opened out upon it. close by the spring sat a red-faced giant, with a huge club across his knees, guarding the road so that no one could pass; and in the sea at the foot of the cliff basked a huge turtle, its leaden eyes looking always upward for its food. theseus knew--for perigune had told him--that this was the dwelling-place of a robber named sciron, who was the terror of all the coast, and whose custom it was to make strangers wash his feet, so that while they were doing so, he might kick them over the cliff to be eaten, by his pet turtle below. when theseus came up, the robber raised his club, and said fiercely: "no man can pass here until he has washed my feet! come, set to work!" then theseus smiled, and said: "is your turtle hungry to-day? and do you want me to feed him?" the robber's eyes flashed fire, and he said, "you shall feed him, but you shall wash my feet first;" and with that he brandished his club in the air and rushed forward to strike. but theseus was ready for him. with the iron club which he had taken from club-carrier in the forest he met the blow midway, and the robber's weapon was knocked out of his hands and sent spinning away over the edge of the cliff. then sciron, black with rage, tried to grapple with him; but theseus was too quick for that. he dropped his club and seized sciron by the throat; he pushed him back against the ledge on which he had been sitting; he threw him sprawling upon the sharp rocks, and held him there, hanging half way over the cliff. "enough! enough!" cried the robber. "let me up, and you may pass on your way." "it is not enough," said theseus; and he drew his sword and sat down by the side of the spring. "you must wash my feet now. come, set to work!" then sciron, white with fear, washed his feet. "and now," said theseus, when the task was ended, "as you have done unto others, so will i do unto you." there was a scream in mid air which the mountain eagles answered from above; there was a great splashing in the water below, and the turtle fled in terror from its lurking place. then the sea cried out: "i will have naught to do with so vile a wretch!" and a great wave cast the body of sciron out upon the shore. but it had no sooner touched the ground than the land cried out: "i will have naught to do with so vile a wretch!" and there was a sudden earthquake, and the body of sciron was thrown back into the sea. then the sea waxed furious, a raging storm arose, the waters were lashed into foam, and the waves with one mighty effort threw the detested body high into the air; and there it would have hung unto this day had not the air itself disdained to give it lodging and changed it into a huge black rock. and this rock, which men say is the body of sciron, may still be seen, grim, ugly, and desolate; and one third of it lies in the sea, one third is embedded in the sandy shore, and one third is exposed to the air. iv. wrestler and wrong-doer. keeping the sea always in view, theseus went onward a long day's journey to the north and east; and he left the rugged mountains behind and came down into the valleys and into a pleasant plain where there were sheep and cattle pasturing and where there were many fields of ripening grain. the fame of his deeds had gone before him, and men and women came crowding to the roadside to see the hero who had slain club-carrier and pine-bender and grim old sciron of the cliff. "now we shall live in peace," they cried; "for the robbers who devoured our flocks and our children are no more." then theseus passed through the old town of megara, and followed the shore of the bay towards the sacred city of eleusis. "do not go into eleusis, but take the road which leads round it through the hills," whispered a poor man who was carrying a sheep to market. "why shall i do that?" asked theseus. "listen, and i will tell you," was the answer. "there is a king in eleusis whose name is cercyon, and he is a great wrestler. he makes every stranger who comes into the city wrestle with him; and such is the strength of his arms that when he has overcome a man he crushes the life out of his body. many travelers come to eleusis, but no one ever goes away." "but i will both come and go away," said theseus; and with his club upon his shoulder, he strode onward into the sacred city. "where is cercyon, the wrestler?" he asked of the warden at the gate. "the king is dining in his marble palace," was the answer. "if you wish to save yourself, turn now and flee before he has heard of your coming." "why should i flee?" asked theseus. "i am not afraid;" and he walked on through the narrow street to old cercyon's palace. the king was sitting at his table, eating and drinking; and he grinned hideously as he thought of the many noble young men whose lives he had destroyed. theseus went up boldly to the door, and cried out: "cercyon, come out and wrestle with me!" "ah!" said the king, "here comes another young fool whose days are numbered. fetch him in and let him dine with me; and after that he shall have his fill of wrestling." so theseus was given a place at the table of the king, and the two sat there and ate and stared at each other, but spoke not a word. and cercyon, as he looked at the young man's sharp eyes and his fair face and silken hair, had half a mind to bid him go in peace and seek not to test his strength and skill. but when they had finished, theseus arose and laid aside his sword and his sandals and his iron club, and stripped himself of his robes, and said: "come now, cercyon, if you are not afraid; come, and wrestle with me." then the two went out into the courtyard where many a young man had met his fate, and there they wrestled until the sun went down, and neither could gain aught of advantage over the other. but it was plain that the trained skill of theseus would, in the end, win against the brute strength of cercyon. then the men of eleusis who stood watching the contest, saw the youth lift the giant king bodily into the air and hurl him headlong over his shoulder to the hard pavement beyond. "as you have done to others, so will i do unto you!" cried theseus. but grim old cercyon neither moved nor spoke; and when the youth turned his body over and looked into his cruel face, he saw that the life had quite gone out of him. then the people of eleusis came to theseus and wanted to make him their king. "you have slain the tyrant who was the bane of eleusis," they said, "and we have heard how you have also rid the world of the giant robbers who were the terror of the land. come now and be our king; for we know that you will rule over us wisely and well." "some day," said theseus, "i will be your king, but not now; for there are other deeds for me to do." and with that he donned his sword and his sandals and his princely cloak, and threw his great iron club upon his shoulder, and went out of eleusis; and all the people ran after him for quite a little way, shouting, "may good fortune be with you, o king, and may athena bless and guide you!" v. procrustes the pitiless. athens was now not more than twenty miles away, but the road thither led through the parnes mountains, and was only a narrow path winding among the rocks and up and down many a lonely wooded glen. theseus had seen worse and far more dangerous roads than this, and so he strode bravely onward, happy in the thought that he was so near the end of his long journey. but it was very slow traveling among the mountains, and he was not always sure that he was following the right path. the sun was almost down when he came to a broad green valley where the trees had been cleared away. a little river flowed through the middle of this valley, and on either side were grassy meadows where cattle were grazing; and on a hillside close by, half hidden among the trees, there was a great stone house with vines running over its walls and roof. while theseus was wondering who it could be that lived in this pretty but lonely place, a man came out of the house and hurried down to the road to meet him. he was a well-dressed man, and his face was wreathed with smiles; and he bowed low to theseus and invited him kindly to come up to the house and be his guest that night. "this is a lonely place," he said, "and it is not often that travelers pass this way. but there is nothing that gives me so much joy as to find strangers and feast them at my table and hear them tell of the things they have seen and heard. come up, and sup with me, and lodge under my roof; and you shall sleep on a wonderful bed which i have--a bed which fits every guest and cures him of every ill." theseus was pleased with the man's ways, and as he was both hungry and tired, he went up with him and sat down under the vines by the door; and the man said: "now i will go in and make the bed ready for you, and you can lie down upon it and rest; and later, when you feel refreshed, you shall sit at my table and sup with me, and i will listen to the pleasant tales which i know you will tell." when he had gone into the house, theseus looked around him to see what sort of a place it was. he was filled with surprise at the richness of it--at the gold and silver and beautiful things with which every room seemed to be adorned--for it was indeed a place fit for a prince. while he was looking and wondering, the vines before him were parted and the fair face of a young girl peeped out. "noble stranger," she whispered, "do not lie down on my master's bed, for those who do so never rise again. fly down the glen and hide yourself in the deep woods ere he returns, or else there will be no escape for you." "who is your master, fair maiden, that i should be afraid of him?" asked theseus. "men call him procrustes, or the stretcher," said the girl--and she talked low and fast. "he is a robber. he brings hither all the strangers that he finds traveling through the mountains. he puts them on his iron bed. he robs them of all they have. no one who comes into his house ever goes out again." "why do they call him the stretcher? and what is that iron bed of his?" asked theseus, in no wise alarmed. "did he not tell you that it fits all guests?" said the girl; "and most truly it does fit them. for if a traveler is too long, procrustes hews off his legs until he is of the right length; but if he is too short, as is the case with most guests, then he stretches his limbs and body with ropes until he is long enough. it is for this reason that men call him the stretcher." "methinks that i have heard of this stretcher before," said theseus; and then he remembered that some one at eleusis had warned him to beware of the wily robber, procrustes, who lurked in the glens of the parnes peaks and lured travelers into his den. "hark! hark!" whispered the girl. "i hear him coming!" and the vine leaves closed over her hiding-place. the very next moment procrustes stood in the door, bowing and smiling as though he had never done any harm to his fellow men. "my dear young friend," he said, "the bed is ready, and i will show you the way. after you have taken a pleasant little nap, we will sit down at table, and you may tell me of the wonderful things which you have seen in the course of your travels." theseus arose and followed his host; and when they had come into an inner chamber, there, surely enough, was the bedstead, of iron, very curiously wrought, and upon it a soft couch which seemed to invite him to lie down and rest. but theseus, peering about, saw the ax and the ropes with cunning pulleys lying hidden behind the curtains; and he saw, too, that the floor was covered with stains of blood. "now, my dear young friend," said procrustes, "i pray you to lie down and take your ease; for i know that you have traveled far and are faint from want of rest and sleep. lie down, and while sweet slumber overtakes you, i will have a care that no unseemly noise, nor buzzing fly, nor vexing gnat disturbs your dreams." "is this your wonderful bed?" asked theseus. "it is," answered procrustes, "and you need but to lie down upon it, and it will fit you perfectly." "but you must lie upon it first," said theseus, "and let me see how it will fit itself to your stature." "ah, no," said procrustes, "for then the spell would be broken," and as he spoke his cheeks grew ashy pale. "but i tell you, you must lie upon it," said theseus; and he seized the trembling man around the waist and threw him by force upon the bed. and no sooner was he prone upon the couch than curious iron arms reached out and clasped his body in their embrace and held him down so that he could not move hand or foot. the wretched man shrieked and cried for mercy; but theseus stood over him and looked him straight in the eye. "is this the kind of bed on which you have your guests lie down?" he asked. but procrustes answered not a word. then theseus brought out the ax and the ropes and the pulleys, and asked him what they were for, and why they were hidden in the chamber. he was still silent, and could do nothing now but tremble and weep. "is it true," said theseus, "that you have lured hundreds of travelers into your den only to rob them? is it true that it is your wont to fasten them in this bed, and then chop off their legs or stretch them out until they fit the iron frame? tell me, is this true?" "it is true! it is true!" sobbed procrustes; "and now kindly touch the spring above my head and let me go, and you shall have everything that i possess." but theseus turned away. "you are caught," he said, "in the trap which you set for others and for me. there is no mercy for the man who shows no mercy;" and he went out of the room, and left the wretch to perish by his own cruel device. theseus looked through the house and found there great wealth of gold and silver and costly things which procrustes had taken from the strangers who had fallen into his hands. he went into the dining hall, and there indeed was the table spread with a rich feast of meats and drinks and delicacies such as no king would scorn; but there was a seat and a plate for only the host, and none at all for guests. then the girl whose fair face theseus had seen among the vines, came running into the house; and she seized the young hero's hands and blessed and thanked him because he had rid the world of the cruel procrustes. "only a month ago," she said, "my father, a rich merchant of athens, was traveling towards eleusis, and i was with him, happy and care-free as any bird in the green woods. this robber lured us into his den, for we had much gold with us. my father, he stretched upon his iron bed; but me, he made his slave." then theseus called together all the inmates of the house, poor wretches whom procrustes had forced to serve him; and he parted the robber's spoils among them and told them that they were free to go wheresoever they wished. and on the next day he went on, through the narrow crooked ways among the mountains and hills, and came at last to the plain of athens, and saw the noble city and, in its midst, the rocky height where the great temple of athena stood; and, a little way from the temple, he saw the white walls of the palace of the king. when theseus entered the city and went walking up the street everybody wondered who the tall, fair youth could be. but the fame of his deeds had gone before him, and soon it was whispered that this was the hero who had slain the robbers in the mountains and had wrestled with cercyon at eleusis and had caught procrustes in his own cunning trap. "tell us no such thing!" said some butchers who were driving their loaded carts to market. "the lad is better suited to sing sweet songs to the ladies than to fight robbers and wrestle with giants." "see his silken black hair!" said one. "and his girlish face!" said another. "and his long coat dangling about his legs!" said a third. "and his golden sandals!" said a fourth. "ha! ha!" laughed the first; "i wager that he never lifted a ten-pound weight in his life. think of such a fellow as he hurling old sciron from the cliffs! nonsense!" theseus heard all this talk as he strode along, and it angered him not a little; but he had not come to athens to quarrel with butchers. without speaking a word he walked straight up to the foremost cart, and, before its driver had time to think, took hold of the slaughtered ox that was being hauled to market, and hurled it high over the tops of the houses into the garden beyond. then he did likewise with the oxen in the second, the third, and the fourth wagons, and, turning about, went on his way, and left the wonder-stricken butchers staring after him, speechless, in the street. he climbed the stairway which led to the top of the steep, rocky hill, and his heart beat fast in his bosom as he stood on the threshold of his father's palace. "where is the king?" he asked of the guard. "you cannot see the king," was the answer; "but i will take you to his nephews." the man led the way into the feast hall, and there theseus saw his fifty cousins sitting about the table, and eating and drinking and making merry; and there was a great noise of revelry in the hall, the minstrels singing and playing, and the slave girls dancing, and the half-drunken princes shouting and cursing. as theseus stood in the doorway, knitting his eyebrows and clinching his teeth for the anger which he felt, one of the feasters saw him, and cried out: "see the tall fellow in the doorway! what does he want here?" [illustration: "'great king,' he said, 'i am a stranger in athens.'"] "yes, girl-faced stranger," said another, "what do you want here?" "i am here," said theseus, "to ask that hospitality which men of our race never refuse to give." "nor do we refuse," cried they. "come in, and eat and drink and be our guest." "i will come in," said theseus, "but i will be the guest of the king. where is he?" "never mind the king," said one of his cousins. "he is taking his ease, and we reign in his stead." but theseus strode boldly through the feast hall and went about the palace asking for the king. at last he found aegeus, lonely and sorrowful, sitting in an inner chamber. the heart of theseus was very sad as he saw the lines of care upon the old man's face, and marked his trembling, halting ways. "great king," he said, "i am a stranger in athens, and i have come to you to ask food and shelter and friendship such as i know you never deny to those of noble rank and of your own race." "and who are you, young man?" said the king. "i am theseus," was the answer. "what? the theseus who has rid the world of the mountain robbers, and of cercyon the wrestler, and of procrustes, the pitiless stretcher?" "i am he," said theseus; "and i come from old troezen, on the other side of the saronic sea." the king started and turned very pale. "troezen! troezen!" he cried. then checking himself, he said, "yes! yes! you are welcome, brave stranger, to such shelter and food and friendship as the king of athens can give." now it so happened that there was with the king a fair but wicked witch named medea, who had so much power over him that he never dared to do anything without asking her leave. so he turned to her, and said: "am i not right, medea, in bidding this young hero welcome?" "you are right, king aegeus," she said; "and let him be shown at once to your guest chamber, that he may rest himself and afterwards dine with us at your own table." medea had learned by her magic arts who theseus was, and she was not at all pleased to have him in athens; for she feared that when he should make himself known to the king, her own power would be at an end. so, while theseus was resting himself in the guest chamber, she told aegeus that the young stranger was no hero at all, but a man whom his nephews had hired to kill him, for they had grown tired of waiting for him to die. the poor old king was filled with fear, for he believed her words; and he asked her what he should do to save his life. "let me manage it," she said. "the young man will soon come down to dine with us. i will drop poison into a glass of wine, and at the end of the meal i will give it to him. nothing can be easier." so, when the hour came, theseus sat down to dine with the king and medea; and while he ate he told of his deeds and of how he had overcome the robber giants, and cercyon the wrestler, and procrustes the pitiless; and as the king listened, his heart yearned strangely towards the young man, and he longed to save him from medea's poisoned cup. then theseus paused in his talk to help himself to a piece of the roasted meat, and, as was the custom of the time, drew his sword to carve it--for you must remember that all these things happened long ago, before people had learned to use knives and forks at the table. as the sword flashed from its scabbard, aegeus saw the letters that were engraved upon it--the initials of his own name. he knew at once that it was the sword which he had hidden so many years before under the stone on the mountain side above troezen. "my son! my son!" he cried; and he sprang up and dashed the cup of poisoned wine from the table, and flung his arms around theseus. it was indeed a glad meeting for both father and son, and they had many things to ask and to tell. as for the wicked medea, she knew that her day of rule was past. she ran out of the palace, and whistled a loud, shrill call; and men say that a chariot drawn by dragons came rushing through the air, and that she leaped into it and was carried away, and no one ever saw her again. the very next morning, aegeus sent out his heralds, to make it known through all the city that theseus was his son, and that he would in time be king in his stead. when the fifty nephews heard this, they were angry and alarmed. "shall this upstart cheat us out of our heritage?" they cried; and they made a plot to waylay and kill theseus in a grove close by the city gate. right cunningly did the wicked fellows lay their trap to catch the young hero; and one morning, as he was passing that way alone, several of them fell suddenly upon him, with swords and lances, and tried to slay him outright. they were thirty to one, but he faced them boldly and held them at bay, while he shouted for help. the men of athens, who had borne so many wrongs from the hands of the nephews, came running out from the streets; and in the fight which followed, every one of the plotters, who had lain in ambush was slain; and the other nephews, when they heard about it, fled from the city in haste and never came back again. the wonderful artisan. i. perdix. while athens was still only a small city there lived within its walls a man named daedalus who was the most skillful worker in wood and stone and metal that had ever been known. it was he who taught the people how to build better houses and how to hang their doors on hinges and how to support the roofs with pillars and posts. he was the first to fasten things together with glue; he invented the plumb-line and the auger; and he showed seamen how to put up masts in their ships and how to rig the sails to them with ropes. he built a stone palace for aegeus, the young king of athens, and beautified the temple of athena which stood on the great rocky hill in the middle of the city. daedalus had a nephew named perdix whom he had taken when a boy to teach the trade of builder. but perdix was a very apt learner, and soon surpassed his master in the knowledge of many things. his eyes were ever open to see what was going on about him, and he learned the lore of the fields and the woods. walking one day by the sea, he picked up the backbone of a great fish, and from it he invented the saw. seeing how a certain bird carved holes in the trunks of trees, he learned how to make and use the chisel. then he invented the wheel which potters use in molding clay; and he made of a forked stick the first pair of compasses for drawing circles; and he studied out many other curious and useful things. daedalus was not pleased when he saw that the lad was so apt and wise, so ready to learn, and so eager to do. "if he keeps on in this way," he murmured, "he will be a greater man than i; his name will be remembered, and mine will be forgotten." day after day, while at his work, daedalus pondered over this matter, and soon his heart was filled with hatred towards young perdix. one morning when the two were putting up an ornament on the outer wall of athena's temple, daedalus bade his nephew go out on a narrow scaffold which hung high over the edge of the rocky cliff whereon the temple stood. then, when the lad obeyed, it was easy enough, with a blow of a hammer, to knock the scaffold from its fastenings. poor perdix fell headlong through the air, and he would have been dashed in pieces upon the stones at the foot of the cliff had not kind athena seen him and taken pity upon him. while he was yet whirling through mid-air she changed him into a partridge, and he flitted away to the hills to live forever in the woods and fields which he loved so well. and to this day, when summer breezes blow and the wild flowers bloom in meadow and glade, the voice of perdix may still sometimes be heard, calling to his mate from among the grass and reeds or amid the leafy underwoods. ii. minos. as for daedalus, when the people of athens heard of his dastardly deed, they were filled with grief and rage--grief for young perdix, whom all had learned to love; rage towards the wicked uncle, who loved only himself. at first they were for punishing daedalus with the death which he so richly deserved, but when they remembered what he had done to make their homes pleasanter and their lives easier, they allowed him to live; and yet they drove him out of athens and bade him never return. there was a ship in the harbor just ready to start on a voyage across the sea, and in it daedalus embarked with all his precious tools and his young son icarus. day after day the little vessel sailed slowly southward, keeping the shore of the mainland always upon the right. it passed troezen and the rocky coast of argos, and then struck boldly out across the sea. at last the famous island of crete was reached, and there daedalus landed and made himself known; and the king of crete, who had already heard of his wondrous skill, welcomed him to his kingdom, and gave him a home in his palace, and promised that he should be rewarded with great riches and honor if he would but stay and practice his craft there as he had done in athens. now the name of the king of crete was minos. his grandfather, whose name was also minos, was the son of europa, a young princess whom a white bull, it was said, had brought on his back across the sea from distant asia. this elder minos had been accounted the wisest of men--so wise, indeed, that jupiter chose him to be one of the judges of the lower world. the younger minos was almost as wise as his grandfather; and he was brave and far-seeing and skilled as a ruler of men. he had made all the islands subject to his kingdom, and his ships sailed into every part of the world and brought back to crete the riches of foreign lands. so it was not hard for him to persuade daedalus to make his home with him and be the chief of his artisans. and daedalus built for king minos a most wonderful palace with floors of marble and pillars of granite; and in the palace he set up golden statues which had tongues and could talk; and for splendor and beauty there was no other building in all the wide earth that could be compared with it. there lived in those days among the hills of crete a terrible monster called the minotaur, the like of which has never been seen from that time until now. this creature, it was said, had the body of a man, but the face and head of a wild bull and the fierce nature of a mountain lion. the people of crete would not have killed him if they could; for they thought that the mighty folk who lived with jupiter on the mountain top had sent him among them, and that these beings would be angry if any one should take his life. he was the pest and terror of all the land. where he was least expected, there he was sure to be; and almost every day some man, woman, or child was caught and devoured by him. "you have done so many wonderful things," said the king to daedalus, "can you not do something to rid the land of this minotaur?" "shall i kill him?" asked daedalus. "ah, no!" said the king. "that would only bring greater misfortunes upon us." "i will build a house for him then," said daedalus, "and you can keep him in it as a prisoner." "but he may pine away and die if he is penned up in prison," said the king. "he shall have plenty of room to roam about," said daedalus; "and if you will only now and then feed one of your enemies to him, i promise you that he shall live and thrive." so the wonderful artisan brought together his workmen, and they built a marvelous house with so many rooms in it and so many winding ways that no one who went far into it could ever find his way out again; and daedalus called it the labyrinth, and cunningly persuaded the minotaur to go inside of it. the monster soon lost his way among the winding passages, but the sound of his terrible bellowings could be heard day and night as he wandered back and forth vainly trying to find some place to escape. iii. icarus. not long after this it happened that daedalus was guilty of a deed which angered the king very greatly; and had not minos wished him to build other buildings for him, he would have put him to death and no doubt have served him right. "hitherto," said the king, "i have honored you for your skill and rewarded you for your labor. but now you shall be my slave and shall serve me without hire and without any word of praise." then he gave orders to the guards at the city gates that they should not let daedalus pass out at any time, and he set soldiers to watch the ships that were in port so that he could not escape by sea. but although the wonderful artisan was thus held as a prisoner, he did not build any more buildings for king minos; he spent his time in planning how he might regain his freedom. "all my inventions," he said to his son icarus, "have hitherto been made to please other people; now i will invent something to please myself." so, all through the day he pretended to be planning some great work for the king, but every night he locked himself up in his chamber and wrought secretly by candle light. by and by he had made for himself a pair of strong wings, and for icarus another pair of smaller ones; and then, one midnight, when everybody was asleep, the two went out to see if they could fly. they fastened the wings to their shoulders with wax, and then sprang up into the air. they could not fly very far at first, but they did so well that they felt sure of doing much better in time. the next night daedalus made some changes in the wings. he put on an extra strap or two; he took out a feather from one wing, and put a new feather into another; and then he and icarus went out in the moonlight to try them again. they did finely this time. they flew up to the top of the king's palace, and then they sailed away over the walls of the city and alighted on the top of a hill. but they were not ready to undertake a long journey yet; and so, just before daybreak, they flew back home. every fair night after that they practiced with their wings, and at the end of a month they felt as safe in the air as on the ground, and could skim over the hilltops like birds. early one morning; before king minos had risen from his bed, they fastened on their wings, sprang into the air, and flew out of the city. once fairly away from the island, they turned towards the west, for daedalus had heard of an island named sicily, which lay hundreds of miles away, and he had made up his mind to seek a new home there. [illustration: "he felt himself sinking through the air."] all went well for a time, and the two bold flyers sped swiftly over the sea, skimming along only a little above the waves, and helped on their way by the brisk east wind. towards noon the sun shone very warm, and daedalus called out to the boy who was a little behind and told him to keep his wings cool and not fly too high. but the boy was proud of his skill in flying, and as he looked up at the sun he thought how nice it would be to soar like it high above the clouds in the blue depths of the sky. "at any rate," said he to himself, "i will go up a little higher. perhaps i can see the horses which draw the sun car, and perhaps i shall catch sight of their driver, the mighty sun master himself." so he flew up higher and higher, but his father who was in front did not see him. pretty soon, however, the heat of the sun began to melt the wax with which the boy's wings were fastened. he felt himself sinking through the air; the wings had become loosened from his shoulders. he screamed to his father, but it was too late. daedalus turned just in time to see icarus fall headlong into the waves. the water was very deep there, and the skill of the wonderful artisan could not save his child. he could only look with sorrowing eyes at the unpitying sea, and fly on alone to distant sicily. there, men say, he lived for many years, but he never did any great work, nor built anything half so marvelous as the labyrinth of crete. and the sea in which poor icarus was drowned was called forever afterward by his name, the icarian sea. [illustration] the cruel tribute. i. the treaty. minos, king of crete, had made war upon athens. he had come with a great fleet of ships and an army, and had burned the merchant vessels in the harbor, and had overrun all the country and the coast even to megara, which lies to the west. he had laid waste the fields and gardens round about athens, had pitched his camp close to the walls, and had sent word to the athenian rulers that on the morrow he would march into their city with fire and sword and would slay all their young men and would pull down all their houses, even to the temple of athena, which stood on the great hill above the town. then aegeus, the king of athens, with the twelve elders who were his helpers, went out to see king minos and to treat with him. "o mighty king," they said, "what have we done that you should wish thus to destroy us from the earth?" "o cowardly and shameless men," answered king minos, "why do you ask this foolish question, since you can but know the cause of my wrath? i had an only son, androgeos by name, and he was dearer to me than the hundred cities of crete and the thousand islands of the sea over which i rule. three years ago he came hither to take part in the games which you held in honor of athena, whose temple you have built on yonder hilltop. you know how he overcame all your young men in the sports, and how your people honored him with song and dance and laurel crown. but when your king, this same aegeus who stands before me now, saw how everybody ran after him and praised his valor, he was filled with envy and laid plans to kill him. whether he caused armed men to waylay him on the road to thebes, or whether as some say he sent him against a certain wild bull of your country to be slain by that beast, i know not; but you cannot deny that the young man's life was taken from him through the plotting of this aegeus." "but we do deny it--we do deny it!" cried the elders. "for at that very time our king was sojourning at troezen on the other side of the saronic sea, and he knew nothing of the young prince's death. we ourselves managed the city's affairs while he was abroad, and we know whereof we speak. androgeos was slain, not through the king's orders but by the king's nephews, who hoped to rouse your anger against aegeus so that you would drive him from athens and leave the kingdom to one of them." "will you swear that what you tell me is true?" said minos. "we will swear it," they said. "now then," said minos, "you shall hear my decree. athens has robbed me of my dearest treasure, a treasure that can never be restored to me; so, in return, i require from athens, as tribute, that possession which is the dearest and most precious to her people; and it shall be destroyed cruelly as my son was destroyed." "the condition is hard," said the elders, "but it is just. what is the tribute which you require?" "has the king a son?" asked minos. the face of king aegeus lost all its color and he trembled as he thought of a little child then with its mother at troezen, on the other side of the saronic sea. but the elders knew nothing about that child, and they answered: "alas, no! he has no son; but he has fifty nephews who are eating up his substance and longing for the time to come when one of them shall be king; and, as we have said, it was they who slew the young prince, androgeos." "i have naught to do with those fellows," said minos; "you may deal with them as you like. but you ask what is the tribute that i require, and i will tell you. every year when the springtime comes and the roses begin to bloom, you shall choose seven of your noblest youths and seven of your fairest maidens, and shall send them to me in a ship which your king shall provide. this is the tribute which you shall pay to me, minos, king of crete; and if you fail for a single time, or delay even a day, my soldiers shall tear down your walls and burn your city and put your men to the sword and sell your wives and children as slaves." "we agree to all this, o king," said the elders; "for it is the least of two evils. but tell us now, what shall be the fate of the seven youths and the seven maidens?" "in crete," answered minos, "there is a house called the labyrinth, the like of which you have never seen. in it there are a thousand chambers and winding ways, and whosoever goes even a little way into them can never find his way out again. into this house the seven youths and the seven maidens shall be thrust, and they shall be left there--" "to perish with hunger?" cried the elders. "to be devoured by a monster whom men call the minotaur," said minos. then king aegeus and the elders covered their faces and wept and went slowly back into the city to tell their people of the sad and terrible conditions upon which athens could alone be saved. "it is better that a few should perish than that the whole city should be destroyed," they said. ii. the tribute. years passed by. every spring when the roses began to bloom seven youths and seven maidens were put on board of a black-sailed ship and sent to crete to pay the tribute which king minos required. in every house in athens there was sorrow and dread, and the people lifted up their hands to athena on the hilltop and cried out, "how long, o queen of the air, how long shall this thing be?" in the meanwhile the little child at troezen on the other side of the sea had grown to be a man. his name, theseus, was in everybody's mouth, for he had done great deeds of daring; and at last he had come to athens to find his father, king aegeus, who had never heard whether he was alive or dead; and when the youth had made himself known, the king had welcomed him to his home and all the people were glad because so noble a prince had come to dwell among them and, in time, to rule over their city. the springtime came again. the black-sailed ship was rigged for another voyage. the rude cretan soldiers paraded the streets; and the herald of king minos stood at the gates and shouted: "yet three days, o athenians, and your tribute will be due and must be paid!" then in every street the doors of the houses were shut and no man went in or out, but every one sat silent with pale cheeks, and wondered whose lot it would be to be chosen this year. but the young prince, theseus, did not understand; for he had not been told about the tribute. "what is the meaning of all this?" he cried. "what right has a cretan to demand tribute in athens? and what is this tribute of which he speaks?" then aegeus led him aside and with tears told him of the sad war with king minos, and of the dreadful terms of peace. "now, say no more," sobbed aegeus, "it is better that a few should die even thus than that all should be destroyed." "but i will say more," cried theseus. "athens shall not pay tribute to crete. i myself will go with these youths and maidens, and i will slay the monster minotaur, and defy king minos himself upon his throne." "oh, do not be so rash!" said the king; "for no one who is thrust into the den of the minotaur ever comes out again. remember that you are the hope of athens, and do not take this great risk upon yourself." "say you that i am the hope of athens?" said theseus. "then how can i do otherwise than go?" and he began at once to make himself ready. on the third day all the youths and maidens of the city were brought together in the market place, so that lots might be cast for those who were to be taken. then two vessels of brass were brought and set before king aegeus and the herald who had come from crete. into one vessel they placed as many balls as there were noble youths in the city, and into the other as many as there were maidens; and all the balls were white save only seven in each vessel, and those were black as ebony. then every maiden, without looking, reached her hand into one of the vessels and drew forth a ball, and those who took the black balls were borne away to the black ship, which lay in waiting by the shore. the young men also drew lots in like manner, but when six black balls had been drawn theseus came quickly forward and said: "hold! let no more balls be drawn. i will be the seventh youth to pay this tribute. now let us go aboard the black ship and be off." then the people, and king aegeus himself, went down to the shore to take leave of the young men and maidens, whom they had no hope of seeing again; and all but theseus wept and were brokenhearted. "i will come again, father," he said. "i will hope that you may," said the old king. "if when this ship returns, i see a white sail spread above the black one, then i shall know that you are alive and well; but if i see only the black one, it will tell me that you have perished." and now the vessel was loosed from its moorings, the north wind filled the sail, and the seven youths and seven maidens were borne away over the sea, towards the dreadful death which awaited them in far distant crete. iii. the princess. at last the black ship reached the end of its voyage. the young people were set ashore, and a party of soldiers led them through the streets towards the prison, where they were to stay until the morrow. they did not weep nor cry out now, for they had outgrown their fears. but with paler faces and firm-set lips, they walked between the rows of cretan houses, and looked neither to the right nor to the left. the windows and doors were full of people who were eager to see them. "what a pity that such brave young men should be food for the minotaur," said some. "ah, that maidens so beautiful should meet a fate so sad!" said others. and now they passed close by the palace gate, and in it stood king minos himself, and his daughter ariadne, the fairest of the women of crete. "indeed, those are noble young fellows!" said the king. "yes, too noble to feed the vile minotaur," said ariadne. "the nobler, the better," said the king; "and yet none of them can compare with your lost brother androgeos." ariadne said no more; and yet she thought that she had never seen any one who looked so much like a hero as young theseus. how tall he was, and how handsome! how proud his eye, and how firm his step! surely there had never been his like in crete. all through that night ariadne lay awake and thought of the matchless hero, and grieved that he should be doomed to perish; and then she began to lay plans for setting him free. at the earliest peep of day she arose, and while everybody else was asleep, she ran out of the palace and hurried to the prison. as she was the king's daughter, the jailer opened the door at her bidding and allowed her to go in. there sat the seven youths and the seven maidens on the ground, but they had not lost hope. she took theseus aside and whispered to him. she told him of a plan which she had made to save him; and theseus promised her that, when he had slain the minotaur, he would carry her away with him to athens where she should live with him always. then she gave him a sharp sword, and hid it underneath his cloak, telling him that with it alone could he hope to slay the minotaur. "and here is a ball of silken thread," she said. "as soon as you go into the labyrinth where the monster is kept, fasten one end of the thread to the stone doorpost, and then unwind it as you go along. when you have slain the minotaur, you have only to follow the thread and it will lead you back to the door. in the meanwhile i will see that your ship is ready to sail, and then i will wait for you at the door of the labyrinth." [illustration: "the jailer opened the door at her bidding."] theseus thanked the beautiful princess and promised her again that if he should live to go back to athens she should go with him and be his wife. then with a prayer to athena, ariadne hastened away. iv. the labyrinth. as soon as the sun was up the guards came to lead the young prisoners to the labyrinth. they did not see the sword which theseus had under his cloak, nor the tiny ball of silk which he held in his closed hand. they led the youths and maidens a long way into the labyrinth, turning here and there, back and forth, a thousand different times, until it seemed certain that they could never find their way out again. then the guards, by a secret passage which they alone knew, went out and left them, as they had left many others before, to wander about until they should be found by the terrible minotaur. "stay close by me," said theseus to his companions, "and with the help of athena who dwells in her temple home in our own fair city, i will save you." then he drew his sword and stood in the narrow way before them; and they all lifted up their hands and prayed to athena. for hours they stood there, hearing no sound, and seeing nothing but the smooth, high walls on either side of the passage and the calm blue sky so high above them. then the maidens sat down upon the ground and covered their faces and sobbed, and said: "oh, that he would come and put an end to our misery and our lives." at last, late in the day, they heard a bellowing, low and faint as though far away. they listened and soon heard it again, a little louder and very fierce and dreadful. "it is he! it is he!" cried theseus; "and now for the fight!" then he shouted, so loudly that the walls of the labyrinth answered back, and the sound was carried upward to the sky and outward to the rocks and cliffs of the mountains. the minotaur heard him, and his bellowings grew louder and fiercer every moment. "he is coming!" cried theseus, and he ran forward to meet the beast. the seven maidens shrieked, but tried to stand up bravely and face their fate; and the six young men stood together with firm-set teeth and clinched fists, ready to fight to the last. soon the minotaur came into view, rushing down the passage towards theseus, and roaring most terribly. he was twice as tall as a man, and his head was like that of a bull with huge sharp horns and fiery eyes and a mouth as large as a lion's; but the young men could not see the lower part of his body for the cloud of dust which he raised in running. when he saw theseus with the sword in his hand coming to meet him, he paused, for no one had ever faced him in that way before. then he put his head down, and rushed forward, bellowing. but theseus leaped quickly aside, and made a sharp thrust with his sword as he passed, and hewed off one of the monster's legs above the knee. the minotaur fell upon the ground, roaring and groaning and beating wildly about with his horned head and his hoof-like fists; but theseus nimbly ran up to him and thrust the sword into his heart, and was away again before the beast could harm him. a great stream of blood gushed from the wound, and soon the minotaur turned his face towards the sky and was dead. then the youths and maidens ran to theseus and kissed his hands and feet, and thanked him for his great deed; and, as it was already growing dark, theseus bade them follow him while he wound up the silken thread which was to lead them out of the labyrinth. through a thousand rooms and courts and winding ways they went, and at midnight they came to the outer door and saw the city lying in the moonlight before them; and, only a little way off, was the seashore where the black ship was moored which had brought them to crete. the door was wide open, and beside it stood ariadne waiting for them. "the wind is fair, the sea is smooth, and the sailors are ready," she whispered; and she took the arm of theseus, and all went together through the silent streets to the ship. when the morning dawned they were far out to sea, and, looking back from the deck of the little vessel, only the white tops of the cretan mountains were in sight. minos, when he arose from sleep, did not know that the youths and maidens had gotten safe out of the labyrinth. but when ariadne could not be found, he thought that robbers had carried her away. he sent soldiers out to search for her among the hills and mountains, never dreaming that she was now well on the way towards distant athens. many days passed, and at last the searchers returned and said that the princess could nowhere be found. then the king covered his head and wept, and said: "now, indeed, i am bereft of all my treasures!" in the meanwhile, king aegeus of athens had sat day after day on a rock by the shore, looking and watching if by chance he might see a ship coming from the south. at last the vessel with theseus and his companions hove in sight, but it still carried only the black sail, for in their joy the young men had forgotten to raise the white one. "alas! alas! my son has perished!" moaned aegeus; and he fainted and fell forward into the sea and was drowned. and that sea, from then until now, has been called by his name, the aegean sea. thus theseus became king of athens. [illustration] children of the dawn old tales of greece [illustration: each night hero lighted her torch; each night leander swam across the narrow sea. _page ._] children of the dawn old tales of greece written by elsie finnimore buckley introduction by illustrations by arthur sidgwick frank c papÉ new york frederick a. stokes company publishers introduction: the aim of this volume is to present, in a form suitable for young readers, a small selection from the almost inexhaustible treasure-house of the ancient greek tales, which abound (it is needless to say) in all greek poetry, and are constantly referred to by the prose-writers. these stories are found, whether narrated at length, or sometimes only mentioned in a cursory and tantalising reference, from the earliest poets, homer and hesiod, through the lyric age, and the attic renaissance of the fifth century, when they form the material of the tragic drama, down to the second century b.c., when apollodorus, the athenian grammarian, made a prose collection of them, which is invaluable. they reappear at rome in the augustan age (and later), in the poems of vergil, ovid, and statius--particularly in ovid's "metamorphoses." many more are supplied by greek or roman travellers, scholars, geographers, or historians, of the first three centuries of our era, such as strabo, pausanias, athenæus, apuleius and Ælian. the tales are various--stories of love, adventure, heroism, skill, endurance, achievement or defeat. the gods take active part, often in conflict with each other. the heroes or victims are men and women; and behind all, inscrutable and inexorable, sits the dark figure of fate. the greeks had a rare genius for storytelling of all sorts. whether the tales were of native growth, or imported from the east or elsewhere--and both sources are doubtless represented--once they had passed through the greek hands, the greek spirit, "finely touched to fine issues," marked them for its own with the beauty, vivacity, dramatic interest, and imaginative outline and detail, which were never absent from the best greek work, least of all during the centuries that lie between homer and plato. the eleven tales here presented from this vast store are (as will be seen) very various both in date, character, and detail; and they seem well chosen for their purpose. the writer of these english versions of ancient stories has clearly aimed at a terse simplicity of style, while giving full details, with occasional descriptive passages where required to make the scene more vivid; and, for the same end, she has rightly made free use of dialogue or soliloquy wherever the story could thus be more pointedly or dramatically told. the first story, called "the riddle of the sphinx," gives us in brief the whole theban tale, from king laius and the magical building of the city, to the incomparable scene from sophocles' last play, describing the "passing of oedipus." it even includes the heroic action of antigone, in burying with due rites her dead brother, in spite of the tyrant's threats, and at the cost of her own life. no tale was more often treated in ancient poetry than this tragedy of thebes. homer and hesiod both refer to it, Æschylus wrote a whole trilogy, and sophocles three separate dramas, on this theme. euripides dealt with it in his "phoenissæ," which survives, and in his "oedipus and antigone," of which a few fragments remain. and several other poets whose works are lost are known by the titles of their plays to have dealt with the same subject. one other tale in this selection rests in large measure on the attic drama--namely, the story of alcestis, the fourth in this series. as far as we know, euripides alone of the ancients treated this theme, in his beautiful and interesting play "alcestis," which is here closely followed by our author. the past history of admetus, the king, which euripides briefly summarises in the prologue, is here dramatized, and adds much interest to the story, including as it does the argonauts' visit to pelias, and the romantic imaginary scene of the king's first meeting with alcestis. the two charming love-stories which come second and third in this series, though unquestionably greek in origin, reach us from roman sources, and bear clear evidence in their form and spirit of belonging to a later age. the character of the love romance in "hero and leander" and the transparent allegory of "eros and psyche" (love and the soul), leave little doubt on this point. the former tale is ascribed to a late greek epic poet, musæus, of whom nothing else is known; and the latter we owe to apuleius, a roman philosopher and man of letters in the second century a.d. the fifth and tenth stories (in both of which atalanta appears) rest in their present shape on the authority of apollodorus; but the incidents of the calydonian boar-hunt, and the race for the hand of the princess, won by the suitor's clever trick of the golden apples, are found as local traditions connected with two different parts of greece, arcadia and boeotia, and may be in their earliest form of great antiquity. the two fanciful stories of echo and narcissus, and alpheus and arethusa, which form the sixth and ninth in this series, are among the prettiest of nature myths, and are characteristic greek inventions. the chase of arethusa under the sea by the river-god alpheus was to a greek the most natural of fancies, for to him all water was protected by, or identified with, some god, nymph, or spirit; and the fancy was especially easy to a dweller in the limestone district of arcadia, where streams may run underground for long distances, and reappear as full-grown rivers from a cavern at the foot of the hills. the tale of echo in its present form comes only from latin poetry (ovid); but the fancy that echo was a spirit or nymph, which is the heart of the story, may well be of unknown antiquity, especially among the most imaginative of races, living in a land of rocky hills, the native home of echoes. of the remaining stories (pygmalion, orpheus, and oenone), the briefest comment will suffice. the beautiful and pathetic tale of orpheus and eurydice, which is best known to us from the incomparable version of it at the close of vergil's fourth "georgic," we know on good evidence to have been extant at least as early as Æschylus (fifth century b.c.), and possibly much earlier. the touching story of oenone is post-homeric, and is known to us only from ovid and apollodorus. it is familiar to all englishmen from the two beautiful poems of tennyson, which are respectively among the earliest and latest of his works. the strange yet striking tale of pygmalion also comes to us from apollodorus; and though it may be much older, it is perhaps not likely to belong to an earlier time than the fourth century b.c., a date which seems to be suggested both by the character of the story, and the development of the art of sculpture implied in it. it only remains to commend these beautiful old stories, in their english dress, to the favour of those for whom they are intended. a. sidgwick. oxford, _september , _. contents the riddle of the sphinx eros and psyche hero and leander the sacrifice of alcestis hunting the calydonian boar the curse of echo the sculptor and the image the divine musician the flight of arethusa the winning of atalanta paris and oenone list of illustrations. frontispiece--each night hero lighted her torch; each night leander swam across the narrow sea title-page heading to introduction heading to contents heading to list of illustrations she put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey with firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and theseus followed after on the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and fairest of the immortals faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round and round she unloosed the rope, and pushed out into the stream "help, help! i drown in this foul stream!" she lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled beneath her, so that she leant back against the pillar for support from the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman, playing on his lyre admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine.... without a thought he passed the altar by and the children crept silently to her she answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and raised him from his knees as he spoke, he took her by the hand, and set her in a place of honour between his father and himself as the brute bore down, meleager buried the spear deep in his shoulder for the last time he leaned forward on the breath of the night wind aphrodite came in, and she kissed the statue on the lips from the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass "orpheus," she cried in her despair, "thy hand!" on and on she fled, with the swiftness and strength of despair "oh, my father!" she cried out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a maiden clad all in misty white menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the achæan host cast herself upon the body of paris, and put her arms about his neck initials, tail-pieces, etc. children of the dawn the riddle of the sphinx far away towards the east and the regions of the rising sun lies the fair land of hellas, a land famous from of old for mighty deeds of mighty men, and famous to this day among the nations of the earth; for though the mighty men, her heroes, have long since passed away, their names live on for ever in the pages of her grand old poets, who sing of their deeds in strains which still kindle the hearts of men, and stir them up to be heroes too, and fight life's battle bravely. long ago, in the city of thebes, there ruled a king named laius and his queen iocasta. they were children of the gods, and thebes itself, men said, had been built by hands more than mortal; for apollo had led cadmus the phoenician, the son of zeus, to the sacred spot where he was to raise the citadel of thebes, and pallas athene had helped him to slay the monstrous dragon that guarded the sacred spring of ares. the teeth of the dragon, cadmus took and planted in the plain of thebes, and from this seed there sprang up a great host of armed men, who would have slain him; but he took a stone and cast it in their midst, whereupon the serpent-men turned their arms one against another, fighting up and down the plain till only five were left. with the help of these five, cadmus built the citadel of thebes, and round it made a wall so wide that a dozen men and more might walk upon it, and so huge were the stones and so strong was the masonry that parts of it are standing to this day. as for the city itself, the tale goes that amphion, the mightiest of all musicians, came with his lyre, and so sweetly did he play that the hearts of the very stones were stirred within them, so that of their own free-will they fell into their places, and the town of thebes rose up beneath the shadow of the citadel. for many a long day did laius and iocasta rule over the people of thebes, and all that time they had no children; for a dreadful curse lay on the head of laius that, if ever he had a son, by that son's hand he should die. at last a boy was born to them, and laius, remembering the curse, swore that the child should never grow to manhood, and he bade iocasta slay him forthwith. but she, being his mother, was filled with a great love and pity for the helpless child. when it nestled in her arms and clung to her breast she could not find it in her heart to slay it, and she wept over it many a bitter salt tear, and pressed it closer to her bosom. as the tiny fingers closed round hers, and the soft head pressed against her, she murmured, "surely, so little a thing can do no harm? sweet babe, they say that i must kill thee, but they know not a mother's love. rather than that, i will put thee away out of my sight, and never see thee more, though the gods know i had sooner die than lose thee, my little one, my own sweet babe." so she called a trusty house-slave, who knew the king's decree, and placing the child in his arms, she said, "go, take it away, and hide it in the hills. perchance the gods will have pity on it, and put it in the heart of some shepherd, who feeds his flocks on distant pastures, to take the child home to his cot and rear it. farewell, my pretty babe. the green grass must be thy cradle, and the mountain breezes must lull thee to sleep. may the gods in their mercy bless thy childhood's hours, and make thy name famous among men; for thou art a king's son, and a child of the immortals, and the immortals forget not those that are born of their blood." so the man took the child from iocasta; but, because he feared the king's decree, he pierced its ankles and bound them together, for he thought, "surely, even if some shepherd wandering on the mountain-side should light upon the child, he will never rear one so maimed; and if the king should ask, i will say that he is dead." but because the child wept for the pain in its ankles, he took it home first to his wife to be fed and comforted, and when she gave it back into his arms, it smiled up into his face. then all the hardness died out of his heart, for the gods had shed about it a grace to kindle love in the coldest breast. now cithæron lies midway between thebes and corinth, and in winter-time the snow lies deep upon the summit, and the wild winds shriek through the rocks and clefts, and the pine trees pitch and bend beneath the fury of the blast, so that men called it the home of the furies, the awful goddesses, who track out sin and murder. and there, too, in the streams and caverns, dwell the naiads and the nymphs, wild spirits of the rocks and waters; and if any mortal trespass on their haunts, they drive him to madness in their echoing grottoes and gloomy caves. yet, for all that, though men called it dark cithæron, the grass about its feet grew fine and green, so that the shepherds came from all the neighbouring towns to pasture their flocks on its well-watered slopes. here it was that laius's herdsman fell in with a herdsman of polybus, king of corinth, and, seeing that he was a kindly man, and likely to have compassion on the child, he gave it him to rear. now, it had not pleased the gods to grant any children to polybus, king of corinth, and merope, his wife, though they wreathed their altars with garlands and burnt sweet savour of incense; and at last all hope died out of their hearts, and they said, "the gods are angry, and will destroy our race, and the kingdom shall pass into the hands of a stranger." but one day it chanced that the queen saw in the arms of one of her women a child she had not seen before, and she questioned her, and asked if it were hers. and the woman confessed that her husband, the king's herdsman, had found it on dim cithæron, and had taken pity on it, and brought it home. then the queen looked at the child, and seeing that it was passing fair, she said, "surely this is no common babe, but a child of the immortals. his hair is golden as the summer corn, and his eyes like the stars in heaven. what if the gods have sent him to comfort our old age, and rule the kingdom when we are dead? i will rear him in the palace as my own son, and he shall be a prince in the land of corinth." so the child lived in the palace, and became a son to polybus and merope, and heir to the kingdom. for want of a name they called him oedipus, because his ankles, when they found him, were all swollen by the pin that the herdsman had put through them. as he grew up, he found favour in all men's eyes, for he was tall and comely and cunning withal. "the gods are gracious," men said, "to grant the king such a son, and the people of corinth so mighty a prince, to rule over them in days to come." for as yet they knew not that he was a foundling, and no true heir to the throne. now, while the child was still young, he played about the courts of the palace, and in running and leaping and in feats of strength and hardihood of heart there was none to beat him among his playmates, or even to stand up against him, save one. but so well matched were these two, that the other children would gather round them in a ring to watch them box and wrestle, and the victor they would carry on their shoulders round the echoing galleries with shouting and clapping of hands; and sometimes it was oedipus, and sometimes the other lad. but at length there came a time when again and again oedipus was proved the stronger, and again and again the other slunk home beaten, like a cur that has been whipped: and he brooded over his defeat, and nourished hatred in his heart against oedipus, and vowed that one day he would have his revenge by fair means or by foul. but when merope the queen saw oedipus growing tall and fair, and surpassing all his comrades in strength, she took him up one day on to the citadel, and showed him all the lovely land of hellas lying at his feet. below them spread the shining city, with its colonnades and fountains and stately temples of the gods, like some jewel in the golden sands, and far away to the westward stretched the blue corinthian gulf, till the mountains of Ætolia seemed to join hands with their sisters in peloponnese. and she showed him the hills of arcadia, the land of song and shepherds, where pan plays his pipe beneath the oak-trees, and nymphs and satyrs dance all the day long. away to the bleak north-west stood out the snowy peaks of mount parnassus and helicon, the home of the muses, who fill men's minds with wisdom and their hearts with the love of all things beautiful. here the first narcissus blooms, and the olive and the myrtle and rosy almond-blossom gently kiss the laughing rivulets and the shining, dancing cascades. for helicon was a fair and gentle youth whom his cruel brother cithæron slew in his mad jealousy. whereupon the gods changed them both into mountains, and helicon is mild and fair to this day, and the home of all good things; but cithæron is bleak and barren, because his hard heart had no pity, and the furies haunt it unceasingly. then merope turned him to the eastward and the land of the dawning day, and showed him the purple peaks of Ægina and the gleaming attic shore. and she said to him, "oedipus, my son, seest thou how corinth lies midway 'twixt north and south and east and west, a link to join the lands together and a barrier to separate the seas?" and oedipus answered, "of a truth, mother, he who rules in corinth hath need of a lion's heart, for he must stand ever sword in hand and guard the passage from north to south." "courage is a mighty thing, my son, but wisdom is mightier. the sword layeth low, but wisdom buildeth up. seest thou the harbours on either side, facing east and west, and the masts of the ships, like a forest in winter, and the traffic of sailors and merchants on the shore? from all lands they come and bring their wares and merchandise, and men of every nation meet together. think not, my son, that a lion's heart and a fool's head therewith can ever be a match for the wisdom of egypt or the cunning of phoenicia." then oedipus understood, and said, "till now i have wrestled and boxed and run races with my fellows on the sands the livelong day, and none can beat me. henceforth i will sit in the market-place and discourse with foreigners and learned men, so that, when i come to rule in my father's place, i may be the wisest in all the land." and merope was pleased at his answer, but in her heart she was sad that his simple childish days were past; and she prayed that if the gods granted him wisdom they would keep his heart pure and free from all uncleanness. so oedipus sat in the market-place and talked with merchants and travellers, and he went down to the ships in the harbour and learned many strange things of strange lands--the wisdom of the egyptians, who were the wisest of all men in the south, and the cunning of the phoenicians, who were the greatest merchants and sailors in all the world. but in the evening, when the sun was low in the west, and the hills all turned to amethyst and sapphire, and the snow-mountains blushed ruby red beneath his parting kiss, then along the smooth, gold sands of the isthmus, by the side of the sounding sea, he would box and wrestle and run, till all the ways were darkened and the stars stood out in the sky. for he was a true son of hellas, and knew that nine times out of every ten a slack body and a slack mind go together. so he grew up in his beauty, a very god for wisdom and might, and there was no question he could not answer nor riddle he could not solve, so that all the land looked up to him, and the king and queen loved him as their own son. now one day there was a great banquet in the palace, to which all the noblest of the land were bidden, and the minstrels played and the tumblers danced and the wine flowed freely round the board, so that men's hearts were opened, and they talked of great deeds and heroes, and boasted what they themselves could do. and oedipus boasted as loud as any, and challenged one and all to meet him in fair fight. but the youth who had grown up with him in rivalry, and nourished jealousy and hatred in his heart, taunted him to his face, and said, "base born that thou art, and son of slave, thinkest thou that free men will fight with thee? lions fight not with curs, and though thou clothe thyself with purple and gold, all men know that thou art no true son to him thou callest thy sire." and this he said being flushed with wine, and because myriad-mouthed rumour had spread abroad the tale that oedipus was a foundling, though he himself knew nought thereof. then oedipus flushed red with rage, and swift as a gale that sweeps down from the mountains he fell upon the other, and seizing him by the throat, he shook him till he had not breath to beg for mercy. "what sayest thou now, thou whelp? begone with thy lying taunt, now that thou hast licked the dust for thy falsehood." and he flung him out from the hall. but merope leant pale and sad against a pillar, and veiled her face in her mantle to hide her tears. and when they were alone, oedipus took her hand and stroked it, and said, "grieve not for my fiery spirit, mother, but call me thine own son, and say that i was right to silence the liar who would cast dishonour upon my father's name and upon thee." but she looked at him sadly and longingly through her tears, and spoke in riddling words, "the gods, my child, sent thee to thy father and to me in answer to our prayers. a gift of god thou art, and a gift of god thou shalt be, living and dead, to them that love thee. the flesh groweth old and withereth away as a leaf, but the spirit liveth on for ever, and those are the truest of kin who are kin in the spirit of goodness and of love." but oedipus was troubled, for she would say no more, but only held his hand, and when he drew it away it was wet with her tears. then he thought in his heart, "verily, my mother would not weep for nought. what if, after all, there be something in the tale? i will go to the central shrine of hellas and ask the god of truth, golden-haired apollo. if he say it is a lie, verily i will thrust it back down that coward's throat, and the whole land shall ring with his infamy. and if it be true--the gods will guide me how to act." so he set forth alone upon his pilgrimage. and he took the road that runs by the side of the sea and up past mount gerania, with its pine-clad slopes, where megarus, the son of zeus, took refuge, when the floods covered all the land and only the mountain-tops stood out like islands in the sea. for he followed the cry of the cranes as they sought refuge from the waters, and was saved, and founded the city of megara, which is called by his name to this day. right past Ægosthena--the home of the black-footed goats--went oedipus to creusis, along the narrow rocky path between the mountains and the sea, where a man must needs be sure of foot and steady of head, if he is to stand against the storms that sweep down from bleak cithæron. for the winds rush shrieking down the hills like furies in their wrath, and they sweep all that stands in their way over the beetling cliffs into the yawning, seething gulf below, and those that fall into her ravening jaws she devours like some wild beast, and they are seen no more. then he went through fertile thisbe past the little port of tipha, the home of tiphys, helmsman of the famous argonauts, who sailed to nameless lands and unknown seas in their search for the golden fleece. and many a roaring torrent did he cross, as it rushed foaming down from the steep white cliffs of helicon, and over pathless mountains, past rocky anticyra and the hills of hellebore, and through the barren plain of cirrha, till he came to rock-built crisa and the fair crisean plain, the land of cornfields and vineyards and the grey-green olive-groves, where in spring-time the pomegranate and oleander flowers shine out red as beacon-fires by night. there he had well-nigh reached his journey's end, and his heart beat fast as he mingled with the band of pilgrims, each bound on his different quest to the god of light and truth, golden-haired apollo, the mightiest of the sons of zeus and the slayer of pytho, the famous dragon. at delphi is his shrine and dwelling-place, and there within his temple stands the sacred stone which fell from heaven and marks the centre of the earth. a great gulf yawns beneath, a mighty fissure going deep down into the bowels of the earth to the regions of the dead and the land of endless night; and deadly fumes rise up and noxious mists and vapours, so that the pythian priestess, who sits above on her brazen tripod, is driven to frenzy by their power. then it is that she hears the voice of apollo, and her eyes are opened to see what no mortal can see, and her ears to hear the secrets of the gods and fate. those things which apollo bids her she chants to the pilgrims in mystic verse, which only the wise can interpret aright. so from north and south and east and west men flocked to hear her prophecies, and the fame of apollo's shrine went out through every land--from ocean's stream and the pillars of heracles to the far ionian shore and euphrates, the mighty river of the east. oedipus drew near to the sacred place and made due sacrifice, and washed in the great stone basin, and put away all uncleanness from his heart, and went through the portals of rock to the awful shrine within, where the undying fire burns night and day and the sacred laurel stands. and he put his question to the god and waited for an answer. through the dim darkness of the shrine he saw the priestess on her tripod, veiled in a mist of incense and vapour, and as the power of the god came upon her she beheld the things of the future and the hidden secrets of fate. and she raised her hand towards oedipus, and with pale lips spoke the words of doom, "oedipus, ill-fated, thine own sire shalt thou slay." as she spoke the words his head swam round like a whirlpool, and his heart seemed turned to stone; then, with a loud and bitter cry, he rushed from the temple, through the thronging crowd of pilgrims down into the sacred way, and the people moved out of his path like shadows. blindly he sped along the stony road, down through the pass to a place where three roads meet, and he shuddered as he crossed them; for fear laid her cold hand upon his heart and filled it with a wild, unreasoning dread, and branded the image of that awful spot upon his brain so that he could never forget it. on every side the mountains frowned down upon him, and seemed to echo to and fro the doom which the priestess had spoken. straight forward he went like some hunted thing, turning neither to right nor left, till he came to a narrow path, where he met an old man in a chariot drawn by mules, with his trusty servants round him. "ho! there, thou madman!" they shouted; "stand by and let the chariot pass." "madmen yourselves," he cried, for his sore heart could not brook the taunt. "i am a king's son, and will stand aside for no man." so he tried to push past them by force, though he was one against many. and the old man stretched out his hand as though to stop him, but as well might a child hope to stand up against a wild bull. for he thrust him aside and felled him from his seat, and turned upon his followers, and, striking out to right and left, he stunned one and slew another, and forced his way through in blind fury. but the old man lay stiff and still upon the road. the fall from the chariot had quenched the feeble spark of life within him, and his spirit fled away to the house of hades and the kingdom of the dead. one trusty servant lay slain by his side, and the other senseless and stunned, and when he awoke, to find his master and his comrades slain, oedipus was far upon his way. on and on he went, over hill and dale and mountain-stream, till at length his strength gave way, and he sank down exhausted. and black despair laid hold of his heart, and he said within himself, "better to die here on the bare hill-side and be food for the kites and crows than return to my father's house to bring death to him and sorrow to my mother's heart." but sweet sleep fell upon him, and when he awoke hope and the love of life put other thoughts in his breast. and he remembered the words which merope the queen had spoken to him one day when he was boasting of his strength and skill. "strength and skill, my son, are the gifts of the gods, as the rain which falleth from heaven and giveth life and increase to the fruits of the earth. but man's pride is an angry flood that bringeth destruction on field and city. remember that great gifts may work great good or great evil, and he who has them must answer to the gods below if he use them well or ill." and he thought within himself, "'twere ill to die if, even in the uttermost parts of the earth, men need a strong man's arm and a wise man's cunning. never more will i return to far-famed corinth and my home by the sounding sea, but to far-distant lands will i go and bring blessing to those who are not of my kin, since to mine own folk i must be a curse if ever i return." so he went along the road from delphi till he came to seven-gated thebes. there he found all the people in deep distress and mourning, for their king laius was dead, slain by robbers on the high road, and they had buried him far from his native land at a place where three roads meet. and, worse still, their city was beset by a terrible monster, the sphinx, part eagle and part lion, with the face of a woman, who every day devoured a man because they could not answer the riddle she set them. all this oedipus heard as he stood in the market-place and talked with the people. "what is this famous riddle that none can solve?" he asked. "alas! young man, that none can say. for he that would solve the riddle must go up alone to the rock where she sits. then and there she chants the riddle, and if he answer it not forthwith she tears him limb from limb. and if none go up to try the riddle, then she swoops down upon the city and carries off her victims, and spares not woman or child. our wisest and bravest have gone up and our eyes have seen them no more. now there is no man left who dare face the terrible beast." then oedipus said, "i will go up and face this monster. it must be a hard riddle indeed if i cannot answer it." "oh, overbold and rash," they cried, "thinkest thou to succeed where so many have failed?" "better to try, and fail, than never to try at all." "yet, where failure is death, surely a man should think twice?" "a man can die but once, and how better than in trying to save his fellows?" as they looked at his strong young limbs and his fair young face they pitied him. "stranger," they said, "who art thou to throw away thy life thus heedlessly? are there none at home to mourn thee and no kingdom thou shouldst rule? for, of a truth, thou art a king's son and no common man." "nay, were i to return, my home would be plunged in mourning and woe, and the people would drive me from my father's house." they marvelled at his answer, but dared question him no further; and, seeing that nothing would turn him from his purpose, they showed him the path to the sphinx's rock, and all the people went out with him to the gate with prayers and blessings. at the gate they left him, for he who goes up to face the sphinx must go alone, and none can stand by and help him. so he went through the crenean gate and across the stream of dirce into the wide plain, and the mountain of the sphinx stood out dark and clear on the other side. then he prayed to pallas athene, the grey-eyed goddess of wisdom, and she took all fear from his heart. so he went up boldly to the rock, where the monster sat waiting to spring upon her prey; yet for all his courage his heart beat fast as he looked on her. for at first she appeared like a mighty bird, with great wings of bronze and gold, and the glancing sunbeams played about them, casting a halo of light around, and in the midst of the halo her face shone out pale and beautiful as a star at dawn. but when she saw him coming near, a greedy fire lit up her eyes, and she put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey. nevertheless, oedipus spoke to her fair and softly, "oh, lady, i am come to hear thy famous riddle and answer it or die." "foolhardy manling, a dainty morsel the gods have sent this day, with thy fair young face and fresh young limbs." and she licked her cruel lips. then oedipus felt his blood boil within him, and he wished to slay her then and there; for she who had been the fairest of women was now the foulest of beasts, and he saw that by her cruelty and lust she had killed the woman's soul within her, and the soul of a beast had taken its place. "come, tell me thy famous riddle, foul fury that thou art, that i may answer it and rid the land of this curse." "at dawn it creeps on four legs; at noon it strides on two; at sunset and evening it totters on three. what is this thing, never the same, yet not many, but one?" [illustration: "she put out her cruel claws and lashed her tail from side to side like an angry lion waiting for his prey."] so she chanted slowly, and her eyes gleamed cruel and cold. then thought oedipus within himself, "now or never must my learning and wit stand me in good stead, or in vain have i talked with the wisest of men and learnt the secrets of phoenicia and egypt." and the gods who had given him understanding sent light into his heart, and boldly he answered, "what can this creature be but man, o sphinx? for, a helpless babe at the dawn of life, he crawls on his hands and feet; at noontide he walks erect in the strength of his manhood; and at evening he supports his tottering limbs with a staff, the prop and stay of old age. have i not answered aright and guessed thy famous riddle?" then with a loud cry of despair, and answering him never a word, the great beast sprang up from her seat on the rock and hurled herself over the precipice into the yawning gulf beneath. far away across the plain the people heard her cry, and they saw the flash of the sun on her brazen wings like a gleam of lightning in the summer sky. thereupon they sent up a great shout of joy to heaven, and poured out from every gate into the open plain, and some raised oedipus upon their shoulders, and with shouts and songs of triumph bore him to the city. then and there they made him king with one accord, for the old king had left no son behind him, and who more fitted to rule over them than the slayer of the sphinx and the saviour of their city? so oedipus became king of thebes, and wisely and well did he rule, and for many a long year the land prospered both in peace and war. but the day came when a terrible pestilence broke out, and the people died by hundreds, so that at last oedipus sent messengers to delphi to ask why the gods were angry and had sent a plague upon the land. and this was the answer they brought back, "there is an unclean thing in thebes. never has the murderer of laius been found, and he dwells a pollution in the land. though the vengeance of the gods is slow, yet it cometh without fail, and the shedding of blood shall not pass unpunished." then oedipus made proclamation through the land that if any man knew who the murderer was, they should give him up to his doom and appease the anger of heaven. and he laid a terrible curse on any who dared to give so much as a crust of bread or a draught of water to him who had brought such suffering on the land. so throughout the country far and wide a search was made to track out the stain of blood and cleanse the city from pollution, but day after day the quest was fruitless, and the pestilence raged unceasingly, and darkness fell upon the soul of the people, as their prayers remained unanswered and their burnt-offerings smoked in vain upon the altars of the gods. then at last oedipus sent for the blind seer teiresias, who had lived through six generations of mortal men, and was the wisest of all prophets on earth. he knew the language of the birds, and, though his eyes were closed in darkness, his ears were opened to hear the secrets of the universe, and he knew the hidden things of the past and of the future. but at first when he came before the king he would tell him nothing, but begged him to question no further. "for the things of the future will come of themselves," he cried, "though i shroud them in silence, and evil will it be for thee, o king, and evil for thine house if i speak out the knowledge that is hidden in my heart." at last oedipus grew angry at his silence, and taunted him, "verily, me thinks thou thyself didst aid in the plotting of this deed, seeing that thou carest nought for the people bowed down beneath the pestilence and the dark days that are fallen on the land, so be it thou canst shield the murderer and escape thyself from the curse of the gods." then teiresias was stung past bearing, and would hold his tongue no longer. "by thine own doom shalt thou be judged, o king," he said. "thou thyself art the murderer, thyself the pollution that staineth the land with the blood of innocent men." then oedipus laughed aloud, "verily, old man, thou pratest. what rival hath urged thee to this lie, hoping to drive me from the throne of thebes? of a truth, not thine eyes only, but thy heart, is shrouded in a mist of darkness." "woe to thee, oedipus, woe to thee! thou hast sight, yet seest not who thou art, nor knowest the deed of thine hand. soon shalt thou wander sightless and blind, a stranger in a strange land, feeling the ground with a staff, and men shall shrink back from thee in horror when they hear thy name and the deed that thou hast done." and the people were hushed by the words of the old man, and knew not what to think. but the wife of oedipus, who stood by his side, said, "hearken not to him, my lord. for verily no mortal can search the secrets of fate, as i can prove full well by the words of this same man that he spoke in prophecy. for he it was who said that laius, the king who is dead, should be slain by the hand of his own son. however, that poor innocent never grew to manhood, but was exposed on the trackless mountain-side to die of cold and hunger; and laius, men say, was slain by robber bands at a place where three roads meet. so hearken not to seer-craft, ye people, nor trust in the words of one who is proved a false prophet." but her words brought no comfort to oedipus, and a dreadful fear came into his heart, like a cold, creeping snake, as he listened. for he thought of his journey from delphi, and of how in his frenzy he had struck down an old man and his followers at a place where three roads meet. when he questioned her further, the time and the place and the company all tallied, save only that rumour had it that laius had been slain by robber bands, whilst he had been single-handed against many. "was there none left," he asked, "who saw the deed and lived to tell the tale?" "yea, one faithful follower returned to bear the news, but so soon as the sphinx was slain and the people had made thee king he went into distant pastures with his flocks, for he could not brook to see a stranger in his master's place, albeit he had saved the land from woe." "go, summon him," said oedipus. "if the murderers were many, as rumour saith, with his aid we may track them out; but if he was one man single-handed--yea, though that man were myself--of a truth he shall be an outcast from the land, that the plague may be stayed from the people. verily, my queen, my heart misgives me when i remember my wrath and the deed that i wrought at the cross-roads." in vain she tried to comfort him, for a nameless fear had laid hold of his heart. now, while they were waiting for the herdsman to come, a messenger arrived in haste from corinth to say that polybus was dead, and that oedipus was chosen king of the land, for his fame had gone out far and wide as the slayer of the sphinx and the wisest of the kings of hellas. when oedipus heard the news, he bowed his head in sorrow to hear of the death of the father he had loved, and turning to the messenger, he said, "for many a long year my heart hath yearned toward him who is dead, and verily my soul is grieved that i shall see him no more in the pleasant light of the sun. but for the oracle's sake i stayed in exile, that my hand might not be red with a father's blood. and now i thank the gods that he has passed away in a green old age, in the fulness of years and of honour." but the messenger wondered at his words. "knewest thou not, then, that polybus was no father to thee in the flesh, but that for thy beauty and thy strength he chose thee out of all the land to be a son to him and heir to the kingdom of corinth?" "what sayest thou, bearer of ill news that thou art?" cried oedipus. "to prove that same tale of thine a slanderous lie i went to delphi, and there the priestess prophesied that i should slay mine own sire. wherefore i went not back to my native land, but have lived in exile all my days." "then in darkness of soul hast thou lived, o king. for with mine own hands i received thee as a babe from a shepherd on dim cithæron, from one of the herdsmen of laius, who was king before thee in this land." "woe is me, then! the curse of the gods is over me yet. i know not my sire, and unwittingly i may slay him and rue the evil day. and a cloud of darkness hangeth over me for the slaying of king laius. but lo! they bring the herdsman who saw the deed done, and pray heaven he may clear me from all guilt. bring him forward that i may question him." then they brought the man forward before the king, though he shrank back and tried to hide himself. when the messenger from corinth saw him he started back in surprise, for it was the very man from whose hands he had taken oedipus on the mountain-side. and he said to the king, "behold the man who will tell thee the secret of thy birth. from his hands did i take thee as a babe on dim cithæron." then oedipus questioned the man, and at first he denied it from fear, but at last he was fain to confess. "and who gave me to thee to slay on the barren mountain-side?" "i pray thee, my king, ask no more. some things there are that are better unsaid." "nay, tell me, and fear not. i care not if i am a child of shame and slavery stains my birth. a son of fortune the gods have made me, and have given me good days with the evil. speak out, i pray thee. though i be the son of a slave, i can bear it." "no son of a slave art thou, but seed of a royal house. ask me no more, my king." "speak, speak, man. thou drivest me to anger, and i will make thee tell, though it be by force." "ah! lay not cruel hands upon me. for thine own sake i would hide it. from the queen thy mother i had thee, and thy father was--laius the king. at the cross-roads from delphi didst thou meet him in his chariot, and slew him unwittingly in thy wrath. ah, woe is me! for the gods have chosen me out to be an unwilling witness to the truth of their oracles." then a great hush fell upon all the people like the lull before a storm. for the words of the herdsman were so strange and terrible that at first they could scarce take in their meaning. but when they understood that oedipus was laius's own son, and that he had fulfilled the dreadful prophecy and slain his sire, a great tumult arose, some saying one thing and some another; but the voice of oedipus was heard above the uproar, "ah, woe is me, woe is me! the curse of the gods is upon me, and none can escape their wrath. blindly have i done this evil, and when i was striving to escape fate caught me in her hidden meshes. oh, foolish hearts of men, to think that ye can flee from the doom of the gods; for lo! ye strive in the dark, and your very struggles bind you but closer in the snare of your fate. cast me from the land, ye people; do with me what ye will. for the gods have made me a curse and a pollution, and by my death alone will the land have rest from the pestilence." and the people would have taken him at his word; for fickle is the heart of the multitude, and swayed this way and that by every breath of calamity. they were sore stricken, too, by the pestilence, and in their wrath against the cause of it they forgot the slaying of the sphinx and the long days of peace and prosperity. but the blind seer teiresias rose up in their midst, and at his voice the people were silent. "citizens of cadmus, foolish and blind of heart! will ye slay the saviour of your city? have ye forgotten the man-devouring sphinx and the days of darkness? verily prosperity blunteth the edge of gratitude. and thou, oedipus, curse not the gods for thine evil fate. he that putteth his finger in the fire is burnt, whether he do it knowingly or not. as to thy sire, him indeed didst thou slay in ignorance; but the shedding of man's blood be upon thine own head, for that was the fruit of thy wrathful spirit, which, through lack of curbing, broke forth like an angry beast. hadst thou never slain a man, never wouldst thou have slain thy sire. but now thou art a pollution to the land of thy birth, and by long exile and wandering must thou expiate thy sin and die a stranger in a strange land. yet methinks that in the dark mirror of prophecy i see thy form, as it were, a guardian to the land of thy last resting-place, and in a grove of sacred trees thy spirit's lasting habitation, when thy feet have accomplished the ways of expiation and the days of thy wandering are done." so the people were silenced. but oedipus would not be comforted, and in his shame and misery he put out his own eyes because they had looked on unspeakable things. then he clothed himself in rags and took a pilgrim's staff, to go forth alone upon his wanderings. and the people were glad at his going, because the plague had hardened their hearts, and they cared nothing for his grey hairs and sightless eyes, nor remembered all he had done for them, but thought only how the plague might be stayed. even eteocles and polyneices, his own sons, showed no pity, but would have let him go forth alone, that they might live on the fatness of the land. for their hardness of heart they were punished long after, when they quarrelled as to which should be king, and brought down the flood of war upon thebes, and fell each by the other's hand in deadly strife. of all his children, antigone alone refused to let him go forth a solitary wanderer, and would listen to none of his entreaties when he spoke of the hardness of the way that would lie before them. "nay, father," she cried; "thinkest thou that i could suffer thee to wander sightless and blind in thine old age with none to stay thy feeble steps or lend thee the light of their eyes?" "the road before us is hard and long, my child, and no man can say when my soul shall find rest. the ways of the world are cruel, and men love not the cursed of the gods. as for thee, heaven bless thee for thy love; but thou art too frail and tender a thing to eat of the bread and drink of the waters of sorrow." "ah, father, thinkest thou that aught could be more bitter than to sit in the seat of kings whilst thou wanderest a beggar on the face of the earth? nay, suffer me to go with thee, and stay thy steps in the days of thy trial." nothing he could say would dissuade her. so they two set out alone upon their wanderings, the old man bowed down beneath the weight of sorrow, and the young girl in the freshness of youth and beauty, with a great love in her heart--a bright, burning love which was the light by which she lived, and a light which never led her astray. for love guided her into desolate places and through many a pathless wilderness, and at length brought her in the flower of her maidenhood to the very gates of death; yet when the cloud of earthly sorrow hung darkest over her head, love it was that lifted the veil of doubt, and cast about her name a halo of glory that will never fade. and all the story of her love and how she buried her brother polyneices, though she knew it was death to cast so much as a handful of dust upon his body, you may read in one of the noblest plays that has ever been written. so she and oedipus set out upon their wanderings. at first oedipus was filled with shame and bitterness, and cursed the day of his birth and his evil fate; but as time went on he remembered the words of teiresias--how at his death he should be a blessing to the land of his last resting-place; and the hope sprang up in his heart that the gods had not forsaken him, but would wipe out the stain of his sin, and make his name once more glorious among men. daily this hope grew stronger and brighter, and he felt that the days of wandering and expiation were drawing to a close, and a mysterious power guided his steps he knew not whither, except that it was towards the goal of his release. so they wandered on across the theban plain and over dim cithæron, till they came to the torch-lit strand of eleusis and demeter's sacred shrine, and the broad plain of rarus, where triptolemus first taught men to drive a furrow and sow the golden grain. and they went along the sacred way which leads to athens, with the circling mountains on their left, and to the right the blue saronic gulf and the peaks of sea-girt salamis. and many a hero's grave did they pass and many a sacred shrine, for all along that road men of old raised monuments to the undying glory of the dead and the heritage of honour which they left to unborn generations. and always antigone tended the old man's feeble steps, and lent him the light of her young eyes, till at length they came to white colonus and the grove of the eumenides. there she set him on a rock to rest his weary limbs. and the soft spring breezes played about them, and the clear waters of cephisus flowed sparkling at their feet to the fertile plain below. in the dark coverts and green glades the nightingale trilled her sweet song, and the grass was bright with many a golden crocus and white narcissus bloom. as he sat there a great calm filled the old man's heart, for he felt that the days of his wandering were done. but while they were resting a man from the village happened to pass, and when he saw them he shouted out, "ho! there, impious wanderers, know ye not that ye sit on sacred land and trespass on hallowed ground?" then oedipus knew more surely than ever that the day of his release had come. "oh, stranger!" he cried, "welcome is that which thou sayest. for here shall the words of the prophet be fulfilled, when he said that in a grove of sacred trees my spirit should find rest." but the man was not satisfied, and he called to a band of his countrymen who were in the fields close by. and they came up and spoke roughly to oedipus, and asked his name and business. when he told them they were filled with horror, for all men had heard of the slaying of laius, and they would have turned him out by force. but oedipus raised himself from the rock on which he was seated, and in spite of his beggar's rags and sightless eyes, there was a majesty about his face and form that marked him as no common man. "men of colonus," he said, "ye judge by the evil i have done, and not by the good. have ye forgotten the days when the name of oedipus was honoured throughout the land? of a truth the days of darkness came, and the stain of my sin found me out. but now is my wrathful spirit curbed, and the gods will make me once more a blessing to men. go, tell your king theseus, who rules in athena's sacred citadel, that oedipus is here, and bid him come with all speed if he would win a guardian for this land, an everlasting safeguard for his city in days of storm and stress." so they sent off a messenger in hot haste, for there was a mysterious power about the aged wanderer that none could withstand. and soon theseus arrived, himself a mighty hero, who had made athens a great city and rid the country of many a foul pestilence. and he greeted oedipus courteously and kindly, as befitted a great prince, and offered him hospitality. but oedipus said, "the hospitality i crave, o king, is for no brief sojourn in this land. nay, 'tis an everlasting home i ask. for the hand of heaven is upon me, and full well i know that this day my soul shall leave this frail and broken body. and to thee alone is it given to know where my bones shall rest--to thee and thy seed after thee. as long as my bones shall remain in the land, so long shall my spirit watch over it, and men shall call upon my name to turn the tide of battle and stay the flood of pestilence and war. wilt thou come with me, o king, whither the gods shall lead, and learn the secret of my grave?" then theseus bowed his head, and answered, "show thou the way, and i will come." so oedipus turned and led the way into the grove, and theseus and antigone followed after. for a mysterious power seemed to guide him, and he walked as one who could see, and his steps were strong and firm as those of a man in his prime. straight into the grove did he go till they came to the heart of the wood, where there was a sacred well beneath a hollow pear-tree. close by was a great chasm going deep down into the bowels of the earth, and men called it the gate of hades, the kingdom of the dead. here, too, the awful goddesses were worshipped under a new and gentler name. for after they had driven the murderer orestes up and down the land for his sin, he came at length to athens to stand his trial before gods and men. and mercy tempered justice and released him from blood-guiltiness, and the furies laid aside their wrath and haunted him no more. so the people of athens built them shrines and sanctuaries, and worshipped them as eumenides, the kindly maidens. and now once more a wanderer was to find rest there from his sin. when they reached the well, oedipus sat down upon a rock and called his daughter to his side, and said, "antigone, my child, thy hand hath ministered to me in exile, and smoothed the path for the wanderer's feet. go now, fetch water, and pour libation and drink-offering to the gods below. it is the last thing thou canst do for me on earth." so antigone fetched water from the well, and dressed and tended him, and poured libation to the gods. and when she had finished, oedipus drew her to him and kissed her tenderly, and said, "grieve not for me, my child. well i know that thy heart will ache, for love hath made light the burden of toil. but for me life's day is done, and i go to my rest. do thou seek thy brethren, and be to them as thou hast been to me. my child, my child, hard is the way that lies before thee, and my soul yearneth over thee for the evil day that shall come. but look thou to thine own pure heart, on which the gods have set the seal of truth that changeth not with passing years, and heed not the counsels of men." and he held her closely to him, and she clung weeping about his neck. as they sat a hush fell upon the grove, and the nightingales ceased their song, and from the depths of the grove a voice was heard like the voice of distant thunder. "oedipus, oedipus, why dost thou tarry?" when they heard it they were afraid. but oedipus rose up and gently put his daughter from him, saying, [illustration: "with firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and theseus followed after."] "lo! the voice of zeus, who calleth me. fare thee well, my child; thou canst go no further with me. for theseus only is it meet to see the manner of my death, and he and i must go forward alone into the wood." with firm, unfaltering steps he led the way once more, and theseus followed after. and what happened there none can tell, for theseus kept the secret to his dying day. but men say that when he came out of the wood his face was as the face of one who had seen things passing mortal speech. as for oedipus, the great twin brethren sleep and death carried his bones to athens, where the people built him a shrine, and for many a long year they honoured him as a hero in the land of attica. for though the sin that he sinned in his wrath and ignorance was great and terrible, yet his life had brought joy to many men and prosperity to more lands than one. for with wisdom and love he guided his days, and with sorrow and tears he wiped out the stain of his sin, so that, in spite of all he suffered, men love to tell of the glory and wisdom of oedipus, and of how he solved the riddle of the sphinx. eros and psyche i in the blue waters of the Ægean sea, midway between greece and egypt, lies the fertile land of crete. here, long, long ago, when the gods still walked on earth in human form and the sons of men were as children playing in a fair garden, there ruled a king who was the father of three lovely daughters. they lived in a palace in the rich omphalian plain, beneath the shade of snow-capped ida, surrounded by smiling gardens and fruitful vineyards, with a glimpse, away to the southward, of the sparkling mediterranean sea. so great was the beauty of these three maidens that their fame went abroad throughout all the land, and wealthy wooers flocked from far and wide to win their hands in marriage. the two elder sisters soon became the brides of two great princes, and were well content to pass their days in the sunshine of their husbands' love and admiration, and to deck themselves with gold and jewels, and listen to the praise of their beauty upon the lips of men. for the gods had given them grace of form and feature, but their souls within were vain and foolish, so that in after-years, when they found their sister more blessed than they, their vanity and envy brought them to an evil end. the youngest sister, whose name was psyche, continued to live on at home long after the other two were married. in face and form she was as fair as they, whilst her soul within was so pure and beautiful that it shed a heavenly radiance about her, so that when men looked into her face all thoughts of love and wooing died out of their hearts, and they worshipped her as one of the immortals. wherever she passed voices were hushed and heads were bowed in prayer, till at length it was rumoured that aphrodite herself, the queen of love, had come to live with men. the temples stood deserted and the altars bare of sacrifice, and from far and wide men flocked to psyche with gifts and garlands and songs of praise. then foam-born aphrodite, queen of love, was filled with jealousy and wrath that a mortal should usurp her place and name, and she cast about in her mind for some means of revenge. "verily, i must make this cretan maiden rue the day when first men laid my offerings at her feet. i will smite her with so dire a malady that her very beauty shall be turned to scorn, and the heights to which her impious pride hath raised her shall be as nought to the depths of her shame and misery." thereupon she sent for her son, the great god eros, who lords it over gods and men. the poison of his fiery darts none can withstand, and with him it rests to burn men's hearts with the fever of unsatisfied desire, or so to temper the venom of his shafts that it runs like heavenly nectar through the veins. yet the joy that he gives withal is akin to madness, and the torture of his wrath a frenzy unquenchable. "best-beloved son," she said, "if thou carest aught for thy mother's name and fame, thou wilt hasten now to do my bidding. in midmost crete there dwells a maid--psyche by name--whose impious pride hath cast dishonour on my godhead. the offerings that are mine by right are cast before her feet. my temples stand devoid of worshippers, who flock to pay her court; and all this not in crete alone, but from the farthest shores of hellas men cross the sea in white-winged ships to gaze upon her face. go now, i pray thee, and smite her with a poisoned arrow from thy bow. make her to love some loathly monster, deformed in soul and body, and with a passion so shameless and all-consuming that men shall spurn her, even as now they haste to pay their vows. as thou lovest me, go with all speed and do my bidding." so eros sped away to fulfil aphrodite's command, and plant in the heart of psyche the image of a dark and dreadful monster, and make her love it. as she slept he came and stood beside her, armed with his bow and poisoned arrows. but when he looked upon her his arm fell lifeless by his side, and the arrows slipped out of his hand, for never had he looked on one so fair; and her beauty smote his heart as surely as ever one of his own shafts had pierced a mortal's breast. from that moment he loved her with all his soul, and swore that no harm should ever come to her through him, but that he himself and no other, whether man or monster, should be her bridegroom. and he picked up the arrow and put it back into the sheath. "if she can trust me," he said, "she shall never feel a wound from one of these. i will carry her away, and she shall be mine; but till the gods are reconciled that i should wed a mortal, and my mother's anger is appeased, i must visit her only in the night-time, and she must not know who i am nor see my face. when the gods have proved her and found her worthy of me, then will i reveal myself to her, and through my love she shall be immortal, and dwell with me for ever in the shining courts of heaven." and he bent over and kissed her lightly on the lips. she smiled in her sleep and held out her arms towards him, and he knew that his kiss had kindled in her heart the light of love. aphrodite, meanwhile, with her mind at rest, took her way along the shell-strewn curve of a sandy bay, and laughing ripples made music at her feet. the sun was slowly sinking to his bed in ocean's stream, and night rode in her crescent car across the calm green vault of heaven. from aphrodite's feet a broad gold path of light led straight to the sunset realms of helios, the sun-god, and as she waited on the shore, a band of dolphins ploughed the sea towards her. in their wake came tritons blowing on soft-voiced conches, and some drew a pearly shell behind and pushed it to the shore and bade her enter. "great helios bids thee to his midnight revelry, o queen of love," they cried, "and we are come to guide thee along the golden pathway to the glowing palaces of sunset land." as the goddess stepped into the shell, they blew a loud salute upon their conches, and spread a silken sail above her head, and with music and laughter they crossed the shining sea to the golden halls of helios. ii psyche, meanwhile, all unconscious of the wrath she had kindled in the breast of aphrodite, was pining away at home in loneliness of heart. little did she care for the worship that men paid her or for the offerings that they laid at her feet. it was for the love of a husband that she longed, and her soul was starving in the midst of rich gifts and the rapt, adoring gaze of worshippers. her melancholy fastened on the king her father, and on all the palace, and soothsayers and augurs crowded round the doors with omens, charms, and riddling words, and prophesied all manner of evil. at last the king could bear it no longer, and he set forth on pilgrimage to apollo's shrine at delphi, and made question of the oracle. "have the gods ordained that psyche, my daughter, should die unwed, though the fairest maid on earth, or doth some bridegroom await her who tarrieth long? o god of light, reveal his name, and save my child from death." then the tripod shook, and from the midst of the incense and vapour the priestess made reply, "think not of marriage-songs, o king, or bridal torches. on a lonely rock on snow-clad ida must thou leave thy child, the bride of no mortal man. but a savage monster shall come, the terror of gods and men, and shall bear her away to his own land, and thine eyes shall see her no more. wherefore make ready the funeral feast. bring forth your sable robes of mourning, and bid the minstrels raise a dirge for the dead. for so the gods have willed it." so the king went sadly home, and his heart was heavy within him. and all the people mourned with him; for they loved the fair princess, with her beautiful sad face and her kind and noble heart. all manner of tales went abroad of the monster she must wed, some saying one thing and some another. but most men thought it must be talus, the great giant who guarded crete. three times every day did he walk round the island, and woe to any stranger who fell in his path or tried to land when he was by. for from top to toe he was made of burning metal--gold and silver and bronze and iron--while through his body ran one single vein that was filled with fire and fastened in his head with a nail. if any man tried to thwart him, he would gather him up in his great bronze arms and hold him to his breast, red-hot with the fire in his vein, and when he was well cooked through he would devour him. many a long year after, when jason sailed by with the heroes of the golden fleece, talus rushed down, and would have stopped them from watering their ship, and have turned them adrift on the salt seas to be tortured to death with thirst. but medea, jason's dark witch-wife, beguiled him with fair promises, and made him cool his burning body in the sea before she would come near. then when she had him under her spells she softly drew the nail from his head, and the fire flowed forth from his vein, and all his strength departed, and he died with a curse on his lips for medea and her wiles. but she only laughed aloud, and bade jason water the ship and thank the immortal gods that he had a witch-woman to wife. that, however, was long after, and talus was now in the prime of life, and the terror of all the country-side. meanwhile, the land was plunged in mourning, and in the palace all was bustle and confusion in preparation for the funeral rites. all day long the old king sat in his chamber, and looked out towards the lonely heights of ida, where his daughter was to be left. "better that she should die in her maidenhood," he cried, "than wed this terrible monster." psyche alone in all the palace was calm, and tried to comfort her father. "sire," she said, as she put her arms about his neck, "to look on thy tears is to me more bitter than my fate. weep not for me, for something within me bids me take comfort, and i hear a sweet voice say, 'rejoice, beloved, and come with me.' dark was that day, my father, when first men laid their offerings at my feet, and my heart dwelt apart in its loneliness. and now, if but for one day i may look upon the face of my bridegroom, i would gladly die. for, methinks, it is no monster i must wed." but the king thought only of the words of the oracle, and would not be comforted. at length the bridal day dawned, and the sad procession wound slowly from the palace towards ida. choruses of singers led the way with solemn dirges for the dead, and the king, uncrowned, followed with his nobles clad in armour and holding blazing torches in their hands. next came psyche, all in white, with a bridal veil and garlands, and surrounded by white-robed maidens; and last of all the people of the city followed with loud wailing and lamentation. up the steep mountain road they went, and the path grew rougher and narrower step by step. on either side the dark rocks frowned down upon them, and echoed to and fro the wailings of the people as they passed, and above them the snow-capped peak of ida stood out against the summer sky, like a lonely sentinel keeping watch over the plain below. slowly the shadows of the rocks lengthened across the barren slopes, and the funeral torches shone pale in the glowing sunset light. at last they reached the appointed place beneath the unmelting snow, and on the barren rock they set the maiden, and bade her a sorrowful good-bye. ever and anon they turned back to look on her as they wound down the mountain-track, and always she waved to them a fond farewell. at length the shadows fell on all the mountain-side, and only the snow-clad peak flashed like a ruby in the last rays of the sun, and as they looked backward for the last time they saw psyche transformed in the golden light. her white dress shone like a rainbow, and her golden hair fell about her shoulders like a stream of fire, and as she raised her arm to wave to them she looked like no mortal maid, but a goddess in all her beauty, so that the people hushed their voices and bowed their heads before her. soon the light faded, and they could see her no more. sadly they went their way, and all down the mountain-track and across the plain below the torches shone out like pale twinkling stars in the darkness. psyche, meanwhile, left alone, pondered sadly on her fate, and wondered what the night would bring. and as she sat and pondered, a soft breeze played about her, filling her veil and robe, and gently she felt herself lifted from the rock and borne through the air, till she was laid down upon a grassy bank sweet with the scent of thyme and violets. here a deep sleep fell upon her, and she knew no more. iii day was dawning when psyche awoke, and high up in the bright air the larks were singing their morning hymn to the sun, and calling on bird and beast and flower to awake and rejoice in the glad daylight. at first she could remember nothing of what had happened, and wondered where she was; then slowly all the sad ceremony of the day before came back to her--the funeral procession up mount ida, the lonely rock on which she had been left, and the soft west wind that had borne her away. so she rose up from the green bank on which she had slept all night, and looked round about her to see what manner of land she was in. she found herself standing on a hillock in the midst of a fertile plain. steep cliffs rose up on every side as though to guard the peaceful valley, and keep out any evil thing that would enter in. to the eastward only was there a break in the mountain-chain, and the dale widened out towards the sea. as psyche gazed, the golden disc of the sun rose slowly from the water, and his bright rays lit up the grey morning sky and scattered the silvery mist that hung about the tree-tops. on either side of her was a wood, with a green glade between sloping up towards a marble temple, which flashed like a jewel in the rays of the rising sun. and psyche was filled with wonder at the sight, for it seemed too fair to be the work of human hands. "surely," she thought, "it must be the handiwork of the lame fire-god hephæstos, for he buildeth for the immortal gods, who sit on high olympus, and none can vie with him in craft and skill." then she looked about her to see if anyone were near. but all around was quiet and still, with no signs of human habitation. wondering the more, she drew near to the temple, and went up the marble stairs that led to the entrance. when she reached the top her shadow fell upon the golden gate, and, as she stood doubting what to do, they slowly turned on their hinges, and opened to her of their own accord, and she walked through them into the temple. she found herself in a marble court surrounded by pillars and porticoes which re-echoed the soft music of a fountain in the midst. through the open doors of the further colonnade she caught a glimpse of cool dark rooms, with carvings of cedar-wood and silver and silken hangings. and now the air was filled with music and sweet voices calling her by name. "psyche, lady psyche, all is thine. enter in." so she took courage and entered. all day long she wandered about the enchanted palace discovering fresh wonders at every step. even before she knew it the mysterious voices seemed to guess every wish of her heart. when she would rest they led her to a soft couch. when she was hungry they placed a table before her spread with every dainty. they led her to the bath, and clothed her in the softest silks, and all the while the air was filled with songs and music. all this time she had not said a word, for she feared she might drive away the kindly voices that ministered to her. but at last she could keep silence no longer. "am i a goddess," she asked, "or is this to be dead? do those who pass the gates of death feel no change, nor suffer for what they have done, but have only to wish for a thing to gain their heart's desire?" the voices gave her never a word in answer, but led her to the chamber where her couch was spread with embroidered coverlets. the walls all round were covered with curious paintings, telling of the deeds of gods and heroes--how golden aphrodite loved ares, the god of war, and apollo the nymph daphne, whom he changed into a laurel-tree that never fades. there was ariadne, too, upon her island, whom the young god dionysus found and comforted in her sore distress; and adonis, the beautiful shepherd, the fairest of mortal men. psyche, tired out by all the wonders she had seen during the day, sank down upon her couch, and was soon asleep. but sleep had not long sealed her lids before she was awakened by a stir in the room. the curtain over her head rustled as though someone were standing beside her. she lay still, almost fainting with terror, scarcely daring to breathe, when she heard a voice softly call her by name. "psyche, my own, my beloved, at last i have got thee, my dear one." and two strong arms were round her and a kiss upon her lips. then she knew that at last the bridegroom she had waited for so long had come to claim her, and in her happiness she cared not to know who he was, but was content to feel his arms about her and hear her name upon his lips. and so she fell asleep again. when she awoke in the morning her first thought was to look on the face of the husband who had come in the dark night, but nowhere could she find him. all the day she passed in company of the mysterious voices who had ministered to her before; but though their kindness and courtesy was never failing, she wandered disconsolately about the empty halls, longing for the night-time, and wondering whether her lover would come again. as soon as it was dark she went again to her chamber, and there once more he came to her and swore that she was his for evermore, and that nothing should part them. but always he left her before it was light and came to her again when night had fallen, so that she never saw his face nor knew what he was like. yet so well did she love and trust him that she never cared to ask him his secret. so the days and nights sped swiftly by, for in the daylight psyche found plenty to amuse her in the enchanted palace and garden, and she did not think of loneliness when every night she could hold sweet converse with her beloved. but one evening when he came to her he was troubled, and said, "psyche, my dear one, great danger threatens us, and i must needs ask thee somewhat that shall grieve thy tender heart." "mine own lord," she said, "what can there be that i would not gladly do for thee?" "well do i know, beloved, that thou wouldst give thy life for me. but that which i ask will grieve thee sore, for thou must refuse the boon thy sisters shall ask thee." "my sisters! they know not where i am. how, then, can they ask me a boon?" "even now they stand upon the lonely rock where thou wast left for me, to see if they can find thee or learn aught of thy fate. and they will call thee by name through the echoing rocks, but thou must answer them never a word." "what, my lord! wouldst thou have my sisters go home disconsolate, thinking that i am dead? nay, surely, thou wouldst not be so hard of heart? but let me bid the soft west wind, that wafted me hither, bring them too, that they may look upon my happiness and take back the tidings to mine aged sire." "psyche, thou knowest not what thou askest. foolish of heart are thy sisters, and they love the trappings and outward show of woe, and with their mourning they wring their father's aching heart till he can bear it no more. so he hath sent them forth to see whether they can hear aught of thy fate. and, full of their own hearts' shallow grief, they seek thee on the mountain-side, thinking to find thy bones bleaching in the rays of the sun. were they to see thy happiness, their hearts would be filled with envy and malice. they would speak evil of me, and taunt thee on thine unknown lord, and bid thee look upon my face and see lest i be some foul monster. and psyche, mine own wife, the night that thou seest my face shall be the night that shall part us for evermore, and thy first look shall be thy last. therefore answer them not, i pray thee, but stay with me and be my bride." and psyche was troubled at these words, for she thought her husband wronged her sisters. nevertheless, unwilling to displease him, she said, "i will do thy will, my lord, even as thou sayest." yet all the day long she thought on her sisters wandering on the bleak mountain-side, and how they would call for her by name, and at length go sadly home to her father's house and bring no comfort. the more she thought on it the sadder she became, and when her husband came to her, her face was wet with tears. in vain he tried to comfort her. she only sobbed the more. "all my joy is turned to bitterness," she said, "when i think on the grief that bows down my father's heart. if but for one day i could bring my sisters here and show them my happiness, they would bear the news to him, and in my joy he would be happy too. let them but come and look at this fair home of mine, and surely it will not harm me or thee, my dear lord?" "i have not the heart to refuse thee, psyche," he said, "though it goeth against me to grant this. i fear that evil will come. if they ask thee of me, answer them not." psyche was overjoyed at his consent, and thanked him, and put her arms about his neck and said, "my dearest lord, all thou sayest i will do. for wert thou eros, the god of love himself, i could not love thee more." iv the next day, when psyche was left alone, she went out into the valley to see whether she could hear her sisters calling her. and sure enough, she had not gone far, when high up above her head, from the top of the cliff, she heard her name, "psyche, o psyche! where art thou?" at this she was overjoyed, "o gentle zephyr!" she called, "o fair west wind! waft, oh, waft my sisters to me!" scarcely had she said the words than she saw her sisters gently borne down from the cliff above and set upon the ground beside her. she fell upon their necks and kissed them. "ah, my dear sisters," she cried, "how happy am i to see you! welcome to my new home. see, i am not tortured, as you thought. nay, my life is bliss, as you shall see for yourselves. come, enter in with me." and she took them by the hand and led them through the golden gates. the ministering voices played soft music in the air, and a rich feast was spread before them. all through the palace psyche led them, and showed them all her treasures, and brought out her choicest jewels, and bade them choose out and keep as many as they wished. all this time, though there was no corner of the palace that she kept hidden from them, she spoke no word of her mysterious husband. at length they could contain their curiosity no longer, and one made bold to ask her, "psyche, thou livest not here alone, of a surety. yet where is thy lord? all thy treasures hast thou shown us, but him, the giver of all, we have not seen. who is he, then? surely he, whom the winds and bodiless voices obey, must be a god, and no mortal man. tell us of him, we pray thee." and psyche remembered her husband's warning. "my lord," she said, "is a huntsman bold, and over hill and dale he rides this day after the swift-footed stag. as fair as the dawn is he, and the first down of youth is on his cheek. all through the hours of sunlight he goeth forth to the chase, and at eventime he returneth to me." it was now close on night, and the shadows fell long across the cool green lawns of the garden. psyche bethought her that it was high time for her sisters to go, before they could ply her with questions. so, kissing them farewell, and sending many a loving message to the king her father, she called on zephyr to waft them away to the top of the cliff. hitherto the surprise and wonder at all they had seen and heard had filled the minds of the two sisters. but when they found themselves once more alone upon the barren mountain-slopes, they had leisure to think and compare their lot with that of their sister. before they had seen her golden halls they had been quite content with their own palaces. but these now seemed humble beside the splendours they had just left. their shallow hearts were quite filled up with the image of themselves, and they had no room left for their sister. but now her good fortune forced the remembrance of her upon them, and they were filled with an envy and jealousy of her which conquered even their love for themselves. they could not be content to return once more to their homes, and receive the homage of their husbands and their households. their one thought was how they might spoil her happiness. for the hatred that is born of self-love is an all-consuming passion that burns up every kind and noble thought, as a forest fire burns up the tall trees that stand in the path of its fury. "how cruel and unjust," cried one, "that she, the youngest, should be blest so far above us both. my lord is a very beggar to him who giveth psyche her golden halls to dwell in." "yea, and mine is an old man by the side of this beardless youth. sister, thy grief and mine are one. side by side let us work, and verily her cunning shall be great if she can avail against us and keep her ill-gotten wealth." "thou sayest well. 'twas from pride that she welcomed us to her halls to flaunt her riches before us. sister, i am with thee. quickly let us plan some plot to unrobe this upstart maiden of her vaunted godhead." whereupon they agreed together to bring their father no word of psyche's happiness. they tore their robes and loosed their hair, as though all this while they had been wandering over the rough mountain rocks. "ah, sire," they cried, "how can we tell thee the evil tidings? nowhere can we find our sister, or any trace of her. verily, the oracle lieth not, and she is the bride of some fell monster." their cruel words smote their father to the heart, and quenched the feeble spark of hope that still burned in his breast. and when all hope leaves the heart of man, life leaves him, too. so the old king died, and his blood was on the hands of his own children, and one day they paid the penalty with their lives. meanwhile, psyche lived on in the happy valley in blissful content. her husband would often warn her that her sisters were plotting her ruin, but she would listen to nothing against them. at last one night he said, "psyche, to-morrow thy sisters will seek thee once again. this time they will not wait for zephyr to bear them down, but, trusting themselves to the barren air, they will hurl themselves from the cliff, and be dashed to pieces on the rocks below. leave them to their fate. 'twill be due penalty for their crime, and 'tis the only way that we can be saved, beloved." "my lord," cried psyche, "thy cruelty would kill my love for thee, were it not immortal. but, in very truth, all my joy would be slain did i know that my sisters were killed when i could have saved them. oh, dearest husband, by the love that makes us one, i beseech thee, send zephyr once more to bear my sisters hither." and she sobbed so pitifully and prayed so earnestly that once again he had not the heart to refuse. so about noontide the next day psyche heard loud knocking and cries at the door, and she hastened to open it herself to her sisters. again she kissed them, and bade them welcome, and they deceived her with flattery and honeyed words, and when she was off her guard one said, "come, tell us, psyche, thy husband's name. among the immortal gods, where doth he take his place, and why is he not here to greet us?" "my husband," she replied, "is a rich merchant. many a long year hath it taken to build up all the fortune you behold, for already the hair about his temples is touched with snow. and this day hath he gone a long journey to a distant town in search of rich merchandise, and he returneth not till the setting of the sun." then quickly she called on zephyr to bear them away before they could ply her with questions. when her husband came that night he was more troubled than before, and begged her to see them no more, but let them be dashed to death on the rocks if they troubled her again. her pure heart, however, would believe no evil of them; and in this one thing she disobeyed her lord. v meanwhile, the second visit of the sisters to psyche in her beautiful home had but served to add fuel to the fire of their envy. when they remembered her confusion and the different tales she had told them about her unknown lord, jealousy whispered in their ears that all her happiness depended on the keeping of her secret, and that secret they straightway determined to know. "'tis a strange lord, methinks," said one, "who in the waxing and waning of a single moon doth change from a beardless boy to a grave and reverend merchant whose hair is touched with snow." "true, sister. and therein lieth the secret of her happiness. her lying tale but proves that she hath never seen her lord. and verily, he who would hide his face from the queen of his heart must be some child of the immortals, whose love for an earth-born maid must be hid from gods and men." "yea, and they who are loved of the immortals are themselves immortal, too, and their seed after them. truly, sister, that psyche should be a goddess is more than i can bear." "i feel with thee! it is not meet that the youngest should have all. let us invent some lying tale which shall make her look upon her lord, and break the spell which binds him to her." "what sayest thou to the words of the oracle that doomed her to wed a monster? let us go to her and say that now we know this to be true, and beg her to flee from a fate so vile." so once more they trusted themselves to zephyr, for psyche had prevailed upon her lord to promise that, so long as her sisters should do her no harm, zephyr should always be waiting to carry them to and fro from her. early the next day she was aroused from sleep by the sound of weeping and lamentation at her door, and she hastened to meet her sisters, fearing some ill news. and they fell upon her neck, crying, "alas, alas, for thine evil fate!" "mine evil fate, sisters? what mean ye? all is well with me." "ah, so thou thinkest in thine heart's innocence. even so falleth the dove a victim to the hawk that wheeleth above." "what talk is this of doves and hawks? come, my sisters, weep no more, for in this pleasant vale even the winds of heaven breathe gently on me, so good and great is my lord who commandeth them." "thy lord! hast ever seen his face, child, that thou callest him good and great?" "nay," she answered, blushing to think that they had guessed her secret, "'tis true i have not seen his face, but what need to look upon him when all around me breathes of his love for me?" "hast never heard tell of foul monsters that wed with the daughters of men, and come to them only in the night season, when the darkness can hide their deformity? they cast a spell about their victims, and by their wiles and enchantments they make all things about them seem fair. but one day, when they have had their fill, and tire of the maid they have won, lo! at a word the pleasant palaces and gardens vanish into air, and she is left all ashamed and deserted, and scorned by gods and men. ah, sister, be warned by those who wish thee well, and flee from thy vile lot ere all is lost. even yesterday, when we left thee, we saw a monstrous shape that glided after us through the wood, and we fled in terror, knowing it was thy lord, who would not have us near thee. come with us now, and be saved." when psyche heard their words she was very troubled. truly, 'twas strange that her lord should be loath for her to see her sisters, unless, indeed, it was even as they said, and she was the prey of some terrible beast. yet his kind and loving words and his tender thought for her welfare and all the beauty that surrounded her gave the lie to such a thought. "my dear sisters," she cried, "i thank you for your loving fears for me, but it cannot be as you say. though i have never looked upon my lord, these fair halls and gardens do but mirror forth the beauty of his soul, and i know that he is true." "then why doth he hide his face? at least, if thou wilt not flee with us now, do but put him to the test when he comes this night. a glimpse at his form will tell thee that our tale is true; and if by some strange chance it be not so, what harm can one glance do?" thus they tempted her, and made her doubt her lord, though sore against her will. so it often happens that the pure of heart are tortured by the doubts which the wicked plant in their breasts. as little does a young bird in the greenwood suspect the hunter's snare as did psyche in her loving innocence suspect the malicious envy of her sisters. but they were filled with joy at the success of their plot, and when zephyr had borne them to the top of the cliff they could contain their gladness no longer, but fell upon each other's necks and kissed and danced for glee. but psyche at their bidding made ready to look upon her lord that night. under a chair she placed a lighted lamp in readiness, and shrouded it about, that the light might not shine into the room and betray her purpose. trembling she went to bed that night, for she hated the deed she must do. at the usual hour her lord came and spoke lovingly to her, and kissed her, but her words died away upon her lips, and she shuddered at his embrace. in time he fell asleep, and his breathing was gentle and even as that of a child sweetly dreaming in its innocence of heart. then she rose up silently in the dead of night, and walking softly to the chair, she took the lamp from beneath and turned on tiptoe to the bed. high above her head she held the light, that the rays might fall more gently on him as he slept, and with bated breath she drew near and looked on him. as she looked, the blood rushed headlong through her veins, and her heart beat fast within her, and her limbs seemed turned to water as she bent forward to look more closely. for on the bed, wrapped in deep slumber, lay no terrible monster, as she feared, but the youngest and fairest of the immortals--eros, the great god of love. the gleam of his golden locks was as sunshine on the summer sea, and his limbs like the eddying foam. from his shoulders sprang two mighty wings bright as the rainbow, and by his side lay his quiver and darts. as he moved restlessly in the light of the lamp she heard her name upon his lips. with a low cry she fell on her knees beside him, and as she did so her arm grazed the point of an arrow placed heedlessly in the sheath. the poison ran like liquid fire through her veins, and set her heart aflame, and with blazing cheeks she bent over and kissed him on the lips. as she did so the lamp trembled in her hand, and a drop of the burning oil fell upon his shoulder, and he started up and found her bending over him. "ah, wretched, wretched psyche!" he cried; "what hast thou done? couldst thou not trust me, who gave thee all the happiness thou hast ever known?" "my lord, my lord, forgive me! i would but prove to my sisters by mine own eyes' witness that thou wert not the monster that they dreaded." "thrice foolish maid! knowest thou not that doubt driveth away love? did i not tell thee that thy first look would be thy last? from a terrible fate i saved thee when aphrodite bade me strike thee with my shaft and make thee love some terrible beast. when i went forth to do her bidding thy grace and beauty conquered me, and i took thee away to be my bride; and in time, hadst thou proved worthy, my mother and all the great gods that rule above would have forgiven me, and shed on thee the gift of immortality, to live with me for ever in the courts of heaven. but now all is lost, and i must leave thee." [illustration: "on the bed, wrapped in slumber, lay the youngest and fairest of the immortals."] "ah, my lord, great is my sin, but i love thee, and my soul is thine. over the whole wide world would i wander, or be slave to the meanest of men, so be it i could find thee again. ah, dearest lord! tell me not that all hope is gone." one moment he was silent, as though doubting her. then he answered, "one way there lieth before thee, if thy courage prove greater than thy faith--one only way, by which thou canst reach me--the long rough path of trial and sorrow. heaven and earth shall turn against thee; for men win not immortality for a sigh. yet will i help thee all i may. in thine own strength alone thou wouldst faint and die by the way, but for every step thou takest i will give thee strength for two. and now farewell! i can tell thee no more, neither linger beside thee. fare thee well, fare thee well." as he vanished from her eyes psyche fell senseless on the floor, and for many a long hour she lay there, hearing and seeing nothing, as though life itself had fled. vi meanwhile the two sisters were waiting in a frenzy of impatience to know whether success had crowned their evil plot. if the doubt they had planted in psyche's breast had borne fruit, and she had dared to disobey her lord, they knew full well that all her happiness would have vanished like a dream. yet, fearing the anger of him whom the winds of heaven obeyed, they dared not trust themselves to zephyr, who had carried them down before. so they wandered restlessly from room to room, and peered from the windows, hoping that psyche in her misery would come to them and beg for succour in her evil plight. there was nothing they would have loved better than to spurn her from their doors and taunt her on the retribution which had fallen on her vanity. but all day long they waited, and yet she came not, so that at length they parted and went each one to her couch. but the night was hot and sultry, and the eldest sister lay on her bed and tossed restlessly from side to side, and could not sleep. at length she went to the casement and drew aside the curtain and looked out on the starry night, and when she had cooled her burning brow she went back to her couch. just as she was about to fall asleep she felt a shadow pass between her and the light from the window, and she opened her eyes, and her heart beat fast; for straight in the path of the moonbeams stood eros, the great god of love, and his wings stood out black against the starlit sky as he leant on his golden bow. though his face was dark in the shadow, his eyes seemed to pierce through to her heart as she lay still and trembling with fear. but he spoke softly to her with false, honeyed words. "lady, thy sister psyche, whom i chose out from the daughters of men, hath proved false and untrue, and lo! now i turn my love to thee. come thou in her stead and be mistress in my palace halls, and i will give thee immortality. lo! even now zephyr awaits thee on the mountain-top to bear thee away to my home." so saying, he faded from her sight. her wicked heart was filled with joy when she heard of psyche's fall, and she rose up in the dead of night and put on her gayest robe and brightest gems. without so much as a look on the prince her husband she went out to the mountain-top. there she stood alone, and called softly to zephyr, "o zephyr, o zephyr, o fair west wind, waft me, oh waft me away to my love!" without waiting she threw herself boldly down. but the air gave way beneath her, and with a terrible cry she fell faster and faster, down, down, to the gulf below, and was dashed to pieces on the rocks; and from the four quarters of heaven the vultures gathered and fed upon her flesh. as for the second sister, to her, too, the god appeared and spoke false honeyed words, and she too went forth alone; and in the morning her bones lay gleaming white beside her sister's on the rocks below. vii when psyche awoke from her swoon, she looked around her in bewilderment, for the scene which met her eyes was the same, and yet so different. the forest-trees waved their arms gently in the breeze, and whispered to each other in the glad morning light, and in the hedges the birds sang sweet songs of joy; for the skies were blue, and the grass was green, and summer was over the land. but psyche sat up with a dull grief in her heart, feeling over her the dim shadow of a half-forgotten woe that meets those who awake from sleep. at first she wondered where she was, for her clothes were wet with dew, and looking round the still familiar scene, she saw the green glade in the forest, but no shining palace at the top. then like a flash she remembered the night, and how by her doubt she had forfeited all her happiness, and she lay on the ground and sobbed and prayed that she might die. but soon tired out with weeping, she grew calmer, and remembered the words of her lord--how she could find him again only after long wandering and trial. though her knees gave way beneath her, and her heart sank at the thought of setting out alone into the cruel world, she determined to begin her search forthwith. through the dark forest she went, and the sun hid his face behind the pine-tops, and great oaks threw shadows across her path, in weird fantastic forms, like wild arms thrust out to seize her as she passed. with hurrying steps and beating heart she went on her way till she came out on the bleak mountain-side, where the stones cut her tender feet and the brambles tore her without mercy. but on and on she struggled along the stony road, till the path grew soft beneath her, and sloped gently downwards to the plain. here through green fields and smiling pastures a river wound slowly towards the sea, and beyond the further bank she saw the smoke from the homesteads rise blue against the evening sky. she quickened her steps, for already the shadows from the trees fell long across the fields, and the grass turned to gold in the light of the dying day. and still between her and shelter for the night lay many a broad meadow and the silver stream to cross. as she drew nearer she looked this way and that for a ford, but seeing none, she gathered together her courage, and breathing a prayer to the gods, stepped into the water. but she was weak and faint with fasting, and at every step the water grew deeper and colder, and her strength more feeble, till at length she was borne off her feet, and swept away by the hurrying tide. in her agony she cried out, "o god of love, have mercy and save me ere i die, that i may come to thee!" just as she was about to sink, she felt a strong arm seize her and draw her up on the opposite shore. for a while she lay faint and gasping for breath; but as her strength returned, she heard close beside her soft notes of music, and she opened her eyes to see whence the sweet sounds came. she found herself lying beneath a willow-tree, against which leant a strange musician. for his head and shoulders and arms were those of a man, but his legs and feet were thin and hoofed, and he had horns and a tail like a goat. his ears were pointed, his nose was wide and flat, and his hair fell unkempt and wild about his face. round his body he wore a leopard's skin, and he made sweet music on a pipe of reeds. at first she was terrified at the sight of this strange creature, but when he saw her look up at him, he stopped playing, and smiled at her; and when he smiled he puckered his face in a thousand wrinkles, and his eyes twinkled merrily through his wild elf-locks, so that none could look on him and be sad. in spite of all her woes psyche fairly laughed aloud as he began to caper round her on his spindle legs, playing a wild dance-tune the while. faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round and round, till, with a last shrill note on his pipe and a mad caper in the air, he flung himself on the grass beside her. "have i warmed the blood back to thy heart, fair maid?" he asked, "or shall i dance again the mad dance that drives away cold and despair?" "nay, merry monster, even now my sides ache with laughter. but tell me, who art thou, that savest damsels in distress, and drivest away their sorrow with thy wild piping and dance?" "i am the god of the forest and woodland and broad wide pasture lands. to me the shepherd prays to give increase to his flocks, and the huntsman for a good day's sport. in the evening, when the moon shines high o'erhead, and the sky is bright with stars, i take my pipe and play my lays in the dim dark forest glades. to the sound of my music the brook murmurs sweetly, the leaves whisper softly o'erhead, the nymphs and naiads forget their shyness, and the hamadryad slips out from her tree. then the eyes of the simple are opened, and on the cool, green grass by the side of the silver stream the goatherd, the neatherd and the young shepherd-lad dance hand-in-hand with the nymphs, and the poet, looking forth from his window, cries, 'how sweet are the pipes of pan!' [illustration: faster and faster he went, and up and down, and round and round.] "but when the dark storm-cloud rides over the sky, and the streams rush swollen with rain, with fleet foot i hurry through woodland and dell, and over the bleak mountain-tops; the crash of my hoofs on the rocks sounds like thunder in the ears of men, and the shriek of my pipe like the squall of the wild storm-wind. and i rush through the midst of the battle when the trumpets are calling to arms; but above the blare of the bugle men hear the shrill cry of my pipes. then the archer throws down his bow, and the arm of the spearman falls limp, and their hearts grow faint with panic at the sound of the pipes of pan. nay, turn not from me in terror, lady," he added, as psyche made as though she would flee, "for i wish thee no ill. 'tis gods mightier than i who have made me goat-footed, with the horns and the tail of a beast. but my heart is kindly withal, or i would not have saved thee from the stream." once more he smiled his genial smile, and puckered his face like the ripples on a lake when a breeze passes over, "come, tell me who art thou, and how can i help thee?" then psyche told her tale, and when she had finished pan was silent for a time, as though lost in thought. at length he looked up, and said, "thou seekest the great god eros? i would that i could help thee, lady; but love once fled is hard to find again. easier is it to win the dead to life than to bring back love that doubt hath put to flight. i cannot help thee, for i know not how thou canst find him, or where thou must seek. but, if thou wilt journey further, and cross many a long mile of pasture and woodland, thou wilt come to the rich corn-lands and the shrine of demeter, the great earth mother. she knows the secret of the growing corn, and how the rich fruits ripen in their season, and she will have pity on a maid like thee, because of her child persephone, whom hades snatched away from her flowery meadows and dragged below to be queen of the dead. three months she lives with him, the bride of death, in the dark world of shades, and all the earth mourns for her. the trees shed their leaves like tears on her grave, and through their bare branches the wind sings a dirge. but in the spring-time she returns to her mother, and the earth at her coming puts on her gayest robe, and the birds sing their brightest to welcome her back. at her kiss the almond-tree blushes into bloom, and the brook babbles merrily over the stones, and the primrose and violet and dancing daffodil spring up wherever her feet have touched. go, then, to demeter's shrine; for if thy love is to be sought on earth, she will tell thee where to go; but if to find him thou must cross the dark river of death, her child persephone will receive thee." he then pointed out to her the path to the village, where she could get shelter for the night, and psyche, thanking him, went on her way, gladdened at heart by the genial smile of the wild woodland god. that night she slept in a shepherd's cottage, and in the morning the children went out with her to point out the road she must go. the shepherd's wife, standing at the door, waved to her with her eyes full of tears. she had maidens of her own, and she pitied the delicate wanderer, for psyche's beautiful face had shed a light in the rude shepherd's hut which the inmates would never forget. viii so psyche went on her journey, often weak and fainting for food, and rough men laughed at her torn clothes and bleeding feet. but she did not heed their jeers and insults, and often those who had laughed the loudest when she was a little way off, were the first to hush their rude companions when they saw her near. for her face was fairer than the dawn and purer than the evening star, so that the wicked man turned away from his sin when he saw it, and the heart of the watcher was comforted as he sat by the sick man's bed. at length, as pan had told her, she came to the rich corn-lands where demeter has her shrine. already the valleys were standing thick with corn, for it was close on harvest-time, and on the hill-sides the purple grapes hung in heavy clusters beneath the tall elm-branches. as she drew near the temple, a band of harvesters came out. they had just placed the first-fruits of the corn in the shrine, and now they were trooping to the fields, a merry throng of young men and maidens. psyche stood back shyly as they passed, but they heeded her not, or at most cast a curious glance at her ragged clothes and bruised feet. when they had passed her, and she had heard their merry laughter and chatter die away down the lane, she ventured to enter the temple. within all was dark and peaceful. before the altar lay sheaves of corn and rich purple clusters of grapes, whilst the floor was strewn with the seeds and bruised fruits which the harvesters had let fall when they carried in their offerings. hidden in a dark corner psyche found the temple-sweeper's broom, and, taking it, she swept up the floor of the temple. then, turning to the altar steps, she stretched forth her hands and prayed, "o demeter, great earth mother, giver of the golden harvest--o thou who swellest the green corn in the ear, and fillest the purple vine with gladdening juice, have mercy on one who has sinned. for the sake of thy child, persephone, the maiden, have pity on me, and tell me where in the wide world i can find eros, my lord, or whether to the dark land i must go to search for him." so she prayed, and waited for an answer; but all was still and dark in the temple, and at length she turned sorrowfully away, and leant her head against a pillar and wept. and, because she had walked many a long mile that day, and had not eaten since dawn, she sank down exhausted on the ground, and gradually her sobs grew fewer and fainter, and she fell asleep. as she slept she dreamt the temple was dark no more, but into every corner shone a soft clear light, and looking round to see whence it came, she saw, on the altar steps, the form of a woman, but taller and grander than any woman of earth. her robe of brown gold fell in stately folds to her feet, and on her head was a wreath of scarlet poppies. her hair lay in thick plaits on her bosom, like ripe corn in the harvest, and she leant on a large two-handed scythe. with great mild eyes she looked at psyche as one who has known grief and the loss of loved ones, and can read the sorrows of men's hearts. "psyche," she said, "i have heard thy prayer, and i know thy grief, for i, too, have wandered over the earth to find the child of my love. and thou must likewise wander and bear to the full the burden of thy sin; for so the gods have willed it. this much can i tell thee, and no more. thou must go yet further from the land of thy birth, and cross many a rough mountain and foaming torrent, and never let thy heart grow faint till thou come to a temple of hera, the wife of zeus the all-seeing. and if she find thee worthy, she will tell thee how thou must seek thy love." so saying, she faded from her sight, and psyche awoke and found the temple cold and dark. but in her heart she cherished the image of the great earth mother, with her large eyes full of pity, and set out comforted on her journey. too long would it be to tell of all her wanderings and all the hardships of the road, but many a moon had waxed and waned before she stood on the brow of a hill looking down on hera's shining temple. down the hill she went, and up the marble steps, and men stood aside as she passed, for her face was fairer than before, and she no longer shrank back like a hunted thing, but walked with the swinging gait of those whose feet the kind earth has hardened, and the breezes of heaven have fanned the fire in their eyes. in her heart she knew that she had conquered and borne the terrors of the path with no coward's fears, and she prayed that hera might find her worthy of doing great deeds to win back her lord. then she stood before the altar, and made her prayer, "o hera, golden-throned, who sittest on the right hand of zeus--o thou who, when the marriage-torch is lit, doth lead the bride and bridegroom to their home, and pourest blessings on their wedded love, have mercy on me, and show me where i may find my lord. far have i wandered, and drunk deep of sorrow's cup, but my heart is strong for any task that shall win back my love to me." thus she prayed, and bowed her head before the great white statue of the goddess. even as she spoke, the statue seemed to change and rise from the ivory throne in the shape of a woman tall and exceeding fair. her robes were like the clouds at sunset, and her veil like the mountain mist; on her head she wore a crown of gold, and the lightning played about her feet as she gazed at psyche with eyes that pierced through to her soul. "psyche," she said, "i have heard thy prayer, and i know that thou art true. for i am the wife of zeus, who seeth all things, and he hideth naught from me. well i know that thou hast wandered far, and suffered at the hands of men. but greater trials await thee yet, before thou canst find thy lord. thou must be slave to foam-born aphrodite, the pitiless goddess of love. and she will try thee sorely, and put thee to many a hard test ere she will forgive thee and think thee worthy of her son eros, or of the godhead men gave thee long ago. but if thou overcomest her wrath, thou hast overcome death itself, and naught can part thee from thy lord again. go, then, to where she holds her court in a pleasant valley by the sea, and forget not that the gods bless tenfold those who waste not the power that is given them, how feeble soe'er it be." so saying, she faded slowly away till psyche found herself standing once more before the pale white statue. then she turned and went through the silent temple, and out into the sunlight, and asked for the road which would lead her to the sea and aphrodite's pleasant vale. ix for many a long day she journeyed, till at length she saw the blue sea far away and a pleasant valley sloping to the shore. here the waves broke in laughing ripples on the beach, and the leaves danced gaily on the trees in the soft west wind; for aphrodite, born of the foam, the fairest of all the goddesses, held her court there, surrounded by her nymphs and maidens. as she sat on her golden throne they danced around her with their white arms gleaming, and crowned her with roses, singing the while the song of her beauty. "o foam-born aphrodite, queen of love, fairest of time's deathless daughters. thee the golden-snooded hours kiss as they pass and the circling seasons crown with grace. before thee all was fire and chaos, but at thy coming like sped to like. the earth decked herself with flowers, and the nightingale sang to her mate on the bough, and in the pale moonbeams youth and maiden sped hand in hand through the glade. thy smile is like sunshine on ripples, but the flash of thine eyes like the death-bearing gleam of the lightning; for not always art thou kind. the heart of the scorner thou breakest, and art jealous for thy rites. wherefore north and south and east and west men worship thee, both now and evermore, o goddess of ten thousand names!" as psyche drew near the nymphs espied her. with loud cries they rushed forward, and flinging chains of roses about her, dragged her forward before the throne. "a prisoner, a prisoner!" they cried--"a mortal, o queen, who has dared to enter thy sacred vale! what fate shall be hers?" and psyche knelt trembling before the throne. she dared not look up, for she felt the eyes of the goddess upon her, and the blaze of her anger burned through to her heart. "psyche, what doest thou here? knowest thou not that long ago i loved thee not, because thy beauty taught men to forget my dues, and mine own son didst thou lead to disobey my word? by thy folly hast thou lost him; and glad am i that he is rid of thy toils. think not that thy tears will move me. those who enter my sacred vale become the lowest of my slaves, and woe to them if they fail to do the task i set them. verily, thine shall be no light one, or i am not the queen of love and beauty." "o lady," answered psyche, "'twas to be thy slave and to do thy will that i came to thy sacred vale, if haply i might turn thy wrath to love and prove myself not all unworthy of thy son. great was my sin, o goddess, when i doubted him; but many are the tears i have shed, and weary the way i have wandered in search of him--yea, even to the dark underworld would i go, if so be it i could find him there. as for the worship that men paid me, zeus, who searcheth all hearts, knoweth that i lifted not mine in pride above thee. nay, doth not every gift of beauty come from thee, o mighty one? if my face hath any fairness, 'tis that it shadoweth forth thine image. weak are the hearts of men, lady, and hard is it for them to look on the sun in his might. be not angry, then, if through the mortal image that perisheth, they stretch forth blind hands towards the beauty that fadeth not away. and now on my knees i beg thee, o queen, to set me thy hardest tasks, that i may prove my love or die for mine unworthiness." as psyche was speaking the face of the goddess softened, and she answered her more gently. "thy words please me, maiden, for the gods love those who shrink not back from trial. three tasks will i set thee, and if in these thou fail not, one harder than all the others will i give thee, whereby thou shalt win thy love and immortality. go, maidens, and lead her to my garner, that she may sort the golden grain ere the sun's first rays gild the pine-tops." x at the command of the goddess the nymphs gathered round psyche, and, binding her hands with chains of roses, led her away to the garner. here they set her free, and with peals of merry laughter bade her farewell. "pray to the hundred-handed one, maiden, to help thee," cried one; "thy two hands will not go far." "nay, an hundred hundred hands could not sort the grain by sunrise," said another. "better to work with two hands," said psyche, "than idly to pray for ten thousand." but for all her brave answer her heart sank as she looked at the task before her; for she stood in the largest garner it had ever been her lot to see--wide and lofty as her father's palace-halls, and all the floor was strewn with seeds and grain of every kind--wheat, oats and barley, millet, beans and maize, which she must sort each after its kind into a separate heap before the sun should rise. however, she set diligently to work, and minute after minute, hour after hour passed swiftly by, and the heaps kept growing by her side; yet for all her toil 'twas but a tiny corner of the garner she had cleared. feverishly she worked on, not daring to look at what remained to do. her back ached, her arms grew stiff, and her eyes felt heavy as lead, but she worked as one in a dream, and her head kept falling on her breast for weariness, till at length she could hold out no longer, but fell fast asleep upon the cold stone floor. while she slept a marvellous thing happened. from every hole and crack there appeared an army of ants--black ants, white ants, red ants--swarming and tumbling over each other in their haste. over the whole floor of the garner they spread, and each one carried a grain of seed, which it placed upon its own heap and ran quickly back for another. such myriads were there, and so quickly did they work, that by the time the first ray of the sun peeped in at the windows the floor was clear, save for the heaps of sorted grain standing piled up in the midst. the bright light pouring in at the window fell upon psyche as she slept, and with a start she awoke and began feverishly to feel about for the grain. when her eyes became accustomed to the light, how great was her joy and thankfulness to see the neat heaps before her! and as she looked round, wondering who could have been so kind a friend, she saw the last stragglers of the ants hurrying away to every crack and cranny. "o kind little people," she cried, "how can i thank you?" she had no time to say more, for the door was thrown open, and in a golden flood of sunlight the nymphs came dancing in. seeing the floor cleared and the bright heaps lying on the floor, they stopped short in amazement. "verily thou hast wrought to some purpose, maiden," said one. "nay, she could never have done it of herself," said another. "true, o bright-haired ones!" answered psyche. "i toiled and toiled, and my labour did but mock me, and at length my strength gave way and i fell asleep upon the floor. but the little folk had pity on me, and came out in myriads and sorted out the grain till all was finished. and lo! the task is accomplished." "we will see what our queen shall say to this," they answered. and binding her once more in their rosy chains, they led her to aphrodite. "hast thou swept my garner, psyche, and sorted the grain each after its kind?" she asked. "thy garner is swept and thy grain is sorted, lady," she replied, "and therein i wrought the little my feeble strength could bear. when i failed the little folk came forth and did the task." trembling, she waited for the answer, for she feared that in the very first trial she had failed. but aphrodite answered, "why dost thou tremble, psyche? the task is accomplished, and that is all i ask; for well do i know the little folk help only those who help themselves. two more tasks must thou do before i put thee to the final proof. seest thou yon shining river? on the other bank graze my flocks and herds. precious are they beyond all telling, for their skins are of pure gold. go, now, and fetch me one golden lock by sunset." so saying, she signed to the nymphs to release psyche, who went at once towards the stream, light-hearted; for this task, she thought, would be no hard one after the last. as she approached the river she saw the cattle feeding on the further bank--sheep and oxen, cows and goats--their golden skins gleaming in the sunlight. looking about for some means of crossing, she espied a small boat moored among the reeds. entering it, she unloosed the rope and pushed out into the stream. as she did so, one of the bulls on the further shore looked up from his grazing and saw her. with a snort of rage he galloped down the field, followed by the rest of the herd. right down to the water's edge they came, lashing their tails and goading with their horns, and an ill landing would it have been for psyche had she reached the shore. hastily she pushed back among the reeds, and pondered what she must do; but the more she thought the darker grew her lot. to get one single hair from the golden herd she must cross the stream, and, if she crossed, the wild bulls would goad her to death. at length in despair she determined to meet her doom, if only to show that her love was stronger than death. as she bent over the boat to loose the rope, a light breeze set the reeds a-whispering, and one seemed to speak to her. [illustration: she unloosed the rope and pushed out into the stream.] "fair lady, leave us not, for those who reach the further shore return not to us again." "farewell, then, for ever, gentle reed, for i have a task to do, though i die in the vain attempt." "ah, lady, stay here and play with us. too young and fair art thou to die." "no coward is young or fair, kind reed. and before sunset i must win a lock from a golden fleece yonder, or i shall never find my love again." and she let loose the rope. "stay, stay, gentle maiden. there i can help thee, for all my life have i watched the golden herds, and i know their ways. all day long they feed in the pleasant pasture, and woe to those who would cross over when the sun is high in heaven. but towards evening, when he is sinking in the far west, the herdsman of aphrodite cometh and driveth them home to their stalls for the night. then mayest thou cross with safety and win a lock from the golden herd." but psyche laughed aloud at his words. "thou biddest me steal the apples when the tree is bare. thy heart is kind, o reed, but thy tongue lacketh wisdom. fare thee well." "not so fast, lady. seest thou not the tall ram yonder by the thorn-bush? sweet grows the grass beneath its shade, yet to reach it he must leave a golden tribute on the thorns. even now there is a lock of his fleece caught in the branches. stay with us till the herds are gone, lady, and then canst thou win the lock of gold." "o kindest of reeds, forgive my blindness. 'tis more than my life thou hast saved, for, with the task undone, i should lose my love for ever." so all day long she stayed and talked with the reeds; and they told her that often folk came down to the stream and pushed out for the other bank. but when the cattle rushed raging to the water's edge they turned back afraid, and dared not venture forth again, but went home disconsolate. and so they heard not the whispering of the reeds nor learnt the secret of winning the golden lock. now the shadows were falling fast, and away in the distance psyche heard the horn of the herdsman and his voice calling the cattle home. at the sound they lifted their heads, and made for the gate on the far side of the field. as soon as they were safely through, psyche pushed out the boat and rowed to the other bank. swiftly she made for the thorn-bush and picked the golden lock from the bough, and as the boat glided back to the reeds, the sun sank low behind the hills. close at hand she heard the laughter of the nymphs as they came to see whether the task were done. with a smile she drew the lock of gold from her bosom, and, marvelling, they led her back to aphrodite. "thou hast a brave heart, psyche," said the goddess, as she looked at the golden lock at her feet. "the bravest heart could not have won this lock, lady, without knowing the secret which the reeds whispered to me." "well do i know that, psyche. but 'tis only the pure in heart that can understand the voice of the wind in the reeds; and thus doubly have i tried thee. take now this crystal bowl for thy third task. beyond this pleasant vale thou wilt come to a dark and barren plain. on the far side a mighty mountain rears his peak to heaven, and from the summit a spring gushes forth and falls headlong over the precipice down into the gulf below. go now and get me a draught of that stream, but see that thou break not the goblet on the way, for its worth is beyond all telling." in truth, as she held it out, the crystal gleamed brighter than the rainbow. psyche took the goblet, and the first rays of the sun found her already on the plain. far away on the other side the mountain-peak rose barren and black against the sky, and she hurried on as fast as her feet would go, lest night should fall ere she had filled the goblet. on and on she went, and at length she drew near to the mountain and looked about for a path leading up to the summit. but naught could she see save rocks and boulders and masses of crumbling stones, and there was nothing for it but to set to work to climb the rough mountain-side. clasping the goblet tightly in one hand, she clung to the rocks as best she might with the other, fearing at every step that she would slip and break her precious burden. how she ever reached the top she never knew, but at length she stood, bruised and torn, upon the summit. what was her dismay when she saw that the mountain-peak was divided by a mighty cleft, and across the abyss she saw the stream of water gushing out from the steep rock a hundred feet and more below the summit! even had she toiled down again and up on the other side the rock fell away so smooth and sheer that a mountain-goat would have no ledge on which to rest his foot. psyche sat down upon a rock to think what she must do, and the more she thought the more she felt that her last hour had come. "for the only way i can reach the water is to throw myself into the bottomless abyss, where the stream flows deep down into the bowels of the earth; and i should be dashed to pieces, but perchance the king of the underworld would have mercy on me, and let my soul return but once on earth to bear the crystal bowl to aphrodite." so saying, she stood and bade farewell to the earth and the pleasant sunlight and the fair flowers that she loved, and prepared to throw herself over the mountain-side. as she was about to spring from the edge, she heard the whirring of wings above her head, and a mighty eagle flew down and settled on the rock beside her. "far up above thy head, in the blue sky, have i watched thee, psyche, and seen thy labours on the mountain-side. too brave and true art thou to go to thy death. give me the goblet, and i will fill it. knowest thou that yonder stream is a jet which springeth up from dark cocytus, the river of wailing, which watereth the shores of the dead? no mortal can touch of that water and live, or bear it away in a vessel of earth. but this goblet is the gift of zeus almighty, and i am his messenger--the only bird of heaven that can look on the sun in his might. give me the cup, then, and i will fill it, and bear it to the mountain-foot, that thou mayest carry it back in safety." with tears of joy and thankfulness psyche gave him the goblet, and as he flew away across the dark chasm, swift as an arrow from the bow, she turned and sped down the mountain-side, heeding not the stones and boulders, so glad was she at heart. at the foot she found the eagle awaiting her. "o mightiest of birds, how can i thank thee?" she cried. "to have served thee, lady, is all the thanks i need. farewell, and may the gods prosper thee in thy last great trial." and he spread his mighty wings and flew away. psyche watched him till he grew but a tiny speck in the blue of the sky. then she turned and hastened across the plain with her precious goblet of water. the nymphs danced put to meet her as before, and led her to aphrodite. "i see thou art fearless and true, maiden," she said, when psyche had told her tale. "twice hast thou faced death without flinching, and now must thou go down to his own land; for no woman is worthy of my son's love, if she possess not beauty immortal that fadeth not with passing years. and she alone, the queen of the dead, can give thee this gift. take this casket, then, and go and kneel before her and beg her to give thee therein the essence of that beauty. when thou hast it, see thou hasten swiftly back and open not the casket; for if its fumes escape and overcome thee in the world below, thou must dwell for ever with the shades." so psyche took the casket, and her heart sank within her at the thought of that dread journey. and the nymphs waved sadly to her as she went away, for never yet had they looked on one who had returned from the dark land of shadows. xi away from the pleasant vale went psyche, for she knew full well that nowhere in that fair place could she find a way down to the world below. as a child, when she had lived in her father's halls, her nurse had told her strange tales of dark and fearsome caves which men called the mouth of hades, and how those who went down them never returned; or if one perchance, more favoured than the rest, came back into the sunlight, his face was pale and his strength departed, and he talked wildly of strange things that none could understand. far over the country-side she wandered and asked for the gate of hades, and some pitied her weakness, and some laughed at her foolishness, and all men thought her mad. "for beggar and king, for wise and foolish, the road to hades is one," they said, "and all must travel it soon or late. if thou seekest it, in very sooth, go throw thyself from off yon lofty tower, and thou wilt find it fast enough." sadly she went and stood on the tower, for she saw no other way. once again she bid farewell to the earth and the sunlight, and was about to leap from a pinnacle, when she thought she heard a voice calling her by name, and she hushed her breath and listened. "psyche, psyche," she heard, "why wilt thou pollute my stones with blood? i have done thee no wrong, yet thou wouldst make men hate me and shun the rock on which i stand. as for thee, it would avail thee nought, for thy soul would dwell for ever in the kingdom of the dead, and the shadow of thyself, faint and formless, would glide about my walls, and with thin-voiced wailing weep for thy lost love; men, hearing it, would flee from me, and for lack of the builder's care, my stones would fall asunder, and of all my proud beauty naught would be left, save a mound of moss-grown stones and thy spirit's mournful guardianship." then psyche knelt and kissed the stones. "poor tower," she said, "i would not harm thee. thou canst tell me, perchance, some better way, for i must bear this casket to the queen of the dead, and beg for a gift of beauty immortal, that i may return to the earth worthy of my lord." "hadst thou thrown thyself over the edge, thou wouldst never have come to the queen of the dead, but wailing and forlorn wouldst have wandered on the shores of the land that has no name; for betwixt that land and hades flows the wide stygian stream. one boat there is that can cross it, and therein sits charon, the ferryman of souls. greedy of gain is he and hard of heart, and none will he take across who bear not a coin of gold in their mouths. and the pale ghosts of those who have died away from their loved ones, when none were by to pay the last rites of the dead and place the gold coin in their mouths--all these flock wailing around him and beg him with heart-rending cries to take them over the stream. but to all their entreaties he turneth a deaf ear and beateth them back with his oar. e'en hadst thou prevailed on him and come to the palace of pale persephone, thou couldst not have entered in; for at the gates sits cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, and none may pass him without a cake of barley-bread. but his soul loveth the taste of earth-grown corn, and while he devours it the giver may pass by unscathed." "the coin of gold and the barley-cake i can get," she said, "but how i can reach the underworld alive i know not." "not far from hence thou wilt find the cave men call the gate of hades. in ignorance they name it, for no man hath proved where it leads. all the long years i have stood upon this rock have i watched the entrance to that cave, and men have come up and looked inside, and the boldest have entered in; but always have they come swiftly back, staggering like drunken men, with pale faces and wild eyes full of fear, and about them hangs the smell of the noisome vapours that rise up from the gates of the dead; and the old wives sitting by the fireside nod their grey heads together. 'tis the tale that our mothers told us long ago and their mothers before them,' they mutter. 'tis surely the gate of hades, and those who venture too far will never come back again.' they have guessed aright, maiden, and down that dark cavern lies thy path." "but if those who venture too far never return, how shall i bear back the essence of undying beauty in the casket?" "instead of one gold piece, take two, and two loaves of fresh-baked barley-bread. one gold coin to the ferryman and one loaf to the hound must thou give as thou goest, and keep the rest for thy return, and from greed they will let thee pass back again. tie the casket in thy bosom, and put the gold coins in thy mouth, and take the barley-loaves one in each hand. see that thou set them not down, or the pale ghosts will snatch them away; for the taste of the earth-grown meal giveth a semblance of warmth to their cold forms, and for a brief space they feel once more the glow of life. so by many a wile will they seek to make thee set down the bread; but do thou answer them never a word, for he who toucheth or answereth one of these becometh even as they are." psyche thanked him for his counsel, and went forth to beg the two gold coins and barley-loaves, and for love of her fair face the people gave it gladly. when all was ready, she set out towards the cave. about its mouth the brambles grew tall and thick, and the ivy hung down in long festoons, for none had ventured in for many a long year. as best she might, she cut a way through the prickly hedge, and stood in the shadow of the cave, and the drip of the water from the roof sent a faint echo through the vaults. through the dark pools she went, through mud and through mire, and the green slime hung like a dank pall about the walls. on and on she hastened, till her head swam round and her heart turned sick within her; for round her floated a mist of poisonous vapour, which choked her and made her gasp for breath, and monstrous shapes swept past--the furies and harpies and hundred-headed beasts which guard the gate to hades. their cries and shrieks filled the air, and every moment she shrank back, terrified that they would tear her limb from limb, as they bore down on her with the whirr of their mighty wings and their wild locks flying in the wind. across the path they stood and waved her back, and her heart turned cold with fear; but she pressed onward with hurrying steps, and lo! when she came up to them the shapes clove asunder like mist before the sun, and she passed through them, and found they were but smoke. and so she came to the nameless land that lies betwixt earth and hades; a barren, boundless plain it is, with never a tree or shrub to break the dulness of its sad mud flats. up and down it wander the shades of those whose bodies the kind earth has never covered, and they wring their hands and wail to their dear ones above, to grant them burial and the rites of the dead. for charon, the grim ferryman, beats them back from his boat, because they have no coin, and they are doomed to dwell for ever in the land that has no name. as she was crossing the dismal plain, an old man came towards her beating a laden ass. old and weak was he, and could scarce stagger along by the side of the beast, and as he came up to psyche the cords broke that bound the burden on the ass's back, and the faggots he carried were scattered all about. and he set up a dismal wailing, and wrung his pale withered hands. "gracious damsel, have mercy on an old man, and help me load my ass once more." but psyche remembered the words of the tower, and she clung the tighter to the loaves of bread, though she longed to help the feeble shade. [illustration: "help, help! i drown in this foul stream!"] onward she went till she came to the banks of the styx, the mighty river of hell, by which the great gods swear. nine times it winds its snaky coils about the shores of hades, and across its leaden waters charon, the boatman of the dead, ferries backward and forward for ever. when he saw psyche, he hailed her, and asked her for the coin. answering him never a word, she held out one coin with her lips, and as he took it she shuddered. for his breath was as the north wind blowing across the snow, and his eyes were like a fish's, cold and dull. "welcome, sweet maiden. 'tis not often we get a fare like thee, my boat and i;" and he laughed a hard, thin laugh, like the cracking of ice in a thaw, and beneath her weight the boat creaked in chorus. out into the stream he pushed with his pole, and then set to with his oar, and the rise and fall of the blade made never a sound in those dull leaden waters. as they neared the middle of the stream, psyche saw two pale arms rise up above the waves, and the head of an old man, who cried out to her piteously, "help, help! i drown in this foul stream! ah, for pity's sake put out one finger to save me!" and psyche turned aside to hide her tears; for the face was the face of her father, and his cries pierced through to her heart. as the boat passed by he sank with a moan beneath the waves, and she saw him no more. at length they reached the shore of hades, and she saw three paths before her leading upwards from the landing-stage. as she stood, not knowing which to take, the old man beckoned to her. "i know not whither thou art bound, lady, for thou bearest not on thee the mark of the dead. the souls of the wicked i know, for about them fly the furies, the avengers of sin, and hound them down the left-hand path, through periphlegethon, the river of fire--down, down to the utmost depths of tartarus. and the souls of the brave shine forth like stars in the darkness, and they take the right-hand path to the elysian fields of light, where the breeze blows bright and fresh and the golden flowers are glowing. the middle path leadeth to the palace of pale persephone, but that way only the gods and the children of the gods may go, or those who bear with them some token from the immortals." then psyche showed him aphrodite's casket, and turned up the middle path. through a dark wood she went, and came out upon a plain. here she saw three aged women weaving at a loom, and they cried out to her in weak, quavering voices, "oh, maiden, thine eyes are young and thy fingers supple. come help us unravel the thread." but for the third time she turned aside, and went quickly on her way, and when she looked back over her shoulder the loom and the hags had vanished away. so at length she came to the palace of persephone. the roof and columns were all of pure silver, which shone with a pale light through the murk and gloom, like the shimmer of pale moonbeams on a cloudy night. above the heads of the pillars ran a frieze of strange device. it told of night and chaos, and of the birth of time, and how the sons of earth rose up against the gods in deadly battle, and were hurled into the depths of tartarus by the thunderbolts of zeus. and it showed how prometheus the titan gave fire to mortal men, so that they learnt all manner of crafts, and became the masters of all living things, and like the gods for wisdom. but they ruled by the law of the strongest, and said that might was right, and begat the foul forms of pestilence and war and red-handed murder. the other side told of the things that would come to pass when time and death should be no more, and love should rule the universe. on that side all the forms were fair and all the faces beautiful, and the breeze played through pleasant places where the flowers never fade. in the centre of the pediment, with mighty wings overshadowing either side, stood a mighty figure, anangke, great necessity, the mother of gods and men. from the one side she looked dark and terrible, and the world trembled at her frown, but from the other she was fairer than the day, and by unchanging law she drew all things after her till they should be perfected. on the palace steps before the doorway sat cerberus, the three-headed watch-dog. when he saw psyche approaching he began to growl, and his growl was like the rattle of thunder far away. as she drew nearer he barked furiously and snarled at her, baring his white gleaming fangs. quickly she threw him one of the barley loaves, and while he was devouring it, she slipped gently past, and stood within the courtyard of the palace. all was silent and deserted, and her footsteps, as they fell on the marble pavement, sent no echo through the colonnades; for it seemed that even sound must die in that lifeless air. she passed through great doors of bronze into a lofty hall. in the shadowy depths of it she saw a great throne raised, and on it sat the queen of the dead. about her stood two handmaids, and their names were memory and sleep. one fanned her with great poppy-leaves, and as she did so the eyes of the queen grew heavy and dim, and she sat as one in a trance. but when this one grew weary of fanning, anon the other would hold up before her a great mirror of polished steel, and when she looked into it the colour would rush into her pale cheeks, and her eyes would glow like coals of fire, for in the flash of the steel she saw earth's flowery meadows, and remembered that for three months only did she live in the gloom and the shade; and she knew, moreover, that one day the circling seasons would stay their course, and decay and death would pass away, and when that time came she would return no more to the murk and gloom, but dwell for ever in the sunshine and the flowers. a magic mirror is that which memory holds, and few are there who can bear to look on its brightness, but those whose eyes are strong gaze into its depths, and learn that knowledge and remembrance are one. with timid steps did psyche cross the hall, and knelt upon the steps of the throne. "child of earth, what dost thou here?" asked the queen. "this is no place for living souls." "o mighty one, 'tis a boon i beg of thee," said psyche, and drew from her bosom aphrodite's casket. "give me, i pray thee, the gift of undying beauty in this casket, that i may return above worthy of my lord." "'tis a great boon thou askest. nevertheless, for thy bravery's sake i will give it thee. for many are they who set out to find it, but few have the heart to come so far." thereupon she took the casket in her hands, and breathed into it, and her breath was as the smoke of incense on the altar. "take it and return swiftly whence thou earnest, and see thou open it not till thou comest upon earth. for in the land of the dead my breath is death, but above it is life and beauty immortal. fare thee well." with a glad heart psyche rose from her knees, and sped through the silent palace. she threw the second loaf to cerberus as she passed, and for the second coin of gold charon took her once more across in his boat. this time no sad phantoms cried to her for help, and she knew that it was for the sake of the earth-grown meal that they had stood in her path before. at last she stood once more in the sunlight, and joy lent wings to her feet as she sped across the plain and away to aphrodite's pleasant vale. with the casket in her hand, she knelt before the throne, but aphrodite put out her hand and raised her up. "kneel no more to me, psyche, for now thou art one of us. but open the casket and drink into thy very soul the life and beauty that will never die." her smile was brighter than sunshine on the shimmering waves, and the touch of her hand made psyche's blood run like fire through her veins. scarce knowing what she did, she opened the casket. the fumes rose up in a cloud about her head, and she knew no more till she felt herself moving upwards, upwards. as life came slowly back she opened her eyes, and looked into the face of him she had seen but once. his rainbow wings were spread above her, and his strong arms held her close, and he looked into her eyes with the look that mingles two souls into one. "beloved," he whispered, "love has conquered all things. in thy darkest hour of trial i watched over thee, and gave thee strength, and now we two will dwell for ever in the courts of heaven, and teach the hearts of men to love as we love." [illustration] hero and leander one sunny day in april long ago, a maiden sat in a lonely tower looking out across the hellespont. at her feet the blue ripples lapped lazily on the beach and played a soothing lullaby upon the stones, and the white-sailed ships floated slowly down the stream from sestos, carrying their rich freights of corn and merchandise. to the north she could see the port of sestos, with the great walls running down from the city to the harbour, and the masts of the ships as they lay at anchor by the quay. across the water, facing the tower, stood abydos, with its palaces and houses nestling white at the foot of the low green hills. so narrow is the sea that runs between sestos and abydos, and so swiftly does the current flow, that the ancients used to think it was a great river running down from propontis and the stormy euxine, and emptying their overflowing waters into the wide Ægean main. so they called it the broad hellespont, for the rivers of greece were but narrow streams beside it. as she looked across the sunlit waters the maiden sighed, and turned wearily to an old dame who sat spinning in a corner of the room. "good mother," she said, "how many years didst thou say we two have lived in this wave-washed tower?" "'tis close on twenty years, my dear, since i brought thee here, a tiny babe in my arms." "twenty years!" sighed the maiden. "twenty centuries had passed by more swiftly in the bright busy world out yonder. how long is a woman's life, good nurse?" "with the blessing of heaven she may live for four score years, my child." "four score years--four times as long as i have lived already! i can well dispense with the blessing of heaven." "nay; hush, hush!" cried the old woman, and stopped her spinning hastily. "what ails thee, hero? thou wast never wont to speak such dreadful words." the girl threw herself on her knees beside her, and laid her head upon her lap and sobbed. the old nurse drew her fingers tenderly over her long black hair, and waited for the storm of passion to be spent. "i am tired--tired of this lonely life," sobbed the maiden. "why am i shut up here, all alone?" "thou knowest the reason full well, my child. if thou goest forth into the world, a great sorrow will come upon thee, and drive thee to death in the flower of thy youth. such was the oracle of the gods concerning thee. thy mother--poor young thing!--scarce lived to hold thee to her breast, and when she died she put thee in my arms. 'take her away, nurse, far from the haunts of men, and never let her out into the cruel world. go, live with her in some lonely tower by the sea, and make her a priestess to pitiless, foam-born aphrodite. night and day, as soon as she can lisp a baby prayer, let her burn incense before the altar of the goddess, and perchance she will have mercy on her, and save her from her fate. full well i know that 'tis with her it rests to strike down my child or to save her, even as it was she, the goddess of love, who laid her cruel hand on me, so that now i lie a-dying. ah! save my child from the fate that has been mine.' i did as she bade me, and surely we have not been unhappy, thou and i, together, all these years?" and she stroked the girl's cheek tenderly, and sighed as she thought how, for many months past, it had grown paler week by week. "ah, think me not ungrateful!" cried hero. "thou knowest that i love thee, and would never leave thee. but my heart is restless, and i long to set foot beyond this tower and see a great town and streets and the faces of my fellow-men." then she rose from her knees, and led the old nurse to the window. "there!" she cried, pointing towards sestos; "dost thou see where the white highway runs down into the city--how a crowd of pilgrims throng towards the gate? see, too, the steep pathway that winds upwards from the harbour--how the folk move ever one way, up, up, to the temple of aphrodite on the hill! how often have i watched them year by year as they gather together for the great feast of adonis! yet i, who all my life long have been aphrodite's priestess--i have never been inside her temple or joined with those who throng from far and wide to pay her worship at this glad season. verily, the goddess hath good cause to be angered with me if i neglect her dues. good nurse, let me go to-morrow and join in the procession of the maidens, and let me lay my tribute of flowers before her altar, that she may bless me and save me from my evil fate." but the old nurse was very troubled at her words. "my child, thou hast thine own shrine within the house where thou canst burn incense and offer up flowers to aphrodite. she will answer thy prayers as well from here as from the crowded temple in the town." "then why do men build her great pillared temples, and throng from far and near to keep her feast, if the fireside shrine and the simple prayer would please her as well? nay, she loveth rich gifts and music and singing and the heads of many bowing as one man before her image. ah, nurse, let me go--let me go." "my child, why wouldst thou go when thou knowest that the world can only bring thee sorrow? stay here with me in peace." "nay, there is no peace here for me. aphrodite is angry, and she will slay me by a slow and cruel death if i do not keep her feast this year. should i, her priestess, stay away, when even the meanest of the folk gather together in her honour? all these years i have not gone, and now she will stay her hand no more. as for the world and its cruelty, fear not for that. thou thyself shalt go with me, and stay by my side till i join the procession of priestesses and maidens. then i will go up with them to the temple, and in their midst i shall be as far from the world as in this tower. i long to stand within the great white temple and hear the chanting of the priests. i long to see the gleaming image of the goddess, and the statue of the risen adonis, and the altars sweet with incense and flowers. ah, nurse, let me go, and all the rest of the year, till the glad season comes round once more, i will stay with thee in this tower and pine no more." so piteously did she beg that the old nurse had not the heart to refuse, though she feared what might come of it. but she tried to comfort herself with the thought that perchance, after all, the maiden was right, and that aphrodite was killing her by a slow and cruel death, because she had never kept her solemn feast-day. the next day broke bright and fair, and hero, as she looked out from the window, was filled with joy. in the grey dawn she had risen, and sat looking anxiously across the narrow sea towards abydos and the low line of hills on the further shore. "o helios," she prayed, "bright and beautiful, shine down upon the earth this day, and fill the hearts of all with gladness; for it is aphrodite's solemn feast, and the greatest day of all my life." and her prayer was not unanswered. slowly the grey dawn turned to saffron, and the golden disc of the sun rose over the silent hills and scattered the rosy clouds north and south before him. with a cry of joy hero turned away from the window and ran to rouse the old dame in the other room. "nurse, nurse!" she cried, "the sun is shining, and the world has awaked from sleep. it is time to pick the roses and the lilies fresh with dew and weave them into garlands for the goddess. come up, up, and out with me to the garden." without waiting for an answer, she tripped down the turret-stair and out into the garden, and the old nurse sighed and followed slowly behind. in the golden morning they gathered the roses and lilies, and wove them into garlands and posies, and heaped up the loose flowers in baskets. when all was ready they set out for the town. though it was yet early, the streets were thronged with pilgrims and folk hurrying this way and that to the houses of their friends and kinsmen. yet, despite the bustle and confusion, there were few who had not leisure to turn and watch the maiden and the old woman hastening along. "it is hebe come down from the courts of heaven," they said--"she who giveth to the deathless gods eternal youth and joy. none can look on her face and be sad." and, indeed, all the sunshine of the morning seemed reflected in hero's face, so glad at heart was she. it was small wonder that men turned and looked at her; for she walked as one of the immortals, full of dignity and grace. no evil thing had ever touched her or left its mark upon her soul. but in a fair garden she had grown to womanhood, where the breeze made music in the plane-trees and the waves beat time upon the shore, and on the hill behind, the tall dark cypress-trees kept silent watch above her. no angry word had ever reached her ears, but as long as she had lived the love of one faithful heart had shielded her. and now, though she knew it not, the call of life had come to her, as it comes to every living thing, and with eager, open arms she was answering it. in the midst of that bustling city crowd, she was like a fair flower that brings into some restless sick-room the scent of sunlit meadows and the murmur of dancing streams. as she went she laughed and talked merrily to the old nurse beside her, and ever and anon a flower would fall to the ground from the laden basket she was carrying; and one of the crowd would quickly pick it up and place it in his bosom, and carry away in his heart something of the music of her laughter and the sunshine of her eyes. the old nurse when she saw it was filled with fear, and hastened faster along; but hero saw none of these things, nor knew that she was different from other folk. at length they reached the temple on the hill and went into the chamber where aphrodite's priestesses and maidens were to meet; and they clad her in long white robes, and put a garland on her head. when all were ready, they went and stood before the priest of the temple, and he told them in what order they should walk. first came little children, who scattered rose-leaves in the path, and behind them followed maidens, playing upon pipes, and singing the hymn to adonis and aphrodite. next came the priest himself, and on either side of him two maidens walked, and held above his head great fans of peacock's plumes. after him followed the long procession of priestesses and maidens, incense-bearers, and the keepers of the sacred doves. last of all came hero, bearing in her hands a garland of roses and lilies to lay at the feet of the great white statue of the goddess. each year the fairest of the maidens was chosen for this task, and in all that throng of youth and beauty there was none more fair than she. with her eyes upon the gleaming statue that shone from the dark recess above the heads of the worshipping people, she walked as one in a dream. about her the smoke of the incense rose, and to her ears the voices of the singers sounded low and far away as they sang, "all hail to thee, aphrodite, foam-born queen of love! adonis, all hail to thee! thou art risen--thou art risen on this joyful day. no more doth death detain thee in his dark domain, nor persephone enshroud thee in the mists of the sad underworld. but thou art come back to the daylight and the flowers; and aphrodite has dried her tears. for once more by thy side, o fairest of mortal men, she wanders through green glades and echoing caverns and by the shore of the silver sea. the joy of her love has kindled the light of summer suns, and like the west wind in the roses, her breath stirs gently in the hearts of men, and the eyes of every living thing reflect the brightness of her smile. all hail to thee. aphrodite! adonis and aphrodite, all hail!" as they sang, the choir of maidens parted this way and that, and hero walked up between them bearing the garland in her hands. when she had laid it at the feet of the statue, the procession formed once more, and, with music and singing, they marched round the colonnade to the shrine of adonis, and all the people followed after. still hero walked as one in a dream, and when the procession halted, she turned into a small recess and leant against a pillar to rest; for her part was done, and the people pressed so close about her in the aisle that she was glad to stand aside till the procession moved again. with her eyes closed, she drank in the sweet scent of the incense and flowers, and listened to the chanting of the choir, as they sang of the love of adonis and aphrodite. how adonis, the beautiful shepherd, the fairest of mortal men, was loved by the queen of beauty, and all the long summer days they shepherded his flocks together on the shady slopes of ida. but there came a time when the people of the country held a great hunt, and chased the wild boar through grove and dale till he was brought to bay in the greenwood; and foremost of those who rushed in to the death was adonis. but the boar in his agony turned round upon him and pierced him in the thigh with his tusk, and wounded unto death, his followers bore him away and laid him in the shade of an oak. with a wild cry of sorrow aphrodite came and knelt beside him, and tried to call him back to life, but his head fell limp upon her breast. the red drops of his blood were mingled with her tears, and both turned to flowers as they fell upon the ground--his blood to the crimson rose, and her tears to the pale, drooping windflower. all through the woods and the echoing hills a cry of mourning was heard, "adonis, adonis! o weep for adonis! adonis is dead." but though his spirit had crossed the gloomy river and fled to the dark halls of hades, yet death was not strong enough to hold him. the voice of his love and of aphrodite's pleaded together, and heaven and earth, and the world of the dead, were moved by their prayer. even the heart of pluto, the black-browed god of death, was touched, and he said that for only four months in the year must adonis dwell beneath the earth, but for the other eight he might live his old life with aphrodite in the sunlight. so he chose the season of the flowery spring-time to come back to his love each year, and only the cold dark months of winter did he spend in the land below. so did a great love prevail and conquer even the black lord of death. as hero listened to the well-known tale, her heart was moved, and she felt that if ever she loved, her love would be as the love of adonis and aphrodite--stronger than death; and she sighed as she remembered how she must live lonely all her days in the tower by the sea. as though in answer to her sigh, she felt a light touch upon her arm, and, raising her head, she found herself face to face with a young man. she was about to turn away in anger and return to her place in the procession, but the look of his eyes held her spellbound, so full of fire and yet so sad were they. for a moment she stood gazing at him, and the fire of his eyes seemed to light another in her heart and set her whole frame aglow. the hot blood rushed to her face, and she lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled beneath her, so that she leant back against the pillar for support. "i ask your pardon, gentle lady," said the man; "forgive my rudeness. though thou knowest me not, i have known thee for many a long year, and day and night have i prayed the gods that i might meet thee face to face. this day aphrodite has heard my prayer. if i have seemed presumptuous, forgive me. 'twas the goddess nerved my arm to touch thee." and he stood with bowed head before her, awaiting her reply. [illustration: she lowered her eyes in confusion, and her limbs trembled beneath her so that she leant back against the pillar for support.] "who art thou, stranger?" asked hero. "thou mistakest me, surely, for some other maid. never till this day have i set foot beyond my tower, and to that lonely spot cometh no man, nor have i ever spoken with such as thee before." "my name is leander," said the stranger, "and i dwell in white abydos across the water. full well do i know thy lonely tower; for as i ply to and fro between sestos and abydos on my father's business, i pass close beneath its walls, and day by day have i seen thee sitting at thy window looking out across the sea. ah, lady, be not angry with me! the first day i saw thee thy beauty set my heart aflame, and since then i have lived for thee alone." "thy words stir me strangely, sir," answered hero. "i know not what to say to thee." "thou art not angry, then?" he cried. "thou wilt let me speak my love? ah, maiden, all these years have i loved thee with a true heart's devotion! if my love could find but ever so faint an answer in thy heart, i would be content." and he raised his eyes full of hope and joy to her face. but she turned aside her head to hide the answering fire of her eyes. "alas, sir!" she said, "mine is a heart that must never beat for any living man. i am doomed to dwell in yonder tower lonely all my days, for if i go forth and mix with the world, i shall die by the curse of heaven before my time." "i have heard thy tale, lady; for even the most secret things are noised abroad by rumour. far be it from me to bring the curse upon thy head. if thou couldst give me thy love, there would be no need for thee to come forth into the world. i have thought of that. each day we would live our lives as we have done till now. but at night, when none would miss me, i would come to thee. no living soul should know my secret--no, nor yet the lifeless boards of my boat; for even dumb wood can tell a tale if need be. nay, these two arms shall bear me. look not fearful, lady. full often have they borne me to and fro across this narrow sea from mere love of sport. with thee as the prize they would bear me twice as far." as he spoke he held them out towards her, and, indeed, they were goodly arms to look upon, and his face and form did them no shame either. then hero raised her eyes and looked him full in the face. "leander," she said, "i know not what charm or magic thou hast used, but i am as clay in thy hands. 'tis not thy words have conquered me; in thy reasoning i could find many a flaw. though one short hour ago i had never seen thee, yet now i feel that i have known thee always, and that life apart from thee were worse than death." "ah, hero!" he cried, and took her hand in his; "the gods have heard my prayer. though thine eyes had never seen me, the voice of my heart reached thee long ago, and thy soul came out to mine. 'twas in answer to my call that thou didst come to-day to the feast; for i prayed to aphrodite to move thy heart, or i knew not how i should ever speak to thee. this very night, beloved, i will come to thee, and the light which thou burnest in thy chamber shall be my guiding star." "ah, how carefully will i trim that torch to-night!" she said, "that it may burn brightly for thee. every evening i put it there as a beacon-light for the ships that pass in the night; but to-night it shall burn for thee--for thee alone." now the service was ended before the shrine, and the train of people began to move once more. with one last look and a pressing of hands they parted, and hero returned to her place in the procession. when all was ended, the old nurse hastened to the robing-room. in the crowd inside the temple she had lost sight of hero, and her heart was full of fears for the maiden. as she helped her to lay aside her festal robes and garland, she gazed anxiously at her. "art thou content to come home with me, my child," she asked, "or has the glamour of the world ensnared thee?" "ah, nurse!" she cried joyously, "never, never have i loved my tower so well. let us hasten home, and in the quiet of the evening i will tell thee that of which my heart is full." the old dame was glad when she found her so ready to go home, and they hastened silently through the crowded streets. as the sun was setting behind the hills, and the shadows fell cool and long across the garden slopes, hero sat at her nurse's feet, and told her of the story of leander's love, and how that night would make them man and wife. when she had ended her tale, the old dame took her face between her hands and looked her in the eyes. "hero," she said, "this thing can never be. i have failed in my trust. i have listened to thy pleading, and let thee out into the world, and now through this man the curse of the gods will be fulfilled. think no more of him. let this day be to thee as though it had never been, and thou mayst yet escape thy doom." but hero sprang to her feet. "what!" she cried; "thou wouldst take away the only joy of my life now, when i have just found it? never! curse or no curse, leander shall be my wedded husband. ah, nurse!" she added, falling on her knees once more, "methinks that over all the joys of life the gods hang a curse, and that it lies not with us poor mortals to choose between them. we must take both and live, or neither and be dead all our days on earth. thou canst not hold me now; i have chosen my lot." nothing that the old dame could say availed to change her purpose, but with her heart full of joy she put on her brightest robes and sat by the lighted torch in her chamber, looking out across the sea, and waiting for the night. true to his word, leander came as soon as darkness fell, and the old dame let him in by the turret door. carefully she shaded her lamp with her hand so that the light fell full upon his face, that she might see what manner of man he was. he had dried himself as best he might with leaves and grass from the garden, but his hair hung in damp clusters about his head, and his tunic clung wet about him. yet, in spite of all, he was full fair to look upon--a very god for strength and beauty. the old dame was pleased when she saw him, for he had braved danger and discomfort to win his bride, and he was a proper man withal, and worthy of so fair a maid as hero. so she led him upstairs and gave him change of raiment, and when he was ready she took him to hero's chamber. there before the shrine of aphrodite they plighted their troth, with but one faithful soul to witness their vows, and the music of the wind and the waves for their marriage hymn. to the two lovers the night fled by on wings of lightning, and all too soon they had to say farewell; for ere day dawned leander must have reached the further shore. but parting was sweet sorrow for those who so soon would meet again. so for many a day their lives ran smoothly on. each night hero lighted her torch; each night leander was guided by its light, and, true to his word, swam across the narrow sea that divided him from his wife. the colour came back to hero's cheeks and the brightness to her eyes, and she pined no more to leave the tower and go out into the world. when the old dame saw how happy she was, she was glad that things had fallen out so, and prayed that for many a long year the gods would be pleased to bless their wedded love. meantime leander thought that no one knew of the nightly voyage save hero and the old dame her nurse, yet, for all his secrecy, there was one who each night watched for him with a longing as great as hero's own. in the depths of the blue Ægean the daughters of nereus dwell--the fair nymphs of the ocean. all the day long they play beneath the waters, and dance hand in hand along the yellow sands and the shell-strewn hollows of the sea. but at night, when the eyes of men are darkened, they come up above the water and, cradled in the bosom of the waves, swing gently to and fro in the soft summer air; and the white gleam of their arms is the glint of ripples in the moonlight. but when the wild storm-wind shrieks over the sea and the skies are dark and lowering, they forget their fears, and are filled with madness. then they chase each other across the black waters with wild locks flying in the wind, and woe to those who are out upon the high seas when the nereids dance in the storm, for their dance is the dance of death. the fire of the lightning runs hot in their veins as they fly on the wings of the whirlwind, and wherever they go the waves hiss white and angry behind them. on the crests of the billows they rise and fall, and with the voice of the storm-wind they shriek aloud, and call upon all things to join in their dance; and they leap on the decks of the travailing ships, and man, woman, and child they clasp in their cruel white arms, crying, "come, dance with us over the sea." with a force that none can withstand they bear them away, and whirl them round in the dance of death, till they hang limp and lifeless in their arms. then they toss them aside, nothing caring, to be washed ashore in the wan morning light, or to sink to a nameless grave in the depths of the ocean. wherever they have passed wreck and ruin lie behind; but they rush on, till the storm dies away, and they sink down exhausted to their home in the sea. sometimes in the calm green waters below they find the bodies of those they have drowned in their frenzy, but they know them not; for all that they did when the spirit of the storm was upon them they forget, and it passes from their minds as a dream dies at break of day. so when they see the bodies lying still and lifeless, they call to them to come and play with them in the water, and when they get no answer, they creep closer, and find that their eyes are closed. then they know that, however long they call, they will never get an answer, for they have learnt that those whose eyes are closed have neither life nor voice, but are as the rocks and stones. but the nereids know not sleep nor death, and when they look upon one lying dead they think he has always been so; and they do not grieve nor weep for him, for the gods did not make them for grief, but to be the bringers of beauty wherever they go, and to turn all foul things fair. so they gather the shells and the bright seaweeds, and cover the body where it lies, and it sleeps in beauty and peace in the hollows of the sea. one of these same nereids it was who saw leander as he swam across the hellespont each night, and she loved him for his beauty, and longed to have him as her playfellow. so she swam near to him on the crest of the dancing waves, and called to him softly, "o child of the green earth, come, come with me, and play with me and my sisters in the depths of the blue Ægean." but he saw her not, nor listened to her pleading, for his eyes were darkened. to him the gleam of her arms was the moonshine on the water, and the sound of her voice like the west wind on the waves. so she followed him in vain across the channel, and when he went up into the tower she sat below upon a rock, and watched for him to appear at the window; and she saw hero sitting by the torch waiting for her lover, and heard her cry of joy as she ran to greet him when he came. then again she called to them softly, "o children of the green earth, come and play with me. i will crown your heads with white sea-pearls, and you shall sit on coral thrones beneath the waves, and be king and queen over all the nymphs of the sea." but as they stood hand in hand at the window, they saw her not, and heard only the murmur of the ripples on the beach. so she sat calling in vain all the night long. before the grey morning dawned leander came down, and when he reached the shore he turned and called, "farewell, hero!" and hero, leaning from her window, answered, "leander, farewell!" so the sea-nymph learnt to know their names, and every night she would sit sadly calling them, and they heard her not. but one night all the winds of heaven were loosed, and they rushed with a wild shriek over the face of the waters, and lashed them to a fury of white-maned waves. with a deafening crash the thunder echoed through the hills, and the pale forked lightning lit the sky from east to west. with white cheeks and a heart full of fear, hero knelt before the shrine in her chamber, and prayed the gods to have mercy on the sailors out at sea, and, above all, to grant that leander had not set out ere the storm began. meanwhile leander on the other side had seen the storm approaching, and he knew full well that when the seas ran high no man could swim the channel and reach the other shore alive. so he sat by his window and longed for the storm to be spent and the day to dawn; for the night without hero was to him but misery. across the stream he could see the torch burning fitfully in the gale. "the gods grant she think me not faithless," he said, "for not going to her this night." as he sat and watched, the storm grew wilder and more terrible. in the swirling, seething waters the nereid danced with the madness of the tempest in her heart, up and down over the crested waves, with the storm wind whistling through her hair. in the gleam of the lightning-flash she held out her arms to the shore and called, "come and dance with me. leander, o leander, come!" as she called, the east wind rushed with a wild shriek across the water, and blew out the beacon light in hero's chamber. leander at his window saw the pale light disappear and return no more. a blinding flash of lightning rent the sky, and the rattle of the thunder sounded as though the mountains of the earth were falling. then the spirit of the storm came upon him too, and he heard the voice of the sea-nymph calling with a wild, unearthly shriek, "leander, o leander, come!" and he thought it was the voice of hero calling him in deadly peril. perchance the thunderbolt had struck her tower, and it had crashed in ruins about her and borne her with its falling stones into the rushing stream below. in a mad frenzy, scarce knowing what he did, he plunged into the seething waters and struggled in the waves with the strength of despair. with a wild cry of joy the sea-nymph caught him in her arms. "at last, at last, thou hast heard my call," she said. up and down through the hissing waves she bore him, now plunging down, deep, deep, into the calm green water below, now rushing round and round in a whirlpool, now leaping from the crest of one white wave into the boiling foam of the next, till he lay limp and breathless in her arms. she heeded not, but bore him on, ever on, across the water till they came beneath hero's tower. then, rising on the crest of the waves that beat against the wall, she called, "come, join with us in the storm-dance! come, hero, hero!" in the breath of the east wind the stinging foam beat against the window like one knocking in wild alarm, and the echo of the sea-nymph's cry reached the maiden as she knelt before the shrine. filled with terror, she rushed to the window and looked down on the seething water. a brilliant flash of lightning blazed across the sky, and for a moment all was light as day. on the bosom of a breaking wave she saw leander with his arms tossed helpless about him, and his head thrown back pale and lifeless, and above him stood the sea-nymph in a robe of flashing foam. with a cry of despair hero leaped to the sill and plunged into the roaring waves, and with her arms about leander, she, too, was tossed along in the dance of death, till the storm died away and the nymph bore them down side by side to the floor of the blue Ægean. there, true to her word, she set them on thrones of coral, and twined white sea-pearls in their hair, and in time the winding seaweeds and clinging ocean flowers wove a shroud of beauty about them; and their bodies slept side by side in the fair ocean depths. so did it come to pass that the curse of the gods was fulfilled. but whether it was truly a curse or a blessing, who shall say? for they lived and loved with a love that has become famous among men, and side by side they died. and does not the poet tell us of the islands of the blest, where the souls of the brave and true abide for ever; where the breeze blows always bright and fresh, and the golden fruits are glowing, and the crimson-flowered meadows before the city are full of the shade of trees of frankincense? in that far land there is no death nor parting, no sorrow and no tears, but those who have been true on earth dwell ever side by side. if the poet is right, hero and leander are there together, where no storm can reach them and no sea can part them ever again. [illustration] the sacrifice of alcestis i once upon a time when pelias, the crafty king, ruled in iolchos by the sea, his nephew jason came and tried to win back from him the land that was his by right. but pelias put him off with cunning words, and sent him forth to colchis in search of the golden fleece, thinking that so he need never look upon his face again. jason, therefore, who was brave and stout of heart, and feared not man nor beast, sent a proclamation through the land, bidding all who loved adventure to join him in the good ship _argo_, and sail with him for the golden fleece. from the length and breadth of hellas the heroes and sons of the immortals flocked. among them came admetus of pheræ, in the first bloom of his manhood, and sailing with the argonauts, he braved all the terrors of that fearful voyage, and sat at his oar like a man in the midst of deadly peril. after many a long day the remnant of the heroes who had sailed away from iolchos returned with the golden fleece; and standing before proud pelias, they laid it at his feet. in the great hall of the palace he received them sitting on his throne: on his right hand sat philomache his wife, and all about him stood his daughters, peisidice and asteropæa, hippothoe, and evadne, and alcestis--maidens whose beauty would gladden any father's heart. but fairest of the fair, as the moon among stars, was alcestis. when admetus looked upon her face, his heart was filled with love for her, and he swore a great oath that he would live and die unwed, or else have alcestis to wife. when pelias had welcomed back the argonauts, he bid the henchmen spread the tables in the hall, and soon the king with his son acastus and all the menfolk were seated with the heroes round the well-filled board. against a pillar leant a minstrel, who sang of great deeds and heroes, and how the good ship _argo_ had braved the terrors of the seas; while the daughters of pelias bore round the sweet dark wine in flagons, and filled up the golden goblets. to alcestis it fell to fill up the cup of admetus, and as he held it out towards her their eyes met, and she blushed beneath his gaze, and tried to hide her confusion in the folds of her veil. she was vexed with herself for the blush and vexed with him for having called it forth. yet withal her heart beat fast, and the beating of it was not altogether born of wrath; for admetus was a proper man in the prime of life, who had sailed the high seas and seen danger face to face, and a brave man's admiration is ever dear to a woman's heart. so it came to pass that when admetus drew from his breast a lock of the golden fleece, which jason had given him for a memorial, and held it forth to her, she refused it not, but took it and hid it in the folds of her gown, and when admetus was gone away she would draw it forth and sigh as she looked at it. when admetus saw that she did not altogether disdain him, he was glad at heart, and plucked up all his courage, and went and stood before the king her father, and boldly asked her hand in marriage. as he spoke the king's brow darkened, for he loved not jason nor any of his crew. he had sent them forth, as he thought, to their death, and now they were come home to wrest the kingdom from him and give it to the lawful heir. so he cast about in his mind for some excuse; for admetus was nobly born, and heir to a great kingdom, and he could not say him nay without good reason. in his trouble he bethought him of an ancient oracle which a soothsayer had spoken when alcestis lay a babe upon her mother's breast. till now he had put aside all thought of it, and had looked upon the seer as a mad prophet whose words were of no account. but now that they would serve him in his need, he pretended that he had always laid them up in his heart, and intended to abide by them. "young man," he said, "they who would woo my child alcestis must woo and win her as the gods have ordered. when she lay in her mother's arms, there came a prophet and stood over her and spake, saying, 'child of evil fortune! whosoever thou weddest, woe to thy wedded life, sobeit thy lord come not to bear thee away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar.' thus spake the prophet of the gods, and his words shall surely come to pass. think not, then, that i will give my daughter up to misery, or that thou hast but to look on her beauty and long for her, to have her for thine own. nay; hence, away, and bethink thee how thou canst so beguile a lion's heart that he shall walk tamely in the yoke beside his lawful prey. then, and then only, when thou comest driving this strange pair shalt thou have alcestis for thy wife." admetus was sad at heart when he heard the king's words, and he set out sorrowfully home for the halls of pheres, his father; for he thought that this thing was beyond the power of mortal man to do, and that all his life long he must live in loneliness of soul, without alcestis to wife. when they heard of their son's return, pheres and periclymene, his wife, came forth to greet him, and fell upon his neck and embraced him with tears of joy. a great feast was prepared, and the altars of the gods sent up to heaven the savoury smoke of sacrifice, and all the people rejoiced together at the return of the hero their land had sent forth. after all the feasting and merrymaking was ended, pheres drew his son aside to his chamber and said, "my son, whilst thou hast been away in strange lands the hand of time hath dealt heavily with me. my knees are weak beneath me, my hair is white with age, and all my strength is gone. year by year it groweth harder for me to ride forth among my people, and the folk on the far boundary know my face no more, and i cannot say whether all is well with them. time is it for me to give my crown and sceptre to a younger man, and thou hast shown thyself worthy to rule. take now the kingdom from my hand, that thy mother and i may pass our last years in peace together. a mighty kingdom have i builded up for thee, and worthy of mighty kings. see to it, then, that thou take to wife some princess of a royal house and rear up a son to rule the land when thou art dead." and admetus answered, "the kingdom will i take from thee right gladly, my father, and rule it well and wisely so long as the gods shall give me strength. but as to taking a wife in my halls, that i can never do." then he told him of his love for alcestis, and how he could never hope to win her. but his father laughed and shook his head. "'tis the way of hot-headed youth to think that in all the wide world one woman alone hath a fair face and bright eyes. time and the beauty of another woman shall heal thy malady, never fear." "time and another woman may drive me to my death," he answered hotly, "but never will i wed with any maid save alcestis alone, whom i love." and he strode in anger from the room. but pheres laughed the louder. "verily, young blood is the same the whole world through," said he. so admetus became king of pheræ, and ruled in his father's stead; and from the shores of the sea below pelion to the land of the molossians, the mountain-folk of the far west, his name was held in honour among his people; for the land had peace in his day, and the valleys stood thick with corn, and by the fair-flowing waters of boebe the shepherd played his pipes, and his flocks wandered browsing about the green meadows. no stranger was ever turned away from the palace doors, but, however poor and ragged he might be, he was welcomed right gladly, and feasted in the halls and sped upon his way with kindly words. so it came to pass that through the length and breadth of hellas, when men spoke of good cheer and hospitality, they always raised the cup in honour of admetus, the kindliest of hosts to rich and poor alike. ii one day as admetus sat at meat in the great hall with his parents and all the household, a thing befell which changed the course of his whole life. inside the fire burnt brightly on the hearth, and the torches on the walls sent a cheerful gleam through the shadowy vastness. but outside the wind howled about the corners of the palace like furies in their wrath, and anon it sunk down to a sob and a wail, while the lashing of the rain against the walls was as the whip of a furious driver urging on his steeds. and lo! from out the darkness of the storm there came a man, who stood in the doorway of the great hall and looked round about upon the company. many a long mile must he have come that day in the teeth of the gale, for from head to foot he was splashed with mud, and the water ran from his ragged cloak in streamlets, making a pool upon the floor. in his hand he carried a staff; from a strap about his body hung a strange instrument such as no man in the hall had ever seen before; and he held his head up proudly and looked fearlessly about him, so that for all his sorry raiment he seemed no common beggar, but a young king in all his pride. a hush fell upon the people as they gazed, for his eyes shone strangely bright, and in the darkness of the shadowy doorway his stature seemed greater than that of mortal man. when he had looked his fill and saw where admetus sat, he strode across the hall with great swinging strides, and came and stood before him. as he walked the people looked silently after him, for a great ship running before the wind was not more fair than he. "o king," he said, and his voice rang clear and mellow through the hall, "a suppliant i stand before thee, and my hand is red with blood. say, wilt thou receive me in thy halls, or wilt thou turn me forth into the storm and darkness?" and admetus marvelled at his words. "who art thou, stranger, to make this bold request? when a man's hand is stained with blood, 'tis to the altars of the gods that he should fly for cleansing, and not bring pollution to the palaces of kings." "my name it behoveth thee not to know now, nor the deed i have done. let it suffice thee when i say that not yet have the altars of that god been built who hath the power to cleanse me from blood-guiltiness. nay, myself i must work out mine own cleansing, and for the waxing and the waning of twelve moons it is decreed that i must serve a mortal man. wilt thou take me for thine herdsman--yea or nay?" at this admetus marvelled the more, and looked hard in the face of the stranger, but his eyes fell beneath the other's fearless gaze as those of a dog beneath his master's; and he answered him never a word, for he felt that the thought of his heart lay writ beneath that piercing look as clear as writing on a tablet. so he signed to his attendants, and they led the stranger forth and bathed him in warm water, and anointing him, clad him in fresh sweet linen and a tunic of silk. when all was accomplished, they led him back to the hall; and if the people had marvelled before at his beauty, their wonder was increased twofold as they gazed at him now. when he had taken his fill of meat and wine, the stranger turned to admetus and said, "my noble host, fain would i, in some poor measure, requite thee and thy household for kindness to a wanderer and a suppliant. i have some small skill in song, and have fashioned me an instrument whereon i play sweet harmonies, that frame the melody of my song like the golden setting of a gem. have i thy leave to sing before thee in thy halls?" as admetus bowed his head the stranger loosed the curious instrument from his girdle. the body of it was the hollow shell of a tortoise, in the rim of which two twisted horns were cunningly fitted, joined together towards the top by a silver band. the space between the band and the furthermost edge of the shell was spanned by seven strings of gold. lovingly he drew his fingers across the strings, and the chords rang soft and true through the silence of the hall, as he played a prelude to his song, and anon raised his voice and sang. he sang a strange, sweet song, such as no man there had ever heard, and yet in the depths of his soul each one of them felt that he had known it before he was born. for the song that the stranger sang was the song that the stars first sang together when the universe was born, and light sprang forth from the darkness. the melody they made that day vibrates for ever till the end of time. musicians and artists and poets, and those whom the gods love, hear it and sing it, each in his separate way, for those who have forgotten the sound of it. deep in the heart of every man it lies voiceless, till once at least in his lifetime the hand of the divine musician sets the chords vibrating, and opens the ears of the soul to hear the heavenly harmonies. such was the song that the stranger sang, and the people sat breathless beneath his spell, and gazing deep into the red-hot heart of the fire, saw strange dreams and visions. the very dogs awoke from their sleep, and crept closer to the music, and with their heads between their paws, gazed with unblinking eyes at the singer; and a magic thrill ran round the circle of them that listened, both man and beast, and welded and fused their souls in one, so that they felt that the life in them all was the same. when the song was ended, silence fell upon all things--even the storm outside had ceased to rage; and time stood still as each man sat motionless in his seat, with heart too full for speech. but at length the spell was broken, and with a sigh and a whisper, they glided away to their rest, till admetus and the stranger were left face to face before the hearth. "o divine musician," said admetus, "i know not who thou art. this only do i know, that i could worship thee for the godlike beauty of thy song, and follow thee and serve thee all my days." "nay, o king; 'tis destined that i must serve thee, and be thy servant for a year. to-morrow i will lay aside this silken doublet, and put on the dress that suits my station, and go forth with the other shepherds of thy flocks." "o stranger, this thing can never be. who am i that thou shouldst be my servant?" "thou art the man who turneth not the stranger from thy doors, though his hands, like mine, be red with blood. as for me, i must work out my cleansing, as i told thee. for blood-guiltiness is mine, though i have not sinned in the shedding thereof. but even zeus himself, thou knowest, hath not reached wisdom and might, save by sore struggle against powers less wise than he. happy am i if by the service of an upright man i may be purified." from that day forth the stranger became a herdsman in the halls of admetus, and in no wise would he be treated differently from the other servants. clad in the coarse, rough homespun of a shepherd, he would go forth at early dawn with the flocks, and at eventide return and sit among his fellows at the lower table. the hearts of all the household were warmed towards him, and it seemed that in his presence no evil thing could live; for if ever a quarrel or strife of tongues arose, a look from the stranger would take all the spirit from the combatants, and the matter fell dead between them like a ball at the feet of listless players--nay, it seemed that he could read the very thoughts of their inmost hearts, and all malice and unkindness withered away in the sunshine of his presence, like sprigs that have no root. strange tales were told of how he shepherded his flocks, for the shepherd lads who went forth with him at dawn would lie at his feet in some shady grove whilst the flocks browsed close at hand; and he would take his lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and earth, and at the sound of his voice the hearts of all living things were moved. from the rocky heights of othrys the lion came down and fawned at his feet with bloodless fangs, and the spotted lynxes gambolled with the flocks. the shy fawns forgot their fears and left the shelter of the tall pine-woods, and danced about his lyre with fairy feet; for the magic of his singing made the whole world kin, and the bow and the arrow were laid aside in those days, and no watchman stood upon the heights to guard the herds from beasts of prey. but the flocks increased and multiplied, and the earth brought forth rich harvests of corn and fruit, and all the land had peace. so admetus loved and honoured his strange herdsman above all his fellows, and took counsel with him, and followed his advice in all things. iii meanwhile in iolchos by the sea the old king pelias had died. his son acastus succeeded to his throne, and, as the custom was, held great games in honour of his father. far and wide through hellas he sent the news, and bade all men of might come and take part in the contests of running and wrestling and hurling the quoit. to the victors in each trial he offered to give one of his sisters in marriage, but for alcestis he made the contest doubly hard, for she was the fairest and noblest of the daughters of pelias, and he knew that the suitors would flock without number for her hand if the task that was set them was not well-nigh impossible. so he ordained that he who would win her must prove himself the mightiest of all men in the field that day, and that, moreover, he must come to bear away his bride in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar; for so the king, her father, had ordered in obedience to the words of the prophet. when admetus heard the news, the fire of his love for alcestis burst forth into flame, and he felt that he could conquer the whole world to win her. when he went to rest that night he could dream of nought but her, and of how all men would marvel when they saw him come to bear her away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. how he was to train this strange yoke-pair he knew not, but he felt that alcestis was not one whom the gods had fated to live unwedded all her days. from the length and breadth of hellas men would flock to woo her, and surely from all the host one would be found to do this deed, and why should he not be that one? so he argued, and dreamed sweet dreams of love and happiness. but,--whether it be that sweet dreams take the heart from a man, because in sleep they put within his grasp visions which, on waking, he finds to be but shadows of a shade, and he longs to clasp them once again without the labour and toil which alone on earth can bring man happiness,--certain it is that when he awoke admetus felt that the task was hopeless, and that all his efforts would be vain. his heart was in a tumult; his longing for alcestis was as strong as ever, but the confidence of winning her was gone. he went out into the woodland and threw himself on the grass beside the stream and gazed moodily into the dark depths of a pool. its silent stillness so maddened him that he cast a pebble into the midst, and watched it as it slowly sank, feeling that it was an image of his own life. an hour or more he sat there idly playing with the pebbles and the water, heavy at heart, and a prey to morbid fancies. at length he was roused from his dreaming by the sound of music far away. slowly it drew nearer, and from the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman playing on his lyre, followed by his flocks and the wild creatures of the forest. without a word he came and sat beside admetus at the water's edge, and the animals lay grouped around. then he changed the key of his song from a merry dance-tune to a solemn lay, and the burden of his song was love--how love, if it were but strong and pure, could conquer the whole world and accomplish deeds undreamt of. as admetus listened, the tumult of his heart was stilled, and once again the flower of hope sprang up in his breast--not the phantom flower that springs from idle dreams, but the bright living flower whose roots are firmly planted in the will to do and dare all things to win the promised prize. when the herdsman had ended his song, he laid aside his lyre and gazed at admetus. "dost thou love this maiden with all thy heart and soul, admetus?" he asked. "i would face the whole world to win her," said he. "wouldst thou lay down thy life for her?" "why ask so poor a sacrifice? my life without her would be a thing of nought." [illustration: from the shadow of the trees came the strange herdsman, playing on his lyre.] again the herdsman gazed at him, and seemed to read his inmost soul. "in sooth, i verily believe that, were death now to face thee, thou wouldst gladly die for her. go forth, then, and win thy bride, and i will help thee all i can. if thou fulfil the first part of the test, i will see to it that thou fail not in the second." "master," cried admetus, "what meanest thou?" "go thou and enter the lists for alcestis, and show thyself the best man in the field that day. when they hail thee victor, and bid thee come to fetch away thy bride, as her father willed, answer boldly that the next day at noon thou wilt come in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar to bear her away to thine own land. then do thou hasten alone to the wood that lies on the road to pheræ, five miles from iolchos, and there, by the temple of hecate, wilt thou find me and the chariot ready harnessed. believest thou that i can do this thing?" "o master, do i not see before me the lion lying tamely by the sheep and the wolf by the side of the lamb? how can i doubt thy power?" "so be it, then. one word of counsel would i give thee: in the day of thy triumph forget not the gods." "from my youth upwards have i honoured the gods, o stranger. how, then, in the day of my triumph, should i forget them?" "may they deliver thee in the hour of thy wealth, admetus, and save thee from blindness and hardness of heart! above all, when thou art coming home with thy bride, beware lest in thy haste thou pass by the altar of hecate without the tribute of a prayer. mighty is the goddess, and in her hands are life and death. the sun with his glad warm rays shines down upon the bosom of the earth, and draws forth the young corn from her breast, and with loving hand he paints the purple bloom of the grape. but when summer skies are cloudless, and the breath of the breeze smites hot upon the land, men pray for rain and the cooling veil of mists to hide the parched and thirsty fields from the cruel shafts of his rays. even so is the might of hecate; in one hand she hath a blessing, in the other a curse. she may stand beside thy wife in the hour of her need, and bring thy children with joy into the world (for the life of all young things she loveth); or if she be slighted, she can blast the parent-stock ere it hath time to bear fruit, and cut off the fair promise of the race." "surely, i will not forget her," said admetus. "an hour before noon, then, on the day after the contest of the suitors, i will await thee in the wood. may the gods speed thee in thy trial!" iv on the day before the games were to be held alcestis went on to the roof of the palace, and looked down upon the great courtyard below. all was bustle and confusion. the bronze gates stood wide upon their hinges, and a stream of people passed to and fro. the chariots of the suitors thundered across the pavement. through the colonnades re-echoed the clattering of horses' hoofs and the clanging of harness chains, and from his post at the gateway the warder shouted his orders to the pages and attendants. far out across the country alcestis gazed and traced the white roadway where it wound over the bosom of the plain. he for whom she was looking had not entered the courtyard, and she strained her eyes to see whether, among all the folk who were wending their way towards the city, she could find him. but the palace stood high upon the hill, with the houses of the town nestling below, and the folk upon the road were like flies, so small and black they seemed upon the dusty highway. many a long hour she watched upon the roof, and still he came not. at length the sun went down behind the mountains in a glory of crimson and gold, and the purple hills cast their shadow across the silent plain. then alcestis laid her head upon her arm, and great tears stole through her fingers, and fell upon the cold stone parapet. "ah me, the gods are cruel!" she sobbed. "they have planted the seed of love within my heart, and now they would have me tear it out. hard is a woman's lot. in bitterness of soul she sits within, whilst out in the great world men fight for her beauty, as though she were some painted image or lifeless weight of gold. on the slipping of a foot or the cast of a die her fate may rest for weal or woe, and the happiness of her life hang upon the issue of a moment." then she felt in her bosom for the lock of the golden fleece which admetus had given her, and drew it forth and kissed it. "alas, he has forgotten me! he is a great king now, and thinks no more of the maiden in whose eyes he looked when he first came back from his voyage." sadly she put the lock back in her bosom, and turned and went down the turret-stair. it was close upon the hour when all the suitors were to be feasted in the great hall, and with her sisters she was to sing the pæan song at the pouring of the third libation. full often had she sung it in her father's halls; for only unwedded maidens, pure and innocent of soul, might sing it, and ask for blessings on their home and kindred, and return thanks to great zeus, the saviour, for the gladness of a well-filled board and the happy faces of friends and kinsfolk round the hearth. her heart was heavy within her when she thought that now for the last time this task would be hers, and that only one more sun would set before she would be far away in a strange land, the wife of a man whose very name she knew not yet. her one hope lay in the words of the prophet and the will of her father, that she should wed that man only who could come to bear her away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar; and from the depths of her soul she prayed that all might find the task impossible. "better to die a maiden," she thought, "than to be the prize of a man i do not love." as she reached the bottom of the stair she heard her sisters calling. "alcestis, alcestis, where art thou? the feast is wellnigh finished, and all men wait for us to sing the pæan song. tarry no longer, but hasten and come." "i come, i come," she answered. "yet the song of joy upon my lips will echo like a dirge through the chambers of my soul." and the sisters marvelled at her, and shook their heads. "she hath always wayward fancies," they whispered, "and is different from other folk." their hearts were a-flutter with hope and joy, for on the morrow they would each one be wedded to a brave man, and go to a strange new land, and be queens in their own palaces. so they took no heed of her words, but tripped along the galleries with joyful feet, and took their places in the crowded hall. after them came alcestis. slowly, and with sad, unseeing eyes, she took her seat beside them. meanwhile admetus had tarried alone outside the city walls. he had sent his servants before him with his chariot and his gear to secure a stabling for his horses and a sleeping-place for himself in the crowded alcoves of the king's palace. but his soul longed for peace and quiet, and he felt he could not face the noisy crowd before it was needful. time enough if he slipped into the great hall when the company was gathering for the feast. only then might he hope to see alcestis. so he turned aside into the quiet fields and wandered by the winding stream. behind him the dust rose in white clouds from the high-road as the chariots of the suitors thundered up towards the palace, and admetus knew that many a brave and mighty hero would stand against him on the morrow. yet hope burned high in his heart, and he felt that his love for alcestis was a power which his rivals lacked--a power which would nerve his arm and give him the strength of ten. the desire of his heart went up to the throne of zeus like the breath of a good man's prayer; and zeus heard the cry of his soul, and into his veins he poured of that fire which runs in the veins of the immortals. on earth men know not what to call it, and they name it with many names--inspiration, genius, and the spirit of prophecy, or, when it works too far beyond their understanding, they call it madness. as the sun was sinking low in the sky, admetus turned up the steep roadway to the palace. in the courtyard he found his servants, and they brought him water to wash with, and a change of raiment, and clothed him as befitted one who had come to woo a fair princess. as the shades of evening fell he entered the great hall, and mingled with the company, and when the tables were spread, he took his seat among the rest. but when his neighbour spoke to him, he would answer at random, and ever his eye wandered restlessly up and down the hall to find alcestis. now the feast drew to its close, and yet no womenfolk appeared. at last one of the serving-men drew aside the great curtain that hung across the doorway, and as the daughters of pelias entered admetus felt his heart leap in his bosom, and he leant eagerly across the table. the moments that passed before alcestis came seemed eternity, and when at length she entered, her eyes were cast upon the floor, and she saw him not. but when she had taken her seat, the silent voice of his soul sped across the great hall, and found an echo in her heart, and she raised her eyes and looked at him, and for one moment they two were alone in that crowded place. and now the wine was mixed, and each man held out his cup for the pouring of the third libation. then alcestis rose from her seat, and her sisters played a prelude on their pipes. when the prelude was ended she raised her voice and sang. "o all-bestowing zeus, father almighty, for the mercies thou hast showered upon us, for the evil thou hast warded off, lo, with thankful hearts we make libation of the sweet dark wine! o friend of the stranger, who searchest out the secrets of men's hearts, midst the whirlwind rush of the chariots and the dust of the wrestling-ring, stand thou beside the brave man and the true! make firm his axle-pin, and the earth beneath him sure, and chain blind fortune's hands. so shall the prize fall to the most valiant. to those whose lives must be moulded by another's will, grant thou patience and an understanding soul, o lord, and may the desire of their heart be according to thy will. o father of gods and men, cloud-enthroned, who ridest on the wings of the whirlwind, joy and sorrow by thee are blended into one harmonious whole. by the sunshine of thy mercy, by the scorching fire of thy wrath, open thou the blinded eyes of men to see the glory of thy works. all hail to thee, saviour and king most high!" as she sang the people marvelled, for her voice was as the voice of some priestess of the gods filled with the breath of heaven. when the feast was ended, the pages took down the torches from the walls, and led forth the guests to the shadowy alcoves where each man's couch was laid, and there was silence in the halls. on noiseless wings sleep glided through the palace, and stood by each man's side. with gentle hands she soothed his weary limbs, and put fresh courage in his heart for the contest of the morrow. but when she came to alcestis she found her gazing out upon the starlit sky. "my daughter," she said, "come to my arms and lay thy head upon my breast, and i will ease the trouble of thine heart." "ah, sweet sleep, not to-night," alcestis answered, "for with zeus a mortal's fervent prayer availeth much. i cannot stand beside admetus in the lists, but at least he shall not fail for want of a true heart's prayer to-night." so sleep passed her by, and till the bright-haired dawn shone out in the east alcestis sat by the open window. when it was light she went to rouse her sisters, for early in the morning they were to lead the procession of the maidens to the temples of the gods and lay wreaths and garlands before the shrines, while the men-folk gathered in the plain to watch the contest of the suitors. now once more there was bustle and confusion in the city, and the streets were thronged with eager folk hurrying to the lists. ever and anon there was a shout, and the crowd parted this way and that, like the earth before a ploughshare, as a chariot thundered over the stones bearing some proud suitor to the games. last of all, when everything was ready, came the king, acastus, and took his seat beneath a canopy, and the people rose as one man, and greeted him with cheers. then came a herald, and blew a call upon his trumpet, and one by one the suitors marched up and stood before the king, and with a loud voice the herald proclaimed each man's name and station and the contest he would enter for that day. truly it was a goodly sight to see them marching past, strong men all, in the prime of life. broad were their shoulders, and their limbs were straight and brown, and the rhythm of their marching was like the swell of the sea. never since the day when all the heroes gathered at the call of jason for the search of the golden fleece had there been such a goodly concourse of men in fair iolchos. from all the wide plain of thessaly they flocked, from hill-girt attica and the spartan lowlands, from argolis and the green valleys of arcadia, and from the isles of the sea. all the day long the people sat and watched the games, and ever and anon a shout went up to heaven when a strong man overthrew his adversary, or one swift of foot passed the others in the last lap of the race. there was hurling of quoits, and leaping and wrestling, and beneath the feet of the boxers the earth was trampled hard. far away across the plain the chariots flew, and the people shaded their eyes with their hands, and strained to see which was foremost. but the dust rose in clouds about the horses' breasts, so that till they were close at hand no man could say who was leading. at last the great day drew to a close, and once more the herald stood before the king and blew a call upon his trumpet. each in turn the victorious suitors came forward, and when the herald had proclaimed his name and the contest he had won, the king placed a crown of leaves upon his head, and told him which of the daughters of pelias was to be his bride. brave men were they all, and bravely had they fought that day, but mightiest among the mighty had been admetus of pheræ. last of all the victors, the herald called his name, and he came and stood before the throne; and the king placed the crown of leaves upon his head and said, "in token that thou hast proved thyself the mightiest in the field, i place this garland on thine head, admetus. verily, the gods have stood upon thy side and filled thee with the fire of heaven, so that the strength of thine adversary was turned to weakness before thy might. may they grant thee, in like way, to fulfil the last part of the task; for, of a truth, it would grieve me to see one so mighty depart without a prize." then admetus answered boldly, "but one more sun shall set, o king, before alcestis shall be my bride. to-morrow at noon will i come to bear her away in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar." and those who heard him marvelled at his confidence. v the next day towards noon the king came forth and sat upon a throne in the portico before the palace, and all the nobles and suitors stood round about and waited to see if admetus would fulfil his word. as the sun stood high in the heavens there fell upon his ears a sound like the moaning of the sea far away when a storm is at hand. louder and louder it grew, drawing nearer every moment, till at length, like the break of a mighty wave, a host of cheering citizens surged through the great bronze gates. into the wide courtyard they poured, and then stood back upon either side, and, up the alley in the midst, drove admetus in a chariot drawn by a lion and a boar. straight across the court he came, and, like well-trained steeds, the beasts looked neither to right nor left, nor heeded the cheers of the people. with a jingling of bells and the rattle of harness-chains, they trotted between the ranks, and came and stood before the king. "i have kept my word, o king, and have come to bear away my bride, as the prophet of the gods ordained." then the king rose up and greeted admetus. "right glad am i to see thee, admetus," he cried, "and right glad that my sister shall be thy bride. may the gods bless thy wedded life, even as they have blessed thy suit this day!" thereupon the pages threw open the palace doors, and a chorus of maidens came forth playing upon pipes, and singing a marriage hymn. last of all came alcestis, clad in the saffron robes of a bride, and to admetus she seemed like the sun heralded by the stars of dawn. gently he took her hand and raised her into the car, and the people piled rich tapestries and vessels of gold and silver beside them for gifts of marriage. with a shouting and waving of hands the chariot passed once more across the court and down through the echoing streets, till at length they two were alone upon the white highway. the joy that was born of their hearts threw a magic light on all the land. the green grass waved in the meadows, the leaves danced gaily on the trees, and from the thickets and bushes the birds sang songs of gladness. on and on they drove, as in a dream, heeding neither time nor distance. the glare of the dusty highway changed to the shade of the woodland path, with green arches overhead, and a murmur of dancing streams. before the shrine of hecate a shepherd had placed his offering, and was standing with his hands held high in prayer. but admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine, nor remembered when last he had stood there and taken his strange team from his herdsman. without a thought he passed the altar by. as the gleaming chariot grew dim in the distance, the shepherd turned and watched it, till the curve of the road hid it from sight. even then he stood and listened to the jingling of the bells, as though he thought that still it might turn back. but the bells grew fainter and fainter, till he heard but a tinkle now and again borne back on the wings of the wind, and at last he could hear that no more. sadly he turned back, and stood again before the shrine with outstretched hands, then silently disappeared into the depths of the wood. on went the two till the shades of night began to fall, and one by one the stars came out in the sky. now they drew near to pheræ. high up upon the hill the palace gleamed bright with many a torch, for messengers had gone before to say that admetus was coming with his bride, and all the folk had gathered together to greet him on his return. as they entered the city gates choruses of men and maidens came forth to meet them, and up the steep hill the glad procession wound, with the singing of hymns and playing of pipes. when they reached the palace gates the maidens raised alcestis in their arms, and bore her over the brazen threshold, that no evil omen might befall her as she entered her new home. long and merry was the marriage-feast, and ere it was over the night was far spent. but at length the last libation had been poured, the last cup had passed round the board, and the maidens stood waiting to take alcestis to the marriage chamber. so she rose and went with them, and they decked her in the robes in which for the first time a young bride greets her lord. when all was ready, they took down the torches from the walls, and left her. outside the door they formed in chorus to sing the love-song till admetus should come to his bride. [illustration: admetus heeded neither shepherd nor shrine.... without a thought he passed the altar by.] not long did they wait. with eager steps he came and drew aside the curtain from the doorway. in the middle of the chamber stood alcestis, and never had she looked more fair. as the sweet notes of the love-song stole softly through the door, she held out her arms to admetus. her hair fell in a cloud about her shoulders, and her white robe touched the floor. from the casement the pale moonbeams fell slanting down, and cast about her a halo of light. with the silver shimmer of her hair and the gleam of her outstretched arms, she seemed to admetus a messenger of the gods come down by the ladder of light. with a cry of joy he stepped towards her. as he did so a terrible thing befell. between him and his bride there rose up two huge serpents, and as he rushed towards them they circled alcestis about in their gleaming coils. the nearer he drew the more closely did they clasp her, and their forked tongues flashed like lightning about her head. "back, back!" she gasped, "or they will strangle me." unconsciously he fell back. as he did so the great beasts relaxed their grip, and fell down in shining coils upon the floor; but their heads waved to and fro above the ground, and when once more he took a step forward, they rose up again about her with an angry hiss. "oh, leave me, leave me!" cried alcestis. "the gods are angry, and will not let thee touch me. fight not against their will, or the serpents will slay me." "nay, with these hands will i strangle them," cried admetus. again he rushed forward, and again, before he could cross the room, the monsters had wound themselves about alcestis with a clasp of iron, so that she could scarcely breathe. just in time admetus drew back, or they would have squeezed the life from her. with a groan he turned and fled from the room, and the love-song changed to a shriek of terror as the maidens scattered this way and that before him. with head bowed down and wide eyes full of horror, he staggered on like a drunken man, and disappeared into the darkness of the silent hall. in terror the maidens clung together, with whisperings like the twitter of frightened birds. at length one more bold than her companions drew aside the curtain from the door and looked into the chamber. full in the path of the moonbeams alcestis lay stretched upon the floor. her eyes were closed, and her face was pale as with the paleness of death. yet there seemed nothing in the room that should have caused her to swoon away. the maiden called to her companions, and together they lifted alcestis upon the couch, and ministered to her, till at length she opened her eyes. admetus meanwhile had rushed through the deserted hall and out into the moonlit court. all was quiet, save for one solitary figure, who walked up and down in the shadow of the colonnade. as admetus staggered across the court, the man came out and stood across his path. "whither goest thou, o king?" he asked. raising his eyes, admetus found himself face to face with his strange herdsman. "my head burns from feasting in the crowded hall," he said, "and i am come out to get the cool night air." the herdsman answered him never a word, but gazed at him with his strange piercing eyes. and admetus glanced this way and that, but could not meet that steadfast look. "why do the gods torment me?" he cried hotly. "what have i done that i should be tortured on my bridal night?" "nay, think rather what thou hast left undone." "left undone?" cried admetus, and pointed to the altar in the centre of the court. "seest thou not the fire still red from the burning of the sacrifice? not here only, but throughout the whole city, do they steam with the savoury smoke." "altars may steam while hearts are cold, admetus. one fervent prayer before the solitary shrine availeth more than hecatombs of oxen slain without a thought. did i not stand before thee in the path this day and lift my hands in prayer to hecate? but with unseeing eyes didst thou pass me by, and the goddess is wroth at thy neglect, and her anger standeth between thee and thy bride." and admetus stood with eyes downcast before him, and had never a word to say. "yet because i love thee i will help thee once again," the herdsman said. "go back upon thy road and offer now thy prayers. i too will intercede for thee, and methinks that the voice of my pleadings she will not disdain." slowly and sorrowfully did admetus return along the road he had travelled with so light a heart before. for three days and three nights he was not seen within the palace, and for three days and three nights alcestis lay tossing to and fro upon her bed, with wild words upon her lips, and before her eyes fearful shapes that she alone could see. on the fourth day admetus came slowly up the hill. the dust of the highway clung white about his clothes, and the sweat of weariness stood out upon his brow. yet straightway he came and stood beside alcestis, and took her hand in his. then she opened her eyes and looked at him, and for the first time since her marriage night she looked on a face with eyes that could see. the fearful shapes and visions fled away, and she smiled at him with tears of joy. then admetus knew that his prayers had not been vain, and that hecate had heard his cry, and given him back his wife. vi quickly the days and nights sped by, and the palace was full of joy and happiness. at last the season came round that had brought the strange herdsman to admetus the year before. on the selfsame day of the month he came and stood once more before him. "twelve moons have waxed and waned, o king," he said, "since the day when first thou gavest me shelter in thy halls. the time of my cleansing is accomplished, and i am come to bid thee farewell." "farewell?" cried admetus. "that is a bitter word in mine ears. fain would i have thee with me always. yet have i no heart to beg thee to remain, for thou art mightier than i, and even to call thee guest and friend would sound presumptuous in mine ears. farewell, then. may the gods reward thee tenfold for the blessings thou hast showered upon my house!" "when first i stood within thy halls thou didst say to me, 'stranger, who art thou, and whose blood is on thy hands?' dost thou not ask me that question now once more ere we part?" "master, i asked it then in ignorance of thee and of thy ways. to-day it lieth with thee to tell me or not as thou wiliest. if thou wouldst hide thy name from me still, i am content." "nay, i will tell thee, for 'tis meet thou shouldst know. the fame of the deed i wrought has spread far and wide throughout the world wherever men speak with awe the name of delphi. thou knowest how in the beginning earth held the sacred shrine, and gave forth, from the mouth of her priestess, dark and dreadful oracles, and chaos and night had their seats there, and the wingless foul furies, the trackers of blood. round about the awful spot the mountains re-echoed the voice of lamentation and the cries of human victims led forth to sacrifice; and lest at any time one strong of arm and stout of heart should come to wrest away the shrine from the powers of darkness, there lay before the gates a guardian fierce and terrible--python, the sleepless dragon. in and out and round about the portals he wound his monstrous length, and his scales threw back the light like points of flashing steel, and his eyes were like the red-tongued flame. no man in those days could pass that dreadful portal, but, like a dim, uncertain echo, the voice of the priestess floated down to the trembling folk below. at last one day there came a shining one whose sword was the sunlight, and his arrows were darts of living fire. with the strength of his right arm he slew the python, and stretched out his monstrous coils beneath the hot sun's rays, till the flesh melted and rotted away, and only his bones lay gleaming white upon the rocks, to show how once he had guarded the shrine against all comers; and the victor took the shrine and made it his own, and placed his priestess there to utter forth true oracles to men when the divine spirit filled her breast. the waters of the castalian spring he purified, so that those who came might wash away their guilt, and stand with pure hearts before the shrine. and over the green lawns beneath parnassus he led the choir of the muses, the bright-haired sisters of poetry, and music, and dancing. because their feet have touched the earth where castalia has its fount, men say that those who drink of those waters are filled with their spirit, so that the words that they speak and the songs that they sing are immortal, and will live for ever upon the lips and in the hearts of men. he who did this thing and turned the darkness into light stands here before thee now." "apollo!" cried admetus, "lord and master!" and he fell upon the ground before him, and clasped him by the knees. "ah, forgive the blindness and presumption of my heart!" he begged. "nay, there is nought to forgive. they that shed blood must pay the price--yea, though it be the blood of a monster rightfully poured out upon the ground. light was the cost of my purification, for thou art a kind master and an honourable man. but now my hands are clean, i go back to my seat on fair olympus, where high above the clouds the deathless gods dwell evermore in the clear, bright light of heaven. yet do i love thee, and will not forget thee. when the shadow of despair falls dark across thy path, call on me, and i will help thee." so saying, he bent forward and took admetus by the hand, and raised him up. once more that piercing glance burned through to his very soul; then the stranger turned and strode away across the palace court. like one changed to marble admetus stood and watched him go. then with a start he rushed to the gateway, and looked eagerly down the road. but though he shaded and strained his eyes, he could see that familiar form no more. only far away on the dim horizon the veil of clouds which hung about olympus melted away beneath the sun's bright rays, and the snow-clad peak flashed clear and sparkling as a crystal against the summer sky. "lo, even dread olympus smiles a welcome to the god of light and truth!" said admetus. then with a sigh he turned back into the palace. vii for ten long years admetus and alcestis ruled in pheræ, and the gods gave them joy and happiness and two children to bless their wedded love. and when admetus looked back to the days of the past, he was well pleased with the story of his life. had he not held an oar in the good ship _argo_, whose fame had reached to the uttermost parts of the earth? by the strength of his arm he had won to wife the fairest maid in thessaly, and brought her home behind a pair such as no man before or since had dared to yoke together. moreover, through the length and breadth of hellas his house was famous as the home of hospitality and good cheer. not men alone, but great apollo, the bright-haired god of light, had been his guest--nay, his very servant. was he not king, too, of a rich and fruitful land, in which year by year the earth brought forth plenteous harvests, because the greatness of his name held back the tide of war, and peace with unfettered feet walked joyously through field and city? when he remembered all these things, his heart waxed big with vanity and pride, and he began to forget the gods and to look down upon his fellow-men, and think that he alone of all mankind had done great deeds, and that without him the world would be but a sorry place. this pride it was that made him do a mean thing that marred all the glory of his life. one day death came and stood beside him, and put his seal upon his brow, and admetus knew that he must die. when he felt that now he stood upon the threshold of hades, the dim dark world of the dead, where high and low, rich and poor, strong and weak, wander for ever as voiceless shades through the sunless groves, where kingship and slavery are one, his heart was turned to water, and his spirit called aloud in his anguish, "apollo, o apollo! hear me in my sore distress, and deliver me from death." far away on the sunlit peak of olympus apollo heard his cry, and swift as the lightning crosses the sky he came and stood beside him. "what wouldst thou with me, admetus?" he asked. "i have come in answer to thy prayer." then admetus raised his head, and pointed to his brow, and apollo gazed sadly at him. "i see the seal upon thy brow, my friend--the seal that none may break." "ah, say not that, my lord! am i not even now in the prime of my manhood, when others look forward to many a long year of joyous life? why should i die before my time? my mother and my aged father still live, and rejoice in the sunlight, yet no kingdom standeth by the might of their right arm. the meanest slave within my palace is more fortunate than i. why, out of them all, hath death laid his hand on me?" "he is but the servant of the fates, admetus, whose ways neither gods nor men can understand." "the fates? are they lower than the beasts, then, and will not listen to the voice of reason?" "the voice of man's reason is to them as the baying of jackals in the wilderness, admetus." "o god of light, is there nothing that will touch their hearts? canst thou by thy music turn the souls of man and beast, and soothe the fury of the whirlwind and the crying of the rain, and yet over them alone hast thou no power? ah! by the love thou once didst bear me, go, strike thy lyre before them, and sing thy song of magic. surely they will not withstand thee, but will put my life into thy hands in return for the beauty of thy song." "because i love thee i will go, admetus. yet, if i go, it is because they call me; and if i prevail, or if i fail, it is because they have willed it long ago. farewell." so apollo sped away on the wings of the wind, far, far away beyond earth's widest bounds, beyond the region of unmelting snow and the land of the midnight sun, beyond the ever-rolling stream of ocean and the deserts of the air, till he came to the unchanging land where the three great sisters dwell together, without beginning and without end. in that land there is neither north nor south, east nor west. there is neither sun nor moon, night nor day, time nor change. on three great thrones of mist the mighty sisters sit, and their forms are neither foul nor fair. on their brows are crowns of sovereignty, and in their hands the destinies of man, which they sit spinning, for ever spinning, into the mighty web of life. the first is lachesis the chooser. from the tangled mass beside her she picks out threads of varied hue and hands them to clotho the spinner, who weaves them into the web upon her knees. on the other side sits atropos the unswerving one. in her hands she holds a pair of shears, and as the ends of the threads hang loose on the wrong side of the web, she cuts them off and casts them at her feet. so apollo came and stood before them with his lyre in his hand. softly he touched the golden strings, then raised his voice and sang. at the sound of that magic song lachesis forgot to hand the threads to her sister, the web dropped low on clotho's knee, and the hand of atropos fell lifeless by her side, and till the ending of the song time itself stood still. while the magic of his singing held them spellbound apollo urged his plea. "almighty sisters, from the ends of the world have i come, from the haunts of mortal man, to ask a boon for one i love." "say on, apollo. thou hast turned our hearts to water by the magic of thy song. what wilt thou?" "in the fertile land of pheræ, admetus lies a-dying. he is young, and the love of life runs hot within his veins. he is a great king, too, and rules his subjects well and wisely, and loud will be the wail of the people if he must die before his time. if my song has pleased you, mighty ones, o grant that he may live to a green old age." "all mortals would live to a green old age, apollo, and thou lovest many among the sons of men. there would be no end to our bounty if for every song we must grant thee a life. nay, ask some other boon, for thy song has reached our hearts!" but apollo turned sadly away. "there is nothing else i would ask of you, great sisters. for this, and for this alone, have i come." "on one condition only can we grant thee thy boon, apollo. thou sayest that admetus is a great king, and well loved by all his folk. if among them all he can find one soul that will go to hades in his place, we will let him live on to a green old age. surely we ask not much. some slave who loveth not his life, or some old man whose grey hairs are a burden, will gladly die that one so wise and great may live on for his people's joy." "so be it, mighty ones. yet methinks 'tis an empty boon thou hast given me, for men cling to life and the sunny days on earth, and admetus may seek far ere he find one who will cast it aside for the darkness and gloom of the sad underworld. and, in any case, he is not one to live on at the price of another's life." "we can grant no more," they said. so apollo went back by the way he had gone; and he came and stood beside admetus, and told him the word of the fates. when admetus heard it he was glad. "o god of light, thou wast ever my friend, and now i shall owe my very life to thee. how can i thank thee?" but apollo looked through to his inmost soul. "dost thou accept the condition, then?" he asked. "what else can i do, master?" he replied. "thou canst die." "i know it," cried admetus; "but why must i die before my time? with the argonauts i sailed the unknown seas; in the lists i have fought and prevailed against the flower of hellas; and for twelve months a god deigned to dwell beneath my palace roof. surely my life is worth more than most men's, and i do well to keep it while i may." "so be it," said apollo, but his face was stern and terrible, and admetus trembled at his frown. "go now, and find one who will die for thee." and he turned and left him. viii when admetus was left alone his heart was in a tumult. he felt the wrath of apollo like the lash of a whip, and he knew that his anger was just. when he looked back on his life, he was ashamed at the change which long years of prosperity and peace had wrought in him; that much manliness at least was left him. when he thought of the great deeds he had done in his youth, and how, when he had but sipped of its joys, he had been ready a hundred times to cast life lightly aside, he felt like a thief slinking guiltily home by night, laden with the spoils that will make himself rich and leave his friend poor and starving. if he took another's life as the price of his own, he felt he would never be able again to look a man straight in the face. and yet he could live his life but once; and life, with prosperity and ease, sunshine and riches, had become more dear to him than honour, more dear than the love and esteem of his fellow-men. his very deeds of valour had become a snare to entice him to the path of meanness and dishonour, to make him hold another's life as a cheap price to pay for one so great as he. so he quenched the last spark of manliness that still struggled for life in his heart, and sent a proclamation through the land, bidding all those who would die that their king might live, to come and stand before him in the palace, that he might choose between them; for he thought that many would be glad to die for him. for many a long day he waited, and no man came. then he sent forth trusty messengers to stir the people's hearts; but they returned with words instead of men. "we will ride in the chase, we will sail the stormy seas, we will fight against our country's foes, and in all these things will we risk our lives to save the king. but we will not leave our wives and little ones and the pleasant life on earth, for no cause save that another may live beyond his fated time." such were the words of the people. then admetus sent for all his household--the slaves that had been born and bred within the palace. and they said that they would toil for him all their days, but die for him they would not; for even the life of a slave was better than the endless years of gloom in the kingdom of the dead. then the heart of admetus grew bitter within him, and he hated the thought of death more than ever before, when he found that even the meanest life was dear to the hearts of men. in his despair he turned to his aged parents, for he thought within himself, "surely one of them will be ready to die for their own son. at best they have not many years of life, and if i die before them they will have no son to bury them and perform the funeral rites and prayers, as only a son can do for his parents." so he went to pheres his father, and begged that he would die in his place. but his father answered, "dost thou think that because thou lovest the sunlight thy father loves it not?" "nay, but in any case death must lay his hand upon thee soon, whilst i am in the prime of life." "because the years that are left me are few, they are none the less sweet. nevermore in the land of hades shall i warm my old bones in the sun as i look forth upon the fruitful earth. so the years that are left are doubly dear." "then, when thou comest to die, men will point the finger of scorn at thy grave. 'behold the coward, who, though his hair was grey and his limbs were feeble, yet refused to die for his own son!' thy name will be a byword throughout all hellas." "when i am dead it matters little what men shall say of me," said pheres. "may the gods forgive thee for what thou hast said!" cried admetus, and turned away in wrath. for it was a dreadful thing for a greek to say he cared not what men would think of him when he was dead. then admetus went to his mother. but she, no less than his father, clung to life, and refused to die in his stead. last of all he turned to his wife, alcestis. from the beginning she had been ready to die for him, for she loved him, and placed his life above her own. but he had said there was no need that she should die and take away half the joy of his life, when another would do as well. "it needs a great love to sacrifice life for the sake of another," she had answered, "and there is no one in all the world who loves thee as i do." now he found that her words were true, and that he must either die himself or take her life as the price of his own; and his self-love had the mastery, though he tried to persuade his heart that he was living beyond his appointed time for his country's sake and his people's good. yet at bottom he was not satisfied, and his heart grew bitter against all those who had refused to die for him, and he accused them of being the murderers of his wife. but he knew full well that it was his own hand that was sending her to the grave in the flower of her life. at last the day of doom arrived on which alcestis was to die. till then she had put aside all thought of death, and had lived her life as though no shadow hung over her; for she thought within herself, "at least i will be happy my last days on earth. i shall have long enough to mourn for my life in the kingdom of the dead." but now the last day had come she could put away the thought of death no longer. before a gleam of light shone forth on the far horizon she was up to greet the first rays of the sun, for she was a true daughter of hellas, and she loved the glad sunshine and all that was bright and fair, while death and darkness and the gloom of the sad underworld filled her soul with horror. for the last time she looked upon the faint gleam in the east and watched it spread over the sky, and saw the red disc of the sun as he rose from the way of the sea and made the pale dawn blush. the clouds were tinged with glory, and the heavens were filled with light, and the earth awoke with a smile of flowers dancing in the glad morning breeze. then she washed in the fresh fountain water, put on her gayest robes, and went and stood before the altar on the hearth, to pray her last prayer on earth. "o lady goddess! i am going far away across the dark river of death, and for the last time do i make my prayer to thee. ah, when i am gone, have mercy on my children. hard are the ways of the world, and they are young to be left without a mother's love. put forth the right hand of thy pity, lady, and bring them to a glad old age. let them not perish, as i must, in the bloom of their life, but give to my son a loving wife, and a noble husband to my daughter; and may they be happy all their days!" then she went through the palace and bade farewell to all the servants. to each one she gave her hand, even to the meanest slave of them all, and spoke kindly to them. and they bathed her hand with their tears, for they loved their mistress, and knew that when she died they would lose a good friend. as she went the children clung weeping about her skirts, for they, too, knew that she must die. last of all she went alone to her chamber, for she could endure no more; and she threw herself upon her couch, and wept as though her heart would break. she kissed the pillows and smoothed them tenderly with her hands. "alas, alas! for the happy days on earth," she cried, "and happiest of all the years that i have lived here as the wife of admetus! farewell, my couch--farewell for ever!" she tried to tear herself away, but again and again when she had reached the door she turned back and fell once more weeping upon her couch. at last she felt the weakness of death creeping over her, and she knew if she did not leave her chamber then, she would leave it nevermore alive. all her tears were spent, and she had no strength left to weep any more. outside in the great hall admetus sat with his head upon his hands, weeping for his wife, and cursing the bitterness of his fate. and she went and stood beside him. "take me out into the sunlight, admetus," she said; "the darkness within oppresses me. i can breathe more freely in the air." when he looked at her he was afraid, for she was as pale as death. gently he raised her in his arms, and placed her on a couch in the portico before the palace. and when she saw the blue sky and the sunshine she smiled. "o sun and light of day," she said, "and ye dancing, eddying clouds, farewell!" "o ye gods, have mercy!" cried admetus. "my dearest, look up, and leave me not all desolate." but with a cry of fear she started up, and pointed in front. "look, look! the boat of the dead, and the ferryman of souls with his hand upon the pole--charon! he calls, 'alcestis, why dost thou tarry? hasten and come with me.'" "ah, fate, fate--cruel fate!" cried admetus. "he is snatching me away--oh, save me!--down, down to the dark halls of death. away, let me go! he frowns with his dark gleaming brows. ah, the dread journey before me!" "leave me not, leave me not!" cried admetus. "lay me down again," said alcestis, and her voice was scarce more than a whisper. "the strength is gone out of my limbs, and darkness creeps over my eyes. my children, where are you? come here, my little ones, and nestle close beside me." and the children crept silently to her. then she held out her hand to admetus. "my lord," she said, "farewell. already my feet are planted in the paths of death, and thou canst not hold me back. i have been a loving wife to thee, admetus; my beauty, my youth, my joy of life--all these i give to thee. ah, when i am dead, forget me not, for the children's sake, for these poor little ones--promise me. promise me thou wilt not wed again, for a stepmother's heart would be hard against my children, and they would suffer. promise me that thou wilt be a father and mother to them in one." [illustration: and the children crept silently to her.] "i promise," said admetus. "then into thy hands i give them. poor little ones, what will you do without me? my son, for thee thy father will ever be a strong tower of defence, and will bring thee up to be a true man. but for thee, little maiden, my heart bleeds. thou wilt have no mother to dress thee on thy wedding-day, or to comfort thee in thy sorrows, when there is no love like a mother's. be doubly tender with her, admetus." "i will, i will. all that thou sayest i will do, and more also. not for one year only, but all my life long, will i mourn for thee. forget me not, i pray thee. prepare a place for me below, that i may be with thee when i come to die." "nay, i will not forget thee. lay me back now. i can say no more." gently he laid her back, and knelt down by her side, and all they that stood around bowed their heads in silence, for they knew that death was standing in their midst. at last admetus looked up. "my friends," he said, "she is gone. help me now to carry her in, that the maidens may clothe her in the robes of death." gently and reverently, with heads bowed in grief, they carried her in. the maidens clad her in long white robes, and laid her on the bier, and the mourners stood round and sang a dirge for the dead. on the threshold before the palace admetus placed the locks he had shorn from his head in token that within one lay dead, and he put on long black robes of mourning, and took off the golden circlet from his brow. throughout the city he sent a proclamation to say the queen was dead. "men of thessaly," it said, "all ye who own my sway, come, share with me in sorrow for my wife who is dead. shave the bright locks from your heads, and don your sable robes. harness your four-horsed chariots; put the bit in the mouths of your steeds. cut off the long manes from their necks, and follow with me to her grave. let not the voice of the flute be heard in your streets, nor the sound of the lyre, till full twelve moons have waxed and waned; for she was the noblest of women, and dearest of all on earth to me. her life she sacrificed for mine. pay her high honours, then, for she is most worthy." ix whilst the preparations for the funeral were being made, anyone who chanced to look along the highroad would have seen a stranger making his way towards the palace. he was a strong man and tall--three cubits and more in height. the muscles of his arms and chest stood out like thongs of cord. in his hand he carried a huge knotted club, and over his shoulders hung a lion's skin. if the wind or the sun were too strong, he would draw the jaws of the beast over his head like a hood, and the great teeth shone out white and terrible over his brows and under his chin. he walked along with great swinging strides, balancing the club upon his shoulder as though it were some light twig, and not heavy as a sapling oak. as he went through the villages the people stood aside from his path in wonder, and even the strongest champion of them all would whisper, "may the gods deliver me from ever having to stand up against him in single combat. in his little finger is the strength of my right arm." but he walked on, little heeding what folk thought of him, singing now and again snatches of some drinking-song, and passing the time of day, or cracking some joke with those he met upon the way; for, in truth, he had a merry heart, and wished well to all mankind. those who were frightened when first they saw his club and lion's skin forgot their fears as soon as they could see his face, for his eyes were blue and laughing as the summer sky, and his smile was bright as the sun in spring. and yet there were lines and scars about his features which proved that he was no idler, but one who had looked labour and danger in the face. so he came to pheræ and went up the steep path to the palace. it chanced that admetus was standing in the portico on his way in. when the stranger saw him he shouted out, "hail to thee, admetus! turn back and greet an old friend." when admetus heard him, he turned and came towards him. "welcome, heracles," he said, and held out his hand to greet him. but when heracles saw his black robes and shorn locks he was troubled. "i have come at an evil hour, admetus," he said; "thou art mourning for one who is dear to thee." "ay," he answered; "it is true." "one of thy children, can it be, or thy father?" "nay, there is nought amiss with them. it is a woman i am carrying out to burial this day." "is she a stranger, or one of the family?" "she is not one of the family. yet she is very dear to us, for on her father's death she came and lived with us. she was a fair and noble woman, and all the house is plunged in grief at her death." "then i will leave thee and go elsewhere. a house of mourning is no place for guests." "nay," cried admetus; "i beg of thee, do not go. never yet have my halls turned away a traveller from the gates. the dead are dead. what more could we do for them? 'twould do them small good to lack in friendship for the living. come in, come in, i pray thee." in spite of all his entreaties, he forced him to come in, and bade his steward take him to a guest-room apart, where he might eat and drink, and hear nothing of the sounds of mourning when the body was carried out to the tomb; and he did all in his power to hide from his guest that it was alcestis who was dead; for he was ashamed for heracles to know that he had allowed his wife to die for him. meanwhile all had been prepared for the funeral, and a train of citizens stood waiting in the court to follow behind the bier. their long black robes fell trailing in the dust; their heads were shorn in grief, and with slow steps they followed behind the bier, whilst the mourners sang a dirge for the dead. "o daughter of pelias, farewell, farewell for evermore! mayest thou have peace in the world below and such joy as may be in those sunless places! o thou black-haired god of death, never has one more noble come down to dwell in thy halls; never, o charon, thou grim ferryman of souls--never hast thou carried a burden more precious across the dark and dreadful stream! oft shall thy praises be sung, lady, by minstrels of music in every land. on the seven-stringed mountain-lute shall they sing thee, and in hymns, without lyre or lute, in sparta, when the circling seasons bring round the summer feast-time, and all night long the moon rides high in heaven. in bright and shining athens shall they praise thee, too; for thou alone, o brightest and best, hast dared to die for thy lord, and give up thy young life for him. o dark necessity, who shroudest all men about with death, how heavy is thy hand upon this house! from thee none can flee, and zeus himself bows down before thee. thou alone, o goddess, hast no temple, no images to which men turn in prayer, neither hearest thou the voice of victims slain. alcestis is gone--gone for ever. our eyes shall see her no more. light may the earth lie above thee, lady. dear wast thou when thou wast among us; dear shalt thou be, too, in death. no mere mound of the dead shall thy tomb be, but honoured of every passer-by, as some shrine of the immortals. the stranger toiling up the winding way shall bow his head before it and say, 'here lieth one who died for her lord; now she is a blessed spirit. o lady, have mercy upon me!' so great shall be thy glory among men for ever. fare thee well, fare thee well, most beautiful." so they laid her in the polished tomb, and placed rich gifts about her, and sacrifices of blood to the grim god of death. when all the rites were accomplished, they went away sorrowful. x meanwhile heracles had been led to a guest-chamber apart, and the servants ministered to all his wants, and brought him water to wash with, and change of raiment. as they waited on him, he talked gaily to them of his adventures on the way, and made them laugh in spite of their grief for their mistress. only the old serving-man stood aloof, and looked darkly at the stranger who dared to make merry in a house of mourning. when he had washed and dressed, he sat down to meat. they placed an ample meal before him, and brought him wine to drink. but in his eyes their bounty was dearth, and he kept calling for more till they could scarce contain their astonishment at his appetite. at length, when he had eaten his fill, he crowned his head with vine-leaves, and fell to drinking long and deep. the wine warmed his heart, and sent a cheerful glow through all his veins. so happy was he that he could not sit in silence, but raised his voice and sang, and his singing was like the roaring of a bull. "great zeus, preserve us!" sighed the old waiting-man; "never have i heard anything more discordant and unseemly." but the guest grew merrier and merrier, and the face of the serving-man, as he watched, grew longer and longer. at length heracles himself noticed his disapproving countenance. "ho, there!" cried he; "why so dark and gloomy, my friend? i had as soon be welcomed by an iceberg as by thee, old sour-face." the serving-man answered him never a word, but only scowled the more. "what!" cried heracles, "is this the sort of welcome thou art wont to give thy master's guests? come hither, and i will teach thee better ways." and he took hold of the old man and set him down beside him at the table. "alack! what a countenance! and all for a strange girl who has chanced to die. how wilt thou look when one of thy masters is laid in the grave? i like not this mask of hypocrisy, my friend. thou carest not for her who is dead, but pullest a long face, and strikest a chill to the hearts of all beholders, because, forsooth, it is seemly to mourn for the dead. why, we must all pay our tribute to death, every man of us, and no one knoweth whether he shall ever see the next day's light; then count the present as thine own, and eat and drink with me and make merry. a frowning face profits not the dead--nay, it serves but to blacken the sunshine of this life that we can live but once. up, man, drink and wash away thy frowns! believe me, life is no life at all--only labour and misfortune to those who walk through it with pompous steps and sour faces." and he poured out a brimming goblet. "all this i know full well, master," answered the old man, "but the shadow that has fallen on this house is too heavy for me to join in thy revelry." "thou makest too much of death. thou canst not grieve for a stranger as thou wouldst for one of the household. thy master and mistress live. let that suffice thee." "what! my master and mistress live? alas! my master is too kind a host." "must i starve, then, because a strange girl is dead?" "it is no stranger, i tell thee, but one most near and dear." "have i been deceived? has he hidden some misfortune from me?" "ask no more, but go in peace. my master's sorrows are for me to bear, not for thee. and he bade me not speak of it." "speak, speak, man! i see he has hidden some great sorrow from me. who is the woman who is dead?" "ask me not. my master told me not to say." "and i forbid thee not to say. tell me forthwith!" so fierce and terrible did he look that the old man trembled before him. "may my lord forgive me!" said he. "it is alcestis, his wife." "alcestis!" cried heracles. "and he would not share his sorrow with me, his friend, but let me come in and feast and sing while he went out to bury her. woe is me! i thought he loved me." "it was to spare thee pain that he did not tell thee, master." "how came she to die?" asked heracles, and took off the vine-leaves from his head, and poured out the wine upon the floor. then the old man told him the whole tale. "where have they buried her?" he asked, when it was ended. "out yonder, where the white highway leads to larissa, in the plain. there, on the outskirts of the city, thou wilt find the tomb of the kings of pheræ, where they are laying her." "is there no shorter way i can go and reach her quickly?" "there is a footpath by the fields that i will show thee." "come, then, straightway. i must go and lie in wait for the black lord of death. he will come up to drink of the blood that is poured out for him beside the tomb. then i will fall upon him from my ambush and wrestle with him and prevail, and he shall give me back alcestis. even if i must go down to hades and fetch her, she shall come back. she is too fair and too noble to pass her young life in the dark underworld." the old man marvelled at his words; but he went out with him, and showed him the footpath across the fields, and stood watching him till he passed out of sight. "verily, we talk and weep," he muttered to himself, "and he laughs and acts. he is worth ten of us." xi meanwhile the funeral procession was coming back along the highway. as they came into the city each man departed to his own house; only admetus with his near friends and kinsmen returned to the palace to celebrate the funeral feast. whilst they were waiting for the feast to be prepared, admetus stayed outside alone in the court. he sat down on one of the stone seats beneath the colonnade, and buried his face in his hands. he could not bring himself to go into the house, where everything would remind him of the wife he had lost--the chair in which she used to sit, empty now; the fire on the altar burning low, and the ashes scattered about, because she was there no more to feed the dying flames. the full force of the sacrifice came home to him now, and he shuddered as he thought of the deed he had done. "i have slain her--i have slain her whom i loved, to save myself from death, because i loved my life, and hated to go to the dark world below. woe is me!" he cried. "the sun is turned to darkness and the earth to hades since she went away. i grasped at the substance, and all the while i followed after a shade. fool that i was to upbraid them who refused to die for me and cast her death in their teeth! she is dead, dead--slain by my hand alone. nevermore can i look my people in the face, nor glory in the deeds i have done. the shame of my cowardice will blot them all out, and i shall slink like a cur among my fellows. would that i had died with her!" thus he sat making fruitless moan. his friends came out and tried to comfort him and bring him into the house, but he sent them away, and would not go in. all the evening he sat there alone till darkness began to fall. at length he felt a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder, and, looking up, he saw heracles standing beside him. "why couldst thou not trust me, admetus?" he asked. "all thy household, all the city, knew that thy wife alcestis was dead. me only, thy familiar friend, didst thou keep in ignorance. i had thought to stand beside thee in thy sorrow, and thou didst not even tell me of it." "i was ashamed," answered admetus. "well, well, what is done cannot be undone. there is but one way now that thou canst prove thou art still my friend. after i had eaten, i walked out across the fields, and came upon a place where the people were holding games and giving rich prizes to the winners--horses and oxen, and a fair woman to the best man of all. when i saw the woman i determined to win her. so i entered for the contest and beat all my rivals. the woman i have brought back with me now, and beg of thee to keep her till i come back from the wild thracian folk, for i cannot take her with me there. if by any chance i should never come back, but meet my fate away, i give her to thee to keep for thyself. i have brought her with me now to give into thy care." as he spoke, he led forward by the hand a woman who had been standing near him. she was closely veiled, so that admetus, when he glanced up at her, could not see her face, but only the outline of her form. "oh, take her away, take her away!" he cried. "in height and figure she is like my wife, and i cannot bear to look upon her. i would do much for thee, my friend, but ask not this of me. no woman shall ever live in my house again. take her to some other of thy friends." in spite of all heracles could say, he refused to take her. "i see that thou wouldst no more be my friend, admetus," he said at last. "first thou wilt not tell me of thy sorrow, and now thou wilt not do this little thing for me. i will go and trouble thee no more with my friendship." at this admetus was cut to the quick. "ah, say not that. thou knowest that i love thee, but this is a hard thing thou askest. whenever i look at her i shall be reminded of my wife. and the tongue of slander will not be silent. men will say that i take comfort, and have forgotten the woman who gave her life for mine. nevertheless, if thou wilt have it so, i yield. take the woman in, or let one of the servants show her the way." "nay," said heracles; "to thee alone will i trust her. she is fair and noble, and i would not have her treated as a common woman." and he forced admetus to take her by the hand. "now i know that thou wilt treat her honourably, thou mayst look upon her face," he said, and lifted up the veil which shrouded her. when admetus saw her face, he fell back terrified, for, pale and beautiful, scarce looking as though she breathed, alcestis stood before him. "ye gods!" he gasped; "the spirit of my wife!" "nay," said heracles, "but her very self." "thou mockest; it cannot be." "it is no mockery, as who should know better than i who won her?" said heracles. "by zeus, i have wrestled many a tough match, but never a one so tough as this, the gods be praised! i have met death face to face, and i hope i may never have to stand up against him more." [illustration: she answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and raised him from his knees.] "ah, my friend, how can i thank thee? i have not deserved so much joy," cried admetus, and fell on his knees before them. "i thought not of thy deserts, but of hers," said heracles. "come, take her in." "i dare not touch her. ah, lady, canst thou love one who sent thee to thy death?" he asked, with head bowed down before her. she answered him never a word, but held out both her hands and raised him from his knees; and he looked deep into her eyes, and found them full of love. tenderly and humbly he put his arm about her and led her away, and felt that, if anything on earth could ever raise him from the depths of selfishness and meanness to which he had fallen, it would be the boundless, measureless love of the woman before him. "now to change the funeral feast to a banquet of rejoicing," cried heracles. "truly, i could eat an ox after this last bout of mine." [illustration] the hunting of the calydonian boar in the city of calydon long ago there were great rejoicings because the queen althæa had given birth to a son, her first-born, who, if he grew to years of manhood, would in time sit upon the throne of his father oeneus, and rule the land. some seven days after the child was born it chanced that the queen was lying alone in her chamber, with the babe upon her breast. it was winter-time, and the shades of evening had fallen early about the room, but a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and the flickering flames threw dancing shadows on the walls. the queen was very happy as she pressed her baby to her breast, and held its soft little hand in hers, and whispered in its ear words which only a mother knows how to use to her child. as she lay she watched the shadows playing up and down upon the walls, and to her eyes they took strange forms of men and beasts. now it was a great fight she saw, with horses and chariots rushing over a plain, and mighty warriors meeting face to face in battle; now it was a hunt, with winding of horns and dogs straining at the leash, and a white-tusked boar breaking through a thicket. but whether it was a hunt or whether it was a battle, everywhere there was one figure of a man she watched--a man tall and fair and brave, who stood out conspicuous among his fellows--such a hero as her son might grow to be if he lived till years of manhood. and she prayed that her vision might come true, and her son grow up to be a hero--a man mighty in sport and mighty in battle. in time the flames died down, and the fire burned clear and still upon the hearth. the queen's eyes grew heavy, and she was about to turn on her side to sleep when a strange thing happened, which took from her all desire for rest. the wall of the room in front of her, which had glowed bright and cheery in the firelight, grew grey and misty and seemed to vanish before her eyes, and through the opening there came towards her the forms of three strange women, taller and more terrible than any women of earth. the first one carried in her hand a skein of thread, the second a spindle, and the third a pair of great sharp shears. the queen lay still and motionless with terror as they came forward slowly arm in arm and stood beside the couch, looking down upon the child at her breast. at length the first one spoke. "i give to thy child, althæa, a thread of life exceeding bright and fair." "and i," said the second, "will weave that thread into dark places, where it will shine the brighter for the darkness round about, and bring him honour and great renown." the third one said never a word, but walked slowly round the couch till she stood before the fire on the hearth. a great brand had fallen from the grate, and lay smouldering on the stones. bending down, she took it in her hand, and thrust it deep into the red-hot heart of the fire, and stood watching it till it was well alight, and the tongues of flame shot crackling upwards. then she turned towards the queen. "as soon as that brand upon the fire is consumed," she said, "i will cut the shining thread with my shears, and his life shall be as ashes cast forth upon the wind." as she spoke, she held out the shears, and they gleamed sharp and cruel in the firelight. with a cry of terror the queen sprang up from her couch, forgetful of her weakness, and thinking only of the life of her child; and she rushed across the room, and, drawing forth the blazing brand from the fire, she smothered it in her gown, and crushed it beneath her bare feet, till not a live spark remained about it. then she hid it in a secret place where she alone could find it, and cast herself upon her couch and knew no more. when the attendants came in, they found the room empty, save for the queen and her child; and she lay senseless on the couch, with her feet and her gown all scarred and burnt. for many a long day she lay between life and death, but at last the gods had mercy, and her strength came slowly back to her. but when anyone asked her the cause of her burning, she would shudder and mutter some strange tale of a brand which fell from the fire, and would have burnt out the life of her child. what she meant no one ever knew, but they thought that the gods had stricken her with a sudden fever, and that, not knowing what she did, she had burnt herself in the fire. but of the half-burnt brand and of the word of the fates they knew nothing, for althæa had said in her heart, "the fates have spoken, and their word shall surely come to pass. a fine and fair thread of life has lachesis given to my son, and clotho will weave it into dark places, where it shall shine exceeding bright. the gifts they have given are good. the hand of atropos alone is against him, and she has measured his life by the life of a frail piece of wood. but so long as the gods shall give me strength no careless hand shall place that brand upon the flames, and no man shall know the secret of his life, for grief or madness may turn even the heart of a friend. on me, and on me alone, shall my son's life rest; for well do i know that neither prayer nor sacrifice can avail to turn the heart of atropos, the unswerving one." so she kept the brand securely hidden where she alone could find it. many other fair children did she bear to oeneus the king--phereus and agelaus and periphas, and gorge and melanippe, and the hapless dejaneira, who married heracles, and unwittingly caused his death. but best of them all she loved meleager, her first-born; for the word that the fates had spoken came true. he grew to be a great warrior and a mighty man, and was feared by his foes and loved by his friends through the length and breadth of the land; for there were great wars in those days between the curetes of pleuron and the Ætolians of calydon, and on either side fought men whose names were not despised among their fellows, but among them all there was none so famed as meleager. in all the country-side there was no man who could hurl the javelin with such force and skill as he, and whenever he went forth to battle the victory lay with the men of calydon, and he was called the saviour and protector of his city. when he was in the flower of his manhood, the call of jason came from far iolchos for all the heroes of hellas to join him in his search for the golden fleece. amongst them sailed meleager in the good ship _argo_, and came to the land of the dusky colchians on the shores of the euxine sea. one tale goes that he slew Æetes their king, the child of the sun, and saved his comrades from deadly peril. but whether this be true or no, certain it is that he played his part like a man, and came back to calydon with a fair name for courage and endurance. then was he hoisted on the shoulders of his countrymen and carried through the streets of the city, and feasted right royally in his father's house. soon after his return it chanced that the harvest was more plentiful than it had ever been within the memory of man. the golden corn stood high upon the plains, and on the sunny mountain-sides the olive-trees were thick with berries, and the vine-branches drooped low with their weight of purple fruit. wherefore oeneus the king ordered a great thanksgiving to be held throughout the land in honour of dionysus and demeter and grey-eyed pallas athene, who had given such good gifts to men. at every shrine and temple the altars smoked with sacrifice, and glad bands of youths and maidens with garlands on their heads danced hand in hand around, singing the song of the harvest. "all hail to thee, demeter, great earth-mother! from evenus to the silver eddying waters of wide achelöus thou hast covered the bosom of the plain with golden ears of corn, and they dance beneath the west wind like the waves on summer seas. all hail to thee, dionysus, who bringest joy to the heart of man! about thine altars the juice of the vine shall flow like water, and the souls of those who were bowed down beneath labour and toil shall be uplifted to thee in the glad harvest-time. and pallas athene, grey-eyed maiden, thee too we hail, for thy gift of the fragrant olive. the shade of thy trees lies cool upon the panting hill-sides, and thou hast looked with kindness on our land. oh, come hither, all ye townsfolk and ye dwellers on the plains and hills--come hither in your hundreds, and dance about the altars, and sing thanksgiving to the great gods on high." thus did they dance and sing, and there was gladness and rejoicing through all the land, and not one soul among them all knew how soon their laughter would be turned to tears. for when artemis, the huntress, saw that everywhere the altars smoked in honour of demeter, and dionysus, and pallas athene, but that never a single stone was raised to her, she was filled with jealousy and wrath. one night, when all the land lay sleeping, she left the mountains, where she loved to hunt, and came down to calydon. the arrows in her quiver rattled as she strode along in her wrath, and the flash of her eyes was as the flash of summer lightning across the sky. with great swinging strides she came and stood over oeneus as he slept. "o king," she said, "too long have i been patient and waited for my dues; but i will suffer thine ingratitude no more. when the young corn stands green upon the plain, and the vine-leaves are shooting, and the trees cast once more their shade upon the bare hill-side, then shalt thou have cause to know my power. demeter may sow her golden grain, and dionysus and pallas athene may fill their fruits with gladdening juice, but thou hast yet to learn that, if it be my will, though the promise of the harvest be fair, the fruits thereof shall lie spoilt and ungathered where they grew. broad and dark are the forests which cover wild arachynthus, and deep the ravines, and many a wild beast lurks therein that is tame at my word alone. one of these will i let loose upon thy land. many a fair field shall be trodden underfoot, and many a vineyard and olive-grove laid waste--yea, and red blood shall flow, ere my wrath be assuaged, and i take away the pest from your midst. i have spoken, and no sacrifice shall turn me from my word." thus did she speak, saying the words in his ear, and turned and left the room by the way she had come. with a start he awoke from his sleep and looked around him, but no one could he see. only a sudden storm of wind lashed the branches of the trees against each other, and a dark cloud hid the face of the moon. "the sad winter-time is coming," he thought, "with its storms and its darkened days. yet, lest there be aught in my dream, i will remember artemis to-morrow, and her altars, too, shall smoke with sacrifice." so on the morrow a great festival was held in honour of artemis, the maiden huntress, and oeneus laid aside all thought of his dream. but when the spring-time came and the early summer, he had cause to remember it with sorrow, for out of the forests of arachynthus there came a great boar which laid waste all the country, right and left. in size he was more huge than an ox of epirus, whose oxen are the largest in the world, and the bristles on his neck stood up like spikes. his breath was as a flame of fire that burned up all that stood in his way, and his cruel little eyes gleamed red with blood. over the cornfields he raged, and trampled the green blades beneath his hoofs, and with his strong white tusks he tore down the vine-branches and broke the overhanging boughs of the olive, so that the young berries and fruit lay spoilt upon the ground. not only did he lay waste the fields, but the flocks and herds on the pasture-land were not safe from his attack, and neither shepherds nor dogs could protect them from his fury. through all the country-side the people fled in terror for their lives, and hid within the city walls, only now and again a band of the bravest would go forth and lay nets and snares for him; but so great was the strength of the beast that he broke through every trap they could devise, and, killing any man who stood in his path, he would return, with greater fury than before, to his attack upon the fields and cattle. at length things came to such a pass that, unless the monster could be checked, famine would ere long stare the people in the face. when meleager saw that neither prayer nor sacrifice would turn the heart of artemis, nor any ordinary hunting put an end to the boar, he determined to gather around him a band of heroes who, for the sake of glory, would come together for the hunt, and either kill the beast or perish themselves in the attempt. so he sent a proclamation far and wide through all the kingdoms of hellas. "o men of hellas," he said, "the fair plains of calydon lie trodden underfoot by a grievous monster, and her people are fallen upon evil days. come hither and help us, all ye who love adventure, and fear not risk nor peril, ye seasoned warriors whose spirit is not dead within you, and ye young men who have yet your name to win. come hither to us, and we will give you fair sport and good cheer withal." in answer to his call there flocked from far and wide to calydon a great host of brave men, and mighty was the muster which gathered beneath the roof of oeneus for the hunting of the boar. jason himself came, the leader of the argonauts, and castor and pollux, the great twin brethren, whose stars are in the sky. there was theseus, too, who slew the minotaur, and peirithous his friend, who went down with him to hades, and tried to carry off persephone from the king of the dead. and swift-footed idas came, and lynceus, his brother, whose eyes were so sharp that they could see into the centre of the earth. others were there besides, whose names are too many to tell, and toxeus and plexippus, the brothers of althæa the queen, whom she loved as she loved her own son meleager. for as a little maid she had played with them in the palace of thestius, her father, and she remembered how she would watch for them to come home from the hunt and clap her hands with joy, when from afar she saw them returning home with their spoil. and they would fondle her and play with her, and so long as they were with her she was as happy as a bird; but when they went away, her heart ached for them to come back. the memory of those days still shone bright within her heart, and when her brothers came with the other guests for the hunting of the boar, she welcomed them right gladly. in the great hall a sumptuous feast was spread, and loud was the laughter and bright were the faces, as one friend met another he had not seen for many a long day, and sat down by his side in good-fellowship with the groaning board before them. the feast was well under way when one of the attendants whispered in the ear of the king that yet another guest had come for the hunting of the boar. "who is he?" asked the king. "my lord, i know not," the man replied. "well, keep him not standing without, at all events," said oeneus, "but show him in here, and we will make him welcome with the rest." in a few moments the man returned, and held back the curtain of the great doorway for the new-comer to enter. all eyes were turned eagerly that way to see who it might be, and a murmur of surprise ran round the hall; for they saw upon the threshold no stalwart warrior, as they had expected, but a maiden young and beautiful. she was clad in a hunter's tunic, which fell to her knee, and her legs were strapped about with leathern thongs. crosswise about her body she wore a girdle, from which hung a quiver full of arrows, and with her right hand she leant on a great ashen bow like a staff. her shining hair fell back in waves from her forehead, and was gathered up in a coil behind, and she held her head up proudly and gazed round on the company unabashed. the glow of her cheek and the spring of her step told of life in the open, and of health-giving sport over hill and dale, so that she might have been artemis herself come down from her hunting on the mountains. she looked round the hall till her eyes fell on oeneus, the host, in the place of honour, and in no wise troubled by the silence which her coming had caused, she said, "sire, for my late-coming i crave thy pardon. doubtless some of thy guests have come from more distant lands than i, but, as ill-luck would have it, i chose to come by way of the sea instead of by the isthmus, and for a whole day i ate out my heart with waiting by the shrine of poseidon for a favouring breeze; for the east wind blew like fury across the crisæan gulf, and any barque that had ventured to try the crossing had been blown to the isles of the hesperides ere it had reached thy land. so i waited perforce till the wind fell and i could cross over in safety." concealing his surprise as best he could, oeneus answered, "maiden, we thank thee for thy coming, and make thee right welcome in our halls. yet we fain would know thy name who, a woman all alone, hast crossed barren tracts of land and stormy seas unflinching, and come to take part in a hunt which is no mere child's sport, but a perilous venture, in which strong men might hesitate to risk their lives and limbs." as she listened to his words she smiled. "o king," she said, "thou hidest thy surprise but ill. yet am i not offended, nor will i make a mystery of who i am. my name is atalanta, and i come from the mountains of arcadia, where all day long i hunt with the nymphs over hill and over dale, and through the dark forests, following in the footsteps of her we serve, great artemis the huntress. at her command i stand before thee now, for she said to me, 'atalanta, the land of calydon lies groaning beneath the curse, wherewith i cursed them because they forgot me, and gave me not my dues. but do thou go and help them, and for thy sake i will lay aside my wrath, and let them slay the monster that i sent against them. yet without thee shall they not accomplish it, but the glory of the hunt shall be thine.' thus did she speak, and in obedience to her word am i come." when she had spoken, a murmur ran round the hall, and each man's gorge rose within him as he determined in his mind that no mere woman should surpass him in courage and strength. the sons of thestius, the queen's brothers, especially looked askance at her, and their hearts were filled with jealousy and wrath; for her eye was bright and steady, and her limbs looked supple and swift, and there seemed no reason why she should not be a match for any man among them, in a trial where swiftness of foot and sureness of eye would avail as much as brute force. when meleager saw their dark looks he was very angry that they should so far forget their good breeding as to fail in welcoming a guest, and he rose from his seat and went towards her. "o maiden," he said, "we make thee right welcome to our halls, and we thank thee because thou hast heard our appeal, and art come to help us in the day of our trouble. come, now, and sit thee down, and make glad thy heart with meat and wine, for thou must need it sorely after thy long journeying." as he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a place of honour between his father and himself, and saw that she had her fill of the good fare on the board. as he sat beside her and talked with her, his heart was kindled with love, for she was exceeding fair to look upon; and the more he thought upon the morrow's hunting, the more loath was he that she should risk her life in it. at length he said, "atalanta, surely thou knowest not what manner of beast it is that we are gathered together to destroy. thou hast hunted the swift-footed stag, perchance, through the greenwood, but never a monster so fierce as this boar that artemis has sent against us. i tell thee, it will be no child's play, but a matter of death to some of us. hast thou no mother or father to mourn thee if any evil chance befall, or any lover who is longing for thy return? think well ere it be too late." but she laughed aloud at his words. "thou takest me for some drooping damsel that sits at home and spins, and faints if she see but a drop of blood. i tell thee, i know neither father, nor mother, nor husband, nor brother, and i love but little the lot of womenkind such as thou knowest. never have i lived within four walls, and the first roof that covered me was the forest-trees of mount parthenius, which stands where three lands meet, on the borders of sparta, argolis, and wooded arcadia, that i have chosen for my home. whence i came or how i got to parthenius no one can tell, and i have no wish to find out. as for savage beasts, had i not the eyes of a hawk and the feet of a deer, i had not been safe ten seconds on the uplands of arcadia. for there, as doubtless thou hast heard, there dwells a fierce tribe of centaurs--monsters half human and half horse--who have the passions of men and the strength of beasts. these, when they set eyes upon me, were fired by my beauty, and pursued me over hill and dale, and i fled like the wind before them; but ever and anon i found time to turn and let fly from my bow a dart which fell but seldom short of the mark. so dire was the havoc i wrought in their herd that after a time they gave up in despair, and molested me no more. so talk not to me of fierce beasts or of danger. all my life long i have breathed in danger from the air about me, and i had as soon die outright, as sit with thy womenkind in safety within, whilst all of you went forth for the hunting of the boar." [illustration: as he spoke, he took her by the hand and set her in a place of honour between his father and himself.] and nothing that meleager could say would turn her from her purpose. "dost think i have left the mountains of arcadia, and the nymphs, and the joys and dangers of the hunt, to come and sit with the old wives round thy palace fire in calydon?" she said with a laugh; and her white teeth shone like pearls in the torchlight, and the gleam of her hair and the fire of her eyes kindled yet more surely the flame of love in his heart, so that he could have fallen at her feet and begged her for his sake to keep away from danger. but across the board he saw the eyes of toxeus and plexippus, his mother's brothers, fixed upon him, and their brows were dark and lowering as they frowned upon him and atalanta. so he said no more, lest they should discover his secret and taunt him for his passion; but in his heart he knew that on the morrow his thought would be as much for her safety as for the killing of the boar. as for atalanta, a stone would have returned his love as readily as she. for a companion in the hunt she liked him full well, but to give up her maiden life for his sake was as far from her thoughts as the east is from the west. as yet she knew not the love of man, and had vowed in her heart that she never would. howbeit, such things are not altogether within the power of mortals to will or not to will, and atalanta, like any other woman, was destined one day to bow her proud head to the dust before a man's great love, though the gods had not ordained that meleager should be the one to win her. but more of that hereafter. when the morrow dawned, great was the bustle and confusion in the court of the palace, where all were to meet together for the hunting of the boar. attendants ran this way and that to fetch and carry for their masters, and, as the huntsman blew his horn, the hounds barked impatiently, and strained, whining, at their leashes. at length, when all was ready, althæa with her maidens came forth into the portico, and bade farewell to her guests, her husband, her brothers, and to meleager, her son. "god speed thee, my son," she said, as she looked proudly on him, "and good luck to thy hunting." then she stood on the step and waved to them with a smile as they turned to look back at her before the curve of the roadway hid them from sight. but though a smile was on her lips, her eyes were full of tears, and her heart within her was dark with a dim foreshadowing of evil. with a heavy step, she turned and went into the house, and as she passed the altar by the hearth she stopped and bowed her head. "great artemis," she prayed, "have mercy and bring my loved ones safely back to me this day." then she went to her chamber and drew forth from its hiding-place the half-burnt brand on which her son's life depended. "his life, at any rate, is safe," she thought, "so long as this brand is in my keeping." and she hid it away again where she knew no one could find it, and set to work restlessly, to while away the hours as best she could, till the hunters should come home. they, meanwhile, had gone their way up the steep path which led into the mountains and deep into the heart of the forest, where they knew their prey was lurking. soon they came upon the track of his hoofs leading to the dry bed of a stream, where the rushes and reeds grew high in the marsh-land, and the bending willows cast their shadow over the spot he had chosen for his lair. here they spread the nets cautiously about, and stationed themselves at every point of vantage, and, when all was ready, let loose the hounds, and waited for the boar to come forth from his hiding-place. not long did they have to wait. with a snort of rage he rushed out. the breath from his nostrils came forth like steam, and the white foam flew from his mouth and covered his bristly sides and neck. quick as lightning, he made for the first man he could see, and the tramp of his hoofs re-echoed through the woods like thunder as he came upon the hard ground. as soon as he rushed out, a shower of missiles fell towards him from every side, but some were aimed awry or fell too far or too short of him, and those that touched him slipped aside on his tough hide, as though they had been feathers instead of bronze; and he broke through the nets that had been spread to catch him, and galloped away unharmed, whilst behind him a hound lay dead among the reeds, pierced through with his tusk, and two of the hunters, who stood in his path, and had not been able to rush aside in time, lay groaning on the ground with the iron mark of his hoof upon them, and a gaping wound in the side of one. when the rest saw that he had escaped them, they gave chase with all speed, headed by castor and pollux, on their white horses, and atalanta close beside them, running swiftly as the wind. ahead of them the woodland track gave a sudden turn to the left, and the boar, rushing blindly forward, would have plunged into the undergrowth and bushes, and escaped beyond range of their darts. but atalanta, seeing what must happen, stopped short in the chase. quick as thought, she put an arrow to the string, and let fly at the great beast ahead; and artemis, true to her word, guided the arrow so that it pierced him in the vital part behind the ear. with a snort of pain and fury, he turned round upon the hunters and charged down towards them as they came up from behind, and great would have been the havoc he had wrought among them but for meleager. as the brute bore down, he leaped lightly to one side, and, gathering together all his strength, buried the spear deep into the beast's black shoulder, and felled him to the earth with the force of his blow. immediately the others gathered round, and helped to finish the work that meleager had begun, and soon the monster lay dead upon the ground in a pool of his own blood. then meleager, with his foot upon the boar's head, spoke to the hunters. [illustration: as the brute bore down, meleager buried the spear deep in his shoulder.] "my friends," he said, "i thank you all for the courage and devotion you have shown this day. my land can once more raise her head in joy, for the monster that wrought such havoc in her fields lies dead here at my feet. yet the price of his death has not been light, my friends." and they bowed their heads in silence, as they remembered the two whom the boar had struck in his rush, one of whom was now dead. "yet those who have suffered, have suffered gloriously, giving up themselves, as brave men must, for the sake of others, and their names shall surely not be unremembered by us all. once more, my trusty comrades, i thank you, every man of you. as for thee, lady," he continued, turning to atalanta, "while all have played their part, yet the glory of the hunt is thine. but for thy sure hand and eye the beast might yet be lurking in the forest. wherefore, as a token of our gratitude, i will give to thee the boar's head as a trophy to do with as thou wilt." at his words a murmur of applause went round the ring of them that listened. only the voices of toxeus and plexippus were not heard, for they were mad with jealousy and wrath, and as soon as there was silence they spoke. "by what right," asked toxeus, "shall one bear off the trophy of a hunt in which each one of us has played his part?" the insolence of his words and looks roused the anger of meleager to boiling-point. all through the hunt the brothers had shown scant courtesy to atalanta, and now their rudeness was past bearing. "by the same right as the best man bears off the prize in any contest," he answered quietly, though he was pale with rage. "happy is that one who has first won the heart of the judge, then," said plexippus with a sneer, as he looked at atalanta. by the truth and the falsehood of his words meleager was maddened past all bearing. scarce knowing what he did, he sprang upon him, and before anyone knew what he was about, he had buried his hunting-knife in the heart of plexippus. when toxeus saw his brother fall back upon the grass, he sprang upon meleager, and for a moment they swung backwards and forwards, held each in the other's deadly grip. but meleager was the younger and the stronger of the two, and soon toxeus too lay stretched upon the ground beside his brother, and a cry of horror went through the crowd of those who stood by. pale and trembling, meleager turned towards them. "my friends," he said, "farewell. you shall look upon my face no more. whether i slew them justly or no, the curse of heaven is upon me, and i know that night and day the furies will haunt my steps, because my hand is red with the blood of my kinsmen. o fair fields of calydon, that i have loved and served all my days, farewell for ever. nevermore shall i look upon you, nor my home on the steep hill-side, nor the face of the queen, my mother; but i must hide my head in shame far from the haunts of men. as for thee, lady," he said, turning to atalanta, "their taunt was false, yet true. right honourably didst thou win thy trophy, as all these here will testify;" and he pointed to the hunters standing round. "yet my soul leapt with joy when i found that into thine hand and none other's i might give the prize of the hunt. wherefore, think kindly on my memory, lady, when i am far away, for a brave man's heart is in thy keeping. farewell." and he turned and went away by the forest-path. so surprised were all the company that no man moved hand or foot to stop him. the first to speak was atalanta. "comrades," she said, "do you bear home the dead and break the news as gently as may be to the queen, and i will follow him, if perchance i can comfort him, for the hand of heaven is heavy upon him." so firmly did she speak that no man found it in his heart to withstand her; and when she saw that they would do as she bid, she ran swiftly down the path by which he had gone, and disappeared from sight. meanwhile the day had been drawing towards its close, and althæa had come out into the portico to watch for the return of the hunters. the rumour had reached the city that the boar had been killed, but not without loss among the gallant band that had gone out against him, and with a heavy heart althæa was waiting to know who it was that had fallen. in time she saw them returning home, and in their midst four litters carried on the shoulders of some. when she saw them, her heart stood still with fear, and as they came up and laid down the litters before the doorway she was as one turned to marble, and moved neither hand nor foot. when oeneus the king saw her, he took her gently by the hand. "come within, lady," he said; "the hunting of the boar has cost us dear." "ah! tell me the worst at once," she cried. "i can bear it better so. the suspense is maddening me." "two of those who lie before thee are strangers who have given themselves for us," he said. "one of them is sore wounded, and the other is gone beyond recovery. the other two, althæa, are very near and dear to us--toxeus and plexippus, thy brothers." and he pointed to two of the bodies which lay side by side with their faces covered before her. with a wild cry she rushed to them, and drew back the coverings, and gazed upon the faces that she loved so well. as she looked, she saw the wounds that had killed them, and she knew now that it was no wild beast that had slain them, but the hand of man. drawing herself up to her full height, she looked round on those who stood by, and the gleam of her eyes was terrible to see. "deceive me no more," she said, "but tell me how these two came to fall by the hand of man." "lady," said oeneus, "they sought a quarrel with one of our company, and in anger he slew them both." for a moment she was silent, then in a low voice, yet one that all could hear, she spoke. "my curse be upon him, whosoe'er he be. o daughters of destruction, foul wingless furies, by the blood of my brothers yet wet upon his hand, i bid you track his footsteps night and day. may no roof cover his head nor any man give him food or drink, but let him be a vagabond on the face of the earth till just vengeance overtake him. on thee, oeneus, do i lay this charge, and on my son meleager, to avenge the death of these my kinsmen, who have been foully slain." in vain did oeneus try to stop her. she was as one deaf to his entreaties. when she had finished, she looked round for meleager, and when she could not see him, the blood froze in her veins. "my son," she cried--"where is my son?" "lady," said oeneus, "even now the wingless bearers of thy curse are hunting him through the forest." for a moment she swayed to and fro as though she would fall. "ye gods, what have i done?" she muttered. then with a cry she turned and rushed through the doorway, across the deserted palace to her own chamber, and barring the door behind her, she took from its hiding-place the brand she had kept jealously so long. as on the day when the fates had come to her, a bright fire was burning on the hearth, and deep into the heart of it she pushed the log with both her hands. "o my son, my son!" she cried; "to think that i should come to this! but though the flame that devours thy life burns out my heart within me, yet must i do it. thus only can i save thee from my curse. for the word, once spoken, never dies, and the furies, once aroused, sleep never, night nor day. wherefore death alone can give thee peace, o meleager, my first-born and my dearest." oeneus meanwhile had followed her, and stood without, asking her to open to him. but she cried out to him, "all is well. i beg thee leave me. i would be alone." so he left her; and she stood watching the flames slowly eat the wood away, and at last, when the log fell apart in ashes, she sank down upon the floor, and with her son's life hers too went out for grief. meleager meanwhile had gone blindly forward along the forest track, and from afar atalanta followed him. for a time he went onward, straight as an arrow, never stopping, never turning. but when his mother's curse was spoken, faster than the whirlwind the furies flew from the realms of endless night, and came and crouched before his feet, loathsome shapes of darkness and of horror. with a cry he turned aside, and tried to flee from them, but wherever he looked they were there before him, and he reeled backwards and forwards like a drunken man. but soon his strength seemed to give way, and he fell forward on the grass, and atalanta ran forward and took his head upon her knee. to her eyes they two were alone in the heart of the forest, for the foul shapes of the furies he alone had seen. but now he lay with his eyes closed, faint and weak, and she thought that some time in the hunt he must have strained himself, and lay dying of some inward hurt that no man could heal, for on his body she could see not a scratch. so she sat in the gathering gloom with his head upon her lap. there was nought else she could do. help lay so far away that he would have died alone had she left him. at last, when his heart beat so faint that she thought it had stopped once for all, he opened his eyes and looked up at her, and when he saw her the fear and the madness died out of his face, and he smiled. "the gods are kind," he said. once more he closed his eyes, and atalanta knew that he would open them never again. gently she laid him with his head on the moss-covered roots of a tree, and sped away to the city to bear the news of his death. in the darkness of night they bore him through the forest, and all the people gathered together and watched from the walls the torchlit procession as it came slowly up the hill; and the heart of each man of them was heavy within him as he thought that the hero and saviour of his country was being carried dead into the walls of his native town. by the side of his mother they laid him, and burned above them the torches of the dead, and the mourners, with heads bowed in grief, stood around. thus did it come to pass that the hunting of the boar ended in grief for the land of calydon, and atalanta went back to the arcadian woodlands with a sore place in her heart for meleager, who had died happy because his head was resting on her knee. [illustration] the curse of echo in the flowery groves of helicon echo was once a fair nymph who, hand in hand with her sisters, sported along the green lawns and by the side of the mountain-streams. among them all her feet were the lightest and her laugh the merriest, and in the telling of tales not one of them could touch her. so if ever any among them were plotting mischief in their hearts, they would say to her, "echo, thou weaver of words, go thou and sit beside hera in her bower, and beguile her with a tale that she come not forth and find us. see thou make it a long one, echo, and we will give thee a garland to twine in thy hair." and echo would laugh a gay laugh, which rang through the grove. "what will you do when she tires of my tales?" she asked. "when that time comes we shall see," said they. so with another laugh she would trip away and cast herself on the grass at hera's feet. when hera looked upon echo her stern brow would relax, and she would smile upon her and stroke her hair. "what hast thou come for now, thou sprite?" she would ask. "i had a great longing to talk with thee, great hera," she would answer, "and i have a tale--a wondrous new tale--to tell thee." "thy tales are as many as the risings of the sun, echo, and each one of them as long as an old man's beard." "the day is yet young, mother," she would say, "and the tales i have told thee before are as mud which is trampled underfoot by the side of the one i shall tell thee now." "go to, then," said hera, "and if it pleases me i will listen to the end." so echo would sit upon the grass at hera's feet, and with her eyes fixed upon her face she would tell her tale. she had the gift of words, and, moreover, she had seen and heard many strange things which she alone could tell of. these she would weave into romances, adding to them as best pleased her, or taking from them at will; for the best of tale-tellers are those who can lie, but who mingle in with their lies some grains of truth which they have picked from their own experience. and hera would forget her watchfulness and her jealousies, and listen entranced, while the magic of echo's words made each scene live before her eyes. meanwhile the nymphs would sport to their hearts' content and never fear her anger. but at last came the black day of reckoning when hera found out the prank which echo had played upon her so long, and the fire of her wrath flashed forth like lightning. "the gift whereby thou hast deceived me shall be thine no more," she cried. "henceforward thou shalt be dumb till someone else has spoken, and then, even if thou wilt, thou shalt not hold thy tongue, but must needs repeat once more the last words that have been spoken." "alas! alas!" cried the nymphs in chorus. "alas! alas!" cried echo after them, and could say no more, though she longed to speak and beg hera to forgive her. so did it come to pass that she lost her voice, and could only say that which others put in her mouth, whether she wished it or no. now, it chanced one day that the young narcissus strayed away from his companions in the hunt, and when he tried to find them he only wandered further, and lost his way upon the lonely heights of helicon. he was now in the bloom of his youth, nearing manhood, and fair as a flower in spring, and all who saw him straightway loved him and longed for him. but, though his face was smooth and soft as maiden's, his heart was hard as steel; and while many loved him and sighed for him, they could kindle no answering flame in his breast, but he would spurn them, and treat them with scorn, and go on his way, nothing caring. when he was born, the blind seer teiresias had prophesied concerning him, "so long as he sees not himself he shall live and be happy." and his words came true, for narcissus cared for neither man nor woman, but only for his own pleasure; and because he was so fair that all who saw him loved him for his beauty, he found it easy to get from them what he would. but he himself knew nought of love, and therefore but little of grief; for love at the best brings joy and sorrow hand in hand, and if unreturned, it brings nought but pain. now, when the nymphs saw narcissus wandering alone through the woods, they, too, loved him for his beauty, and they followed him wherever he went. but because he was a mortal they were shy of him, and would not show themselves, but hid behind the trees and rocks so that he should not see them; and amongst the others echo followed him, too. at last, when he found he had really wandered astray, he began to shout for one of his companions. "ho, there! where art thou?" he cried. "where art thou?" answered echo. when he heard the voice, he stopped and listened, but he could hear nothing more. then he called again. "i am here in the wood--narcissus." "in the wood--narcissus," said she. "come hither," he cried. "come hither," she answered. wondering at the strange voice which answered him, he looked all about, but could see no one. "art thou close at hand?" he asked. "close at hand," answered echo. wondering the more at seeing no one, he went forward in the direction of the voice. echo, when she found he was coming towards her, fled further, so that when next he called, her voice sounded far away. but wherever she was, he still followed after her, and she saw that he would not let her escape; for wherever she hid, if he called, she had to answer, and so show him her hiding-place. by now they had come to an open space in the trees, where the green lawn sloped down to a clear pool in the hollow. here by the margin of the water she stood, with her back to the tall, nodding bulrushes, and as narcissus came out from the trees she wrung her hands, and the salt tears dropped from her eyes; for she loved him, and longed to speak to him, and yet she could not say a word. when he saw her he stopped. "art thou she who calls me?" he asked. "who calls me?" she answered. "i have told thee, narcissus," he said. "narcissus," she cried, and held out her arms to him. "who art thou?" he asked. "who art thou?" said she. "have i not told thee," he said impatiently, "narcissus?" "narcissus," she said again, and still held out her hands beseechingly. "tell me," he cried, "who art thou and why dost thou call me?" "why dost thou call me?" said she. at this he grew angry. "maiden, whoever thou art, thou hast led me a pretty dance through the woods, and now thou dost nought but mock me." "thou dost nought but mock me," said she. at this he grew yet more angry, and began to abuse her, but every word of abuse that he spoke she hurled back at him again. at last, tired out with his wanderings and with anger, he threw himself on the grass by the pool, and would not look at her nor speak to her again. for a time she stood beside him weeping, and longing to speak to him and explain, but never a word could she utter. so at last in her misery she left him, and went and hid herself behind a rock close by. after a while, when his anger had cooled down somewhat, narcissus remembered he was very thirsty, and noticing for the first time the clear pool beside him, he bent over the edge of the bank to drink. as he held out his hand to take the water, he saw looking up towards him a face which was the fairest face he had ever looked on, and his heart, which never yet had known what love was, at last was set on fire by the face in the pool. with a sigh he held out both his arms towards it, and the figure also held out two arms to him, and echo from the rock answered back his sigh. when he saw the figure stretching out towards him and heard the sigh, he thought that his love was returned, and he bent down closer to the water and whispered, "i love thee." "i love thee," answered echo from the rock. at these words he bent down further, and tried to clasp the figure in his arms, but as he did so, it vanished away. the surface of the pool was covered with ripples, and he found he was clasping empty water to his breast. so he drew back and waited awhile, thinking he had been overhasty. in time, the ripples died away and the face appeared again as clear as before, looking up at him longingly from the water. once again he bent towards it, and tried to clasp it, and once again it fled from his embrace. time after time he tried, and always the same thing happened, and at last he gave up in despair, and sat looking down into the water, with the teardrops falling from his eyes; and the figure in the pool wept, too, and looked up at him with a look of longing and despair. the longer he looked, the more fiercely did the flame of love burn in his breast, till at length he could bear it no more, but determined to reach the desire of his heart or die. so for the last time he leaned forward, and when he found that once again he was clasping the empty water, he threw himself from the bank into the pool, thinking that in the depths, at any rate, he would find his love. but he found naught but death among the weeds and stones of the pool, and knew not that it was his own face he loved reflected in the water below him. thus were the words of the prophet fulfilled, "so long as he sees not himself he shall live and be happy." echo, peeping out from the rock, saw all that had happened, and when narcissus cast himself into the pool, she rushed forward, all too late, to stop him. when she found she could not save him, she cast herself on the grass by the pool and wept and wept, till her flesh and her bones wasted away with weeping, and naught but her voice remained and the curse that was on her. so to this day she lives, a formless voice haunting rocks and caves and vaulted halls. herself no man has seen since the day narcissus saw her wringing her hands for love of him beside the nodding bulrushes, and no man ever shall see again. but her voice we all have heard repeating our words when we thought that no one was by; and though now she will say whatever we bid her, if once the curse were removed, the cry of her soul would be, [illustration: for the last time he leaned forward.] "narcissus, narcissus, my love, come back--come back to me!" by the side of the clear brown pool, on the grass that echo had watered with her tears, there sprang up a sweet-scented flower, with a pure white face and a crown of gold. and to this day in many a land men call that flower "narcissus," after the lad who, for love of his own fair face, was drowned in the waters of helicon. [illustration] the sculptor and the image in the fair isle of cyprus, long ago, lived a young sculptor named pygmalion. as a child he had been quick to see beauty in the forms around him, and while he found nothing better, he would dig the clay in the garden and sit for many a long hour happy in the shade of the trees, modelling horses and cows and human figures, whilst his mother was busied with her duties in the house. she, for her part, was glad he had found something to amuse him and keep him out of mischief, for he had no brothers or sisters to play with, and his father was dead, so they two lived alone together in a great white house between the mountains and the sea. from time to time she would come down into the garden to look at his figures and praise them; for though they were childish and crude, and sometimes grotesque, they were full of life and promise, and being a wise woman, she knew that where nature points the way, it is well to make the road as smooth as may be. at first she gave him no better material to work with than the clay he could dig for himself, nor any master to teach him; for she wished to see how long he would persevere, and how far he would get alone. there are times, too, when a master can hinder more than he can teach. one day when he was old enough, she took him down to the city below, where the people were keeping the feast of aphrodite, and they watched the glad procession wind through the streets, with its choruses of priests and maidens, and little children scattering roses in the way. with the rest of the folk they followed the procession up the hill to the shining temple, and pygmalion stood beside his mother, and wondered at the tapering white columns and the clouds of incense, and all the colours and fair forms such as he had never seen before. the picture of all these things he carried home in his mind, and thought of them by day and dreamt of them by night, till they became almost as real to him as the living forms he saw around him. then he worked more busily than ever at his modelling in the garden; but whereas before he had been content to leave the figures he had made, standing them out in rows for his mother to admire, now he was no longer pleased with his work. he would look at the figure he had made and compare it with the image in his mind, and he saw that while his ideal was fair and beautiful beyond measure, his work was clumsy and rude. then he would set to work and alter his model. but whatever he did he was not satisfied, and when his mother came down from the house to see him, she found him with broken bits lying about him, and never a finished figure to show her. then she knew that one of two things had happened; either he had come to the limit of his powers, and, as a child will, had grown tired of a thing in which he could make no further progress; or else he had reached an age when the mind sees fair forms which the hand cannot fashion, and in disgust at his failure he had broken up his figures, though they were better than what he had done before, because they fell short of the ideal in his mind. "thou art tired of playing with clay, my child," she said; "come with me, and i will see if we cannot find something that will please thee better." so she kept him with her, and taught him letters, and read to him tales of the gods and heroes, till the child's eyes grew big with wonder, and she saw that all she read passed before his mind like a moving picture. she read to him from the old greek poets, tales of bravery and might, of love and of adventure--tales, too, of cruelty and bloodshed, jealousy and hate. but whatever she read was beautiful, for the greeks loved beauty above all things else, and clothed their thoughts in fair forms of words, so that even when they told of wickedness and wrong they left no stain of ugliness upon the mind. pygmalion drank in eagerly all that was read to him, and because he had within him the soul of a poet he understood. the music of the words sank into his heart like seed planted in a fertile soil, which springs up to forms of loveliness and grace. so did the old tales bring before his eyes shapes of beauty, and once again he began to go down into the garden and try to mould them into figures of clay. his mother watched him, and saw that he persevered, and that week by week his models grew more beautiful and more true, as the image in his own mind grew clearer. then she knew that her reading had done what she hoped it would do, and that the vague and fleeting visions had become for him forms as clear as those he saw around him. "at least my son has the soul of an artist," she thought, "but whether he has the hands and the fingers of one who can do more than play with the clay, the gods alone can tell. he shall have a master to teach him, and in time we shall see whether he is one of the many in whom the divine fire burns, but whose bodies are instruments too coarse to carry out the thoughts of the soul, or whether he is one of the few who are able to do that of which others vainly dream." so she gave him a master--a white-haired, venerable man, in whom lived the spirit of the old greek sculptors, who had been the first to show mankind how stone and marble might be wrought into shapes of beauty. he taught the lad how to work in all kinds of stone and metal, and to copy faithfully the forms he saw around him. but he would not let him be satisfied with this alone, for he saw that he had in him the making of better things. "pygmalion," he would say, "in life there are many things that are not fair, but in art all things should be fair, and no art is truly great that is not beautiful. when thou lookest on the world, see only that which is beautiful; thou, because thou hast the soul of a poet, wilt see beauty where others cannot find it. drink it in as a thirsty man will drink from the wayside stream, then give forth to the world, in stone, copies of those ideal forms thou seest with the eye of thy soul alone." the child was an apt pupil; he understood, and did as his master bade him. as the years flew by, he grew to be a man and a great sculptor, so that in the temples of the gods and the palaces of the rich his statues stood, and at the corners of the streets, a joy to rich and poor. the years, which had brought him to fame, had taken from him the white-haired old man, his master, and the mother who had helped to make him what he was; and now he lived alone in the great white house between the mountains and the sea. but he was happy, perfectly happy, working all day long at his images, and dreaming each night of fairer forms that he would some day work into stone and marble. his friends would come up from the town to look at his work, or to buy, and would say to him, "pygmalion, art thou not lonely here, all alone? why dost thou not take thee a wife, and rear up children to be a comfort to thee in thine old age?" and he would answer, "no, i am not lonely, for my art is to me both wife and children. i will never marry one of the daughters of men." whatever they said, they could not move him from his resolve. but what his friends could not do aphrodite accomplished. when she saw there was one man among the cyprians who had reached the prime of life without giving her a thought, or offering up one prayer before her shrine, she was angry, and determined that he should feel her power. so one night she sent into his mind the vision of a maiden, who in loveliness surpassed all other forms he had ever dreamed of, and she set his heart aflame, so that he thought he saw a living form before him. he started up in his bed and held out his arms towards her, but awoke with a start to find he was clasping the empty air. then he knew it was only a vision he had seen; but it haunted him, and he tossed restlessly from side to side, unable to sleep. at last he could bear it no more; while the dawn was yet grey in the east he rose from his couch and went to his workroom. gathering together his instruments and some clay, he set to work to model the figure of his dream. on and on he worked, scarce thinking of food or rest, and chose out a block of fair white marble, which day by day grew into shape beneath his fingers. in his hand there seemed a magic it had never had before, so that his chisel never failed nor slipped, till the marble stood transformed before him, shaped into the image of a perfect woman, the vision of his dream; and he loved her as other men love a woman in the flesh, with his whole heart and soul. but small joy did he have of his love, for though he had fashioned her with eyes that spoke to him of love and hands held out towards him, yet when he spoke to her she could give no answer, and when he clasped her in his arms her touch was the cold, hard touch of marble. then he tried to put her away from his mind, and covered her over with a curtain; but when he was not looking at the marble figure, her image was still present before his mind, and he could not forget her. day by day his love grew, till it became a burning fever in his heart. he grew thin and ill from want of food and rest, and could neither work by day nor sleep by night. his friends, when they came up to see him, marvelled at the change in him; and when they asked to see what new work he had done he would answer, "my friends, i have no new work to show you. the cunning has departed from my hand. never again shall i fashion the white marble into shapes of beauty." they wondered what had come over him, for the image that had been his undoing he never showed them, nor let them know what was troubling his heart. but he made a niche for her in his chamber where the light fell upon her from the window, and at night when he could not sleep he would sit with his arms clasped about her ankles and his head resting on her feet. her face would look down on him full of pity and love, pale and beautiful in the cold white light of the moon. when the day dawned and the cloudlets clustered red about the rising sun, the warm rays would fall upon her giving to her some hue of life, and pygmalion's heart would beat high with the hope that a miracle had been wrought, and that his love at last had kindled a soul akin to his own in the marble statue before him. with a cry he would put his arms about her, but still she remained a cold, hard, unresponsive stone. so day by day and week by week he grew more wretched; for there is nought like a passionate love which is unreturned, and which never can be returned, to take out the life from a man. at last aphrodite had compassion on him, when she saw that he had suffered as much and more than most men at her hands, and that he no longer held her in disdain. one night pygmalion, as usual, had been kneeling before the statue with his arm clasped about her feet, till, tired out with longing, he had fallen asleep. on the breath of the night wind aphrodite came in, and she kissed the statue on the lips. [illustration: on the breath of the night wind aphrodite came in, and she kissed the statue on the lips.] "let love kindle life," she said. "live, galatea, thou milk-white maid, and bring joy to the heart of pygmalion." then she stole forth again through the moonlit casement, and pygmalion slept on unconscious. in the morning the sunlight streamed in through the window, and fell full upon his face. with a start he awoke, and looked up at the statue, and to his sun-dazed eyes it seemed to move. "o aphrodite," he cried, "mock me not! thou hast deceived me so often." in despair he cast his arms about the image, certain that once again he would find her a cold white stone. but lo! instead of unyielding marble he was clasping in his arms a living woman. her arms were about his neck, her lips on his lips, and she looked into his eyes with a fire that answered the fire in his own. "at last, at last," said he, "my love has prevailed!" "even in the heart of a stone, pygmalion," she said, "love can kindle love. my form is the work of thy hand, and my soul is the child of thy love. as long as stone can last, so long shall my body last; and as long as thy love can live, so long shall my soul live also." "my love," he said, "will live for ever." "then for ever," said she, "my soul will live with thine." so as husband and wife they lived together for many a long year. the cunning came back to pygmalion's hand, and many a fair statue did he make for the people of cyprus. in time he died in a green old age. his spirit fled away to the dwelling-place of souls, and with him the spirit of galatea, his wife; and her body returned to the form in which pygmalion first had made her--a fair white marble image. in the garden where he, in his childhood, had learned to model the clay, the cyprians buried him, building a fair tomb over him, and in a niche they placed the statue of galatea. so the words she had spoken when she came to life were fulfilled. her form lived as long as stone could live, and her soul lived as long as pygmalion could love her. and which of us can say that this could not be for ever, or that they do not still live in the light of each other's love in the dwelling-place of souls? [illustration] the divine musician north-west of the Ægean, where the cliffs of pelion rise sheer out of the sea, dwelt long ago cheiron, the centaur, the wisest of living things, half man, half horse. many brothers had he, who in form were like himself, but their hearts within were hard and wild, and because of their untamed passions and their cruelty and lust they were hated alike by gods and men. but cheiron was gentle and mild. he knew all manner of strange things; he could prophesy, and play upon the lyre, and cure men of their hurts by means of healing herbs. he was brave withal, and had been in many a bloody fight, and knew the arts of war full as well as the arts of peace. wherefore the old hellenes called him cheiron, the better one, and sent up their sons to live with him that they might be taught all the things which man should know. in a hollow cave on the mountain-side he had his home. far up above him the snow-capped peaks of pelion kept watch over the nestling townships of the plain, and far, far below the waves of the Ægean washed without ceasing on the rocks of that pitiless coast, now soft and soothing as the song a mother sings to her child, now loud and boisterous beneath the lash of the storm-wind, when the seabirds fly screaming to the shelter of the shore. all around were dark forests of chestnut, pine and oak, where many a fierce beast had his lair. in the branches of the trees the wild birds built their nests and filled the dark glades with song. about the mouth of the cave the ground was trampled hard beneath the tread of many feet, and paths led this way and that, some into the heart of the forests, others down the steep cliff to the shore. every morning at sunrise a troop of boys and youths would come forth from the cave, and, dividing into groups, would go their several ways to fish or to hunt, or to follow the course of some stream to its unknown source in the mountains. sometimes cheiron himself would go with them, if he thought they had need of his help; but more often he left them to their own devices, to follow each one his own bent as nature prompted him. in the evening they would come home and tell him of their doings in the day; and he would praise or blame them, according as they had done well or ill, and show them how they might do better another time. then they would go to their couches of dried moss and leaves, and sleep the deep sleep of youth and health, while the cool night breeze blew in upon their faces from the mouth of the cave, and put fresh life and strength into their tired limbs. in the winter-time, when the night was longer than the day, and the snow lay deep upon the hills, they would light a great fire in front of the cave with logs they had stored in the summer months, and cheiron would take his lyre and sing to them of all things in heaven and earth, while they lay round about and listened. the songs which he sang to them then they never forgot, because cheiron was wise, and spoke to their souls in his singing. so they laid up his songs in their hearts; and many a long year after, when they were grown men far away, and some danger or difficulty stood in their path, the drift of his teaching would come back to them in the words of a song, and their hearts would grow brave and strong once more to act worthily of their boyhood's sunny days on pelion. many a hero whose name still lives among men had been trained by cheiron in his youth--peleus, who married a goddess, and achilles his son, the swiftest and bravest of mortal men; and jason, the leader of the argonauts; and asklepios, the mighty healer; and, not least among them, orpheus, the greatest of greek musicians and mystics, whose tale i will tell you now. one day, as the shades of evening were beginning to fall, cheiron stood before the mouth of the cave waiting for the lads to come home. sooner than he expected he saw one of them far away coming down a path from the mountains, and he marvelled that he should return so soon and alone. as he came nearer cheiron saw that he walked with his eyes upon the ground, deep in thought. every now and again he stopped and looked round upon the peaceful hillsides stretching calm and smiling in the golden glow of the evening; and when he had gazed for a moment he sighed, as though he would breathe into his soul the beauty he saw around him, and then went on his way once more with his eyes on the ground. so he walked till he came close to the cave and saw cheiron standing in the entrance. then he ran up to him and put his hand upon his shoulder. "my father," he cried, "look round upon the hills; hast thou ever seen them so fair as they have been this day?" cheiron smiled at his words. "orpheus," he said, "the fair face of the earth changes but little. in the soul of man it lies to look upon her and see her beauty or to be blind." "till this day i have been blind, cheiron," he said. "and who has lifted the veil from thine eyes, my son?" asked his master. "i know not," he said. "but this morning, while yet it was dark, there came to me a strange unrest and a longing to be alone. so i crept forth from the cave whilst you were all sleeping, and climbed up the mountain-side--up, up, in the grey light before dawn, till i came to the place where the white snow lies like a cloak about the shaggy shoulders of pelion. there i left the track of my footsteps where no feet but mine had trod, and climbed up upon a boulder and looked out across the sea. and i saw the great sun rise out of the east. as i looked it seemed that i beheld the face of god; and as the snow and the sea and the forests awoke to life in the light of his glory, my soul awoke within me. all the day long i wandered about the forests and hills; and i saw the beauty of the trees and the grass, and the grace of the wild deer as he bounded over the rocks, as i had never seen it before. the wonder of this day lies like a burden on my heart that i fain would ease, yet i have no words to tell of it." then cheiron took up the lyre which was lying by his side and passed his fingers gently over the strings. "orpheus," he said, "many a long year ago, when thou wast a little lad, thy mother calliope brought thee to me. and she put thy hand in my hand, and said: 'cheiron, make a man of my son. make him brave and fearless and strong, a worthy companion of the noble lads thou hast around thee. when the right time comes i will breathe my spirit upon him, and he shall be great, as few in this world are great.' this day she has kept her word, orpheus. she has breathed her spirit upon thee, and has opened the eyes of thy soul and made them see." "who is my mother calliope?" asked the lad. "she is the fair-voiced one who speaks through the lips of mortals by music and song, orpheus. with her sisters, she dwells for ever by the sunlit streams of helicon, where they follow in the footsteps of apollo, their lord, across the green lawns and the flowery meadows. all knowledge, all music of sound and of words, comes to men by their gift--those nine great sisters, the muses. happy art thou to be her son. take now this lyre from mine hand. ease the burden of thy soul in song, and learn how great is the gift she has given thee." so orpheus took the lyre from his master, and struck the chords, as all the lads who dwelt with cheiron knew full well how to do. but instead of the old songs that he had learnt from his childhood, a new song came to his lips, and he sang as he had never sung before. far away upon the hillsides his companions heard his voice, and they stopped upon their homeward way to listen, as the evening breeze bore the sound to their ears. when they knew that the voice came from home, they hastened on and drew silently near, that no sound might disturb the singer, and throwing themselves upon the ground at his feet, forgot their weariness and hunger as they listened. on and on he sang, forgetful of all else but his song, till the red glow of the evening died away in the west and the stars shone pale in the twilight. there was a strange magic about his music which drew all living things to his feet, as a magnet draws the cold heart of steel. from the woods and the forests they came, and from the bare hillsides--the lion, the leopard and the trembling fawn. the snake came forth from his hiding-place, the rabbit from his hole, and the wild birds wheeled about his head and settled on the brow of the cave. the very trees seemed to hear him, as they swayed their heads to and fro to the rhythm of his song. as he looked round upon his comrades whilst he sang, his heart grew strong within him, for he felt that a strange new power had been born in his soul, which could bow the heads of men beneath his will as the wind bows the rushes by the stream. so he sang on as the twilight deepened into night, and all the stars of heaven came forth to listen, till at length his song died upon his lips, like a breeze lulled to rest at sunset. for a moment the creatures lay spellbound around him; then one by one they crept back to their homes, with their fears and their hatreds tamed for a while by the magic of his singing. and his companions crowded round him with words of praise and eager questions. "who taught thee thy magic song, orpheus?" they cried. "the sunrise and the snow," he answered, "and the teaching of cheiron, and my happy days with you, and the spirit of my mother calliope--all these have taught me my song." but his answer was a dark saying to them, and not one of them understood it, save cheiron. he knew that it is the commonest things in life that are the material of all that is beautiful and fair, just as a temple may be built of common stone; but that the children of the muses are few, who can by music and art open the blind hearts of men to see. thus did the gift of song fall upon orpheus, so that he became the greatest of all singers upon earth. all day long he would wander about the woods and the hills, and tame the heart of every living thing with the magic of his voice. one day it chanced that he came into a wood where he had never been before, and he followed a grass-grown track which led to the mouth of a cave. on one side of the cave stood a tall beech-tree, whose moss-covered roots offered a tempting seat, and close by a clear stream gushed forth from the rocks. he drank eagerly of the water, for he had wandered far and was thirsty; and when he had quenched his thirst, he sat down on the roots of the beech-tree and began his song. as before, the wild things gathered about him, and crouched at his feet, tame and silent, as he sang; and from the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass, with her chin between her hands, looking up into his face. for a time he did not see her, so silently had she come; but at last the power of her eyes drew his eyes upon her, and he turned his head and looked at her. when he saw her, his arm fell useless by his side and his voice died away in his throat, for he had never looked upon anyone so fair. her hair was black as the storm-cloud, but her eyes were blue as the summer sky, and she lay like a white flower in the grass at his feet. for a long moment he gazed into her face without speaking, as she gazed back at him, and at last he spoke. "who art thou, maiden?" he asked. "i am eurydice," she answered. "thy hair is black as midnight, eurydice," he said, "and thine eyes are bright as the noonday." "are not midnight and noonday fair to thine eyes?" she asked. "they are fair indeed, but thou art fairer." "then i am well content," she said. "i know not thy name nor thy face, eurydice," said he, "but my heart beats with thy heart as though we were not strangers." "when two hearts beat together, orpheus, they are strangers no more, whether they have known each other all their days, or have met as thou and i have met. long ago the fame of thee, and of thy singing, reached mine ears, but i hardened my heart against thee, and said, 'it is an idle rumour, and he is no better than other men, before whose face i flee.' but now the gods have brought thy steps to the hollow cave where i dwell, and thou, by thy magic, hast drawn me to thy feet, so that i, who doubted thy power, must follow thee whithersoever thou wilt." [illustration: from the shadow of the cave crept a wood-nymph, and lay upon the grass.] "shall i sing thee a song, eurydice--the song thou hast sown in my heart?" "yes, sing me that song," she answered. so he struck the chords of his lyre and sang her the song that was born of her beauty. one by one the wild creatures stole back to the forest, for that song was not for them, and they two were left alone beneath the spreading boughs of the beech-tree. as he sang, eurydice crept closer to him, till her head rested on his knee and her long black hair fell in a cloud about his feet. as she drew nearer his voice grew lower, till it became but a whisper in her ear. then he laid his lyre on the ground beside him and put his arms about her, and their hearts spoke to each other in the tongue that knows not sound nor words. so it came to pass that orpheus returned no more to dwell with cheiron and his companions in the hollow cave below pelion, but lived with eurydice, his wife, in her cave in the heart of the forest. but he never forgot his boyhood's happy days, nor all that cheiron had done for him. he would come often to see him and take counsel with him, and sing to the lads his magic song. for a few short years he lived a life the gods might envy, till the dark days came, when not even music could bring comfort to his heart. for one day, as he roamed with eurydice through the dark forest, it chanced that she unwittingly trod upon a snake, and the creature turned upon her and pierced her white foot with its venomous fang. like liquid fire the poison ran through her veins, and she lay faint and dying in his arms. "o eurydice," he cried, "eurydice, open thine eyes and come back to me!" for a moment the agony of his voice awoke her to life. "orpheus," she said, "beloved, this side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. but love, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered." when she had spoken her head sank down upon his breast, and her spirit fled away, to return no more. so he bore the fair image of his wife in his arms, and laid her in the depths of the cave that had been their home. above her head he placed a great pine torch, and all the long night watches he sat with his arms about her and his cheek against her cheek; and his heart groaned within him with a grief too great for words. ere the day dawned he kissed for the last time the lips that could speak to him never again, and laid back her head on a pillow of leaves and moss. then he pulled down the earth and stones about the mouth of the cave, so that no one could find the opening, and left for evermore the home he had loved so well. onward he walked in the grey light of dawn, little caring where he went, and struck the chords of his lyre to tell all the earth of his grief. the trees and the flowers bowed down their heads as they listened, the clouds of heaven dropped tears upon the ground, and the whole world mourned with him for the death of eurydice his wife. "oh, sleep no more, ye woods and forests!" he sang, "sleep no more, but toss your arms in the sighing wind, and bow your heads beneath the sky that weeps with me. for eurydice is dead. she is dead. no more shall her white feet glance through the grass, nor the field-flowers shine in her hair. but, like last year's snow, she is melted away, and my heart is desolate without her. oh! why may the dried grass grow green again, but my love must be dead for ever? o ye woods and forests, sleep no more, but awake and mourn with me. for eurydice is dead; she is dead, dead, dead!" so he wandered, making his moan and wringing the hearts of all who heard him, with the sorrow of his singing. and when he could find no comfort upon earth he bethought him of the words of his wife: "this side of the river of death we can dwell together no more. but love, my dear one, is stronger than death, and some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered." he pondered the words in his heart, and wondered what she might mean. "if love is stronger than death," he thought, "then my love can win her back. if i can charm the hearts of all living things with the magic of my song, i may charm, too; the souls of the dead and of their pitiless king, so that he shall give me back eurydice, my wife. i will go down to the dark halls of hades, and bring her up to the fair earth once more." when hope was thus born anew in his heart he grew brave for any venture, and pressed forward on his way till he came to the place men called the mouth of hades. nothing daunted by the tales of horror they told him, he entered the fearsome cave, which led deep down into the bowels of the earth, where noisome vapours choked the breath in his throat, and dark forms crouched in his path and fled shrieking before him, till at last he stood by the shores of the ninefold styx, that winds about the realms of the dead. then he shouted aloud to charon, the ferryman, to row him across in his boat. when the old man heard his voice, he stopped midway across the stream. "who is it that calls me in the voice of the living?" he asked. "it is orpheus," he answered. "i am come to fetch back eurydice, my wife." but the old man laughed, and his laugh cut the heart of orpheus like a knife. "o beardless innocent," he said, "who gave thee power over life and death? i tell thee that many have stood by the shores of this stream and entreated me to take them across, that they might bring their dear ones back with them. but no living soul shall sit in my boat, nor shall the dead, who have sat in it once, ever return to sit in it again. go back to the earth, young man, and when thy time has come, thou too shalt sit in my boat, never fear." "that time has come, charon," he said, "and i shall sit in thy boat this day." raising his lyre, he struck the chords, and his love taught him the tune and the words to sing. steadfastly he gazed at charon, and the magic of his singing drew the old man towards him as surely as though the rope of the boat were in his hands. without ceasing his song, he took his place in the stern, and in time to the music charon dipped his oars in the stream, so that the boat swung over the river as it had never swung before. as it stranded in the shallow water, orpheus leaped lightly to shore. "farewell for the present, charon," he cried; "we shall meet again ere long." he hastened on his way, playing and singing his magic song. resting on his pole, the old man looked after him with wonder in his heart, and shaded his eyes with his hand. for a ray of the sun seemed to shine for a moment in that cold grey land as orpheus passed by. the pale flowers of hell tossed their heads to and fro, as though the west wind played through their leaves, and their colour and their scent came back to them once more. with a sigh, charon breathed in the perfume from the air, and tossed back the grey locks from his brow and straightened his drooping shoulders. "it is long since i smelt the fresh smell of the earth," he muttered. "who is this young god, who can bring light to the darkness and life to the realms of the dead?" so till orpheus passed out of sight and the sound of his singing grew faint in the distance charon stood looking after him, and then with a sigh he sat down in his boat and bent to his oars once more. and orpheus went on his way, with hope beating high in his heart, till he came to the portals of the palace of death. on the threshold lay cerberus, the three-headed hound of hell, who night and day kept watch beside the gate to see that no one passed in save those who had died upon earth, and that those who had passed him once should pass him never again. when he heard orpheus coming, he sprang to his feet and snarled and growled and bared his sharp white fangs; but as the strains of music grew clearer he sank silent to the ground, and stretched his three great heads between his paws. orpheus, as he passed by, bent down and stroked him, and the fierce beast licked his hands. so did he enter into the gates of death, and passed through the shadowy halls, till he stood before the throne of pluto, the king. a dim and awful form did he sit, wrapped about in darkness and mist, and on his right hand sat persephone, his wife, whom he stole from the meadows of sicily. when he saw orpheus his eyes gleamed like the gleam of cold steel, and he stretched forth his gaunt right arm towards him. "what dost thou here, orpheus?" he asked. "i am come to ask thee a boon, o king," he answered. "there be many that ask me a boon," said pluto, "but none that receive it." "yet none have stood before thee in the flesh, as i do, o king, to ask their boon." "because thou hast trespassed unlawfully on my domain, dost thou think i will grant thee thy boon?" "nay; but because my grief is so great that i have dared what none have dared before me, i pray thee to hear me." without waiting for an answer, he struck his lyre and sang to them the story of his life, and of how he had loved and lost eurydice. the eyes of the pale queen brightened when she heard him, and the colour came back to her cheeks, as the song brought back to her mind the days of her girlhood and the sunlit meadows of sicily. then a great pity filled her heart for eurydice, who had left the green earth for ever, and might not return, as she herself did, in the spring-time, living only the dark winter months below. as orpheus ceased his song she laid her hand upon her husband's. "my lord," she said, "grant his boon, i pray thee. he is brave and true-hearted, and he sings as no man has ever sung before." but the stern king sat with his head upon his hand and eyes cast down, deep in thought. at length he spoke, and his voice was soft and kind. "orpheus," he said, "thou hast touched my heart with thy singing. yet it lies not with me to grant thee thy boon." "but if the queen, thy wife, may return to the earth in the spring-time, may not eurydice, too, come back at thy command?" asked orpheus. "the ways of the gods are not the ways of mortals, orpheus; they walk by paths you may not tread. yet, though i have no power to give thee back eurydice, thou mayest win her thyself if thou hast the strength." "how may that be?" cried orpheus. "for the sake of eurydice i have strength for any venture." "no strength of the flesh can win her, orpheus, but the strength of a faith unfaltering. i will send for her, and when thou seest her stand within the hall, holding out her hands towards thee, thou must harden thy heart, and turn and flee before her by the way thou camest. for the love of thee she will follow, and she will entreat thee to look at her and give her thy hand over the stony way. but thou must neither look at her nor speak to her. one look, one word, will be thine undoing, and she must vanish from thine eyes for ever. the spell of thy song still rests upon the guardians of my kingdom, and they will let thee and thy wife pass by. but think not by word nor deed to help her. alone she passed from life to death, and alone she must pass back from death to life. her love and thy faith can be the only bond between you. hast thou the strength for this?" "my lord," cried orpheus, "'tis but a small thing to ask of a love like mine." "it will be harder than thou thinkest," the king replied. "nevertheless, i will call eurydice." he signed to a messenger to fetch her. in a few moments he returned, and behind him came eurydice from the garden of death. the dank dew hung heavy about her, and she walked with her eyes upon the ground, while her long black hair hid the paleness of her face. thus did she come into the centre of the hall, and, not speaking or moving, orpheus gazed upon her till she raised her eyes and saw him. with a cry she sprang towards him. "orpheus!" she said. but, remembering the words of the king, he turned and fled before her through the misty halls and out by the great gate, where cerberus lay tamed with his heads between his paws. and he tried to shut his ears to her pleading as they sped across the plain, but every word that she said cut his heart like a stab, and more than once he almost turned to answer her, so piteous was her cry. "oh, orpheus, what have i done? why dost thou flee from me? oh, give me one word, one look, to say thou lov'st me still." but he remained firm in his resolve, and sat himself in charon's boat, and steeled his heart, whilst she sat beside him, but could not touch him. for he was a living soul, and she was a shade, and might not touch him if she would. but still she pleaded with him. [illustration: "orpheus," she cried, in her despair, "thy hand."] "o orpheus, my heart is starving for one look, one word. i know thou lovest me, but oh! to see thine eyes tell me so and hear thy lips say it." he longed to turn and clasp her in his arms, and tell her how he loved her better than life. but still he refrained, and hugged his lyre close to his breast in his agony; and as soon as the boat touched the shore he leapt out and hastened up the steep, dark path, whilst the sweat stood out in drops upon his brow, so hard was the way and so stifling the air. behind him followed eurydice, and if the way was hard for him, for her it was ten times harder. she had no strength for words, and only by her sobs did orpheus know she was following still. so they went on, till at length the air grew pure and fresh, and the daylight shone before them at the mouth of the cave. with eager steps orpheus pressed forward, longing for the moment when he might clasp his wife in his arms and speak to her once more. but as the way grew easier for him, it grew harder for eurydice; since no one may pass from death to life without sore travail and pain. so she struggled and stumbled after him, and her heart gave way within her as she felt she could follow no farther. "orpheus!" she cried in her despair, "thy hand." ere reason could restrain him, his heart had answered her sudden cry, and he turned and held out his arms to help her. all too late he knew his folly. for even as he was about to hold her she slipped away, and as smoke is borne away on the wings of the wind, so was she borne away, helpless and lifeless, to the realms of the dead, and her voice floated back like the echo of a dream, "farewell, orpheus. alas! alas! farewell!" so for the second time did he lose eurydice; and if his grief was great before, it was ten times greater now. for as the cup of joy had touched his lips it had slipped from his hand and broken, and he knew that the chance the gods had given him once they would give him never again, but that all his life long he must dwell in loneliness without eurydice his wife. blindly he went forward with his lyre beneath his arm. the strings hung broken and lifeless, for the rocks and thorns had torn them as he passed on his way up from hades. but he heeded not nor made any effort to mend them, for the strings of his heart hung broken too, and the music in his soul was dead. in black despair he wandered on, and the sunshine to his eyes was darkness, and the fair forms of earth were sadder than the phantoms of hades had seemed to him while hope still beat in his breast. as a colt that has wandered far by unknown paths returns at last surely to his homestead, so did his feet carry him back to pelion and the dear home of his boyhood. not till he stood in the path which led up to the cave did he know where he had come; but when he saw the mouth of the cave before him his eyes were opened once more, and a faint joy stole into his heart as he went on and sat down on a stone outside. all was silent and deserted, and he sat for awhile alone with his own sad thoughts, till he felt a touch upon his shoulder, and looked up into the face of cheiron standing beside him. "o my master!" he cried. "my son, thou hast suffered," said cheiron. "i have been down into hades, cheiron," he answered. "my child," said cheiron, "i know it all." he gazed upon him, his great mild eyes full of pity, and orpheus gazed back at him, and knew that he understood, though how he had learnt his tale he could not tell. his heart drew comfort from the sympathy that understood without words, and was softened as the parched earth is softened by rain, so that he took cheiron's hands between his, and bowed his head upon them, and wept. thus it came to pass that he returned to his boyhood's home, and dwelt once more with cheiron and his lads beneath the shade of snow-capped pelion. in time the bitterness of his grief was purged away, and he remembered eurydice as something bright and fair that had been woven into the web of his life while yet it was young, and which could never be taken away. as he listened again to the old songs which cheiron had sung to him and his comrades when they were lads, the fire and the eagerness of his youth were born once more within him. when he saw the elder ones go forth into the world and little lads brought up to take their place with cheiron, he felt how life stands ever beckoning and calling to those in whose veins the blood of gods and heroes runs, and they go forth to rule and to serve, to fight and to labour, in answer to the call which the foolish do not hear. so one morning he took his lyre, which for many a long day had lain silent, and putting fresh strings for the ones that were broken, he passed his fingers lovingly over them as of old. and the spirit of music sprang to life once more in his heart, as the flowers spring to life when the winter is past, so that once again he could charm every living thing by the magic of his song. when cheiron knew that his power had come back to him he was glad. "orpheus," he said, "thou hast conquered. a weaker man than thou art would have lain crushed beneath the foot of adversity. but those who bravely rise again are stronger than before." "master," he said, "when i saw the broken strings of my lyre and felt my voice choked within me, i said, 'with the breaking of this string the music dies and becomes a voiceless echo of the past, just as now eurydice is a shade in the shadowy land while her body is dust upon earth,' and lo! ere the strings were mended or the voice grew strong again, the soul of song lived once more in my heart, as on the day when first my mother calliope breathed her spirit upon me. if music may live without sound or words, may not the soul live too without bones and flesh? this is a mystery, and i must seek the wide world for an answer." and cheiron smiled upon him. "it is good to seek," said he, "though thou find no answer in the end." "yet will i find an answer," said orpheus. so when the call of jason came soon after, for him to sail with the heroes in the good ship _argo_ for the finding of the golden fleece, and to be their minstrel on the stormy seas, he went down right gladly to iolchos. at the sound of his song the gallant ship leapt over the stones and into the sea like a charger ready for battle, though before she had been too heavy to move. so he sailed with the heroes on their perilous venture, filling their hearts with courage and hope, and took them safely through many a danger by the magic of his song. but though many had set out, there were few that returned, and he saw the wreck of many a promising life on that terrible voyage, but found no answer to his quest. he bowed his head in reverence to the memory of those who, for the sake of adventure and honour and a noble name, had poured forth their lives like water on a thirsty soil, knowing full well when they set forth that the danger would be for all, but the prize and the dear home-coming for few. so, as soon as might be, he set forth again to wander the wide world alone with his lyre. some say he went to egypt, others say to crete, but wherever he went he found at last the answer to his quest. for he found the great god dionysos, the god of many names--bromios, bacchos, zagreus--who fills men's minds with inspiration and divine madness, so that they become one with him and with the life that lives for ever behind the forms of things that die. he ate of the flesh of the mystic bull, which is the god himself, and to the sound of his lyre the mænads danced over the mountains and through untrodden woods, and held to their breasts young lions, and cubs of the untamed wolf. far away from towns and cities, where custom and language raise barriers between man and man, on the breast of the untouched earth they danced their mystic dance, and became one with bacchos and with all things that have life in the present, or have lived in the past. there orpheus found eurydice again in the communion of soul with soul, and learnt what she had meant when she said, "some day our love shall prevail, never again to be conquered." so it came to pass that he became the priest of bacchos, the mystic god, who is one with life and love. and he wrote upon tablets the rule of life, by which, through purity and initiation, men may become one with the god, and when they have been purified by birth and re-birth in many diverse forms, they may win, because they are one with him, the immortal life that changeth not, like the life of the stars in heaven. the tale goes of orpheus that at last he came to thrace and the wild mountain lands that lie to the north of greece. there he tamed the fierce hill tribes with the magic of his song, and lived a life of abstinence and purity and ecstasy of the soul. but the followers of dionysos who dwelt in those parts looked on him askance; for whereas they worshipped the god with shedding of blood and rending of goats, in the madness that is born of wine, the ecstasy of his worship was born of music and beauty, and he would have no part nor lot in their wild revels. and because there is no hate that is greater than the hate of those who worship one god in divers way, there came a day when the mad frenzy of the mænads was turned against orpheus himself. as he sat looking forth on the sunrise and singing as he touched his lyre, the raving band came up behind him, full of madness and of wine. and they tore him limb from limb in their frenzy, as they had torn the wild goats before, and cast his head into the hebrus, thinking to silence his singing for ever. but his head floated on the waves of the eddying stream, fair and fresh as in life, singing as it floated its magic enchanting song. gently the river bore it along and down to the sea, and the blue sea waves kissed it and passed it from one to the other, till at last they cast it up, still singing, on the shores of the lesbian isle. there the muses came and buried it, and made of its tomb a sacred shrine, where, for many a long year, men came from far and wide to worship and consult the oracle. about that shrine the nightingales sang more sweetly than in any other spot on earth, for they learnt their song from the lips of orpheus himself. and men bound themselves in a holy brotherhood which they called by his name, and lived by the rules he had written on his tablets. some of those who pretended to follow him were charlatans and rogues, and brought dishonour and ridicule upon his name, while others kept the letter without the spirit of his law; but among them were those of a pure and blameless life, who kept his doctrines, and handed them down from generation to generation, till in time they became the foundation-stones of the great philosophies of pythagoras and plato. thus did orpheus live and die, and pointed out to men the path to immortality by purity and abstinence and ecstasy of the soul. there were many of old who hated his doctrine, and many who hate it now; and, indeed, it is not one by which every man can live. but there are those to whom it brings peace and joy, though they call it by other names than his; and these are the bacchoi, the initiated, who have seen the inward light, and their souls are at peace. the flight of arethusa many, many hundred years ago a small band of colonists set sail from corinth to found for themselves a new home and a new city in the far-away west. with a song upon their lips, the sailors bent to their oars. "heave ho! heave ho!" they sang, "for the three-cornered isle of the west! heave ho! for the fountain that fails not, and the whispering willow-trees! heave ho! for the waters that are wedded with the waters of our own native land!" then, as the breeze filled their sails, they pulled in their oars, and looked back for the last time at the home they were leaving for ever. proudly between two seas did the rock of corinth raise her head, encircled with a diadem of walls and towers. with tears in their eyes they watched her sink, and soon all around them was nothing but the waste of the grey sea waves. thus did they leave the old land for the new with joy and sorrow, hope and fear in their hearts, and sailed away to the west, to the land of their dreams, the three-cornered isle of which the oracle had spoken. for when archias, their leader, had consulted the priestess at delphi, she had answered, "to trinacria the god bids thee go, the three-cornered isle of the west. there on ortygia, the sacred islet, shalt thou build thee a home, by the side of the fountain that fails not, arethusa, whose waters are wedded with the waters of thine own native land." so, in obedience to her words, archias set sail with his little band. and they found ortygia and the spring arethusa in the shade of the whispering willows. there they planted the seed of that city, which grew to be the greatest in all sicily and the mistress of the mediterranean--syracuse, proud corinth's prouder daughter. for her sake many a battle has been fought and many a weary war been waged; for through long centuries men knew that whoever held the keys of syracuse held the keys of power in their hands. but what did the priestess mean when she bade archias go to the isle whose waters were wedded with the waters of his own native land? and how came it that when he and his band reached sicily they found there the flowers and the fruit of the home they had left, and streams that ran in and out of the limestone rocks like the streams of the peloponnese? i will tell you. arethusa, around whose spring in ortygia the whispering willows bent, was once a nymph, who dwelt in the arcadian woodlands and followed artemis the maiden huntress, over hill and over dale. artemis loved her above all the other nymphs who were her handmaids, and as a sign of her favour she would let her carry her bow and her quiver full of darts. on many a hot summer's day did arethusa and her companions bathe with their mistress in the cool deep mountain pools. above their heads the great oaks of the forest spread their branches, and the grass beneath their feet was fresh and green. so long as they stayed by the side of their mistress the nymphs were safe from harm, for no god or goddess in all the land was so powerful as artemis, and she knew how to protect her own. so it came to pass that, because arethusa had never known what fear was, she grew to think that there was no such thing, and one day she left her mistress and her comrades, and wandered forth alone through the woods. her heart was gay and light, and she sang as she went. in the gloom of the forest she was like a ray of the sun, and on the bare hill-sides she was like a sparkling stream that leaves green grass and flowers wherever it passes. but she thought nothing of her beauty, nor feared any harm because of it. as soon would lily cease from growing, because it feared to be plucked for the sake of its fair sweet flower. so she wandered on happy and light-hearted on that bright summer's day. at last she came to a broad river that barred her path. high up above her head the water fell leaping and roaring down the face of the rocks, while below the swift current hurried along through swirling eddies and foam. when she saw that she could go no farther, she sat down on a rock by the edge of a stream, and let the cool water play over her feet; then she bent down to fill her hand and drink. as she did so her heart stopped beating, and her limbs grew stiff and numb, and for the first time in her life she knew what fear was. for out of the waters before her there rose up what seemed a great billow of foam and spray, which stretched out a long arm towards her, and from the tips of five great fingers the drops fell cold upon her shoulders. with a cry, she drew herself together, and turned and fled; but she had seen the form of the river-god grow clear in the billow, with the water flowing down from his damp hair and beard, and the flash of his eyes like the flash of lightning in the midst of the foam. it was alpheus, the king of all the rivers of peloponnese. he had seen arethusa alone on the bank, and for love of her beauty he had risen from the depths of the stream and stretched out his arms to gather her to himself, and draw her down beneath the waves, to live with him and be his for ever. but she had been too quick for him, and now she fled before him as a deer flees before the hounds, whilst the fear that had numbed her at first now lent wings to her feet. over hill and over dale she fled, swift as the rushing wind. her bright locks flew out behind her, and as she leapt from rock to rock her white robes gleamed like the gleam of sunlit waters. close behind her came alpheus. the deafening roar of his flood sounded like thunder in her ears, and his misty breath blew cold upon her cheek. on and on she fled, with the swiftness and strength of despair, till at last she could go no farther; for before her stretched the blue waste of the cruel ionian, and the spray of the waves stung her face, while behind her the floods of alpheus rushed thundering down. then she stretched forth her hands, and cried out to the maid of the sea, "o dictynna, dictynna, have mercy! in the name of great artemis, whom thou lovest as i do, help me now." the maid of the sea heard her cry, and wrapped her about in a mist, and her body and her limbs were unloosed and melted away, till she became a spring of fresh, pure water that bubbled and danced over the stones of the shore, and dived at last into the waves of the sea. but behind her the flood of alpheus still rushed leaping and foaming. he had followed her over mountain and valley, and he followed her now through the ocean. down through the white waves they dived into the depths of the sea, and passed like silvery currents of light through the green sleeping waters, on and on, through forests of seaweed, and over shell-strewn rocks, till they were stopped at last in their flight by the roots of the three-cornered isle. there, through the fissures and clefts, they forced their way up once more to the sunlight, and side by side they leapt down from the rocks and the crags--down towards the sea once again. but arethusa fled no longer in terror, and her fear of alpheus was gone; for he pursued her no more in a thundering, boisterous flood. now he held out his strong white arms, and called to her gently and low--as gently as the waves call in summer as they dance to the shore. "arethusa, arethusa, i love thee. come, join thy waters with mine." but she leapt away from him with a happy, mischievous laugh, and tossed back the spray from her hair, so that it fell on his cheek like a shower of kisses. thus she leapt laughing, down over the rocks and crags towards the sea, knowing full well that he played with her, and that any moment he could make her his own. at last, as she hovered for a moment on the brink of the cliff, he caught her in his strong white arms, and together they dived once more into the salt sea waves, so that their waters were mingled, and for evermore they were one. and arethusa showed her bright head again in the spring beneath the willows of ortygia, which is called by her name to this day. from the time of her flight that spring never failed or grew dry, for from the snows of the mountains alpheus flowed always to meet her, bringing coolness and plenty to the waters he loved. men said, moreover, that if a cup were put into the stream of alpheus in the peloponnese it would find its way at last to the spring in ortygia--which showed that the waters of arethusa and alpheus were wedded and blended together, so that they lived apart no more. [illustration: on and on she fled with the swiftness and strength of despair.] and that was the reason why archias found in sicily the flowers and the fruit of the land he had left; for alpheus had borne their seeds in his stream from peloponnese, and scattered them right and left as he sprang through the rocks, that the winds of heaven might sow them where they willed. to this day you will find in sicily the olive and the vine, and the blushing flower of the almond, and the narcissus with its crown of gold, as you find them in peloponnese; for is not the water that feeds their meadows one stream that joins two lands? and on the first coins of syracuse you will find the head of the nymph arethusa, with the fish swimming round about; for was it not by the side of her spring that the first stones of the city were laid, on the sacred isle of ortygia, round which the sea-fish swam? thus did arethusa flee in terror from alpheus, to be wedded to him at last in a land across the sea. the winning of atalanta once upon a time there ruled in arcadian tegea a proud-hearted king named schoenus. a tamer of horses was he, and a man mighty in the hunt and in battle. above every other thing he loved danger and sport and all kinds of manly exercise. indeed, these things were the passion of his life, and he despised all womenkind because they could take no part nor lot in them. and he wedded clymene, a fair princess of a royal house, because he wished to raise up noble sons in his halls, who should ride and hunt with him, and carry on his name when he was dead. on his wedding-day he swore a great oath, and called upon all the gods to witness it. "never," he swore in his pride, "shall a maid child live in my halls. if a maid is born to me, she shall die ere her eyes see the light, and the honour of my house shall rest upon my sons alone." when a man swears an oath in his pride, he repents full oft in humility, and so it fell out now. for many a long year no child was born to him, and when at last he had hopes of an heir, the babe that was born was a maid. when he saw the child his heart was cut in two, and the pride of a father and the pride of his oath did battle within him for victory. the pride of his oath conquered, for he was afraid to break his word in the face of all his people. he hardened his heart, though he had held the babe in his arms, and its little hand with a birthmark above the wrist had closed about his finger trustfully, and gave orders that the child should be cast out upon the mountains to die of hunger and cold. so the babe was given to a servant, who bore it forth and left it on the slope of bleak parthenius. but fate made a mock of schoenus, of his pride and of his oath, for no other child, either man or maid, was born to him in his halls. all too late he repented of his folly, when he saw his hearth desolate and no children round his board, and knew that not only his name, but his race, was like to die with him, because of the rash oath which he had sworn. yet there was one who had pity on the babe, and whose heart was kinder than the heart of its own sire. when artemis, the maiden goddess, saw the child cast forth to die, she was filled with anger against schoenus, and swore that it should live. for it was a fair child, and a maid after her own heart, and no young life ever called to her in vain for mercy. wherefore she sent a she-bear to the place where the child lay, and softened the heart of the beast, so that she lifted it gently in her mouth and bore it to the cave where her own cubs lay hid. there she suckled it with her own young ones, and tended it night and day, till it grew strong and could walk, and the cave rang with its laughter as it played and gambolled with the young bears. when artemis knew that the child was old enough to live without its foster-mother, she sent her nymphs to fetch it away, and when they bore it to her she was well pleased to find it fair and strong. "her name shall be atalanta," she said to them. "she shall dwell on the mountains and in the woods of arcadia, and be one of my band with you. a mighty huntress shall she be, and the swiftest of all mortals upon earth; and in time she shall return to her own folk and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts." thus it came to pass that atalanta lived with the nymphs in the woodlands of arcadia. they taught her to run and to hunt, and to shoot with bow and arrows, till soon the day came when she could do these things as well as any of their band. for the blood of her father ran hot in her veins; and not more easily does a young bird learn to fly than atalanta learnt to love all manner of sport. so she came to womanhood in the heart of the hills, and as her form grew in height and strength, it grew too in beauty and grace. the light of the sunbeam lay hid in her hair, and the blue of the sky in her eyes, and all the rivers of arcadia bathed her limbs and made them fresh and white. but she thought little of her beauty, or the power it might have over the hearts of men, for all her delight was in the hunt, and to follow artemis, her mistress, over hill and over dale. artemis loved her, and delighted to do her honour; and when the land of calydon cried to her for mercy, because of the boar she had sent to ravage it in her wrath, she decreed that none but atalanta should have the glory of that hunt. the tale of how she came to calydon, and of how the boar was slain at last through her, i have told you before; and of how death came to meleager, because he loved her, and would not let any man insult her while he stood idly by. by the fame of that hunt her name was carried far and wide through hellas, so that when she came to the funeral games of pelias there was no need to ask who she was. she ran in the foot race against the swiftest in the land, and won the prize so easily that when she reached the goal the first man had scarce passed the turning-point, though he was no sluggard to make a mock of. when the games were over, she went back to arcadia without a tear or a sigh, but her face and her memory lived in the heart of many a man whose very name she had not known; and when presently the news went abroad that she would wed the man who could win her, they flocked from far and wide, because they loved her better than life; for they knew that the unsuccessful went forth to certain death. the tale of how atalanta went back to her own folk, and of how she was wooed and won, is as follows: one day, when king schoenus held a great hunt in the forest on the edge of his domain, it chanced that atalanta had come to those parts; and when she heard the blare of the bugles and the barking of the hounds, her heart leapt with joy. as a dog, when he hears the voice of his master, pricks up his ears and runs swiftly to meet him, so did atalanta run swiftly through the woods when she heard the sound of the bugles. full often had she joined in a hunt on the uplands of arcadia, and run with the hounds; and when the hunt was over she had fled back into the forest, away from those who had been fain for her to stay. for she loved the hunt, but not the hunters; but, because she was a mortal and born of a mortal race, she did not flee from their eyes, as the wood-nymphs fled, but hunted with them for joy of the hunt, and left them when it pleased her. so now she joined in the chase as the stag broke loose from cover, and her white feet flashed in the sunlight as she followed the hounds across the open moorland. king schoenus, when he saw her, was glad. "it is atalanta, the maiden huntress," he cried. "see that she be treated with due courtesy, for she is the only woman on earth who is fit to look a man in the face." and he rode eagerly after her. but the best horse in all that company was no match for atalanta. far ahead of them all she shot, like an arrow from the bow, and when at last the stag turned at bay in a pool, she was the first to reach him. when the rest had come up, and the huntsman had slain the stag, the king turned to her. "atalanta," he said, "the trophy of this chase is thine, and my huntsman shall bear the head of the stag whithersoever thou shalt bid him. in token of our esteem, i beg thee to accept this ring. when thou lookest upon it, think kindly of an old man whose heart is lonely, and who would fain have a daughter like thee." as he spoke he drew off a gold ring from his finger and held it towards her; the tears stood in his eyes and his hand shook as he looked on her fair young form, and remembered the babe he had cast out on the mountains to die. if she had lived she would have been of an age with atalanta, and perchance as fair and as strong as she; and his heart was bitter against himself for the folly of his oath. when atalanta heard his words, she had a mind at first to refuse his gift. many a man before had offered her gifts, and she had refused them every one; for she had no wish to be beholden to any man. but when she saw the eyes of the old king dim with tears, and how his hand shook as he held out the ring, her heart was softened, and yearned with a strange yearning towards him. coming forward, she knelt at his feet and took the ring, and held his hand and kissed it. "may the gods grant the prayer of thy heart, sire," she said, "and give thee a daughter like unto me, but fairer and more wise than i!" as he looked down on the hand that held his own the old king trembled more violently than before, for above the wrist was a birthmark like the birthmark above the wrist of the babe he had cast forth to die. and he knew that he made no mistake, for that mark had lived in his mind as though it had been branded with red-hot steel. "atalanta," he said, "the gods have heard thy prayer. this is not the first time thy fingers have closed about mine." "what meanest thou, sire?" she asked. "as many years ago as the span of thy young life," he said, "i held in my arms a new-born babe, the child that the gods had given me, and its little hand with a birthmark above the wrist closed about my finger trustfully. but because of my foolish pride i hardened my heart. i cast away the gift of the gods and sent the child to die upon the mountains. but the birthmark on its wrist was branded on my brain so that i could not forget it. never till this day have i seen that mark again, and now i see it on thy wrist, my child." he bowed his head as he spoke, and the tears from his eyes fell upon her hand, which lay in his as she knelt before him. "oh, my father!" she cried, and bent forward and kissed his hand. when he found that she did not turn from him, though she knew what he had done, he was more deeply moved than before. "atalanta," he said, "when i cast thee forth to die, i gave back to the gods the life they had given me, and now i have no right to claim it again. yet would thy presence be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come back to me, my child." thus did the call come to atalanta to return to her own folk, and the choice lay before her. on the one side was her free life in the forest, with artemis and her nymphs, the hunt, the fresh air, and all the things that she loved; on the other was life within the walls of a city, and the need to bow her head to the customs and the ways of men. her heart misgave her when she thought of it. "my lord," she said, "will a young lion step into the cage of his own free will, think you?" the old king bowed his head at her words. "alas! what other answer could i look for?" he said. "i thank the gods that they have shown me thy fair face this day. perchance, when we hunt again in these parts, thou wilt join us for love of the chase. till then, my child, farewell." [illustration: "oh, my father!" she cried] with trembling hands he raised her from her knees, and kissed her on the forehead. then he signed to his men to lead forward his horse, and mounted and rode sadly home through the forest with his company. and atalanta shaded her eyes and stood watching them till they disappeared from sight. when they had gone, she sighed, and turned and went upon her way. but her eyes were blind and her ears were deaf to the sights and sounds she loved so well, and that night she tossed restlessly upon her couch of moss. for before her eyes was the figure of an old man bowed with sorrow, and in her ear his voice pleaded, trembling with longing and love. "thy presence would be as sunshine in my halls if thou wert to come back to me, my child." in the early dawn she rose up from her couch, and bathed in a stream close by, and gathered up her shining hair in a coil about her head. then she put on her sandals and a fresh white tunic, slung her quiver about her shoulders, and bow in hand went forth through the forest. looking neither to the right nor to the left, she went on her way till she came to the white road that led to the city. then she turned and looked back at the forest. "dear trees and woods," she said, "farewell, and ye nymphs that dwell in the streams and dance on the green sward of the mountains. when i have trodden the white road and gone up to the city, i can live with you no more. as for thee, great artemis, who saved me in the beginning, i will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days, and a lover of the hunt." she leant her head against a tree close by, and the tears stood in her eyes. it seemed that the breeze bore her words on its wings, for she heard a sigh from the forest, and the waters cried out to her, "atalanta, come back, come back!" but she closed her ears, and stepped out bravely on the white highway, and went up into the city. the people as they saw her pass marvelled greatly at her beauty, and whispered one to the other, "surely it is atalanta, the king's daughter. what doth she here?" for the tale of how king schoenus had found his child, and of how she had refused to come home with him, had spread like wildfire through the city; so that when they saw her, they knew full well who she must be. she took no heed of them at all, but went straight forward on her way till she came to the gate of the palace. the gate stood open, and without knocking or calling she passed in, and went across the echoing court and beneath the portico into the great hall, as one who comes by right. when she had entered the hall, she stopped and looked about her. at first all seemed silent and deserted, for the folk had gone their several ways for the work of the day; but at length she spied an old man sitting on a carved chair in one of the alcoves between the pillars. it was the king, her father. he sat with his head upon his hand and his eyes downcast upon the floor, and his face was sad and full of longing, as of one who dreams sweet dreams which he knows will not come true. gently she drew near to him, and thanked the gods who had timed her coming so that she should find him alone. and she went and knelt at his feet. the old man gazed for a moment in her face, as though he did not see her; then he started from his chair and laid his hand upon her shoulder. "atalanta!" he cried. "my father," she said, "i have come back to thee." then he gathered her up in his arms. "oh, my child, my child!" he said. "the gods are kind beyond my desert." "thy voice cried out to me in the night-time," she said, "and i could not shut my heart to thy pleading. the call of the free earth was strong, but the call of my blood was stronger." thus did atalanta come back to her own folk, and bring joy to the heart of her father and the mother who had never held her in her arms. a great feast was held in the palace in her honour, and through all the city the people rejoiced because of her. for she was a fair princess of whom any land might be proud, and her fame had spread through the length and breadth of hellas. indeed, as soon as it was known who she was, and how she had left the mountains to come and live with her own kin, suitors flocked from far and wide to seek her hand in marriage. but she treated them one and all with scorn, and vowed that she would never wed. at first her father smiled upon her, and looked on her refusal to wed as the sign of a noble nature, that was not to be won for the asking of the first chance-comers. so he gathered about him the noblest princes in the land in the hope that among them all there would be one who could win her heart. but the months passed by, and still she vowed that she would never wed. all her delight was in running and hunting, and to ride by her father's side. as for the young princes, she liked them full well for companions in sport, but as soon as they spoke of love and marriage she would turn her back upon them. at length the king grew anxious. "surely, my child," he said, "among all these princes there is one whom thou couldst love?" "i shall never love any man but thee, my father," she replied. "yet all the hope of our race lies upon thee, atalanta," he said. "if thou wilt not wed, our race will die." "our race died on the day on which thou didst cast me forth on the mountains," she answered. "if i have lived, it is no thanks to thee or to any of my people, but my life is hers who saved me on that day." "what meanest thou?" said the king. "when i left the forest and came back to thee i vowed a vow to artemis, who saved me in the beginning. i said, 'i will be thy servant for ever, and dwell a maiden all my days and a lover of the hunt.' my life belongs to her, and not to my race, not to any son of man." "we vow rash vows in ignorance, atalanta," said the king, as he remembered the oath he had sworn on his wedding-day, "and fate makes a mock of us, and turns our nay to yea." but atalanta laughed at his words. "when fate mocks at me," she said, "it will be time enough for me to wed and turn my nay to yea." nothing that he could say would persuade her to go back from her resolve. but still he reasoned with her night and day, till at length she grew so wearied of the matter that she bethought of a plan that would rid her of all her suitors. "my father," she said, "i will wed any man who shall ask for my hand, if he will fulfil one condition." "my child," cried her father, "i knew that in the end thou wouldst listen to reason. tell me thy condition, that i may spread it abroad among those who are suing for thy hand." "tell them," she said, "that i will wed the first man among them who will run a race with me. if he win, i will be his bride, but if he lose, he must die." the king's face fell when he heard her words. "surely thou speakest in mockery, atalanta," he said. "no man in all the world can run as swiftly as thou canst, and they know it. thou wilt drive thy suitors from thee; or if any be foolhardy enough to run with thee, they will run to a certain death." "no man will run to a certain death, my father," she answered. "when they know that to sigh for me is to sigh for death, they will go back to their own folk, and i shall be troubled with suitors no more." herein she spoke in ignorance, and knew not the fatal power of her beauty upon the hearts of men. and her father sighed at her words. yet he thought within himself, "perchance there is more in her words than meets the ear. the deep sea is easier to fathom than the mind of a woman. either there is one among her suitors whom she favours above the rest, and she will see to it that he is the first to run with her, and will bridle her speed and let him win; or else, heaven knows, some god has put this whim in her heart, and will send a champion we know not, who can run faster than the fastest, and he will outspeed her and make her his bride. she will never let men die because of her." but herein he too thought in ignorance, and knew not how his own pride and stubbornness lived again in atalanta, so that she would abide by her word, though it brought grief to herself and death to others. so he published abroad among the suitors the condition she had made. when they heard it there was great consternation among them, and they consulted together as to what they should do, and some sent a deputation to her to find out the meaning of her words. "lady," they asked, "when thou speakest of death thou speakest perchance in parables. those who run in the race with thee and are outstripped must give up all hope of thee, and look upon thy face no more. and this would be death indeed to them that love thee." but she laughed in their faces. "if you would hear parables," she said, "go to the oracle at delphi. i am no raving priestess to utter words that walk two ways at once. he who courts death may race with me at daybreak, and at sunset he shall drink the poison-cup without fail, and look neither on my face again nor the face of any living thing. have i spoken plainly now?" the next day there was great confusion in the halls of king schoenus. there was shouting and bustling, and attendants ran this way and that. chariots clattered through the gateway and drew up in the court, and baggage was piled high behind the horses. and atalanta laughed aloud at the success of her scheme; for suitor after suitor came and kissed her hand and bade her farewell. they loved her much, but they loved life better, and were content to go home and find mates who, though less fair, were less ferocious, and were like to look upon their lords with eyes more lowly and obedient than atalanta. that night the gathering about the board was scantier than it had been for many a long day. yet a few of the suitors remained, and seemed in no haste to be gone. day after day passed by, and each night atalanta said within herself, "to-morrow they will surely go. they dwell in distant towns, and they are waiting for a favourable day for their journey." but favourable days came and went, and still they stayed in the halls of king schoenus. at last atalanta could hide the dread in her heart no longer. "how long will it be, my father," she asked, "ere we are troubled no more with strangers in our halls?" "if thou wilt wed one of them, we shall be troubled with the rest no more," he replied. "they know full well i can wed no man of them, because of the condition i have made," she said. "they are waiting for thee to fulfil thy condition," said the king. then atalanta herself went and pleaded with them, "my friends," she said, "i pray you to be guided by me. the gods have not fashioned me after the manner of womenkind, and i cannot give myself nor my love to any man. look upon me as one of yourselves, i pray you, and think not to win me in marriage." but they replied, "lady, thou hast given the condition of thy marrying, and we are waiting to fulfil it." "but my condition means certain death," she cried. "nothing in this life is certain," they said, "save death in the end. if it come soon or late, what matter? for thy sake we are willing to face it now." thus was she forced to keep her word, and the lists were made ready for the race, and the lots were cast among the suitors as to which of them should be the first to run against her. in the early morning, before the sun was strong, the race was run, and all the city crowded to the course to watch it. the man ran well and bravely, but his speed was as child's play to atalanta. she put forth her strength like a greyhound that is content to run for a while before the horses, but when he scents a hare, can leave them far behind. even so did atalanta run, and came in cool and fresh at the goal, whilst her rival ran in hot and panting behind her. thus did it come to pass that the first man drank the poison-cup because of his love for atalanta. with a smiling face did he drink it, as a man drinks at a feast. "farewell, lady," he said; "grieve not for me. with open eyes i chose my fate. i ran for the sake of love and beauty, and i have won death. such is ever the lot of the nameless many. they fight for the glory of the man whose name shall live. good luck to my rival!" and now a time of darkness and mourning fell upon the land, and many a day in the year the city was hung with black for the sake of some noble suitor who had chosen death rather than life without atalanta. and atalanta's heart was sore within her, because of the rash condition she had made in her ignorance. when she would fain have recalled her words it was too late, for the suitors bound her to her promise. "either give thyself of thine own free will to one of us, or else let us take our chance of winning thee or death," they said. and so she was forced to run with them. for in her heart she knew that even death was happier for a man than to win her without her love. thus were the words of artemis fulfilled when she said, "in time she shall return to her own folk, and bring joy and sorrow to their hearts." one day it chanced that a stranger came to the city on a morning that a race was to be run. the night before he had slept in a village near by, and the people had told him the tale of atalanta, and how on the morrow another suitor was to run to his death. but he scoffed at their words. "no man would run to certain death," he said, "were the maid as fair as aphrodite." "go and see for thyself," they replied. "soon we shall hear that thou too wilt run in the race." "never," he said; "no woman can cheat my life from me." but they shook their heads unconvinced. "many before thee have spoken likewise," said they, "and yet they have run." "if i run, i will run to win," he answered. "can a snail outstrip a deer?" they asked. "it might so chance," said he. "thou art mad," they cried. "better to be mad on earth than sane in hades," he replied. but they shook their heads the more, and tapped wisely with their fingers on their foreheads, to show that he was mad and spoke at random. "well, well," he said, with a laugh, "we shall see what we shall see." the next morning he set forth early for the city, and, mingling with the crowd, he made his way to the racecourse, and found for himself a place where he could watch the whole sight with ease. the race was run, and ended as it always ended; and once again the city was hung with black. but in the mind of the stranger an image remained which had not been there before--the image of a maid whose white feet flashed in the sunlight and her tunic swung to and fro as a flag swings in the breeze. "great heracles!" he thought within himself, "to run shoulder to shoulder with her for a moment, even in a race for death, might be worth the while after all. i will make myself known at the palace, and see what the gods will give me." for some days he lay hid in the city, till he thought the time was ripe for him to go up to the palace of the king. then he went for a walk along the highway, and when he was covered with dust and grime, he returned to the city and made his way at once to the palace. at the door of the gateway he knocked, and the old porter came out to ask his will. "i am come from a distant land," he said, "and to-morrow i would journey yet further on my way. i pray thee to crave hospitality for one night for me from the steward of this house, whoe'er he be. i am a king's son, and worthy to sit at any man's table." the porter cast a doubtful eye on the travel-worn clothes of the stranger. it seemed unlikely that a king's son would go on a distant journey with no body-servant and no horse or baggage. then he looked in his clear blue eyes, which gazed back at him as innocent as a child's, and he saw that for all his sorry raiment he was by no means ill-favoured, but held himself well and proudly. so he opened the door and led him across the court. "well, well," he muttered in his beard, "great folk have strange whims in these days. our king must needs slay his daughter, because she is a maid, and she must needs slay her suitors, because they are men. after that this fellow may well be, as he says, a king's son, who, because he has a palace and plenty, must needs tramp over the face of the earth and beg his bread. praise be to the gods who put lowly blood in my veins and sense in my head, else had it been better for the gate to keep itself than to have me for a guardian." then he cast another look over his shoulder at the young man behind. "at any rate, for one night he can do no harm," he muttered. "what didst thou say, father?" asked the stranger. "i said that for one night thou couldst do no harm," replied the old man. "on the contrary," said the stranger with a laugh, "in one night i hope to do more good to this house than thou hast done in all thy life." "the young have ever a good conceit of themselves," said the porter. "thou art not like to keep this gate, winter and summer, day and night, for close on three-score years, as i have done, young man." "on the other hand," said the stranger, "thou art not like to marry the king's daughter within the year, and have the city hung with red instead of black in thine honour, as i am like to do." "sir," said the old man, "i know my place too well----" "--and love thy life too much to aspire to the hand of the princess. is that not so?" "mayhap," said the old man, and shut his mouth with a snap. to all further remarks which the stranger made he answered with a grunt. he took him into the palace and delivered him into the hands of the steward. as he turned to go back to his post, the young man clapped his hand upon his shoulder. "good luck to thee and thy gate," he said. "when i come through with the hand of the princess in mine, perchance thou wilt look upon me with greater favour than now." "be warned in time, young man," said the porter, "and tarry not over long in this palace, but go forth on thy journey in the morning, as thou hadst a mind to do in the beginning. those who tarry too long are apt to go through the gate with nought but a cake in their hand." this he said, meaning the cake which was put in the hands of the dead for them to give to cerberus, the watch-dog of hades. "fear not for that," said the stranger: "i had as lief go empty-handed." thereupon he turned to the steward, who welcomed him sadly to the halls of king schoenus. all strangers were looked upon askance in those days, lest they came as suitors for the hand of atalanta, and wished to add to those who had run in the fatal race. when he heard that the young man would depart on the morrow on his journey he was glad, and gave him water to wash with and a change of raiment, and showed him his place at the board, without so much as asking his name. when atalanta saw a stranger at the board her heart sank within her, and she kept her eyes turned away, as though she had not seen him, for she made sure that he too had come to run in the race with her. it chanced that night that the company was scanty, and no man talked in private to his neighbour, but the conversation leapt from one end of the board to the other, as each one took his share in it and said his say. the stranger, too, took his part with the rest of them, in nowise abashed; and so shrewd were his words, and so full of wit, that soon he had a smile upon the face of each one at the table. for many a long day the talk had not been so merry nor the laughter so loud at the table of king schoenus. atalanta, too, forgot her constraint, and talked and laughed freely with the stranger; and he answered her back, as though it had been man to man, and showed no more deference to her than to the others of the company. when the meal was over, the king approached the stranger, and atalanta stood beside him. "sir," said the king, "thy name and country are still hid from us, but we are grateful for thy coming, and would be fain for thee to stay as long as it shall please thee." "i thank thee, sire," said the stranger, "but i am bound by a strange vow. i may not reveal my name, nor accept hospitality for more than one night from any man, till i come to a house where none other than the king's daughter shall promise me her hand in marriage. from the tales i have heard in the neighbouring country, i have learnt that i may not hope to end my vow beneath this roof--though indeed," he said, turning to atalanta, "i would fain press my suit if there were any chance of success." but atalanta threw back her head at his words. "thou hast doubtless heard the condition," she said, "by the fulfilment of which alone a man may win my hand." "alas, sir!" said the king, "i would press no man to try his luck in that venture." "since that is so," said the stranger, "i will go forth once more upon my journey at break of day, and see what luck the gods will give me. i thank thee for thy kindly hospitality this night, and beg thee to excuse me. i have travelled far, and would fain rest now, as i must go a long distance ere i can rest again." thereupon he took his leave of king schoenus and his daughter. but she, for all her pride, could not forget the man who seemed to bid her farewell with so light a heart. he was well favoured, but it was not because he was well favoured, or because he had a ready tongue, that she thought on him. indeed, when she asked herself why she should remember one who by now had doubtless lost all memory of her, she could find no answer. as she tossed on her couch with a troubled mind, she determined that before he left the palace on the morrow she would have some speech with him. "he thinks no more of me than of a stone upon the wayside," she said within herself, "wherefore i can do him no wrong by letting him speak with me again before he goes." it was her custom to rise early in the morning, before the rest of the household was stirring, and to go forth alone into the woods; and it was the lot of one of the slaves to rouse himself betimes to give her food ere she went, so that when she appeared, as was her wont, he thought nothing of it. the stranger had risen even earlier than she, and the slave was waiting upon him. when atalanta saw him, her heart gave a sudden thrill, for she had not looked to see him so soon. "good-morrow, sir," she said. "it is not often i have a companion when i break my fast." then she turned to the slave. "thou mayest get thee back to thy bed," she said, "and sleep out thy sleep in peace. i will see to the wants of our guest and speed him on his way." the slave, nothing loth, departed. he was well used to strange commands from his mistress; and, moreover, there was no need to invite him twice to return to his couch. thereupon atalanta sat down at the board beside the stranger, and they fell to with all the appetite of youth and health; and as they ate they laughed and joked, and talked of strange lands they both had seen and adventures that had befallen them. in the space of one half-hour they were as good friends as though they had known each other all their lives, and suitors who had sat at her father's board day after day were much more strangers to atalanta than this man, who had craved but one night's hospitality. when they had finished their meal the stranger rose. "i must bid thee farewell, lady," he said. "nay, not yet," she replied; "i will set thee on thy way, and show thee a road through the forest that will bring thee to the city thou seekest. i know every track and path as well as the wild deer know them." he tried to dissuade her, but she would not listen, and led him out from the palace by a side-gate, which she unbarred with her own hands. down through the sleeping streets they went, where the shadows of the houses lay long upon the ground, and out across the open downs into the shade of the forest. the dew gleamed like jewels on the leaves, as here and there the slanting rays of the sun shone through the trees, and above their heads the lark sang gaily in the bright summer sky. yet they walked silently side by side, as though, in spite of the brightness of the day, sorrow and not joy were sitting in their hearts; and all their gay talk and laughter of the early morning was dead. at length they came to a broad track that crossed the path they were in, and atalanta stopped short and pointed to the right. "from here," she said, "thou canst not miss thy way. follow the track till it lead thee to the high-road, and when thou strikest the high-road, turn to the left, and thou wilt come to the city thou seekest." then she held out her hand to him. "i must bid thee farewell," she said, "and good luck to the ending of thy vow." "lady," he said, and took her hand in his, "if thou wilt, thou canst release me now from my vow." but she drew her hand away sharply and tossed back her head. "many kings have daughters besides king schoenus," she said, "and any one of them could release thee from thy vow as well as i." "atalanta," he said, "no king's daughter save thee shall ever release me from my vow. that which all our laughter and our converse last night and this morning strove to hide, our silence, as we walked side by side, has revealed far better than i can tell thee. thou knowest that i love thee. from the first moment that i saw thee i have loved thee." his words made her heart thrill with a strange joy. but she showed no sign of it, and answered him coldly. she was proud and wished to test him. "doubtless the flood-gates of love are easily thrown open where a man would be released from a vow. thou knowest how thou mayest win me. art thou willing to run in the race?" at this all his mirth returned to him, and his eyes shone with merriment as he answered: "much good would my love do me if i had to drink the poison cup perforce. nay, nay," he said; "i love thee too well to put my death at thy door. when i have some chance of winning the race, i will come back and claim thee. in the meantime, lady, farewell." and, bowing to her, he turned and went his way, without so much as looking back at her, as she stood trembling with astonishment and anger. it was not thus her other lovers had spoken. when he had gone from sight, she turned suddenly and went back by the path they had come. her hands were clenched, and the tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, as she strode forward with long, angry strides that took no heed of where they went. "he has made a mock of me!" she cried to herself--"he has made a mock of me! he is a base adventurer who seeks release from his vow. he has no heart and no honour. fool that i was to treat him as a friend!" thus did she stride along in her wrath, till it had cooled somewhat, and she was able to think more calmly of the stranger. then his form came back to her mind, as he had looked when they stood face to face at the parting of the ways, when the sun had glinted down upon them through the trees, and he had looked her straight in the face with his clear blue eyes, and said: "thou knowest that i love thee. from the first moment i saw thee i have loved thee." a great sob rose in her throat as she remembered. "ah, he spoke the truth!" she said; "i know that he spoke the truth." moreover, her heart told her that long before he had spoken the words she had known that he loved her. yet strange is the bond of love. its strands are certainty and doubt interwoven. wherefore atalanta, though she had heard the words which were but the echo of the silent speech of their hearts, had put him yet further to the test, and had driven him from her side by asking of him a sacrifice she had no wish for him to make. "if he would come back and run with me," she sighed, "my feet would be as heavy as lead against him." but she sighed in vain. day after day passed by, and he came not. "he is a man of his word," she thought at last. "till he has some chance of winning he will not come back. and he is no fool. he knows he can never run as i can run. he will never come back." yet for all this she watched for him night and day. when she went forth into the road, or into the forest, she looked for his form at every turn of the way. when she entered the great hall of the palace, she looked to see his face at the board. but always she looked in vain, and sometimes her heart grew bitter against him. "if he were to come now," she would say to herself, "i would show him no mercy. he who takes so much thought before he will risk his life for my sake is not worthy to win me." then again she would grow tender, and stand looking down the path by which he had gone, and sigh for him. "oh, my love, come back, come back! my pride is melted away like the snow, and without any race i will give myself to thee." thus would she long for him, and grow near to hating him, because she knew that she loved him. the weeks and months passed by, and still he returned not; winter came and went, and once again the dewdrops shone in the summer sunlight as atalanta walked in the forest at break of day. she walked with her eyes upon the ground, thinking of the summer morning a long year ago when he had walked by her side in silence along that very path. when by chance she raised her eyes, there, at the parting of the ways, he stood, as though in answer to her thoughts. with a cry she stopped short and gazed at him, and he came forward and bowed to her. "i have come back, lady," he said. "oh!" she cried from her heart, "i am glad thou hast come back." then he bent and kissed her hand. so once more they walked in silence side by side along the path they had walked before; and once again the bond of love was knit strong between them, with its strands of certainty and doubt. as they drew near to the edge of the forest, atalanta was the first to speak. "and thy vow," she asked--"hast thou found release from it?" "not yet," he answered. "i am come back to run the race, that i may win release." once again the spirit of perversity came upon her. "where hast thou learnt to run like the wind?" she asked. "i have not learnt to run like the wind," he replied. "i have learnt something better than that." "few things are better in a race than swiftness," she said. "true," he answered; "yet i have found the one thing better." "what is this strange thing?" she asked. "when we have run the race, thou wilt know," he said. "i have grown no sluggard," she said, with a toss of her head, as though to warn him that her speed was not a thing to be despised. "that i can see," he said, as he cast a glance at her straight white limbs and the easy grace of her bearing as she walked beside him. then they talked of indifferent matters, and each one knew that what they had nearest their hearts they were hiding from each other. so they came to the palace, and from the lowest to the highest the inmates greeted the stranger with joy. for he had won the hearts of them all by his wit and his genial smile. but they sighed when they heard that he too had come to run in the fatal race. "alas!" said the old king, shaking his head, "i had rather not have looked upon thy face again than see thee back on such an errand." the young man laughed. "he who runs with a fair hope of winning runs swiftly," he said. "the others were dragged down by the shackels of their own despair." "thou dost not know my daughter," said the king. "mayhap i know her better than thou thinkest, and better than thou knowest her thyself," said the stranger. no arguments or entreaties would turn him from his purpose. "i must win release from my vow," he said. "i cannot live all my life a nameless wanderer. yet will i not wed any woman i love not, for the sake of my release. atalanta alone can save me, for i love none other." so the lists once again were prepared, and the course made smooth for the race. with trembling fingers atalanta tied her girdle about her, and bound her sandals to her feet. though her heart was crying out for the stranger to win, and praying that her feet might fail her at the last, yet her pride, too, lifted up its head. "he makes so sure of winning," she thought, "he despises my swiftness. he shall see that nothing he has learnt can teach him to run as i can run. and yet--oh, cursed be the condition i thought so cunning in mine ignorance! oh, would that he could win me without first outspeeding me!" thus did her pride and her desire pull two ways at once. and now the folk were gathered together round the course, and atalanta and the stranger stood ready and waiting for the word to be given. she had made it a condition of the race that her rivals should have a good start of her, and she stood with her eyes upon the stranger's back, as he waited many paces before her. all too soon the word was given, and he sprang forward from his place, like a dog which has been straining at his leash springs forward when the hook is unloosed. and atlanta, too, sprang forward; but whereas the man ran like a hunted thing that strains every muscle to save its life, she ran with the swinging grace of the wild deer that, far away from the hunters and hounds, crosses the springing turf of the lonely moor, fearless and proud, as he throws back his antlers in the breeze. thus did atalanta run, as though she had no thought of the race, or of the man who ran for his life. yet, though she seemed to make no effort, she gained upon her rival at every step, and now she was running close behind him, and now she was almost shoulder to shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic. then for a moment he slackened his pace, and it seemed that she would pass him, and on every side the people shouted out to him, "run, run! faster, faster! she will pass thee." [illustration: out of the corner of his eye he could see the gleam of her tunic.] but he put his hand into the opening of his tunic, and drew forth something from his breast. then his hand swung up above his head, and from it there flashed a dazzling fiery apple. up and down through the air it flashed like a meteor, and rolled along the grass, till it stopped far away in the centre of the course, and lay shining like a jewel in the rays of the sun. every eye was turned from the race to watch its gleaming flight, and atalanta stopped short and watched it too. when she saw it stop still in the middle of the course, flashing and sparkling in the grass, a great desire sprang up in her heart to have it--a mad, unreasoning desire that she could not resist. and she darted aside out of the path of the race, and went and picked up the shining golden apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic. meanwhile the stranger had lost no time, and when atalanta came back to the spot she had left, he was far ahead upon the course, and she had to run with a will if she wished to overtake him. but once again she gained upon him, and the space between them grew less and less, till they were running wellnigh shoulder to shoulder. and once again he saw the gleam of her tunic beside him; and again he slackened his speed for a moment, and sent a second gleaming apple into the air. once more the mad, unreasoning desire sprang up in atalanta's heart, and, leaving the course, she picked up the second apple and put it in the bosom of her tunic beside the first. by the time she had returned to the path the stranger had rounded the turning-point, and was well on his way towards the goal, and she put forth all her strength to overtake him. but the ease of her running was gone. she ran as one who runs bearing a burden, yet she would not cast away the golden apples in her bosom; for though they hampered her, she gained upon her rival, and for the third time they were running almost shoulder to shoulder. and again, the third time, the same thing happened, and atalanta left the course to pick up the shining fruit. this time when she returned to her place the stranger was close upon the goal, and all around the people were shouting and waving their hands. blindly she pulled herself together, and with all the strength that was left in her she made a great spurt to overtake him. if she would cast away the golden apples, she might yet win the race; but the same mad desire which had spurred her to pick them up forbad her now to let them go. as she ran they seemed to grow heavier and heavier in her bosom; yet she struggled and panted on, and step by step did she gain upon him, though her eyes were darkened to all but his form and the goal ahead. on every side the people shouted louder than before, for they knew not now which of them would win. as they drew near to the goal they were again almost shoulder to shoulder, and the stranger saw once more the flash of atalanta's tunic beside him, while there were yet some paces to run. then he gave a great spurt forward, and leapt away from her side. she tried to do likewise, but her strength was gone. she had made her last effort before. thus did it come to pass that the stranger ran in first to the goal, and, running close upon his heels, atalanta fell breathless into his arms as he turned to catch her. she had run twice as far as he, but what matter if he had not outsped her? he had won the race, and held the woman he loved in his arms. the tears shone in her eyes, but he knew they were not tears of grief; and in the face of all the people he kissed her. thus was atalanta, the swiftest of all mortals, beaten in the race by the stranger, and learnt from his lips what it was that he had found on his travels that had made speed of no avail in the race. for after they had come back to the city, surrounded by the joyous folk, and had passed hand in hand beneath the gateway, and the stranger had nodded with a smile at the old porter, who stood bowing before them; after he had revealed to them all that he was meilanion, the son of amphidamas, and the old king had fallen on his neck and given him his blessing, because he proved to be the son of his own boyhood's friend, and the man of all others he would have chosen for his son-in-law--after all this, when the speeches and the merrymaking were over, they two walked alone in the moonlit court of the palace. at last atalanta had decked herself in the long saffron robes of a bride, and in her hands she bore the three shining apples. meilanion's arm was about her, as they walked for a while in silence, but at length she spoke and held out the fruit in her hands. "tell me their secret," she said. "their secret lies in thy heart, atalanta," he answered. "what meanest thou?" she asked. "i mean that if thou hadst not loved me, they would never have filled thy soul with longing to have them, and thou wouldst never have turned aside from the race." "and, knowing this, thou didst stake thy life on my love?" she said. "knowing that, i staked my life on thy love," he answered. "then that was the one thing better than speed in the race?" "yes," he answered, "i learnt to trust in thy love." there was silence for a moment between them, and then again atalanta spoke. "and whence came the apples?" she asked him. "when i left thee at the parting of the ways," he said, "i travelled many a weary league by land, and on the road i passed many a shrine of aphrodite. but i never passed them by without lifting up my hands in prayer to the goddess, for i knew that she could help me if she would, and i knew that to them that love truly she is ever kind in the end. but i wandered till i was footsore and weary, and yet i had no sign. at length i came to the seashore, and took ship for the pleasant isle of cyprus, which is her own dear home. there at last she came to me, walking on the waves of the sea, as i lay on the shore in the night-time, i saw her as a great light afar, and she drew near to me with the foam playing white about her feet. in her hand she bore three shining golden apples. and she came and stood beside me, and i hid my eyes at the sight of her beauty. but she spoke to me in a voice that was soft and kind, and the melody of it touched my heart like the melody of music. "'fear not, meilanion,' she said; 'i have heard the cry of thy heart. here are three apples from mine own apple-tree. if she whom thou lovest loves thee in return, she cannot resist the spell of their golden brightness. when thou runnest against her, cast them one by one into the middle of the course. if she love thee she will turn aside to pick them up. for her they will be heavy as the gold they seem made of. for thee they will be light as the fruit whose form they wear. farewell, and good luck to thy race.' "thereupon darkness came over my eyes, and i could find no words to thank her. when i awoke i thought it had been a dream, but lo! by my side upon the sand lay the apples, shining in the sunlight." "and thy vow?" asked atalanta. "how camest thou to make such a vow?" he laughed at her words. "when a hare is hunted," he said, "thou knowest how he will double and turn, and take a line he has no mind to pursue to the end. so was it with me. long ago in my father's house i heard of thee and of thy beauty, and how thou couldst cast such a spell upon the hearts of men that for thy sake they would fling away their lives. and a great desire came upon me to see this thing for myself, for i could scarce believe it. so i set forth alone to find thee, and hid my name from all men as i journeyed, for thus could i be more free to act as seemed best in mine own eyes. and i saw thee run in a race, and that glimpse was enough to tell me that i too one day must run with thee. yet was i more wary than my rivals. i knew that to come as a suitor was the way to turn thy heart to stone. wherefore i pretended to be bound by a vow, which would bring me as a passing stranger before thee. canst thou forgive the lie?" she smiled into his face. "it was a daring venture," she said. "i knew i was as one who treads unknown paths on a moonless night," he answered. "yet deep in my heart i felt that when a man desires one thing on earth above every other--when he loves that thing better than life itself, he is like to win it in the end, if he walk patiently step by step in faith. he will win that thing, or death in his struggle for it; and he is content that so it should be." such was the winning of atalanta. as for the golden apples, she placed them in a precious casket, and guarded them jealously all her days, for a memorial of the race that she had failed to win. paris and oenone when peleus the mortal married silver-footed thetis, the fair nymph of the sea, great was the rejoicing among gods and men; for peleus was a brave warrior and a mighty man, and well deserved to have for wife a child of the immortals. to his marriage-feast he bade all the gods and goddesses, and they left their seats on calm olympus, and came down to pelion where he dwelt, a band of shining ones, to do honour to the mortal whom they loved. one alone of them all he had not asked--eris, the black-browed goddess of strife, for at his wedding-feast he wished to have happiness and joy, and no dark looks to mar the gladness of his board. but he looked to find shame in the heart of one who knew not shame. as it was, she came unasked, and great was the sorrow that her coming brought, both to him and to his wife and all the fair land of hellas. for she sowed the seed of discord which blossomed to the blood-red flower of war, in which the mightiest and the best of two great nations fell through ten long years of strife, and among them was achilles, the swiftest and bravest of mortal men, the son whom thetis bore to peleus to be a comfort to him in his old age, and to succeed him when he died. but as it was, achilles died in battle far from his native land, in the prime and flower of his manhood. now the manner in which eris wreaked her vengeance was in this wise. when the marriage-feast was drawing to its close, and the gladdening wine had unlocked the lips and opened the hearts of the revellers, above all the din and clatter there rang through the hall a harsh, discordant laugh like the rattle of thunder before a storm. a dead silence fell upon them all, and every eye was turned towards the place from whence that fearful laugh had come. in the shade of the doorway stood a tall gaunt figure wrapped all about in black. above her head she held a blood-red torch that flickered madly in the breeze, and cast upon her face the shadow of her wild elf-locks. her cheeks were pale as ashes and her lips were thin and blue, but her eyes shone bright as red-hot coals. when she saw the hall silent and trembling before her, she laughed aloud once more and waved the torch above her. "ha! ha!" she cried. "you give me a cold welcome, my masters. but i am kinder than you. i give, and take nothing in return. see here, i bring a seasoning to your feast, and much joy may you have of it." thereupon she drew from her bosom an apple all of gold, and hurled it in their faces on the board. it rolled along the table like a ball of light, and stopped in the centre before peleus, the king of the feast. the eyes of all the guests followed it full of amazement and delight, for it was wondrous fair to look upon. "i see you like my gift," cried eris. "let her keep it who deserves it best. farewell. i stay not where i came unbidden." then she turned upon her heel, and strode away into the blackness of the night. when she had gone, peleus put forth his hand and took the apple. it was all of pure gold, the outermost parts of white gold pale as straw, and the cheeks of red gold bright as poppies, and across it was written in shining letters, "for the fairest." as peleus read the words aloud he looked slowly round the board. "o lady goddesses," he asked, "to which of you shall i give it?" thereupon arose a strife of tongues, and all the harmony and good-fellowship of the feast was gone, for one said one thing and one another, and each one in her heart wished to have it for her own. but the claim of three stood out above that of all the rest. "i am the queen of heaven," said hera, "and the mother of gods and man. the apple is mine by right." "i am the giver of knowledge and wisdom," said pallas athene, "and through me all things are perfected, and the wrong is put to right. the apple should be mine." "i am the goddess of love," said aphrodite, "i am life itself. my claim is the best of all." as peleus looked on them he knew not to which of them he should give it, for each in turn seemed fairest. and he was wily withal, and knew he could not give it to one without angering the other two against him. so he said, "o lady goddesses, who am i that i should judge between you? choose you your own judge from among the sons of men, and he shall give the apple to her he deems the fairest." then they consulted together, and chose paris, the son of priam, king of troy; for he was the fairest of all mortal men, and would know how to judge between them. and they left the halls of peleus with a smile upon their lips, but in their hearts was envy and hatred where there had once been sympathy and love; for the apple of discord had fulfilled the purpose of her who gave it. now paris was the second son of priam and hecuba, and brother of hector, the pride of troy. the night before he was born his mother dreamed a dreadful dream--that she had given birth to a firebrand which set all troy aflame. in terror she sent for her child cassandra, the priestess of apollo, whose word came always true. and she told her dream, and asked what it could mean. then apollo raised from cassandra's eyes the veil that hides the future, and she told her mother the meaning of that dream. "in mine ears," she cried, "there sounds the din of battle and the clash of arms. i see round troy the foe-men's tents, and their ships drawn up upon the shore. i see scamander's stream run red with blood. through the desolate streets slinks one whose manhood has departed, and who shuns the eyes of his fellow-men, for he prized a woman's arms above his country's honour. that man is the son that thou shalt bear, and he shall be the curse of troy." when priam the king heard these words his heart was filled with anger. "no son of mine," he cried, "shall bring shame and destruction on my city. when the child is born he shall be cast out upon the mountains to die ere his eyes can see the light." so, notwithstanding his mother's entreaties, as soon as the child was born he was given to agelaus the herdsman to cast out upon the hills. and he took him up to gargarus, the topmost peak of ida, and there he left him to die of cold and hunger, or to be torn in pieces by the beasts of prey. but when the fates have spoken, their word shall surely come to pass, whatever man may do. and so it fell out now. a she-bear, whose cubs the hunters had killed, found the child, and for five days and five nights she suckled him, and kept him safe and warm. on the sixth day agelaus passed that way once more, looking to find the child dead, if any trace of him remained. but lo! nestled in the moss and fallen leaves, the babe lay sweetly sleeping. then he marvelled greatly in his heart. "surely," he thought, "this can be no common babe, and it is the will of heaven that he should live." so he picked him up in his arms, and carried him home to his wife, for long had they prayed the gods in vain for children. and they brought him up as their own son, and called his name paris. as soon as he could walk, he would go out with his foster-father on the mountains, and keep watch over the flocks and herds, and he grew to be a tall and comely lad. for he breathed the pure sweet air of heaven, and bathed in ida's rippling streams. nor did he lack courage and strength withal. if ever a mountain lion, made bold by hunger, came down upon the flocks and carried off a sheep or a goat, whilst the herdsmen fled in terror for their lives, he would up and fight him single-handed with his knife and his shepherd's staff, and it was not the lion that came off best in that fight. so famous did he become for his strength and prowess that all about the countryside men called him alexander, defender of men. now it came to pass one summer's day that he had walked for many a long mile across the treeless downs, and at length he turned, hot and thirsty, into the shade of the forest. soon he came upon a mountain stream that danced foaming over the stones, and he drank of its waters gladly, and bathed in a clear brown pool; then, tired out, he cast himself upon the bank and fell asleep. when he awoke, the trunks of the pine-trees stood out purple against the sunset, and the evening light cast over all things a glamour of mystery. he rubbed his eyes, thinking he must still be dreaming; for out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a maiden clad all in misty white. her hair was like fallen beech-leaves when the sun shines on them through the trees, and her eyes were like the changing river that reflects the light of heaven. she stood before him motionless, and gazed down upon him where he lay. "o most wonderful," he whispered, "who art thou?" "i am oenone," she answered, and her voice was like the music of the brook--"oenone, the daughter of cebren, the river god, whose stream runs dancing at your feet from the side of wooded ida. o fairest of mortals, i am lonely in these mountain glades; let me watch thy flocks with thee." then she came towards him with both her hands outstretched. and paris took her cool white hands in his. fair as the crescent moon, she bent over him and raised him from his knees, and they looked deep into each other's eyes and loved, as the young and pure alone can love. from that day forth they watched his flocks together on the wooded slopes, and wandered hand in hand through the forests and across the smooth green lawns of ida. [illustration: out of the stream beside him there rose a wondrous form of a maiden clad all in misty white.] meanwhile, since the day when priam had given his child to be exposed upon the mountains, many a circling year had passed, and the day drew near on which, if his son had lived, he would have held great games and feasted in honour of his reaching years of manhood. and priam's heart within him smote him when he thought of the innocent babe, and he cast about in his mind how he yet might do him honour. "perchance i acted hastily," he thought, "and by care and good example my son might after all have been a blessing to his city and to me. but the dead are dead, and i cannot call him back to life. yet will i honour him as best i may, that in the world below they may know he is a king's son and not utterly forgotten." so he ordered great funeral games to be held in honour of his son, who had died without a name upon the mountains. far and wide throughout the land the tidings went, and the lists were made ready, and rich prizes brought together for the victors. among them was to be a bull, the strongest and finest from all the herds of priam. the herdsmen drove down their finest cattle to the city for the king himself to chose, and he choose out a mighty beast which agelaus had bred and reared. now it chanced that this bull was the favourite of paris out of all the cattle under his charge, and he loved him as some men love a dog. when he heard that agelaus had given him to be a prize in the games, he waxed exceeding wrath. "if he is to be any man's prize," he cried, "i shall be that man." but agelaus laughed at him. "who art thou," he said, "a foundling and a shepherd's foster-son, to enter in the lists against the sons of kings?" "sons of kings or sons of crows, i care not," he answered. "my arms are as strong and my feet are as swift as theirs any day. i shall enter for the lists." the old man chuckled at his words, for he loved the lad, and was proud of his strength and beauty. "the gods be praised!" he muttered. "the mountain air has not dulled his spirit, nor dried up the royal blood in his veins." but oenone was sad when she heard of his resolve. "ah, paris," she begged, "as thou lovest me, leave me not to enter for these games." "but i will come back to thee, beloved. what difference can it make?" he asked. "in my heart pale fear is sitting," she replied. "i know that if thou goest, it will be the beginning of woes for thee, and for me, and for all thy native land." "nay, thou art over fearful. thou shalt see, i will come back with my bull, and thou and i will be happy together, as we have always been." "paris," she said, "that i know will never be, if once thou joinest in the games. i can see but dimly into the future, but this much at least i know: that if thou goest, war shall beat about the walls of troy like a wave of the sea, and from the midst of the battle i see thee earned forth wounded unto death. ah, paris, leave the bull for a weaker man, and go not down!" "nay, i cannot hearken to such foolishness. what war can come if i go to troy for the sake of a bull?" "the cause of the war i know not, but come it surely will. o paris, in that day come back to me, and i will heal thee of thy hurt! i know the use of herbs, for many a strange charm has my father taught me, and if any life is left in thee, i will call it back. but best of all, stay with me now, and go not down to the games." and, weeping, she threw her arms about his neck; but nothing she could say would stop him. so when the day came he went down into the city, and entered for the lists with the flower of the land, and all the folk marvelled who he might be. for he was tall and exceeding fair, and they had never seen his face before. when the turn came for his match, he set his teeth and wrestled like a young lion, for the bull that was the pride of his flock; and the strength of his adversaries was turned to weakness. with joy in his heart, he came forward to take his prize; and a loud cheer rose to heaven, for the people were glad that he had won. and the king's heart went out to him as he gave the prize, for he was the age his son would have been had he lived. "young man," he said, "who art thou, and who is thy father?" "i am paris, the foster-son of agelaus the herdsman," he answered. "is thine own sire dead, then?" asked priam. "o king, thou askest me riddles i cannot answer," said paris, "seeing i know not even who mine own sire may be." "this is a strange matter," said the king, and in spite of himself his heart beat fast within him. now cassandra the prophetess, his daughter, was standing by his side, and the time had come for her to speak. "o king," she said, "thou hast not far to seek for the father of this lad." "what meanest thou?" said priam. "put thy hands upon the lad's shoulders, and look into his eyes, and thou shalt see the image of his father," she answered. trembling between hope and fear, the old king bent forward from his seat and put his hands upon the young man's shoulders. "can it be--can it really be my son?" he asked. "thy son he is," replied cassandra, "and no other man's. the fates decreed that he should live, and he has lived." "my son, my son!" cried the king, and fell upon his neck. "how i have longed for thee, and my soul has been weighed down with the burden of thy death! now in mine old age the gods have given thee back to me, and my heart is glad. for thou art brave and fair, my son, and any father would be proud of thee, nor fear that ever thou shouldst bring dishonour on the land." once again the old man fell upon his neck and kissed him; and hecuba, his mother, held him in her arms, and wept tears of joy over the child she had given up for dead. his brothers and his sisters crowded round, and all the people; and some raised him on their shoulders, and with songs and shouts of joy they took him to the palace of priam. there they clothed him in rich raiment, as befitted a king's son, and held a great feast in his honour; for every man was glad that one so fair and noble had been spared to bring honour to the land of troy. cassandra alone sat silent amidst the revelry, for her heart was cut in two. when she looked upon her brother's fair young face, she was glad that he had lived; yet ever before her eyes there floated the vision she had seen the night before he was born--a vision of war, unmanliness and death--and she knew that vision would come true. when she thought of it she shuddered and almost wished him dead, and in her heart she cursed that fatal gift of prophecy which brought her nought but grief. verily in her case knowledge was not a thing of joy. when the guests had departed, the old king took his son aside. "i have set a place apart for thee, my son," he said, "and from this day forth thou must live with thy kinsfolk in the palace." "i will live with thee right gladly, my father," he answered, "but my days i will spend upon the mountains as of yore, and keep watch over thy flocks and herds. for i love the beasts and the mountain air, and methinks in a city i should pine for want of my old free life." the form of oenone rose up before his eyes; but that he hid from his father. "thou mayest live as best pleases thee, my son," said priam, "and i will give thee many goodly flocks and herds of cattle for thine own." so it came to pass that, though paris was a prince and son of the king of troy, there was small change in his manner of life, save that now he lived in his father's palace instead of the herdsman's hut. for in those days it was thought no shame even for a prince to be a shepherd, and keep watch over his own flocks and herds. it was soon after this that the strife arose among the goddesses about the apple that eris had cast in their midst at the marriage-feast of peleus. and zeus sent down iris, the swift-footed messenger of heaven, to tell paris of the charge that was laid on him, and to bear him the golden apple. down the path of the rainbow she sped, the road whereby she always went to and fro betwixt gods and men. her shining robes flew out behind her, and the wings upon her feet and shoulders glanced like lightning in the sky. at early dawn, while the dew lay bright upon the ground, she came and stood in the path as paris was driving his flocks to pasture. in one hand she held the staff that zeus had given her, to show she was the messenger of heaven, and in the other she held the golden apple. "o fairest of mortals," she said, "i have been sent to thee by zeus, who rules on high. in heaven there is war between the three great goddesses as to which of them shall have the prize for beauty, this apple thou seest in mine hand. and they have appointed thee to be the judge between them. hold thyself ready, then, for this day at noon they will come to thee here on the lonely heights of ida." she spoke, and threw the apple to him, and he caught it deftly, as a player catches a ball. and wind-footed iris sped back by the rainbow path as swift as she had come. "this is passing strange," thought paris, as he gazed at the apple in his hand, and read the words inscribed upon it--"for the fairest." there it lay, smooth and shining, a sure token that he had not been dreaming. so he took it and showed it to oenone, and told her what iris, the messenger of the gods, had said to him. when oenone heard it she was filled with fear. "cast it at their feet, paris, when they come to thee," she begged, "and say thou canst not set thyself up to be a judge of the immortals." "nay, that would anger them against me," he said; for in his heart he was proud to have been chosen out of all the sons of men. "i tell thee it will bring thee trouble if thou doest it, and to me sorrow unspeakable," said she. "did the winning of the bull bring sorrow either to thee or to me?" he asked scornfully. oenone was silent under his rebuke, though she knew her foreboding would come true. when the sun was almost high in the heavens, she came to him softly where he lay on the grass and kissed his hand. "zeus grant thee wisdom in thy judgment, paris," she said, and glided away swiftly through the trees, that he might not see the tears in her eyes. then his heart smote him for his scornful words, and he rose up hastily from the ground and called to her, "oenone, oenone!" but she answered him not, and when he looked for her among the trees, he could find no trace of her. now it was close upon noon, and he hastened back to the glade, where iris had bidden him stay, and waited for the coming of the goddesses. in the clear bright light of noontide they came and stood before him in the shade of the forest trees; and he fell on his knees before them, filled with wonder and awe, and cast his eyes upon the ground, for he was afraid to look upon such majesty and beauty. thereupon they drew near to him and bade him not be afraid, but rise and give his judgment. so he rose from his knees and looked upon them; and minute after minute passed, while still he gazed, for he could not make up his mind, so passing fair was each. "ah, lady goddesses," he said at last, "take the apple and divide it into three, for i cannot say who is the fairest among you." "nay, that may not be," they said; "thou must give it to one, and one alone." as he still hesitated, hera spoke. "look well upon me, paris," she said. "i am the queen of heaven, and wife of zeus almighty, and all power and might is in my hands. i can give thee kingship and sovereignty, and dominion over many peoples. see to it that my might is for thee, and not against." as she spoke his heart turned cold with fear, and from terror he would have given her the apple. but as he was about to stretch forth his hand, pallas athene spoke. "o paris, what is power without wisdom? purple and gold, and to sit where others kneel--all these things make not a king. but to walk by the light of knowledge where others grope in darkness--this can make a slave a ruler of kings. this can i give thee." then the voice of reason within him prompted him to give the apple to her; but once again he was withheld, as aphrodite spoke. "power and wisdom, paris? what are these but empty words at which men vainly grasp? i can give thee that which all men covet--the fairest of women for thine own." the music of her voice made the blood rush like fire through his veins, and his heart was melted within him. "o aphrodite," he cried, and fell at her feet, "thou art fairest. beside love, what is power, what is wisdom? i give thee the apple, o thou fairest among the fair!" as she stretched forth her hand towards him to take the apple, a mist fell over his eyes, and he knew no more. when he awoke the apple and the goddesses had vanished away, and oenone was bending over him weeping. "alas," she said, "my father, whose stream runs at thy feet, has told me thy choice, paris, and i am come to bid thee farewell." "farewell, oenone? why farewell?" he cried, and stretched out his arms to her. the flame of aphrodite still burned in his heart, and to his eyes oenone had never looked more fair than now. "because of aphrodite's promise," she answered. "ah, oenone!" he cried, and took her in his arms, "now i know what that promise meant. thou art the fairest of women, and thou art mine, beloved, and aphrodite's promise was fulfilled ere she made it." "nay, nay, that is not what she meant. i may be fair, paris, yet i am no woman, but a child of the mountain waters. one day thou wilt forget me, and thy heart will turn to thine own kind. in that day aphrodite has promised that the fairest of women shall be thine, and she will surely keep her word." "thou art woman enough for me," he said, "and i shall never want any other than thee." he kissed her, and comforted her as best he could. the hours fled by like minutes, the moon rose high in heaven, and one by one the stars came out, yet still they sat and talked of love, and of how they would be faithful to each other always. in like manner day after day passed by, and no two lovers in all the land were happier than paris and oenone. now it chanced that about this time menelaus, king of sparta, came to troy, at the command of the oracle at delphi. for a year past his land had been laid waste by a grievous famine, and when he inquired the cause of it, the oracle bade him go to troy and offer sacrifices at the tomb of lycus and chimæreus, the sons of prometheus, for until their spirits were appeased the land of sparta would be barren, and her sons would die of hunger in her streets. so menelaus set sail for troy, and priam and all his house received him with joy. they held great feasts in his honour, and treated him hospitably, as befitted the king of a mighty people. when he had performed his task, and the time had come for him to return, he said to priam, "my friend, thou hast treated me right royally, and i in my turn would fain do thee some service. say, wilt thou not sail with me to sparta, and see my palace, which shineth as the sun for splendour, and helen, my wife, who is the fairest in a land where the women are fairer than all other women?" but priam shook his head. "i am an old man, menelaus, and my travelling days are done. but if thou wouldst truly do me a service, thou wilt take with thee my son paris as thy guest. he is of an age now to travel and see strange lands, and i could not entrust him to better hands than thine. say, wilt thou take him or no?" "i will take him right gladly," answered menelaus, "seeing that since i cannot have thyself, no other man would please me so well as thy son. bid the young man be ready, and he shall sail with me and my folk." when paris heard the news, he was glad; for never in his life had he set foot outside the land of troy, and he longed to see the riches of menelaus and all the wonders of his palace in sparta. ere the sun had risen he was in the woods of ida telling oenone of the voyage he must take. "nay, grieve not, beloved," he said, as she turned her face sadly away; "for a few short months i must leave thee, but i will come back to thee with many a long tale of the wonders i have seen. there is nought like travel to make a man hold up his head among his fellows, and the seeing of strange things that others have not seen." "there is nought like travel," she said, "to make a man forget his home, and love the new things better than the old." "dost thou think me so faithless, oenone?" "many men are faithful till they meet temptation," she replied. "had i listened to thee, i should still have been a shepherd on the mountains, knowing neither kith nor kin." "it would have been happier so," said she. "oenone, i must not heed thy fears. remember, i am a king's son, and i must live my life as befits a man, and not be ever held back by a woman's arms." "the gods grant thou mayest always think so, paris. fare thee well, then; i will stay thee no longer, but i will watch for thy coming as never woman watched before. if evil fortune befall thee, paris, come back to me, and i will save thee." so, with many a promise not to forget her, but to come back to her as soon as might be, he left her and set sail with menelaus. and they crossed the blue Ægæan and came to glorious sparta, lying low among the circling hills. and menelaus made his guest welcome, and showed him all the splendours of his palace, with its inlaid columns and its frieze of gold and blue. his stable and horses did he show him, and the stadium where the races were run and his treasure-house beneath the ground. last of all he took him to helen, his wife. now helen, fairer than the sun in heaven, was sitting among her maidens, and when her lord and paris entered, she rose from her chair and came forward with a smile to greet them. in the curve of her neck, in the gleam of her hair, there was magic, and a witchery about her face and form that no man could withstand; for she was the fairest of all women under the sun, that ever had been or ever should be in time to come. many a man in his day loved helen of sparta, and many a man did she love in return; for so the gods had made her, exceeding fair and exceeding fickle, a joy and a curse among men. as paris looked upon her, her beauty reached his heart like the fumes of wine, and he forgot himself and his native land and oenone; he forgot all pride and manliness, and the ties of honour that bound him to his host--all but his passion for helen. day and night he thought of her and of her alone, and of how he might make her his own; and day and night he plotted and planned, and at last he gained his end. for aphrodite, true to her word, helped him, as she alone could do, and kindled in the heart of helen an answering flame, making her for the time being love paris more than menelaus, her lord, or any other man. and she cast dust in the eyes of menelaus, so that he saw not how the two lived only for each other, nor suspected his guest of any treachery. so one dark night they fled away together to gythium, and from thence they sailed to cranaë, and were wedded, and had joy of their love, forgetful of all else. oenone, meanwhile, wandered lonely about the woods and groves of ida. with a heavy heart she had watched the ships of menelaus sail away, and now, day by day, she would go down to the shore and look out across the sea towards hellas. high up upon a rock she would sit and sigh for him. "ah, paris, between thee and me lies many a weary league of barren waters and many a misty mountain chain. but my heart is with thee in that strange new land. oh, paris, forget me not, but come back to me soon, beloved." thus would she sigh day by day; but he came not. month after month passed by, and still he came not, nor any news of him, and his father and all the city were troubled to know what might have befallen him. so they manned a ship, and sent it out to sparta to get news, and in time it returned home to tell how paris and helen had fled from menelaus, and how menelaus had set out in pursuit, and had followed them to the land of egypt. after that no man knew where they had gone, or whether, perchance, paris and menelaus had met in deadly battle and fallen each by the other's hand, or what might have chanced. all the land was plunged in woe to think that paris had so far forgotten his honour as to steal away the wife of his host. but still they kept watch by day and by night, in case he should come back and be persuaded to give her up and make what amends he could. paris, meanwhile, with helen, had fled before menelaus from egypt, and had taken refuge in phoenicia; and when he traced them there, they fled once more and took ship to return to troy; for they could not live for ever as wanderers on the face of the earth. with the silence of shame the folk received them at the harbour, and amid silence, that spoke more than words, they made their way through the city and came and stood before priam in his halls, with eyes downcast upon the ground. now priam had heard of their coming, and had prepared in his mind a wrathful speech wherewith to greet his son and the woman who had led him astray. but when he looked upon helen his wrath melted away like frost before the sun; for she stood like a fair lily that some careless hand has half plucked from its stem, so that its head hangs drooping towards the dust. even so did she stand, with the tear-drops falling from her eyes. and all the wrathful words faded from his mind, so that he spoke quite otherwise than he had planned. "my children," he said gently, "come hither to me." they came and knelt before him, and he laid his hands upon their young shoulders, as they bowed their heads and wept upon his knees. "ye have grievously sinned, my children," he said, "and ye are learning, all too late, how bitter is the fruit of sin. there is but one course before you. paris, give back the woman thou hast stolen, and make what honourable amends thou canst. and thou, helen, go home with thy lord when he comes for thee, and be a faithful wife to him always, and make him forget that ever thou didst play him false." "o king," she said, "thou knowest not what thou askest. if thou givest me up to menelaus he will slay me, or else my life will be a dog's life in his halls; for his heart is no softer than a flint, though his tongue be smooth. o my father, cast me not out from thy halls. if i have sinned in leaving menelaus, shall i not sin again in leaving paris? or shall my sin be less if i flee from the man i love, to go with him i love not? who maketh two hearts to cleave together? who but aphrodite all-powerful? must we set at nought the will of heaven for the sake of laws that man has made? o priam, my father, forsake me not, but keep me in thy halls." and she clasped her hands about his knees and looked up into his face. beneath her gaze all his resolve gave way, and he took her face between his hands and kissed her. "my daughter," he said, "thou shalt stay with me as long as it shall please thee." thus did it come to pass that she made her home in troy, and priam, the king, became an accomplice in her sin; for the gods had so made her that the hearts of men were as wax between the fingers of helen of sparta. in time came menelaus, and stood in the halls of priam, and demanded back his wife. and they offered him a ransom--gold and precious stones--but he flung it back in their faces. "think you that gold can pay for a living soul?" he cried. "only a life can pay for a life, and many a life shall you pay for the sake of helen. look to your battlements and towers, o priam; they must be strong indeed to stand against the host that i shall bring behind me from hellas. farewell, till we meet again in battle." and he strode from the hall in anger, and sailed away to sparta, to rouse up all the heroes of hellas to take part in his quarrel with troy. meanwhile in troyland the forge fires burnt night and day, and the hammer rang loud upon the anvil. the red-hot iron was drawn from the furnace and bound hissing about the chariot-wheel; shields were stretched and swords were fashioned, and the ash-tree was felled upon the mountain for the handle of the tapering spear. among the men many a heart beat high with hope; for what is there like war, if a man is brave and strong, to bring him renown, and make his name live among his fellows? but in the women's hall many a silent tear was shed; for what is there like war to bring sorrow to a woman's heart, when she sees her dear ones going forth to battle and knows not whether she shall ever look on their faces again, or, perchance, see them carried home with a gaping spear-wound in the side? and when the battle is raging she can do nought but pray. so they cursed helen and her beauty in their hearts, and wished that even now king priam would send her back and stave off the war from troy. but paris and helen cared for none of these things; while others worked and wept, they dallied in each other's arms and forgot all else, or hoped that when menelaus reached home his anger would cool, and that he would find the kings of hellas none too willing to leave their lands for the sake of another's wife. but in this they hoped in vain, and reckoned not how dear a man may hold his country's honour. for one dark night the hosts of hellas pulled in to shore, and drew up their boats upon the beach and pitched their camp, and when the morning dawned their men were thick as flies about the walls of troy. so did it come to pass that cassandra's words came true, and for many a weary year the tide of war surged about the city like a wave of the sea, and paris slunk through the streets like a beaten cur, not daring to look his fellows in the face. for they hated him because he had brought war upon his country, and yet, though the quarrel was of his own making, he was ever the last to take the field and ever the first to retreat. so low had his manhood sunk that he thought far more of reaching helen with an unbroken skin than of winning fame upon the field of battle. but one day matters reached a pass when menelaus met him face to face upon the field, and challenged him to single combat beneath the walls of troy. he who should kill his man should have helen for wife, and the war should end, and no more lives be spent in vain for the sake of a quarrel that concerned but two. but paris thought of helen waiting in her chamber, and looked upon menelaus, standing sword in hand before him, strong as a lion in his wrath. then his heart gave way within him, and he turned and fled from the face of his foe back into the ranks of the trojans. he would have fled from the fight altogether, but that in the path of his retreat stood hector; the nodding plumes waved terrible upon his helmet, and he leant on his two-handed sword and frowned upon his brother, for he had seen how he fled from menelaus. when paris saw him he fell back ashamed, but hector stood aside to let him pass. "thou chicken-hearted mannikin," he cried, "get thee gone, and let others fight thy battle, that the courage of the trojans be not a by-word among the nations." and paris slunk past him with his eyes upon the ground, and went home to helen in her chamber. but when the fight was over hector came and dragged him from his hiding-place as a dog drags out a rat into the light. "thou smooth-faced deceiver," he said, "is this the way a man should fight when he has sailed across the high seas, and stolen away the fairest of women from a man mighty in battle? are we to make the name of troy a laughing-stock among our foes, and hang our heads in shame when men shall say, 'in strength and might they are like the immortal gods, these trojans, but their courage is the courage of the deer, that flees swiftly through the forest when he hears the bark of the hounds? thou coward, would thou hadst never been born, or hadst died upon the mountains ere there was time to bring dishonour on thy country." and paris trembled before his brother's wrath, but some of his old manhood returned to him. "thou speakest as all men speak who know not aphrodite's power," he said. "nevertheless, if thou wilt have it so, send forth a herald to menelaus, and tell him i accept his challenge, and will fight him for the sake of helen, his wife. and let the hosts of the achæans and the hosts of troy lay down their arms, and we two will stand up alone between them, and whichsoever of us shall fall in death, his side shall give up helen to the victor; and the war shall cease, and peace be made between the nations." so hector sent forth a herald to menelaus, and the two hosts drew close together on the plain till there was but a narrow space between them, and they laid aside their arms, and some lay upon the ground or sat, and others stood behind to watch the fight in the midst. and paris put on his shining armour and his helmet with the nodding plumes, and went and stood face to face with menelaus. in the sight of all the people hector prayed, "o zeus, who rulest from on high, grant that he who is the offender may fall in the fight, and his spirit flee away to hades, that the land may have peace and the people rest from war." and every man in his heart prayed likewise, for all were sickened at the long years of fruitless strife. then hector shook the lots in his helmet, to see who should be the first to hurl his brazen spear, and the lot of paris fell forth upon the ground. and he brandished his spear above his head, and hurled it with all his might, and it crashed against the shield of menelaus; but the stout shield turned it aside, and it fell powerless upon the ground. thereupon menelaus in his turn hurled his spear, and it pierced through the shield of his foe, and would have brought black death to his heart had he not swerved aside, so that the point but grazed his corselet. but menelaus, seeing his advantage, drew forth his sword and rushed upon him, and felled him a mighty blow upon his helmet, hoping to cleave it in two. but the sword shivered to pieces in his hand as he struck. then, with an oath, he cast aside the hilt and leapt upon paris, and seized him by the horsehair plume upon his helmet, and dragged him down. and the leathern thong that held the helmet was drawn tight about his throat, so that the breath was wellnigh squeezed out of him, and menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the achæan host. but aphrodite was mindful of her favourite, and, ere it was too late, she made the stout ox-hide give way beneath the weight of his body, and the helmet slipped off his head. then she wrapped a mist about his body, so that no man should see him, and bore him away through the midst of the trojan host, and laid him upon his bed. in the likeness of an aged dame she went and stood beside helen on the battlements, where she leant with the other trojan women looking down upon the plain, and she told her how she had borne forth paris from the fight and saved him, and that now he lay upon his bed and longed for her. so straightway helen left the others, and went and sat down by paris. when she saw him lying there, without so much as a scratch upon his body, she was ashamed for him, and began to upbraid him. [illustration: menelaus was bearing him in triumph towards the achaean host.] "so thou hast come back from the battle, paris, and couldst not endure to stand up to god-like menelaus. would that he had taken thee, for he is a better man than thou art! go forth now, thou craven, and challenge him once more to battle, and stay thy ground like a man. lo! thou art vanished away like smoke from the field, and both the hosts are making mock of thee." then her heart smote her for fear he should take her at her word and go back, and she fell upon her knees beside him, and took his hand in hers and wept. "ah, paris," she cried, "go not forth, i pray thee, but stay with me. i, even i, do bid thee stay, lest thou fall by the hand of menelaus, and i be left all desolate without thee." "ah, helen," he said, "upbraid me not, for i love thee above all else. some other day i will return and fight with menelaus, but now i will stay with thee, and we will have joy of each other and forget all else," so whilst menelaus searched raging through all the host, like a lion seeking for his prey, paris and helen dallied in each other's arms, hidden from the eyes of men. an ill reckoning would it have been for paris had the men of troy known where to find him, for they hated him like black death, and would have given him up to the hands of menelaus, to do by him as he would. from that day forth paris scarce dared to show his face among his fellows; but when hector urged him, and he could stand out against his taunts no longer, he would go forth into the battle, but disguised as a common soldier, with no mark upon him of his rank and birth. so did he hope to escape death and flee home as swift as might be to the arms of helen. in this he succeeded full well for a time, but a day came when no disguise could save him and he could not flee away. for in the ranks against him stood mighty philoctetes, with his bow and his poisoned arrows. and he drew his bow and prayed to zeus in his heart, "o zeus almighty, that drivest the black thundercloud before thee, do thou guide mine arrow aright, that it may work havoc among our foes and bring glory to the host of the achæans. in thy hands i leave it." then he drew back the string, so that the mighty bow was wellnigh bent in two, and the arrow sped with a whirr far over the foremost ranks of the trojans to the rear part of the host. and it fell upon paris, and pierced between the joints of his armour right through into his side. with a groan he fell, and black night came over his eyes, and he lay as one dead upon the field. when the fight was over, and either side was gathering up the dead and wounded from the plain, they came upon paris among the rest; but till they had drawn off his helmet they knew him not, for he was dressed as a common soldier. when they saw who it was, they put him reverently on a bier apart, for he was a king's son, and had been a brave man once, and death can wipe out many an old score of bitterness and hatred. so they bore him upon their shoulders silently to the palace of priam his father, and laid him upon his couch. and they brought him wine and cordials, for his heart beat faintly still within his breast. for a moment he revived, and spoke in broken whispers. "my friends, i am dying," he said, "and i would die in the pure free air of heaven, away from cities and from men and from my shame. o my father, bid them carry me forth upon ida, and there let them leave me, and return no more till they know the last breath must have gone from my body. then let them burn me there, where once i was brave and free; and as the fire of my burning shall die out, so let my name die out from among you--my name and my dishonour." so did he speak, and fell back exhausted, with the vision before his eyes of the groves of ida and of oenone, and of how she rose from the waters and loved him in the days of his innocent youth. and he remembered her words: "o paris, in that day come back to me, and i will heal thee of thy hurt." and he wondered whether she would keep her word and forgive him and heal him, so that they could go back to their old life upon the mountains. but even if she would not, he felt that he would rather die there than in the airless city. so they wrapped him about in warm coverings--for it was winter-time, and the snow lay white upon the ground--and carried him forth upon ida. and they placed a blazing torch above his head and left him on the lonely heights, and the whispering pine-trees kept watch above him as they tossed their arms in the cold north wind. from the shadow of a boulder oenone watched the procession wind back down the mountain-track, and when they had passed out of sight she came forth from her hiding-place. the tale of paris and helen she knew full well, and the reason of the war, for she had listened to the talk of the shepherds on the mountains. but still in her heart she loved paris; and when she saw him carried forth to die, she remembered how she had promised to heal him of his hurt, for she knew many a magic charm, and she could heal him if she would. so now she drew near to him out of the forest, and bent over his couch, and her red-gold hair fell soft about his face. but the fire of fever burnt hot within him, and he knew her not; but the face that came before his wandering mind was the face of helen. "helen!" he whispered, "helen!" at the sound of that hated name a great bitterness came into the heart of oenone. "must i heal thee for the sake of helen?" she cried, and turned and fled through the darkened pines, on, on, she knew not where, and threw herself at last upon the grass and wept. and so the torch burned low above his head and cast a dim red glow upon the snow, and he died alone of his fever upon the mountains, and she healed him not of his hurt. the next morning came the young men from the city, and the sons of priam, and the old king himself, to the place where paris lay; for they knew full well that he could not have lived out that night upon the mountains. and they gathered together the pine-trunks which the woodmen had left felled upon the ground, and heaped up a great pyre, high up upon the hills, so that the burning of paris might shine like a beacon fire in the sight of troy and of the achæan host. when the pyre was built they placed the body on it, and poured out wine and oil upon the wood, and the old king stood and lifted up his hands above his son. [illustration: cast herself upon the body of paris, and put her arms about his neck.] "o father zeus," he prayed, "who rulest upon ida, before thee do i burn the body of my son, and before my friends and before my foes, that they both may see it. may the wine which i pour forth upon his body be a libation of peace, that by his death he may join together in friendship those hands which by his sin he made to draw the sword upon each other. o zeus almighty, grant my prayer!" the people bowed their heads as they heard, and the old man poured forth the last libation. the salt tears ran from his eyes and fell upon the body of his son, and washed away from his mind all memory of his sin and cowardice, and only the image of him remained as he had been when he came in his youth and beauty for the winning of the bull. so can the hand of death wipe out all ugliness and wrong. when the last libation had been poured, they set the pyre alight, and in time it burned up bravely, for the oil and the wine, and the breath of the north wind blowing bleak across the mountain, made the flame burn bright and clear; and the pyre of paris shone like a flaming star against the dull grey sky and over the hills and plain lying silent beneath their pall of snow. far away across the valley oenone saw the light, and knew that the body of him she loved, and might have saved, lay perishing within the flames. all too late, the bitterness in her heart died out, and only the love remained, and she would have given all she knew to have healed paris of his hurt. with a wild cry she rushed, on the wings of the storm-wind, down the valley and up the hillside, and her white robes flew out behind her and the long locks of her red-gold hair. through the ranks of the mourners she rushed and over the melting snow, through the flames of the pyre, and cast herself upon the body of paris and put her arms about his neck. there, on his last resting-place, she lay with him, and the stifling smoke closed about her, and her spirit fled away there, where his had gone before. the people heard her cry, and saw her as she flew through their midst; but they thought it was the shriek of the north wind rushing over the hills, and to their eyes her white robes and her flowing hair seemed but the snowdrift, and last year's dead leaves whirled madly on the wings of the storm. and so they knew nought of the love of paris and oenone, or of how she watched his flocks with him when he was brave and free, or of how she forgave him, all too late, and died with him in the pyre which burned for a beacon of peace upon the snow-clad hills. the end * * * * * _wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd._ selected list of their _fine art series_ specially adapted for presents, prizes, &c. illustrated by margaret clayton a wonder-book _of_ beasts [illustration] edited by f. j. harvey darton [illustration] besides numerous black and white illustrations, the title-page and frontispiece are daintily coloured. _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by f. d. bedford centenary edition. the 'original poems' and others by jane and ann taylor and adelaide o'keefe edited by e. v. lucas _'the quality of the poetry of the misses taylor has been praised by such great judges that any praise from ourselves would be superfluous. no other writers of children's poetry have written of childish incident with all the child's simplicity._--spectator. _'mr. bedford's illustrations are not only very well drawn, but inspired by just the right feeling. it may be added that the taylors were really the founders of a school. they gave a form and character to nursery verse which have become classic, and have been followed more or less by a long line of later writers.'_--standard. _'thanks are due to that delicate lover of literature and of children, mr. e. v. lucas, for reprinting this veritable classic.'_ times of india. [illustration: 'why should you fear to tell the truth?'--_p. _.] large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards. wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by f. d. bedford runaways & castaways edited with introduction by e. v. lucas [illustration: "hands his lady out, and gives the guard something for himself;"] besides profuse black and white illustrations, the frontispiece and title-page are daintily coloured. _'mr. e. v. lucas has deliberately set himself to capture hearts while young and tender.... in twenty years he will have become such a power in the land as to be a national danger, and his new work, "runaways and castaways," is only another step towards this enviable destiny.'_--times. _'a collection of the most exciting and delightful runaway stories in the world.'_ nation. _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by f. d. bedford another book of verses for children selected and edited by e. v. lucas [illustration: we know not who in olden time it was who first invented rhyme] but few have done as much as he to brighten things for you and me.] profusely illustrated in black and white, with frontispiece and title-page beautifully printed in colour. '_a delightful compilation, and noticeably excellent in the method of its arrangement._' athenÆum. '_we may briefly and emphatically describe it as the most charming anthology for children that we have seen, original in choice and arrangement, beautifully bound, and owing no little to mr. f. d. bedford's delightful and sympathetic illustrations._' guardian. '_most happily selected, moreover, the light and humorous verse--verse harmless without any obvious moral--is too much neglected, for children like to be amused, and this need is sometimes forgotten._' spectator. '_the volume is in itself a real gift-book, being admirably bound, printed, and illustrated._' the world. _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by gordon browne fairy tales from grimm '_of new editions of old favourites the palm must be given, we think, to this collection of fairy tales from grimm.... we do not think a better edition has appeared._' review of reviews. '_no more acceptable edition of some of grimm's stories has been published._'--standard. '_altogether delightful. the illustrations are full of charm and sympathy._'--saturday review. [illustration] '_a fairy book beyond reproach._'--graphic. '_we have nothing but praise for this collection._'--sketch. '_grimm is always delightful, but in his present new dress he is more delightful than ever. mr. gordon browne charms us always with his dainty pictures._'--guardian. '_all the illustrations are simply inimitable._' queen. [illustration: 'the prince who was afraid of nothing.'--_p. ._] wells gardner, darton, &. co., ltd., london illustrated by a. g. walker a book of ballad stories selected and edited by mary macleod with introduction by edward dowden [illustration: 'beyond it rose a castle fair y-built of marble stone; the battlements were gilt with gold, and glittered in the sun.'--_p. ._ ] '_miss mary macleod has succeeded admirably in keeping much of the spirit of the originals in her prose versions of the best of the old ballads._' truth. '_should take a high place. in this work the famous ballads have been done into prose so skilfully, and have been so artistically illustrated, that it forms a volume to be highly prized_.'--standard. [illustration: 'she stoutly steered the stots about.'--_p._ .] _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by f. d. bedford [illustration: 'sat him astride of the saddle of mutton.' _p. ._] old-fashioned tales of long ago edited with introduction by e. v. lucas besides numerous black and white illustrations, the frontispiece and title-page are beautifully printed in colours. '_a charming book. the one ambition of mr. lucas' authors is to be interesting, and they succeed very well._'--daily telegraph. '_beautifully printed, illustrated, and bound._'--schoolmaster. tales are given from the following popular authors:--thomas day, maria edgeworth, mrs. sherwood, anne letitia barbauld, charles and mary lamb, jacob abbott, alicia catherine mant, caroline barnard, peter parley, catherine sinclair, dr. aiken. the authors of some of the best tales in the volume are unknown. [illustration: 'a large hole burst open in the wall.' _p. ._] _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by gordon browne [illustration: 'and your experience makes you sad?'--_p._ .] the shakespeare story book by mary macleod with introduction by sidney lee '_mr. sidney lee, a quite unimpeachable authority, strongly recommends this new volume, for which indeed miss macleod's literary reputation will commend a favourable hearing. this new rendering has been very well done. mr. gordon browne's illustrations add another charm to a very attractive book._'--spectator. '_miss macleod has followed the plot more closely than mary and charles lamb, and a charming book of stories is the result._'--truth =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= [illustration: 'some have greatness thrust upon them.'--_p._ xiv.] wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by hugh thomson tales of the canterbury pilgrims retold from chaucer and other writers by f. j. harvey darton with introduction by dr. f. j. furnivall [illustration: 'the cow ran, the calf ran, and even the very hogs trotted.'--_p._ .] =large vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards,= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne fairy tales from hans andersen introduction by edward clodd =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, fancy cloth boards.= [illustration: reduced facsimile of cover.] '_the illustrations leave nothing to be desired._'--standard. '_this is really a seasonable for all christmases._'--punch. '_a delightful gift for children._'--times of india. [illustration: from 'the ugly duckling.' _p. ._] wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne _an improving history for old boys, young boys, good boys, bad boys, big boys, little boys, cow boys, and tom boys_ [illustration: 'i create you general of the commissariat.'--_p. ._] the surprising adventures of sir toady lion with those of general napoleon smith by s. r. crockett '_when we say it is one of the most delightful stories about children we have ever read, we are still short of the mark._' daily chronicle. '_it is distinctly the best christmas book of the season._'--daily mail. '_in this excellent book for children, which the elders will enjoy, mr. crockett comes right away from kailyard into a kingdom of obstreperous fancy, and is purely, delightfully funny, and not too scotch.... mr. gordon browne's illustrations are as good a treat as the story; they realise every thought and intention of the writer, and are full of a sly and characteristic drollery all the artist's own._'--world. [illustration: 'how quaint.'--_p. ._] =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by a. g. walker [illustration: reduced cover design.] '_a very beautiful gift-book. deeply interesting to any intelligent child, and the beauty of the old romances will appeal strongly to any imaginative mind, young or old._--the world. '_very well re-told ... an excellent introduction to the treasures of the old literature._'--daily mail. a wonder book of old romance by f. j. harvey darton contents william and the werewolf. king robert of sicily. sir cleges and the cherries. sir gawain and the green knight. the fair unknown. king horn. the seven wise masters. sir degorÉ and the broken sword. guy of warwick. the ash and the hazel. floris and blanchefleur. amys and amylion. havelor the dane. [illustration: 'alack, dear lion, who has done this wrong?'--_guy of warwick, p. ._] _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by gordon browne [illustration: 'old king cole was a merry old soul.'--_p. ._] national rhymes of the nursery [illustration: national rhymes of the nursery with drawings by gordon browne] with introduction by george saintsbury '_the prettiest and most complete collection of this kind that we have seen._'--westminster gazette. '_it is impossible to praise the volume too highly._'--black and white. '_every conceivable nursery rhyme is herein gathered together, beautifully illustrated. the collection is certainly the most perfect that has ever been made._'--school guardian. '_standard authority._'--times. '_a very complete collection._' pall mall gazette. =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, bound in art linen boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne stories from froissart by henry newbolt, _author of 'admirals all,' &c._ '_a really fine book, and effectively illustrated. mr. newbolt has done his work well, and mr. gordon browne has illustrated the book delightfully._'--outlook. [illustration: '_there never was a better story-book than froissart._' athenÆum. ] [illustration: 'the four knights view the english host.'--_p. ._] =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne _a child's book, for children, for women, and for men._ sweetheart travellers by s. r. crockett [illustration: sweetheart travellers s. r. crockett] '_it is the rarest of all rarities, and veritably a child's book for children, as well as for women and men. it is seldom, indeed, that the reviewer has the opportunity of bestowing unstinted praise, with the feeling that the laudation is, nevertheless, inadequate. "sweetheart travellers" is instinct with drollery; it continually strikes the softest notes of tenderest pathos, and it must make the most hardened bachelor feel something of the pleasures he has missed in living mateless and childless._'--times. '_a more delightful book for young, old, and middle aged, it is scarcely possible to conceive._'--truth. '_we confess to having fallen under the spell of these delightful chronicles. the illustrations are just what was wanted to make this one of the most attractive books about children._' pall mall gazette [illustration: on the road to conway.--_p. ._] =large vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne sintram & his companions and undine [illustration] by de la motte fouquÉ with introduction by charlotte m. yonge '_the anonymous translation is the good old standard one. vastly superior to subsequent versions._'--times. '_certain to engage the sympathies of an entirely new set of readers._'--daily telegraph. '_nothing could be more attractive than the form in which this excellent edition is sent forth._'--record. '_a better present for a thoughtful lad or lass could hardly be._'--church times. =large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= [illustration: sintram and his companions.--_from p. ._] wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by f. m. rudland the history of the fairchild family by mrs. sherwood edited with introduction by mary e. palgrave [illustration: _emily & her brother & sister went to play in the garden. p. _] '_a better gift-book is not easy to find than this pleasing edition of a deservedly popular story._' daily news. '_we have seen few more delightful volumes._'--record. '"_the history of the fairchild family" has never appeared in a more attractive form._' scotsman. =large vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by hugh thomson tales from maria edgeworth with introduction by austin dobson [illustration: waste not, want not: or, two strings to your bow.--_p. ._] '_one of the best of the new editions that the present christmas has called forth. strangers to the fascinating pen of maria edgeworth could not have a better volume in which to learn what they have been missing._'--times. '_exceedingly attractive._'--spectator. '_nothing could be more admirably carried out._'--bookman. =large vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards.= wells gardner, darton, & co., ltd., london illustrated by gordon browne [illustration: a chapter heading.] sir toady crusoe by s. r. crockett [illustration: '_it will thoroughly satisfy the children's most fastidious taste._' morning leader. '_the best book for children, if not the best book we have seen this year._'--westminster gazette. '_we have seen nothing for a long time to equal the admirable illustrations._'--dundee courier. [illustration: 'watch 'em, boy!' said dinkey.--_p. ._] _large crown vo. printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ illustrated by f. d. bedford forgotten tales of long ago edited with introduction by e. v. lucas [illustration] beside numerous black and white illustrations, the frontispiece and title-page are in colours. _the contents include:_ dicky random; jemima placid; two trials; the fruits of disobedience; the three cakes; scourhill's adventures; ellen and george; the journal, by priscilla wakefield; the bunch of cherries; the life and adventures of lady anne; captain murderer, by charles dickens, and many other favourite old stories, now forgotten. '_is mr. e. v. lucas going to provide its with one of the prettiest books of each christmas season? for successive years we have been delighted with his clever selection from the child-fiction of our grandparents, and we are left like oliver twist, asking for more._'--bookman. [illustration: 'she cut her beautiful hair close to her head!'-_p. ._] _large crown vo, printed on superfine paper, cloth boards._ transcriber's note: archaic and inconsistent spelling and punctuation retained. hippolytus and the bacchae by euripides translated by gilbert murray nine greek dramas by aeschylus, sophocles, euripides and aristophanes translations by e.d.a. morshead e.h. plumptre gilbert murray and b.b. rogers introductory note euripides, the youngest of the trio of great greek tragedians was born at salamis in b.c., on the day when the greeks won their momentous naval victory there over the fleet of the persians. the precise social status of his parents is not clear but he received a good education, was early distinguished as an athlete, and showed talent in painting and oratory. he was a fellow student of pericles, and his dramas show the influence of the philosophical ideas of anaxagoras and of socrates, with whom he was personally intimate. like socrates, he was accused of impiety, and this, along with domestic infelicity, has been supposed to afford a motive for his withdrawal from athens, first to magnesia and later to the court of anchelaüs in macedonia where he died in b.c. the first tragedy of euripides was produced when he was about twenty-five, and he was several times a victor in the tragic contests. in spite of the antagonisms which he aroused and the criticisms which were hurled upon him in, for example, the comedies of aristophanes, he attained a very great popularity; and plutarch tells that those athenians who were taken captive in the disastrous sicilian expedition of b.c. were offered freedom by their captors if they could recite from the works of euripides. of the hundred and twenty dramas ascribed to euripides, there have come down to us complete eighteen tragedies and one satyric drama, "cyclops," beside numerous fragments. the works of euripides are generally regarded as showing the beginning of the decline of greek tragedy. the idea of fate hitherto dominant in the plays of his predecessors, tends to be degraded by him into mere chance; the characters lose much of their ideal quality; and even gods and heroes are represented as moved by the petty motives of ordinary humanity. the chorus is often quite detached from the action; the poetry is florid; and the action is frequently tinged with sensationalism. in spite of all this, euripides remains a great poet; and his picturesqueness and tendencies to what are now called realism and romanticism, while marking his inferiority to the chaste classicism of sophocles, bring him more easily within the sympathetic interest of the modern reader. hippolytus of euripides dramatis personae the goddess aphrodite theseus, _king of athens and trozên_ phaedra, _daughter of minos, king of crete, wife to theseus_ hippolytus, _bastard son of theseus and the amazon hippolyte_ the nurse of phaedra a henchman of hippolytus the goddess artemis an old huntsman a chorus of huntsmen attendants on the three royal persons a chorus of trozenian women, with their leader _the scene is laid in trozên. the play was first acted when epameinon was archon, olympiad , year (b.c. ). euripides was first, iophon second, ion third._ aphrodite great among men, and not unnamed am i, the cyprian, in god's inmost halls on high. and wheresoe'er from pontus to the far red west men dwell, and see the glad day-star, and worship me, the pious heart i bless, and wreck that life that lives in stubbornness. for that there is, even in a great god's mind, that hungereth for the praise of human kind. so runs my word; and soon the very deed shall follow. for this prince of theseus' seed, hippolytus, child of that dead amazon, and reared by saintly pittheus in his own strait ways, hath dared, alone of all trozên, to hold me least of spirits and most mean, and spurns my spell and seeks no woman's kiss, but great apollo's sister, artemis, he holds of all most high, gives love and praise, and through the wild dark woods for ever strays, he and the maid together, with swift hounds to slay all angry beasts from out these bounds, to more than mortal friendship consecrate! i grudge it not. no grudge know i, nor hate; yet, seeing he hath offended, i this day shall smite hippolytus. long since my way was opened, nor needs now much labour more. for once from pittheus' castle to the shore of athens came hippolytus over-seas seeking the vision of the mysteries. and phaedra there, his father's queen high-born; saw him, and as she saw, her heart was torn with great love, by the working of my will. and for his sake, long since, on pallas' hill, deep in the rock, that love no more might roam, she built a shrine, and named it _love-at-home_: and the rock held it, but its face alway seeks trozên o'er the seas. then came the day when theseus, for the blood of kinsmen shed, spake doom of exile on himself, and fled, phaedra beside him, even to this trozên. and here that grievous and amazed queen, wounded and wondering, with ne'er a word, wastes slowly; and her secret none hath heard nor dreamed. but never thus this love shall end! to theseus' ear some whisper will i send, and all be bare! and that proud prince, my foe, his sire shall slay with curses. even so endeth that boon the great lord of the main to theseus gave, the three prayers not in vain. and she, not in dishonour, yet shall die. i would not rate this woman's pain so high as not to pay mine haters in full fee that vengeance that shall make all well with me. but soft, here comes he, striding from the chase, our prince hippolytus!--i will go my ways.-- and hunters at his heels: and a loud throng glorying artemis with praise and song! little he knows that hell's gates opened are, and this his last look on the great day-star! [aphrodite _withdraws, unseen by_ hippolytus _and a band of huntsmen, who enter from the left, singing. they pass the statue of_ aphrodite _without notice._] hippolytus follow, o follow me, singing on your ways her in whose hand are we, her whose own flock we be, the zeus-child, the heavenly; to artemis be praise! huntsman hail to thee, maiden blest, proudest and holiest: god's daughter, great in bliss, leto-born, artemis! hail to thee, maiden, far fairest of all that are, yea, and most high thine home, child of the father's hall; hear, o most virginal, hear, o most fair of all, in high god's golden dome. [_the huntsmen have gathered about the altar of_ artemis. hippolytus _now advances from them, and approaches the statue with a wreath in his hand._] hippolytus to thee this wreathed garland, from a green and virgin meadow bear i, o my queen, where never shepherd leads his grazing ewes nor scythe has touched. only the river dews gleam, and the spring bee sings, and in the glade hath solitude her mystic garden made. no evil hand may cull it: only he whose heart hath known the heart of purity, unlearned of man, and true whate'er befall. take therefore from pure hands this coronal, o mistress loved, thy golden hair to twine. for, sole of living men, this grace is mine, to dwell with thee, and speak, and hear replies of voice divine, though none may see thine eyes. oh, keep me to the end in this same road! [_an_ old huntsman, _who has stood apart from the rest, here comes up to_ hippolytus.] huntsman my prince--for "master" name i none but god-- gave i good counsel, wouldst thou welcome it? hippolytus right gladly, friend; else were i poor of wit. huntsman knowest thou one law, that through the world has won? hippolytus what wouldst thou? and how runs thy law? say on. huntsman it hates that pride that speaks not all men fair! hippolytus and rightly. pride breeds hatred everywhere. huntsman and good words love, and grace in all men's sight? hippolytus aye, and much gain withal, for trouble slight. huntsman how deem'st thou of the gods? are they the same? hippolytus surely: we are but fashioned on their frame. huntsman why then wilt thou be proud, and worship not ... hippolytus whom? if the name be speakable, speak out! huntsman she stands here at thy gate: the cyprian queen! hippolytus i greet her from afar: my life is clean. huntsman clean? nay, proud, proud; a mark for all to scan! hippolytus each mind hath its own bent, for god or man. huntsman god grant thee happiness ... and wiser thought! hippolytus these spirits that reign in darkness like me not. huntsman what the gods ask, o son, that man must pay! hippolytus (_turning from him to the others_). on, huntsmen, to the castle! make your way straight to the feast room; 'tis a merry thing after the chase, a board of banqueting. and see the steeds be groomed, and in array the chariot dight. i drive them forth to-day [_he pauses, and makes a slight gesture of reverence to the statue on the left. then to the_ old huntsman.] that for thy cyprian, friend, and nought beside! [hippolytus _follows the huntsmen, who stream by the central door in the castle. the_ old huntsman _remains_.] huntsman (_approaching the statue and kneeling_) o cyprian--for a young man in his pride i will not follow!--here before thee, meek, in that one language that a slave may speak, i pray thee; oh, if some wild heart in froth of youth surges against thee, be not wroth for ever! nay, be far and hear not then: gods should be gentler and more wise than men! [_he rises and follows the others into the castle_.] _the orchestra is empty for a moment, then there enter from right and left several trosenian women young and old. their number eventually amounts to fifteen._ chorus there riseth a rock-born river, of ocean's tribe, men say; the crags of it gleam and quiver, and pitchers dip in the spray: a woman was there with raiment white to bathe and spread in the warm sunlight, and she told a tale to me there by the river the tale of the queen and her evil day: how, ailing beyond allayment, within she hath bowed her head, and with shadow of silken raiment the bright brown hair bespread. for three long days she hath lain forlorn, her lips untainted of flesh or corn, for that secret sorrow beyond allayment that steers to the far sad shore of the dead. _some women_ is this some spirit, o child of man? doth hecat hold thee perchance, or pan? doth she of the mountains work her ban, or the dread corybantes bind thee? _others_ nay, is it sin that upon thee lies, sin of forgotten sacrifice, in thine own dictynna's sea-wild eyes? who in limna here can find thee; for the deep's dry floor is her easy way, and she moves in the salt wet whirl of the spray. _other women_ or doth the lord of erechtheus' race, thy theseus, watch for a fairer face, for secret arms in a silent place, far from thy love or chiding? _others_ or hath there landed, amid the loud hum of piraeus' sailor-crowd, some cretan venturer, weary-browed, who bears to the queen some tiding; some far home-grief, that hath bowed her low, and chained her soul to a bed of woe? _an older woman_ nay--know yet not?--this burden hath alway lain on the devious being of woman; yea, burdens twain, the burden of wild will and the burden of pain. through my heart once that wind of terror sped; but i, in fear confessèd, cried from the dark to her in heavenly bliss, the helper of pain, the bow-maid artemis: whose feet i praise for ever, where they tread far off among the blessèd! the leader but see, the queen's grey nurse at the door, sad-eyed and sterner, methinks, than of yore with the queen. doth she lead her hither to the wind and sun?--ah, fain would i know what strange betiding hath blanched that brow and made that young life wither. [_the nurse comes out from the central door followed by_ phaedra, _who is supported by two handmaids. they make ready a couch for_ phaedra _to lie upon_.] nurse o sick and sore are the days of men! what wouldst thou? what shall i change again here is the sun for thee; here is the sky; and thy weary pillows wind-swept lie, by the castle door. but the cloud of thy brow is dark, i ween; and soon thou wilt back to thy bower within: so swift to change is the path of thy feet, and near things hateful, and far things sweet; so was it before! oh, pain were better than tending pain! for that were single, and this is twain, with grief of heart and labour of limb. yet all man's life is but ailing and dim, and rest upon earth comes never. but if any far-off state there be, dearer than life to mortality; the hand of the dark hath hold thereof, and mist is under and mist above. and so we are sick of life, and cling on earth to this nameless and shining thing. for other life is a fountain sealed, and the deeps below are unrevealed, and we drift on legends for ever! [phaedra _during this has been laid on her couch; she speaks to the handmaids_.] phaedra yes; lift me: not my head so low. there, hold my arms.--fair arms they seem!-- my poor limbs scarce obey me now! take off that hood that weighs my brow, and let my long hair stream. nurse nay, toss not, child, so feveredly. the sickness best will win relief by quiet rest and constancy. all men have grief. phaedra (_not noticing her_) oh for a deep and dewy spring, with runlets cold to draw and drink! and a great meadow blossoming, long-grassed, and poplars in a ring, to rest me by the brink! nurse nay, child! shall strangers hear this tone so wild, and thoughts so fever-flown? phaedra oh, take me to the mountain! oh, pass the great pines and through the wood, up where the lean hounds softly go, a-whine for wild things' blood, and madly flies the dappled roe. o god, to shout and speed them there, an arrow by my chestnut hair drawn tight, and one keen glimmering spear-- ah! if i could! nurse what wouldst thou with them--fancies all!-- thy hunting and thy fountain brink? what wouldst thou? by the city wall canst hear our own brook plash and fall downhill, if thou wouldst drink. phaedra o mistress of the sea-lorn mere where horse-hoofs beat the sand and sing, o artemis, that i were there to tame enetian steeds and steer swift chariots in the ring! nurse nay, mountainward but now thy hands yearned out, with craving for the chase; and now toward the unseaswept sands thou roamest, where the coursers pace! o wild young steed, what prophet knows the power that holds thy curb, and throws thy swift heart from its race? [_at these words phaedra gradually recovers herself and pays attention._] phaedra what have i said? woe's me! and where gone straying from my wholesome mind? what? did i fall in some god's snare? --nurse, veil my head again, and blind mine eyes.--there is a tear behind that lash.--oh, i am sick with shame! aye, but it hath a sting, to come to reason; yet the name of madness is an awful thing.-- could i but die in one swift flame unthinking, unknowing! nurse i veil thy face, child.--would that so mine own were veiled for evermore, so sore i love thee! ... though the lore of long life mocks me, and i know how love should be a lightsome thing not rooted in the deep o' the heart; with gentle ties, to twine apart if need so call, or closer cling.-- why do i love thee so? o fool, o fool, the heart that bleeds for twain, and builds, men tell us, walls of pain, to walk by love's unswerving rule the same for ever, stern and true! for "thorough" is no word of peace: 'tis "naught-too-much" makes trouble cease. and many a wise man bows thereto. [_the_ leader of the chorus _here approaches the_ nurse.] leader nurse of our queen, thou watcher old and true, we see her great affliction, but no clue have we to learn the sickness. wouldst thou tell the name and sort thereof, 'twould like us well. nurse small leechcraft have i, and she tells no man. leader thou know'st no cause? nor when the unrest began? nurse it all comes to the same. she will not speak. leader (_turning and looking at_ phaedra). how she is changed and wasted! and how weak! nurse 'tis the third day she hath fasted utterly. leader what, is she mad? or doth she seek to die? nurse i know not. but to death it sure must lead. leader 'tis strange that theseus takes hereof no heed. nurse she hides her wound, and vows it is not so. leader can he not look into her face and know? nurse nay, he is on a journey these last days. leader canst thou not force her, then? or think of ways to trap the secret of the sick heart's pain? nurse have i not tried all ways, and all in vain? yet will i cease not now, and thou shalt tell if in her grief i serve my mistress well! [_she goes across to where_ phaedra _lies; and presently, while speaking, kneels by her_.] dear daughter mine, all that before was said let both of us forget; and thou instead be kindlier, and unlock that prisoned brow. and i, who followed then the wrong road, now will leave it and be wiser. if thou fear some secret sickness, there be women here to give thee comfort. [phaedra _shakes her head_. no; not secret? then is it a sickness meet for aid of men? speak, that a leech may tend thee. silent still? nay, child, what profits silence? if 'tis ill this that i counsel, makes me see the wrong: if well, then yield to me. nay, child, i long for one kind word, one look! [phaedra _lies motionless. the_ nurse _rises._] oh, woe is me! women, we labour here all fruitlessly, all as far off as ever from her heart! she ever scorned me, and now hears no part of all my prayers! [_turning to_ phaedra _again._] nay, hear thou shalt, and be, if so thou will, more wild than the wild sea; but know, thou art thy little ones' betrayer! if thou die now, shall child of thine be heir to theseus' castle? nay, not thine, i ween, but hers! that barbèd amazonian queen hath left a child to bend thy children low, a bastard royal-hearted--sayst not so?-- hippolytus... phaedra ah! [_she starts up, sitting, and throws the veil off_.] nurse that stings thee? phaedra nurse, most sore thou hast hurt me! in god's name, speak that name no more. nurse thou seest? thy mind is clear; but with thy mind thou wilt not save thy children, nor be kind to thine own life. phaedra my children? nay, most dear i love them,--far, far other grief is here. nurse (_after a pause, wondering_) thy hand is clean, o child, from stain of blood? phaedra my hand is clean; but is my heart, o god? nurse some enemy's spell hath made thy spirit dim? phaedra he hates me not that slays me, nor i him. nurse theseus, the king, hath wronged thee in man's wise? phaedra ah, could but i stand guiltless in his eyes! nurse o speak! what is this death-fraught mystery? phaedra nay, leave me to my wrong. i wrong not thee. nurse (_suddenly throwing herself in supplication at phaedra's feet_) not wrong me, whom thou wouldst all desolate leave? phaedra (_rising and trying to move away_) what wouldst thou? force me? clinging to my sleeve? nurse yea, to thy knees; and weep; and let not go! phaedra woe to thee, woman, if thou learn it, woe! nurse i know no bitterer woe than losing thee. phaedra yet the deed shall honour me. nurse why hide what honours thee? 'tis all i claim! phaedra why, so i build up honour out of shame! nurse then speak, and higher still thy fame shall stand. phaedra go, in god's name!--nay, leave me; loose my hand! nurse never, until thou grant me what i pray. phaedra (_yielding, after a pause_) so be it. i dare not tear that hand away. nurse (_rising and releasing phaedra_) tell all thou wilt, daughter. i speak no more. phaedra (_after a long pause_) mother, poor mother, that didst love so sore! nurse what mean'st thou, child? the wild bull of the tide? phaedra and thou, sad sister, dionysus' bride! nurse child! wouldst thou shame the house where thou wast born? phaedra and i the third, sinking most all-forlorn! nurse (_to herself_) i am all lost and feared. what will she say? phaedra from there my grief comes, not from yesterday. nurse i come no nearer to thy parable. phaedra oh, would that thou could'st tell what i must tell! nurse i am no seer in things i wot not of. phaedra (_again hesitating_) what is it that they mean, who say men...love? nurse a thing most sweet, my child, yet dolorous. phaedra only the half, belike, hath fallen on us! nurse (_starting_) on thee? love?--oh, what say'st thou? what man's son? phaedra what man's? there was a queen, an amazon ... nurse hippolytus, say'st thou? phaedra (_again wrapping her face in the veil_) nay, 'twas thou, not i! [phaedra _sinks back on the couch and covers her face again. the_ nurse _starts violently from her and walks up and down._] nurse o god! what wilt thou say, child? wouldst thou try to kill me?--oh, 'tis more than i can bear; women. i will no more of it, this glare of hated day, this shining of the sky. i will fling down my body, and let it lie till life be gone! women, god rest with you, my works are over! for the pure and true are forced to evil, against their own heart's vow, and love it! [_she suddenly sees the statue of_ cypris, _and stands with her eyes riveted upon it._] ah, cyprian! no god art thou, but more than god, and greater, that hath thrust me and my queen and all our house to dust! [_she throws herself on the ground close to the statue._] chorus _some women_ o women, have ye heard? nay, dare ye hear the desolate cry of the young queen's misery? _a woman_ my queen, i love thee dear, yet liefer were i dead than framed like thee. _others_ woe, woe to me for this thy bitter bane, surely the food man feeds upon is pain! _others_ how wilt thou bear thee through this livelong day, lost, and thine evil naked to the light? strange things are close upon us--who shall say how strange?--save one thing that is plain to sight, the stroke of the cyprian and the fall thereof on thee, thou child of the isle of fearful love! [phaedra _during this has risen from the couch and comes forward collectedly. as she speaks the_ nurse _gradually rouses herself, and listens more calmly._] phaedra o women, dwellers in this portal-seat of pelops' land, gazing towards my crete, how oft, in other days than these, have i through night's long hours thought of man's misery, and how this life is wrecked! and, to mine eyes, not in man's knowledge, not in wisdom, lies the lack that makes for sorrow. nay, we scan and know the right--for wit hath many a man-- but will not to the last end strive and serve. for some grow too soon weary, and some swerve to other paths, setting before the right the diverse far-off image of delight: and many are delights beneath the sun! long hours of converse; and to sit alone musing--a deadly happiness!--and shame: though two things there be hidden in one name, and shame can be slow poison if it will; this is the truth i saw then, and see still; nor is there any magic that can stain that white truth for me, or make me blind again. come, i will show thee how my spirit hath moved. when the first stab came, and i knew i loved, i cast about how best to face mine ill. and the first thought that came, was to be still and hide my sickness.--for no trust there is in man's tongue, that so well admonishes and counsels and betrays, and waxes fat with griefs of its own gathering!--after that i would my madness bravely bear, and try to conquer by mine own heart's purity. my third mind, when these two availed me naught to quell love was to die-- [_motion of protest among the women._] --the best, best thought-- --gainsay me not--of all that man can say! i would not have mine honour hidden away; why should i have my shame before men's eyes kept living? and i knew, in deadly wise, shame was the deed and shame the suffering; and i a woman, too, to face the thing, despised of all! oh, utterly accurst be she of women, whoso dared the first to cast her honour out to a strange man! 'twas in some great house, surely, that began this plague upon us; then the baser kind, when the good led towards evil, followed blind and joyous! cursed be they whose lips are clean and wise and seemly, but their hearts within rank with bad daring! how can they, o thou that walkest on the waves, great cyprian, how smile in their husbands' faces, and not fall, not cower before the darkness that knows all, aye, dread the dead still chambers, lest one day the stones find voice, and all be finished! nay, friends, 'tis for this i die; lest i stand there having shamed my husband and the babes i bare. in ancient athens they shall some day dwell, my babes, free men, free-spoken, honourable, euripides and when one asks their mother, proud of me! for, oh, it cows a man, though bold he be, to know a mother's or a father's sin. 'tis written, one way is there, one, to win this life's race, could man keep it from his birth, a true clean spirit. and through all this earth to every false man, that hour comes apace when time holds up a mirror to his face, and girl-like, marvelling, there he stares to see how foul his heart! be it not so with me! leader of chorus ah, god, how sweet is virtue, and how wise, and honour its due meed in all men's eyes! nurse (_who has now risen and recovered herself_) mistress, a sharp swift terror struck me low a moment since, hearing of this thy woe. but now--i was a coward! and men say our second thought the wiser is alway. this is no monstrous thing; no grief too dire to meet with quiet thinking. in her ire a most strong goddess hath swept down on thee. thou lovest. is that so strange? many there be beside thee! ... and because thou lovest, wilt fall and die! and must all lovers die, then? all that are or shall be? a blithe law for them! nay, when in might she swoops, no strength can stem cypris; and if man yields him, she is sweet; but is he proud and stubborn? from his feet she lifts him, and--how think you?--flings to scorn! she ranges with the stars of eve and morn, she wanders in the heaving of the sea, and all life lives from her.--aye, this is she that sows love's seed and brings love's fruit to birth; and great love's brethren are all we on earth! nay, they who con grey books of ancient days or dwell among the muses, tell--and praise-- how zeus himself once yearned for semelê; how maiden eôs in her radiancy swept kephalos to heaven away, away, for sore love's sake. and there they dwell, men say, and fear not, fret not; for a thing too stern hath met and crushed them! and must thou, then, turn and struggle? sprang there from thy father's blood thy little soul all lonely? or the god that rules thee, is he other than our gods? nay, yield thee to men's ways, and kiss their rods! how many, deem'st thou, of men good and wise know their own home's blot, and avert their eyes? how many fathers, when a son has strayed and toiled beneath the cyprian, bring him aid, not chiding? and man's wisdom e'er hath been to keep what is not good to see, unseen! a straight and perfect life is not for man; nay, in a shut house, let him, if he can, 'mid sheltered rooms, make all lines true. but here, out in the wide sea fallen, and full of fear, hopest thou so easily to swim to land? canst thou but set thine ill days on one hand and more good days on the other, verily, o child of woman, life is well with thee! [_she pauses, and then draws nearer to_ phaedra.] nay, dear my daughter, cease thine evil mind, cease thy fierce pride! for pride it is, and blind, to seek to outpass gods!--love on and dare: a god hath willed it! and, since pain is there, make the pain sleep! songs are there to bring calm, and magic words. and i shall find the balm, be sure, to heal thee. else in sore dismay were men, could not we women find our way! leader of the chorus help is there, queen, in all this woman says, to ease thy suffering. but 'tis thee i praise; albeit that praise is harder to thine ear than all her chiding was, and bitterer! phaedra oh, this it is hath flung to dogs and birds men's lives and homes and cities-fair false word! oh, why speak things to please our ears? we crave not that. tis honour, honour, we must save! nurse why prate so proud! 'tis no words, brave nor base thou cravest; 'tis a man's arms! [phaedra _moves indignantly_.] up and face the truth of what thou art, and name it straight! were not thy life thrown open here for fate to beat on; hadst thou been a woman pure or wise or strong; never had i for lure of joy nor heartache led thee on to this! but when a whole life one great battle is, to win or lose--no man can blame me then. phaedra shame on thee! lock those lips, and ne'er again let word nor thought so foul have harbour there! nurse foul, if thou wilt: but better than the fair for thee and me. and better, too, the deed behind them, if it save thee in thy need, than that word honour thou wilt die to win! phaedra nay, in god's name,--such wisdom and such sin are all about thy lips!--urge me no more. for all the soul within me is wrought o'er by love; and if thou speak and speak, i may be spent, and drift where now i shrink away. nurse well, if thou wilt!--'twere best never to err, but, having erred, to take a counsellor is second.--mark me now. i have within love-philtres, to make peace where storm hath been, that, with no shame, no scathe of mind, shall save thy life from anguish; wilt but thou be brave! [_to herself, rejecting_.] ah, but from him, the well-beloved, some sign we need, or word, or raiment's hem, to twine amid the charm, and one spell knit from twain. phaedra is it a potion or a salve? be plain. nurse who knows? seek to be helped, child, not to know. phaedra why art thou ever subtle? i dread thee, so. nurse thou wouldst dread everything!--what dost thou dread? phaedra least to his ear some word be whispered. nurse let be, child! i will make all well with thee! --only do thou, o cyprian of the sea, be with me! and mine own heart, come what may, shall know what ear to seek, what word to say! [_the_ nurse, _having spoken these last words in prayer apart to the statue of_ cypris, _turns back and goes into the house_. phaedra _sits pensive again on her couch till towards the end of the following song, when she rises and bends close to the door_.] chorus erôs, erôs, who blindest, tear by tear, men's eyes with hunger; thou swift foe that pliest deep in our hearts joy like an edgèd spear; come not to me with evil haunting near, wrath on the wind, nor jarring of the clear wing's music as thou fliest! there is no shaft that burneth, not in fire, not in wild stars, far off and flinging fear, as in thine hands the shaft of all desire, erôs, child of the highest! in vain, in vain, by old alpheüs' shore the blood of many bulls doth stain the river and all greece bows on phoebus' pythian floor; yet bring we to the master of man no store the keybearer, who standeth at the door close-barred, where hideth ever the heart of the shrine. yea, though he sack man's life like a sacked city, and moveth evermore girt with calamity and strange ways of strife, him have we worshipped never! * * * * * there roamed a steed in oechalia's wild, a maid without yoke, without master, and love she knew not, that far king's child; but he came, he came, with a song in the night. with fire, with blood; and she strove in flight, a torrent spirit, a maenad white, faster and vainly faster, sealed unto heracles by the cyprian's might. alas, thou bride of disaster! o mouth of dirce, o god-built wall, that dirce's wells run under, ye know the cyprian's fleet footfall! ye saw the heavens around her flare, when she lulled to her sleep that mother fair of twy-born bacchus, and decked her there the bride of the bladed thunder. for her breath is on all that hath life, and she floats in the air, bee-like, death-like, a wonder. [_during the last lines_ phaedra _has approached the door and is listening_.] phaedra silence ye women! something is amiss. leader how? in the house?--phaedra, what fear is this? phaedra let me but listen! there are voices. hark! leader i hold my peace: yet is thy presage dark. phaedra oh, misery! o god, that such a thing should fall on me! leader what sound, what word, o women, friend, makes that sharp terror start out at thy lips? what ominous cry half-heard hath leapt upon thine heart? phaedra i am undone!--bend to the door and hark, hark what a tone sounds there, and sinks away! leader thou art beside the bars. 'tis thine to mark the castle's floating message. say, oh, say what thing hath come to thee? phaedra (_calmly_) why, what thing should it be? the son of that proud amazon speaks again in bitter wrath: speaks to my handmaiden! leader i hear a noise of voices, nothing clear. for thee the din hath words, as through barred locks floating, at thy heart it knocks. phaedra "pander of sin" it says.--now canst thou hear?-- and there: "betrayer of a master's bed." leader ah me, betrayed! betrayed! sweet princess, thou art ill bested, thy secret brought to light, and ruin near, by her thou heldest dear, by her that should have loved thee and obeyed! phaedra aye, i am slain. she thought to help my fall with love instead of honour, and wrecked all. leader where wilt thou turn thee, where? and what help seek, o wounded to despair? phaedra i know not, save one thing to die right soon. for such as me god keeps no other boon. [_the door in the centre bursts open, and_ hippolytus _comes forth, closely followed by the_ nurse. phaedra _cowers aside_.] hippolytus o mother earth, o sun that makest clean, what poison have i heard, what speechless sin! nurse hush o my prince, lest others mark, and guess ... hippolytus i have heard horrors! shall i hold my peace? nurse yea by this fair right arm, son, by thy pledge ... hippolytus down with that hand! touch not my garment's edge! nurse oh, by thy knees, be silent or i die! hippolytus why, when thy speech was all so guiltless? why? nurse it is not meet, fair son, for every ear! hippolytus good words can bravely forth, and have no fear. nurse thine oath, thine oath! i took thine oath before! hippolytus 'twas but my tongue, 'twas not my soul that swore. nurse o son, what wilt thou? wilt thou slay thy kin? hippolytus i own no kindred with the spawn of sin! [_he flings her from him_.] nurse nay, spare me! man was born to err; oh, spare! hippolytus o god, why hast thou made this gleaming snare, woman, to dog us on the happy earth? was it thy will to make man, why his birth through love and woman? could we not have rolled our store of prayer and offering, royal gold silver and weight of bronze before thy feet, and bought of god new child souls, as were meet for each man's sacrifice, and dwelt in homes free, where nor love nor woman goes and comes how, is that daughter not a bane confessed, whom her own sire sends forth--(he knows her best!)-- and, will some man but take her, pays a dower! and he, poor fool, takes home the poison-flower; laughs to hang jewels on the deadly thing he joys in; labours for her robe-wearing, till wealth and peace are dead. he smarts the less in whose high seat is set a nothingness, a woman naught availing. worst of all the wise deep-thoughted! never in my hall may she sit throned who thinks and waits and sighs! for cypris breeds most evil in the wise, and least in her whose heart has naught within; for puny wit can work but puny sin. why do we let their handmaids pass the gate? wild beasts were best, voiceless and fanged, to wait about their rooms, that they might speak with none, nor ever hear one answering human tone! but now dark women in still chambers lay plans that creep out into light of day on handmaids' lips--[_turning to the_ nurse.] as thine accursèd head braved the high honour of my father's bed. and came to traffic ... our white torrent's spray shall drench mine ears to wash those words away! and couldst thou dream that _i_ ...? i feel impure still at the very hearing! know for sure, woman, naught but mine honour saves ye both. hadst thou not trapped me with that guileful oath, no power had held me secret till the king knew all! but now, while he is journeying, i too will go my ways and make no sound. and when he comes again, i shall be found beside him, silent, watching with what grace thou and thy mistress shall greet him face to face! then shall i have the taste of it, and know what woman's guile is.--woe upon you, woe! how can i too much hate you, while the ill ye work upon the world grows deadlier still? too much? make woman pure, and wild love tame, or let me cry for ever on their shame! [_he goes off in fury to the left_. phaedra _still cowering in her place begins to sob_.] phaedra sad, sad and evil-starred is woman's state. what shelter now is left or guard? what spell to loose the iron knot of fate? and this thing, o my god, o thou sweet sunlight, is but my desert! i cannot fly before the avenging rod falls, cannot hide my hurt. what help, o ye who love me, can come near, what god or man appear, to aid a thing so evil and so lost? lost, for this anguish presses, soon or late, to that swift river that no life hath crossed. no woman ever lived so desolate! leader of the chorus ah me, the time for deeds is gone; the boast proved vain that spake thine handmaid; and all lost! [_at these words_ phaedra _suddenly remembers the_ nurse, _who is cowering silently where_ hippolytus _had thrown her from him. she turns upon her_.] phaedra o wicked, wicked, wicked! murderess heart to them that loved thee! hast thou played thy part? am i enough trod down? may zeus, my sire, blast and uproot thee! stab thee dead with fire! said i not--knew i not thine heart?--to name to no one soul this that is now my shame? and thou couldst not be silent! so no more i die in honour. but enough; a store of new words must be spoke and new things thought. this man's whole being to one blade is wrought of rage against me. even now he speeds to abase me to the king with thy misdeeds; tell pittheus; fill the land with talk of sin! cursèd be thou, and whoso else leaps in to bring bad aid to friends that want it not. [_the_ nurse _has raised herself, and faces_ phaedra, _downcast but calm_.] nurse mistress, thou blamest me; and all thy lot so bitter sore is, and the sting so wild, i bear with all. yet, if i would, my child, i have mine answer, couldst thou hearken aught. i nursed thee, and i love thee; and i sought only some balm to heal thy deep despair, and found--not what i sought for. else i were wise, and thy friend, and good, had all sped right. so fares it with us all in the world's sight. phaedra first stab me to the heart, then humour me with words! 'tis fair; 'tis all as it should be! nurse we talk too long, child. i did ill; but, oh, there is a way to save thee, even so! phaedra a way? no more ways! one way hast thou trod already, foul and false and loathed of god! begone out of my sight; and ponder how thine own life stands! i need no helpers now. [_she turns from the_ nurse, _who creeps abashed away into the castle_.] only do ye, high daughters of trozên, let all ye hear be as it had not been; know naught, and speak of naught! 'tis my last prayer. leader by god's pure daughter, artemis, i swear, no word will i of these thy griefs reveal! phaedra 'tis well. but now, yea, even while i reel and falter, one poor hope, as hope now is, i clutch at in this coil of miseries; to save some honour for my children's sake; yea, for myself some fragment, though things break in ruin around me. nay, i will not shame the old proud cretan castle whence i came, i will not cower before king theseus' eyes, abased, for want of one life's sacrifice! leader what wilt thou? some dire deed beyond recall? phaedra (_musing_) die; but how die? leader let not such wild words fall! phaedra (_turning upon her_) give thou not such light counsel! let me be to sate the cyprian that is murdering me! to-day shall be her day; and, all strife past her bitter love shall quell me at the last. yet, dying, shall i die another's bane! he shall not stand so proud where i have lain bent in the dust! oh, he shall stoop to share the life i live in, and learn mercy there! [_she goes off wildly into the castle_.] chorus could i take me to some cavern for mine hiding, in the hill-tops where the sun scarce hath trod; or a cloud make the home of mine abiding, as a bird among the bird-droves of god! could i wing me to my rest amid the roar of the deep adriatic on the shore, where the waters of eridanus are clear, and phaëthon's sad sisters by his grave weep into the river, and each tear gleams, a drop of amber, in the wave. to the strand of the daughters of the sunset, the apple-tree, the singing and the gold; where the mariner must stay him from his onset, and the red wave is tranquil as of old; yea, beyond that pillar of the end that atlas guardeth, would i wend; where a voice of living waters never ceaseth in god's quiet garden by the sea, and earth, the ancient life-giver, increaseth joy among the meadows, like a tree. * * * * * o shallop of crete, whose milk-white wing through the swell and the storm-beating, bore us thy prince's daughter, was it well she came from a joyous home to a far king's bridal across the foam? what joy hath her bridal brought her? sure some spell upon either hand flew with thee from the cretan strand, seeking athena's tower divine; and there, where munychus fronts the brine, crept by the shore-flung cables' line, the curse from the cretan water! and for that dark spell that about her clings, sick desires of forbidden things the soul of her rend and sever; the bitter tide of calamity hath risen above her lips; and she, where bends she her last endeavour? she will hie her alone to her bridal room, and a rope swing slow in the rafters' gloom; and a fair white neck shall creep to the noose, a-shudder with dread, yet firm to choose the one strait way for fame, and lose the love and the pain for ever. [_the voice of the_ nurse _is heard from within, crying, at first inarticulately, then clearly_.] voice help ho! the queen! help, whoso hearkeneth! help! theseus' spouse caught in a noose of death! a woman god, is it so soon finished? that bright head swinging beneath the rafters! phaedra dead! voice o haste! this knot about her throat is made so fast! will no one bring me a swift blade? a woman say, friends, what think ye? should we haste within, and from her own hand's knotting loose the queen? another nay, are there not men there? 'tis an ill road in life, to finger at another's load. voice let it lie straight! alas! the cold white thing that guards his empty castle for the king! a woman ah! "let it lie straight!" heard ye what she said? no need for helpers now; the queen is dead! [_the women, intent upon the voices from the castle, have not noticed the approach of_ theseus. _he enters from the left; his dress and the garland on his head show that he has returned from some oracle or special abode of a god. he stands for a moment perplexed_.] theseus ho, women, and what means this loud acclaim within the house? the vassals' outcry came to smite mine ears far off. it were more meet to fling out wide the castle gates, and greet with a joy held from god's presence! [_the confusion and horror of the women's faces gradually affects him. a dirge-cry comes from the castle_.] how? not pittheus? hath time struck that hoary brow? old is he, old, i know. but sore it were, returning thus, to find his empty chair! [_the women hesitate; then the leader comes forward_.] leader o theseus, not on any old man's head this stroke falls. young and tender is the dead. theseus ye gods! one of my children torn from me? leader thy motherless children live, most grievously. theseus how sayst thou? what? my wife? ... say how she died. leader in a high death-knot that her own hands tied. theseus a fit of the old cold anguish? tell me all-- that held her? or did some fresh thing befall? leader we know no more. but now arrived we be, theseus, to mourn for thy calamity. [theseus _stays for a moment silent, and puts his hand on his brow. he notices the wreath_.] theseus what? and all garlanded i come to her with flowers, most evil-starred god's-messenger! ho, varlets, loose the portal bars; undo the bolts; and let me see the bitter view of her whose death hath brought me to mine own. [_the great central door of the castle is thrown open wide, and the body of_ phaedra _is seen lying on a bier, surrounded by a group of handmaids, wailing_.] the handmaids ah me, what thou hast suffered and hast done: a deed to wrap this roof in flame! why was thine hand so strong, thine heart so bold? wherefore. o dead in anger, dead in shame, the long, long wrestling ere thy breath was cold? o ill-starred wife, what brought this blackness over all thy life? [_a throng of men and women has gradually collected_.] theseus ah me, this is the last --hear, o my countrymen!--and bitterest of theseus' labours! fortune all unblest, how hath thine heavy heel across me passed! is it the stain of sins done long ago, some fell god still remembereth, that must so dim and fret my life with death? i cannot win to shore; and the waves flow above mine eyes, to be surmounted not. ah wife, sweet wife, what name can fit thine heavy lot? gone like a wild bird, like a blowing flame, in one swift gust, where all things are forgot! alas! this misery! sure 'tis some stroke of god's great anger rolled from age to age on me, for some dire sin wrought by dim kings of old. leader sire, this great grief hath come to many an one, a true wife lost. thou art not all alone. theseus deep, deep beneath the earth, dark may my dwelling be, and night my heart's one comrade, in the dearth, o love, of thy most sweet society. this is my death, o phaedra, more than thine. [_he turns suddenly on the attendants_.] speak who speak can! what was it? what malign swift stroke, o heart discounselled, leapt on thee? [_he bends over_ phaedra; _then, as no one speaks looks fiercely up_.] what, will ye speak? or are they dumb as death, this herd of thralls, my high house harboureth? [_there is no answer. he bends again over_ phaedra.] some women woe, woe! god brings to birth a new grief here, close on the other's tread! my life hath lost its worth. may all go now with what is finishèd! the castle of my king is overthrown, a house no more, a house vanished and gone! other women o god, if it may be in any way, let not this house be wrecked! help us who pray! i know not what is here: some unseen thing that shows the bird of evil on the wing. [theseus _has read the tablet and breaks out in uncontrollable emotion_.] theseus oh, horror piled on horror!--here is writ... nay, who could bear it, who could speak of it? leader what, o my king? if i may hear it, speak! theseus doth not the tablet cry aloud, yea, shriek, things not to be forgotten?--oh, to fly and hide mine head! no more a man am i. god what ghastly music echoes here! leader how wild thy voice! some terrible thing is near. theseus no; my lips' gates will hold it back no more; this deadly word, that struggles on the brink and will not o'er, yet will not stay unheard. [_he raises his hand, to make proclamation to all present_.] ho, hearken all this land! [_the people gather expectantly about him_.] hippolytus by violence hath laid hand on this my wife, forgetting god's great eye. [_murmurs of amazement and horror; theseus, apparently calm, raises both arms to heaven._] therefore, o thou my father, hear my cry, poseidon! thou didst grant me for mine own three prayers; for one of these, slay now my son, hippolytus; let him not outlive this day, if true thy promise was! lo, thus i pray. leader oh, call that wild prayer back! o king, take heed! i know that thou wilt live to rue this deed. theseus it may not be.--and more, i cast him out from all my realms. he shall be held about by two great dooms. or by poseidon's breath he shall fall swiftly to the house of death; or wandering, outcast, o'er strange land and sea, shall live and drain the cup of misery. leader ah; see! here comes he at the point of need. shake off that evil mood, o king; have heed for all thine house and folk--great theseus, hear! [theseus _stands silent in fierce gloom._ hippolytus _comes in from the right._] hippolytus father, i heard thy cry, and sped in fear to help thee, but i see not yet the cause that racked thee so. say, father, what it was. [_the murmurs in the crowd, the silent gloom of his father, and the horror of the chorus-women gradually work on_ hippolytus _and bewilder him. he catches sight of the bier._] ah, what is that! nay, father, not the queen dead! [_murmurs in the crowd._] 'tis most strange. 'tis passing strange, i ween. 'twas here i left her. scarce an hour hath run since here she stood and looked on this same sun. what is it with her? wherefore did she die? [theseus _remains silent. the murmurs increase._] father, to thee i speak. oh, tell me, why, why art thou silent? what doth silence know of skill to stem the bitter flood of woe? and human hearts in sorrow crave the more, for knowledge, though the knowledge grieve them sore. it is not love, to veil thy sorrows in from one most near to thee, and more than kin. theseus (_to himself_) fond race of men, so striving and so blind, ten thousand arts and wisdoms can ye find, desiring all and all imagining: but ne'er have reached nor understood one thing, to make a true heart there where no heart is! hippolytus that were indeed beyond man's mysteries, to make a false heart true against his will. but why this subtle talk? it likes me ill, father; thy speech runs wild beneath this blow. theseus (_as before_) o would that god had given us here below some test of love, some sifting of the soul, to tell the false and true! or through the whole of men two voices ran, one true and right, the other as chance willed it; that we might convict the liar by the true man's tone, and not live duped forever, every one! hippolytus (_misunderstanding him; then guessing at something of the truth_) what? hath some friend proved false? or in thine ear whispered some slander? stand i tainted here, though utterly innocent? [_murmurs from the crowd_.] yea, dazed am i; 'tis thy words daze me, falling all awry, away from reason, by fell fancies vexed! theseus o heart of man, what height wilt venture next? what end comes to thy daring and thy crime? for if with each man's life 'twill higher climb, and every age break out in blood and lies beyond its fathers, must not god devise some new world far from ours, to hold therein such brood of all unfaithfulness and sin? look, all, upon this man, my son, his life sprung forth from mine! he hath defiled my wife; and standeth here convicted by the dead, a most black villain! [hippolytus _falls back with a cry and covers his face with his robe_.] nay, hide not thine head! pollution, is it? thee it will not stain. look up, and face thy father's eyes again! thou friend of gods, of all mankind elect; thou the pure heart, by thoughts of ill unflecked! i care not for thy boasts. i am not mad, to deem that gods love best the base and bad. now is thy day! now vaunt thee; thou so pure, no flesh of life may pass thy lips! now lure fools after thee; call orpheus king and lord; make ecstasies and wonders! thumb thine hoard of ancient scrolls and ghostly mysteries-- now thou art caught and known! shun men like these, i charge ye all! with solemn words they chase their prey, and in their hearts plot foul disgrace. my wife is dead.--"ha, so that saves thee now," that is what grips thee worst, thou caitiff, thou! what oaths, what subtle words, shall stronger be than this dead hand, to clear the guilt from thee? "she hated thee," thou sayest; "the bastard born is ever sore and bitter as a thorn to the true brood."--a sorry bargainer in the ills and goods of life thou makest her, if all her best-beloved she cast away to wreck blind hate on thee!--what, wilt thou say "through every woman's nature one blind strand of passion winds, that men scarce understand?"-- are we so different? know i not the fire and perilous flood of a young man's desire, desperate as any woman, and as blind, when cypris stings? save that the man behind has all men's strength to aid him. nay, 'twas thou... but what avail to wrangle with thee now, when the dead speaks for all to understand, a perfect witness! hie thee from this land to exile with all speed. come never more to god-built athens, not to the utmost shore of any realm where theseus' arm is strong! what? shall i bow my head beneath this wrong, and cower to thee? not isthmian sinis so will bear men witness that i laid him low, nor skiron's rocks, that share the salt sea's prey, grant that my hand hath weight vile things to slay! leader alas! whom shall i call of mortal men happy? the highest are cast down again. hippolytus father, the hot strained fury of thy heart is terrible. yet, albeit so swift thou art of speech, if all this matter were laid bare, speech were not then so swift; nay, nor so fair... [_murmurs again in the crowd_.] i have no skill before a crowd to tell my thoughts. 'twere best with few, that know me well.-- nay that is natural; tongues that sound but rude in wise men's ears, speak to the multitude with music. none the less, since there is come this stroke upon me, i must not be dumb, but speak perforce... and there will i begin where thou beganst, as though to strip my sin naked, and i not speak a word! dost see this sunlight and this earth? i swear to thee there dwelleth not in these one man--deny all that thou wilt!--more pure of sin than i. two things i know on earth: god's worship first; next to win friends about me, few, that thirst to hold them clean of all unrighteousness. our rule doth curse the tempters, and no less who yieldeth to the tempters.--how, thou say'st, "dupes that i jest at?" nay; i make a jest of no man. i am honest to the end, near or far off, with him i call my friend. and most in that one thing, where now thy mesh would grip me, stainless quite! no woman's flesh hath e'er this body touched. of all such deed naught wot i, save what things a man may read in pictures or hear spoke; nor am i fain, being virgin-souled, to read or hear again. my life of innocence moves thee not; so be it. show then what hath seduced me; let me see it. was that poor flesh so passing fair, beyond all woman's loveliness? was i some fond false plotter, that i schemed to win through her thy castle's heirdom? fond indeed i were! nay, a stark madman! "but a crown," thou sayest, "usurped, is sweet." nay, rather most unblest to all wise-hearted; sweet to fools and them whose eyes are blinded by the diadem. in contests of all valour fain would i lead hellas; but in rank and majesty not lead, but be at ease, with good men near to love me, free to work and not to fear. that brings more joy than any crown or throne. [_he sees from the demeanor of_ theseus _and of the crowd that his words are not winning them, but rather making them bitterer than before. it comes to his lips to speak the whole truth_.] i have said my say; save one thing...one alone o had i here some witness in my need, as i was witness! could she hear me plead, face me and face the sunlight; well i know, our deeds would search us out for thee, and show who lies! but now, i swear--so hear me both, the earth beneath and zeus who guards the oath-- i never touched this woman that was thine! no words could win me to it, nor incline my heart to dream it. may god strike me down, nameless and fameless, without home or town, an outcast and a wanderer of the world; may my dead bones rest never, but be hurled from sea to land, from land to angry sea, if evil is my heart and false to thee! [_he waits a moment; but sees that his father is unmoved. the truth again comes to his lips_.] if 'twas some fear that made her cast away her life ... i know not. more i must not say. right hath she done when in her was no right; and right i follow to mine own despite! leader it is enough! god's name is witness large, and thy great oath, to assoil thee of this charge, theseus is not the man a juggler and a mage, cool wits and one right oath--what more?--to assuage sin and the wrath of injured fatherhood! hippolytus am i so cool? nay, father, 'tis thy mood that makes me marvel! by my faith, wert thou the son, and i the sire; and deemed i now in very truth thou hadst my wife assailed, i had not exiled thee, nor stood and railed, but lifted once mine arm, and struck thee dead! theseus thou gentle judge! thou shalt not so be sped to simple death, nor by thine own decree. swift death is bliss to men in misery. far off, friendless forever, thou shalt drain amid strange cities the last dregs of pain! hippolytus wilt verily cast me now beyond thy pale, not wait for time, the lifter of the veil? theseus aye, if i could, past pontus, and the red atlantic marge! so do i hate thine head. hippolytus wilt weigh nor oath nor faith nor prophet's word to prove me? drive me from thy sight unheard? theseus this tablet here, that needs no prophet's lot to speak from, tells me all. i ponder not thy fowls that fly above us! let them fly. hippolytus o ye great gods, wherefore unlock not i my lips, ere yet ye have slain me utterly, ye whom i love most? no. it may not be! the one heart that i need i ne'er should gain to trust me. i should break mine oath in vain. theseus death! but he chokes me with his saintly tone!-- up, get thee from this land! begone! begone! hippolytus where shall i turn me? think. to what friend's door betake me, banished on a charge so sore? theseus whoso delights to welcome to his hall vile ravishers ... to guard his hearth withal! hippolytus thou seekst my heart, my tears? aye, let it be thus! i am vile to all men, and to thee! theseus there was a time for tears and thought; the time ere thou didst up and gird thee to thy crime. hippolytus ye stones, will ye not speak? ye castle walls! bear witness if i be so vile, so false! theseus aye, fly to voiceless witnesses! yet here a dumb deed speaks against thee, and speaks clear! hippolytus alas! would i could stand and watch this thing, and see my face, and weep for very pity of me! theseus full of thyself, as ever! not a thought for them that gave thee birth; nay, they are naught! hippolytus o my wronged mother! o my birth of shame! may none i love e'er bear a bastard's name! theseus (_in a sudden blaze of rage_) up, thralls, and drag him from my presence! what, 'tis but a foreign felon! heard ye not? [_the thralls still hesitate in spite of his fury._] hippolytus they touch me at their peril! thine own hand lift, if thou canst, to drive me from the land. theseus that will i straight, unless my will be done! [hippolytus _comes close to him and kneels._] nay! not for thee my pity! get thee gone! [hippolytus _rises, makes a sign of submission, and slowly moves away._ theseus, _as soon as he sees him going, turns rapidly and enters the castle. the door is closed again._ hippolytus _has stopped for a moment before the statue of _artemis, _and, as _theseus_ departs, breaks out in prayer._] hippolytus so; it is done! o dark and miserable! i see it all, but see not how to tell the tale.--o thou belovèd, leto's maid, chase-comrade, fellow-rester in the glade, lo, i am driven with a caitiff's brand forth from great athens! fare ye well, o land and city of old erechtheus! thou, trozên, what riches of glad youth mine eyes have seen in thy broad plain! farewell! this is the end; the last word, the last look! come, every friend and fellow of my youth that still may stay, give me god-speed and cheer me on my way. ne'er shall ye see a man more pure of spot than me, though mine own father loves me not! [hippolytus _goes away to the right, followed by many huntsmen and other young men. the rest of the crowd has by this time dispersed, except the women of the chorus and some men of the chorus of huntsmen_.] chorus _men_ surely the thought of the gods hath balm in it alway, to win me far from my griefs; and a thought, deep in the dark of my mind, clings to a great understanding. yet all the spirit within me faints, when i watch men's deeds matched with the guerdon they find. for good comes in evil's traces, and the evil the good replaces; and life, 'mid the changing faces, wandereth weak and blind. _women_ what wilt thou grant me, o god? lo, this is the prayer of my travail-- some well-being; and chance not very bitter thereby; spirit uncrippled by pain; and a mind not deep to unravel truth unseen, nor yet dark with the brand of a lie. with a veering mood to borrow its light from every morrow, fair friends and no deep sorrow, well could man live and die! _men_ yet my spirit is no more clean, and the weft of my hope is torn, for the deed of wrong that mine eyes have seen, the lie and the rage and the scorn; a star among men, yea, a star that in hellas was bright, by a father's wrath driven far to the wilds and the night. oh, alas for the sands of the shore! alas for the brakes of the hill, where the wolves shall fear thee no more, and thy cry to dictynna is still! _women_ no more in the yoke of thy car shall the colts of enetia fleet; nor limna's echoes quiver afar to the clatter of galloping feet. the sleepless music of old, that leaped in the lyre, ceaseth now, and is cold, in the halls of thy sire. the bowers are discrowned and unladen where artemis lay on the lea; and the love-dream of many a maiden lost, in the losing of thee. _a maiden_ and i, even i, for thy fall, o friend, amid tears and tears, endure to the end of the empty years, of a life run dry. in vain didst thou bear him, thou mother forlorn! ye gods that did snare him, lo, i cast in your faces my hate and my scorn! ye love-linkèd graces, (alas for the day!) was he naught, then, to you, that ye cast him away, the stainless and true, from the old happy places? leader look yonder! 'tis the prince's man, i ween speeding toward this gate, most dark of mien. [a henchman _enters in haste_.] henchman ye women, whither shall i go to seek king theseus? is he in this dwelling? speak! leader lo, where he cometh through the castle gate! [theseus _comes out from the castle_.] henchman o king, i bear thee tidings of dire weight to thee, aye, and to every man, i ween, from athens to the marches of trozên. theseus what? some new stroke hath touched, unknown to me, the sister cities of my sovranty? henchman hippolytus is...nay, not dead; but stark outstretched, a hairsbreadth this side of the dark. theseus (_as though unmoved_) how slain? was there some other man, whose wife he had like mine denied, that sought his life? henchman his own wild team destroyed him, and the dire curse of thy lips. the boon of thy great sire is granted thee, o king, and thy son slain. theseus ye gods! and thou, poseidon! not in vain i called thee father; thou hast heard my prayer! how did he die? speak on. how closed the snare of heaven to slay the shamer of my blood? henchman 'twas by the bank of beating sea we stood, we thralls, and decked the steeds, and combed each mane; weeping; for word had come that ne'er again the foot of our hippolytus should roam this land, but waste in exile by thy doom. so stood we till he came, and in his tone no music now save sorrow's, like our own, and in his train a concourse without end of many a chase-fellow and many a friend. at last he brushed his sobs away, and spake: "why this fond loitering? i would not break my father's law--ho, there! my coursers four and chariot, quick! this land is mine no more." thereat, be sure, each man of us made speed. swifter than speech we brought them up, each steed well dight and shining, at our prince's side. he grasped the reins upon the rail: one stride and there he stood, a perfect charioteer, each foot in its own station set. then clear his voice rose, and his arms to heaven were spread: "o zeus, if i be false, strike thou me dead! but, dead or living, let my father see one day, how falsely he hath hated me!" even as he spake, he lifted up the goad and smote; and the steeds sprang. and down the road we henchmen followed, hard beside the rein, each hand, to speed him, toward the argive plain and epidaurus. so we made our way up toward the desert region, where the bay curls to a promontory near the verge of our trozên, facing the southward surge of saron's gulf. just there an angry sound, slow-swelling, like god's thunder underground broke on us, and we trembled. and the steeds pricked their ears skyward, and threw back their heads. and wonder came on all men, and affright, whence rose that awful voice. and swift our sight turned seaward, down the salt and roaring sand. and there, above the horizon, seemed to stand a wave unearthly, crested in the sky; till skiron's cape first vanished from mine eye, then sank the isthmus hidden, then the rock of epidaurus. then it broke, one shock and roar of gasping sea and spray flung far, and shoreward swept, where stood the prince's car. three lines of wave together raced, and, full in the white crest of them, a wild sea-bull flung to the shore, a fell and marvellous thing. the whole land held his voice, and answering roared in each echo. and all we, gazing there, gazed seeing not; 'twas more than eyes could bear. then straight upon the team wild terror fell. howbeit, the prince, cool-eyed and knowing well each changing mood a horse has, gripped the reins hard in both hands; then as an oarsman strains up from his bench, so strained he on the thong, back in the chariot swinging. but the young wild steeds bit hard the curb, and fled afar; nor rein nor guiding hand nor morticed car stayed them at all. for when he veered them round, and aimed their flying feet to grassy ground, in front uprose that thing, and turned again the four great coursers, terror-mad. but when their blind rage drove them toward the rocky places, silent and ever nearer to the traces, it followed rockward, till one wheel-edge grazed. the chariot tript and flew, and all was mazed in turmoil. up went wheel-box with a din, where the rock jagged, and nave and axle-pin. and there--the long reins round him--there was he dragging, entangled irretrievably. a dear head battering at the chariot side, sharp rocks, and rippled flesh, and a voice that cried: "stay, stay, o ye who fattened at my stalls, dash me not into nothing!--o thou false curse of my father!--help! help, whoso can, an innocent, innocent and stainless man!" many there were that laboured then, i wot, to bear him succour, but could reach him not, till--who knows how?--at last the tangled rein unclasped him, and he fell, some little vein of life still pulsing in him. all beside, the steeds, the hornèd horror of the tide, had vanished--who knows where?--in that wild land. o king, i am a bondsman of thine hand; yet love nor fear nor duty me shall win to say thine innocent son hath died in sin. all women born may hang themselves, for me, and swing their dying words from every tree on ida! for i know that he was true! leader o god, so cometh new disaster, new despair! and no escape from what must be! theseus hate of the man thus stricken lifted me at first to joy at hearing of thy tale; but now, some shame before the gods, some pale pity for mine own blood, hath o'er me come. i laugh not, neither weep, at this fell doom. henchman how then? behoves it bear him here, or how best do thy pleasure?--speak, lord. yet if thou wilt mark at all my word, thou wilt not be fierce-hearted to thy child in misery. theseus aye, bring him hither. let me see the face of him who durst deny my deep disgrace and his own sin; yea, speak with him, and prove his clear guilt by god's judgments from above. [_the_ henchman _departs to fetch_ hippolytus; theseus _sits waiting in stern gloom, while the_ chorus _sing. at the close of their song a divine figure is seen approaching on a cloud in the air and the voice of_ artemis _speaks_.] chorus thou comest to bend the pride of the hearts of god and man, cypris; and by thy side, in earth-encircling span, he of the changing plumes, the wing that the world illumes, as over the leagues of land flies he, over the salt and sounding sea. for mad is the heart of love, and gold the gleam of his wing; and all to the spell thereof bend, when he makes his spring; all life that is wild and young in mountain and wave and stream, all that of earth is sprung, or breathes in the red sunbeam; yea, and mankind. o'er all a royal throne, cyprian, cyprian, is thine alone! a voice from the cloud o thou that rulest in aegeus' hall, i charge thee, hearken! yea, it is i, artemis, virgin of god most high. thou bitter king, art thou glad withal for thy murdered son? for thine ear bent low to a lying queen, for thine heart so swift amid things unseen? lo, all may see what end thou hast won! go, sink thine head in the waste abyss; or aloft to another world than this, birdwise with wings, fly far to thine hiding, far over this blood that clots and clings; for in righteous men and in holy things no rest is thine nor abiding! [_the cloud has become stationary in the air._] hear, theseus, all the story of thy grief! verily, i bring but anguish, not relief; yet, 'twas for this i came, to show how high and clean was thy son's heart, that he may die honoured of men; aye, and to tell no less the frenzy, or in some sort the nobleness, of thy dead wife. one spirit there is, whom we that know the joy of white virginity, most hate in heaven. she sent her fire to run in phaedra's veins, so that she loved thy son. yet strove she long with love, and in the stress fell not, till by her nurse's craftiness betrayed, who stole, with oaths of secrecy, to entreat thy son. and he, most righteously, nor did her will, nor, when thy railing scorn beat on him, broke the oath that he had sworn, for god's sake. and thy phaedra, panic-eyed, wrote a false writ, and slew thy son, and died, lying; but thou wast nimble to believe! [theseus, _at first bewildered, then dumfounded, now utters a deep groan._] it stings thee, theseus?--nay, hear on and grieve yet sorer. wottest thou three prayers were thine of sure fulfilment, from thy sire divine? hast thou no foes about thee, then, that one-- thou vile king!--must be turned against thy son? the deed was thine. thy sea-born sire but heard the call of prayer, and bowed him to his word. but thou in his eyes and in mine art found evil, who wouldst not think, nor probe, nor sound the deeps of prophet's lore, nor day by day leave time to search; but swifter than man may, let loose the curse to slay thine innocent son! theseus o goddess, let me die! artemis nay; thou hast done a heavy wrong; yet even beyond this ill abides for thee forgiveness. 'twas the will of cypris that these evil things should be, sating her wrath. and this immutably hath zeus ordained in heaven: no god may thwart a god's fixed will; we grieve but stand apart. else, but for fear of the great father's blame, never had i to such extreme of shame bowed me, be sure, as here to stand and see slain him i loved best of mortality! thy fault, o king, its ignorance sunders wide from very wickedness; and she who died by death the more disarmed thee, making dumb the voice of question. and the storm has come most bitterly of all on thee! yet i have mine own sorrow, too. when good men die, there is no joy in heaven, albeit our ire on child and house of the evil falls like fire. [_a throng is seen approaching;_ hippolytus _enters, supported by his attendants._] chorus lo, it is he! the bright young head yet upright there! ah the torn flesh and the blood-stained hair; alas for the kindred's trouble! it falls as fire from a god's hand sped, two deaths, and mourning double. hippolytus ah, pain, pain, pain! o unrighteous curse! o unrighteous sire! no hope.--my head is stabbed with fire, and a leaping spasm about my brain. stay, let me rest. i can no more. o fell, fell steeds that my own hand fed, have ye maimed me and slain, that loved me of yore? --soft there, ye thralls! no trembling hands as ye lift me, now!--who is that that stands at the right?--now firm, and with measured tread, lift one accursèd and stricken sore by a father's sinning. thou, zeus, dost see me? yea, it is i; the proud and pure, the server of god, the white and shining in sanctity! to a visible death, to an open sod, i walk my ways; and all the labour of saintly days lost, lost, without meaning! ah god, it crawls this agony, over me! let be, ye thralls! come, death, and cover me: come, o thou healer blest! but a little more, and my soul is clear, and the anguish o'er! oh, a spear, a spear! to rend my soul to its rest! oh, strange, false curse! was there some blood-stained head, some father of my line, unpunishèd, whose guilt lived in his kin, and passed, and slept, till after this long day it lights... oh, why on me? me, far away and innocent of sin? o words that cannot save! when will this breathing end in that last deep pain that is painlessness? 'tis sleep i crave. when wilt thou bring me sleep, thou dark and midnight magic of the grave! artemis sore-stricken man, bethink thee in this stress, thou dost but die for thine own nobleness. hippolytus ah! o breath of heavenly fragrance! though my pain burns, i can feel thee and find rest again. the goddess artemis is with me here. artemis with thee and loving thee, poor sufferer! hippolytus dost see me, mistress, nearing my last sleep? artemis aye, and would weep for thee, if gods could weep. hippolytus who now shall hunt with thee or hold thy quiver? artemis he dies but my love cleaves to him for ever. hippolytus who guide thy chariot, keep thy shrine-flowers fresh? artemis the accursed cyprian caught him in her mesh! hippolytus the cyprian? now i see it!--aye, 'twas she. artemis she missed her worship, loathed thy chastity! hippolytus three lives by her one hand! 'tis all clear now. artemis yea, three; thy father and his queen and thou. hippolytus my father; yea, he too is pitiable! artemis a plotting goddess tripped him, and he fell. hippolytus father, where art thou? ... oh, thou sufferest sore! theseus even unto death, child. there is joy no more. hippolytus i pity thee in this coil; aye, more than me. theseus would i could lie there dead instead of thee! hippolytus oh, bitter bounty of poseidon's love! theseus would god my lips had never breathed thereof! hippolytus (_gently_) nay, thine own rage had slain me then, some wise! theseus a lying spirit had made blind mine eyes! hippolytus ah me! would that a mortal's curse could reach to god! artemis let be! for not, though deep beneath the sod thou liest, not unrequited nor unsung shall this fell stroke, from cypris' rancour sprung, quell thee, mine own, the saintly and the true! my hand shall win its vengeance through and through, piercing with flawless shaft what heart soe'er of all men living is most dear to her. yea, and to thee, for this sore travail's sake, honours most high in trozên will i make; for yokeless maids before their bridal night shall shear for thee their tresses; and a rite of honouring tears be thine in ceaseless store; and virgin's thoughts in music evermore turn toward thee, and praise thee in the song of phaedra's far-famed love and thy great wrong. o seed of ancient aegeus, bend thee now and clasp thy son. aye, hold and fear not thou! not knowingly hast thou slain him; and man's way, when gods send error, needs must fall astray. and thou, hippolytus, shrink not from the king, thy father. thou wast born to bear this thing. farewell! i may not watch man's fleeting breath, nor strain mine eyes with the effluence of death. and sure that terror now is very near. [_the cloud slowly rises and floats away_.] hippolytus farewell, farewell, most blessèd! lift thee clear of soiling men! thou wilt not grieve in heaven for my long love! ...father, thou art forgiven. it was her will. i am not wroth with thee... i have obeyed her all my days! ... ah me, the dark is drawing down upon mine eyes; it hath me! ... father! ... hold me! help me rise! theseus (_supporting him in his arms_) ah, woe! how dost thou torture me, my son! hippolytus i see the great gates opening. i am gone. theseus gone? and my hand red-reeking from this thing! hippolytus nay, nay; thou art assoiled of manslaying. theseus thou leav'st me clear of murder? sayst thou so? hippolytus yea, by the virgin of the stainless bow! theseus dear son! ah, now i see thy nobleness! hippolytus pray that a true-born child may fill my place. theseus ah me, thy righteous and god-fearing heart! hippolytus farewell; a long farewell, dear father, ere we part! [theseus _bends down and embraces him passionately_.] theseus not yet!--o hope and bear while thou hast breath! hippolytus lo, i have borne my burden. this is death... quick, father; lay the mantle on my face. [theseus _covers his face with a mantle and rises._] theseus ye bounds of pallas and of pelops' race, what greatness have ye lost! woe, woe is me! thou cyprian, long shall i remember thee! chorus on all this folk, both low and high, a grief hath fallen beyond men's fears. there cometh a throbbing of many tears, a sound as of waters falling. for when great men die, a mighty name and a bitter cry rise up from a nation calling. [_they move into the castle, carrying the body of_ hippolytus.] the bacchae of euripides dramatis personae dionysus, the god; _son of zeus and of the theban princess semelê_. cadmus, _formerly king of thebes, father of semelê_. pentheus, _king of thebes, grandson of cadmus_. agave, _daughter of cadmus, mother of pentheus_. teiresias, _an aged theban prophet_. a soldier of pentheus' guard. two messengers. a chorus of inspired damsels, _following dionysus from the east_. _"the play was first produced after the death of euripides by his son who bore the same name, together with the iphigenia in aulis and the alcmaeon, probably in the year b.c."_ _the background represents the front of the castle of_ pentheus, _king of thebes. at one side is visible the sacred tomb of semelê, a little enclosure overgrown with wild vines, with a cleft in the rocky floor of it from which there issues at times steam or smoke. the god_ dionysus _is discovered alone._ dionysus behold, god's son is come unto this land of heaven's hot splendour lit to life, when she of thebes, even i, dionysus, whom the brand who bore me, cadmus' daughter semelê, died here. so, changed in shape from god to man, i walk again by dirce's streams and scan ismenus' shore. there by the castle side i see her place, the tomb of the lightning's bride, the wreck of smouldering chambers, and the great faint wreaths of fire undying--as the hate dies not, that hera held for semelê. aye, cadmus hath done well; in purity he keeps this place apart, inviolate, his daughter's sanctuary; and i have set my green and clustered vines to robe it round far now behind me lies the golden ground of lydian and of phrygian; far away the wide hot plains where persian sunbeams play, the bactrian war-holds, and the storm-oppressed clime of the mede, and araby the blest, and asia all, that by the salt sea lies in proud embattled cities, motley-wise of hellene and barbarian interwrought; and now i come to hellas--having taught all the world else my dances and my rite of mysteries, to show me in men's sight manifest god. and first of helene lands i cry this thebes to waken; set her hands to clasp my wand, mine ivied javelin, and round her shoulders hang my wild fawn-skin. for they have scorned me whom it least beseemed, semelê's sisters; mocked by birth, nor deemed that dionysus sprang from dian seed. my mother sinned, said they; and in her need, with cadmus plotting, cloaked her human shame with the dread name of zeus; for that the flame from heaven consumed her, seeing she lied to god. thus must they vaunt; and therefore hath my rod on them first fallen, and stung them forth wild-eyed from empty chambers; the bare mountain side is made their home, and all their hearts are flame. yea, i have bound upon the necks of them the harness of my rites. and with them all the seed of womankind from hut and hall of thebes, hath this my magic goaded out. and there, with the old king's daughters, in a rout confused, they make their dwelling-place between the roofless rocks and shadowy pine trees green. thus shall this thebes, how sore soe'er it smart, learn and forget not, till she crave her part in mine adoring; thus must i speak clear to save my mother's fame, and crown me here, as true god, born by semelê to zeus. now cadmus yieldeth up his throne and use of royal honour to his daughter's son pentheus; who on my body hath begun a war with god. he thrusteth me away from due drink-offering, and, when men pray, my name entreats not. therefore on his own head and his people's shall my power be shown. then to another land, when all things here are well, must i fare onward, making clear my godhead's might. but should this theban town essay with wrath and battle to drag down my maids, lo, in their path myself shall be, and maniac armies battled after me! for this i veil my godhead with the wan form of the things that die, and walk as man. o brood of tmolus o'er the wide world flown, o lydian band, my chosen and mine own, damsels uplifted o'er the orient deep to wander where i wander, and to sleep where i sleep; up, and wake the old sweet sound, the clang that i and mystic rhea found, the timbrel of the mountain! gather all thebes to your song round pentheus' royal hall. i seek my new-made worshippers, to guide their dances up kithaeron's pine clad side. [_as he departs, there comes stealing in from the left a band of fifteen eastern women, the light of the sunrise streaming upon their long white robes and ivy-bound hair. they wear fawn-skins over the robes, and carry some of them timbrels, some pipes and other instruments. many bear the thyrsus, or sacred wand, made of reed ringed with ivy. they enter stealthily till they see that the place is empty, and then begin their mystic song of worship._] chorus _a maiden_ from asia, from the dayspring that uprises to bromios ever glorying we came. we laboured for our lord in many guises; we toiled, but the toil is as the prize is; thou mystery, we hail thee by thy name! _another_ who lingers in the road? who espies us? we shall hide him in his house nor be bold. let the heart keep silence that defies us; for i sing this day to dionysus the song that is appointed from of old. _all the maidens_ oh, blessèd he in all wise, who hath drunk the living fountain, whose life no folly staineth, and his soul is near to god; whose sins are lifted, pall-wise, as he worships on the mountain, and where cybele ordaineth, our mother, he has trod: his head with ivy laden and his thyrsus tossing high, for our god he lifts his cry; "up, o bacchae, wife and maiden, come, o ye bacchae, come; oh, bring the joy-bestower, god-seed of god the sower, bring bromios in his power from phrygia's mountain dome; to street and town and tower, oh, bring ye bromios home." whom erst in anguish lying for an unborn life's desire, as a dead thing in the thunder his mother cast to earth; for her heart was dying, dying, in the white heart of the fire; till zeus, the lord of wonder, devised new lairs of birth; yea, his own flesh tore to hide him, and with clasps of bitter gold did a secret son enfold, and the queen knew not beside him; till the perfect hour was there; then a hornèd god was found, and a god of serpents crowned; and for that are serpents wound in the wands his maidens bear, and the songs of serpents sound in the mazes of their hair. _some maidens_ all hail, o thebes, thou nurse of semelê! with semelê's wild ivy crown thy towers; oh, burst in bloom of wreathing bryony, berries and leaves and flowers; uplift the dark divine wand, the oak-wand and the pine-wand, and don thy fawn-skin, fringed in purity with fleecy white, like ours. oh, cleanse thee in the wands' waving pride! yea, all men shall dance with us and pray, when bromios his companies shall guide hillward, ever hillward, where they stay, the flock of the believing, the maids from loom and weaving by the magic of his breath borne away. _others_ hail thou, o nurse of zeus, o caverned haunt where fierce arms clanged to guard god's cradle rare, for thee of old crested corybant first woke in cretan air the wild orb of our orgies, the timbrel; and thy gorges rang with this strain; and blended phrygian chant and sweet keen pipes were there. but the timbrel, the timbrel was another's, and away to mother rhea it must wend; and to our holy singing from the mother's the mad satyrs carried it, to blend in the dancing and the cheer of our third and perfect year; and it serves dionysus in the end! _a maiden_ o glad, glad on the mountains to swoon in the race outworn, when the holy fawn-skin clings, and all else sweeps away, to the joy of the red quick fountains, the blood of the hill-goat torn, the glory of wild-beast ravenings, where the hill-tops catch the day; to the phrygian, lydian, mountains! 'tis bromios leads the way. _another maiden_ then streams the earth with milk, yea, streams with wine and nectar of the bee, and through the air dim perfume steams of syrian frankincense; and he, our leader, from his thyrsus spray a torchlight tosses high and higher, a torchlight like a beacon-fire, to waken all that faint and stray; and sets them leaping as he sings, his tresses rippling to the sky, and deep beneath the maenad cry his proud voice rings: "come, o ye bacchae, come!" _all the maidens_ hither, o fragrant of tmolus the golden, come with the voice of timbrel and drum; let the cry of your joyance uplift and embolden the god of the joy-cry; o bacchanals, come! with pealing of pipes and with phrygian clamour, on, where the vision of holiness thrills, and the music climbs and the maddening glamour, with the wild white maids, to the hills, to the hills! oh, then, like a colt as he runs by a river, a colt by his dam, when the heart of him sings, with the keen limbs drawn and the fleet foot a-quiver, away the bacchanal springs! [_enter_ teiresias. _he is an old man and blind, leaning upon a staff and moving with slow stateliness, though wearing the ivy and the bacchic fawn-skin_.] teiresias ho, there, who keeps the gate?--go, summon me cadmus, agênor's son, who crossed the sea from sidon and upreared this theban hold. go, whosoe'er thou art. see he be told teiresias seeketh him. himself will gauge mine errand, and the compact, age with age, i vowed with him, grey hair with snow-white hair, to deck the new god's thyrsus, and to wear his fawn-skin, and with ivy crown our brows. [_enter_ cadmus _from the castle. he is even older than_ teiresias, _and wears the same attire_.] cadmus true friend! i knew that voice of thine, that flows like mellow wisdom from a fountain wise. and, lo, i come prepared, in all the guise and harness of this god. are we not told his is the soul of that dead life of old that sprang from mine own daughter? surely then must thou and i with all the strength of men exalt him. where then shall i stand, where tread the dance and toss this bowed and hoary head? o friend, in thee is wisdom; guide my grey and eld-worn steps, eld-worn teiresias.--nay; i am not weak. [_at the first movement of worship his manner begins to change; a mysterious strength and exaltation enter into him._] surely this arm could smite the wild earth with its thyrsus, day and night, and faint not! sweetly and forgetfully the dim years fall from off me! teiresias as with thee, with me 'tis likewise. light am i and young, and will essay the dancing and the song. cadmus quick, then, our chariots to the mountain road. teiresias nay; to take steeds were to mistrust the god. cadmus so be it. mine old arms shall guide thee there. teiresias the god himself shall guide! have thou no care. cadmus and in all thebes shall no man dance but we? teiresias aye, thebes is blinded. thou and i can see. cadmus 'tis weary waiting; hold my hand, friend; so. teiresias lo, there is mine. so linkèd let us go. cadmus shall things of dust the gods' dark ways despise? teiresias or prove our wit on heaven's high mysteries? not thou and i! that heritage sublime our sires have left us, wisdom old as time, no word of man, how deep soe'er his thought and won of subtlest toil, may bring to naught. aye, men will rail that i forgot my years, to dance and wreath with ivy these white hairs; what recks it? seeing the god no line hath told to mark what man shall dance, or young or old; but craves his honours from mortality all, no man marked apart; and great shall be! cadmus (_after looking away toward the mountain_). teiresias, since this light thou canst not read, i must be seer for thee. here comes in speed pentheus, echîon's son, whom i have raised to rule my people in my stead.--amazed he seems. stand close, and mark what we shall hear. [_the two stand back, partially concealed, while there enters in hot haste_ pentheus, _followed by a bodyguard. he is speaking to the_ soldier _in command._] pentheus scarce had i crossed our borders, when mine ear was caught by this strange rumour, that our own wives, our own sisters, from their hearths are flown to wild and secret rites; and cluster there high on the shadowy hills, with dance and prayer to adore this new-made god, this dionyse, whate'er he be!--and in their companies deep wine-jars stand, and ever and anon away into the loneliness now one steals forth, and now a second, maid or dame where love lies waiting, not of god! the flame they say, of bacchios wraps them. bacchios! nay, 'tis more to aphrodite that they pray. howbeit, all that i have found, my men hold bound and shackled in our dungeon den; the rest, i will go hunt them! aye, and snare my birds with nets of iron, to quell their prayer and mountain song and rites of rascaldom! they tell me, too, there is a stranger come, a man of charm and spell, from lydian seas, a head all gold and cloudy fragrancies, a wine-red cheek, and eyes that hold the light of the very cyprian. day and livelong night he haunts amid the damsels, o'er each lip dangling his cup of joyance! let me grip him once, but once, within these walls, right swift that wand shall cease its music, and that drift of tossing curls lie still--when my rude sword falls between neck and trunk! 'tis all his word, this tale of dionysus; how that same babe that was blasted by the lightning flame with his dead mother, for that mother's lie, was re-conceived, born perfect from the thigh of zeus, and now is god! what call ye these? dreams? gibes of the unknown wanderer? blasphemies that crave the very gibbet? stay! god wot, here is another marvel! see i not in motley fawn-skins robed the vision-seer teiresias? and my mother's father here-- o depth of scorn!--adoring with the wand of bacchios?--father!--nay, mine eyes are fond; it is not your white heads so fancy-flown! it cannot be! cast off that ivy crown, o mine own mother's sire! set free that hand that cowers about its staff. 'tis thou hast planned this work, teiresias! 'tis thou must set another altar and another yet amongst us, watch new birds, and win more hire of gold, interpreting new signs of fire! but for thy silver hairs, i tell thee true, thou now wert sitting chained amid thy crew of raving damsels, for this evil dream thou hast brought us, of new gods! when once the gleam of grapes hath lit a woman's festival, in all their prayers is no more health at all! leader of the chorus (_the words are not heard by_ pentheus) injurious king, hast thou no fear of god, nor cadmus, sower of the giants' sod, life-spring to great echîon and to thee? teiresias good words my son, come easily, when he that speaks is wise, and speaks but for the right. else come they never! swift are thine, and bright as though with thought, yet have no thought at all lo this new god, whom thou dost flout withal, i cannot speak the greatness wherewith he in hellas shall be great! two spirits there be, young prince, that in man's world are first of worth. dêmêtêr one is named; she is the earth-- call her which name thou will!--who feeds man's frame with sustenance of things dry. and that which came her work to perfect, second, is the power from semelê born. he found the liquid show hid in the grape. he rests man's spirit dim from grieving, when the vine exalteth him. he giveth sleep to sink the fretful day in cool forgetting. is there any way with man's sore heart, save only to forget? yea, being god, the blood of him is set before the gods in sacrifice, that we for his sake may be blest.--and so, to thee, that fable shames him, how this god was knit into god's flesh? nay, learn the truth of it cleared from the false.--when from that deadly light zeus saved the babe, and up to olympus' height raised him, and hera's wrath would cast him thence then zeus devised him a divine defence. a fragment of the world-encircling fire he rent apart, and wrought to his desire of shape and hue, in the image of the child, and gave to hera's rage. and so, beguiled by change and passing time, this tale was born, how the babe-god was hidden in the torn flesh of his sire. he hath no shame thereby. a prophet is he likewise. prophecy cleaves to all frenzy, but beyond all else to frenzy of prayer. then in us verily dwells the god himself, and speaks the thing to be. yea, and of ares' realm a part hath he. when mortal armies, mailêd and arrayed, have in strange fear, or ever blade met blade, fled maddened, 'tis this god hath palsied them. aye, over delphi's rock-built diadem thou yet shalt see him leaping with his train of fire across the twin-peaked mountain-plain, flaming the darkness with his mystic wand, and great in hellas.--list and understand, king pentheus! dream not thou that force is power; nor, if thou hast a thought, and that thought sour and sick, oh, dream not thought is wisdom!--up, receive this god to thebes; pour forth the cup of sacrifice, and pray, and wreathe thy brow. thou fearest for the damsels? think thee now; how toucheth this the part of dionyse to hold maids pure perforce? in them it lies, and their own hearts; and in the wildest rite cometh no stain to her whose heart is white. nay, mark me! thou hast thy joy, when the gate stands thronged, and pentheus' name is lifted great and high by thebes in clamour; shall not he rejoice in his due meed of majesty? howbeit, this cadmus whom thou scorn'st and i will wear his crown, and tread his dances! aye, our hairs are white, yet shall that dance be trod! i will not lift mine arm to war with god for thee nor all thy words. madness most fell is on thee, madness wrought by some dread spell, but not by spell nor leechcraft to be cured! chorus grey prophet, worthy of phoebus is thy word, and wise in honouring bromios, our great god. cadmus my son, right well teiresias points thy road. oh, make thine habitation here with us, not lonely, against men's uses. hazardous is this quick bird-like beating of thy thought where no thought dwells.--grant that this god be naught, yet let that naught be somewhat in thy mouth; lie boldly, and say he is! so north and south shall marvel, how there sprang a thing divine from semelê's flesh, and honour all our line. [_drawing nearer to_ pentheus.] is there not blood before thine eyes even now? our lost actaeon's blood, whom long ago his own red hounds through yonder forest dim tore unto death, because he vaunted him against most holy artemis? oh, beware and let me wreathe thy temples. make thy prayer with us, and walk thee humbly in god's sight. [_he makes as if to set the wreath on_ pentheus _head_.] pentheus down with that hand! aroint thee to thy rite nor smear on me thy foul contagion! [turning upon teiresias.] this thy folly's head and prompter shall not miss the justice that he needs!--go, half my guard forth to the rock-seat where he dwells in ward o'er birds and wonders; rend the stone with crown and trident; make one wreck of high and low and toss his bands to all the winds of air! ha, have i found the way to sting thee, there? the rest, forth through the town! and seek amain this girl-faced stranger, that hath wrought such bane to all thebes, preying on our maids and wives seek till ye find; and lead him here in gyves, till he be judged and stoned and weep in blood the day he troubled pentheus with his god! [_the guards set forth in two bodies_; pentheus _goes into the castle._] teiresias hard heart, how little dost thou know what seed thou sowest! blind before, and now indeed most mad!--come, cadmus, let us go our way, and pray for this our persecutor, pray for this poor city, that the righteous god move not in anger.--take thine ivy rod and help my steps, as i help thine. 'twere ill, if two old men should fall by the roadway. still, come what come may, our service shall be done to bacchios, the all-father's mystic son o pentheus, named of sorrow! shall he claim from all thy house fulfilment of his name, old cadmus?--nay, i speak not from mine art, but as i see--blind words and a blind heart! [_the two old men go off towards the mountain._] chorus _some maidens_ thou immaculate on high; thou recording purity; thou that stoopest, golden wing, earthward, manward, pitying, hearest thou this angry king? hearest thou the rage and scorn 'gainst the lord of many voices, him of mortal mother born, him in whom man's heart rejoices, girt with garlands and with glee, first in heaven's sovranty? for his kingdom, it is there, in the dancing and the prayer, in the music and the laughter, in the vanishing of care, and of all before and after; in the gods' high banquet, when gleams the graperflood, flashed to heaven; yea, and in the feasts of men comes his crownèd slumber; then pain is dead and hate forgiven! _others_ loose thy lips from out the rein; lift thy wisdom to disdain; whatso law thou canst not see, scorning; so the end shall be uttermost calamity! 'tis the life of quiet breath, 'tis the simple and the true, storm nor earthquake shattereth, nor shall aught the house undo where they dwell. for, far away, hidden from the eyes of day, watchers are there in the skies, that can see man's life, and prize deeds well done by things of clay. but the world's wise are not wise, claiming more than mortal may. life is such a little thing; lo, their present is departed, and the dreams to which they cling come not. mad imagining theirs, i ween, and empty-hearted! _divers maidens_ where is the home for me? o cyprus, set in the sea, aphrodite's home in the soft sea-foam, would i could wend to thee; where the wings of the loves are furled, and faint the heart of the world. aye, unto paphos' isle, where the rainless meadows smile with riches rolled from the hundred-fold mouths of the far-off nile, streaming beneath the waves to the roots of the seaward caves. but a better land is there where olympus cleaves the air, the high still dell where the muses dwell, fairest of all things fair! o there is grace, and there is the heart's desire, and peace to adore thee, thou spirit of guiding fire! * * * * * a god of heaven is he, and born in majesty; yet hath he mirth in the joy of the earth, and he loveth constantly her who brings increase, the feeder of children, peace. no grudge hath he of the great; no scorn of the mean estate; but to all that liveth his wine he giveth, griefless, immaculate; only on them that spurn joy, may his anger burn. love thou the day and the night; be glad of the dark and the light; and avert thine eyes from the lore of the wise, that have honour in proud men's sight. the simple nameless herd of humanity hath deeds and faith that are truth enough for me! [_as the chorus ceases, a party of the guards return, leading in the midst of them_ dionysus, _bound. the_ soldier _in command stands forth, as_ pentheus, _hearing the tramp of feet, comes out from the castle._] soldier our quest is finished, and thy prey, o king, caught; for the chase was swift, and this wild thing most tame; yet never flinched, nor thought to flee, but held both hands out unresistingly-- no change, no blanching of the wine-red cheek. he waited while we came, and bade us wreak all thy decree; yea, laughed, and made my best easy, till i for very shame confessed and said: "o stranger, not of mine own will i bind thee, but his bidding to fulfil who sent me." and those prisoned maids withal whom thou didst seize and bind within the wall of thy great dungeon, they are fled, o king. free in the woods, a-dance and glorying to bromios. of their own impulse fell to earth, men say, fetter and manacle, and bars slid back untouched of mortal hand yea, full of many wonders to thy land is this man come.... howbeit, it lies with thee! pentheus ye are mad!--unhand him. howso swift he be, my toils are round him and he shall not fly. [_the guards loose the arms of_ dionysus; pentheus _studies him for a while in silence then speaks jeeringly._ dionysus _remains gentle and unafraid._] marry, a fair shape for a woman's eye, sir stranger! and thou seek'st no more, i ween! long curls, withal! that shows thou ne'er hast been a wrestler!--down both cheeks so softly tossed and winsome! and a white skin! it hath cost thee pains, to please thy damsels with this white and red of cheeks that never face the light! [_dionysus is silent._] speak, sirrah; tell me first thy name and race. dionysus no glory is therein, nor yet disgrace. thou hast heard of tmolus, the bright hill of flowers? pentheus surely, the ridge that winds by sardis towers. dionysus thence am i; lydia was my fatherland. pentheus and whence these revelations, that thy band spreadeth in hellas? dionysus their intent and use dionysus oped to me, the child of zeus. pentheus (_brutally_) is there a zeus there, that can still beget young gods? dionysus nay, only he whose seal was set here in thy thebes on semele. pentheus what way descended he upon thee? in full day or vision of night? dionysus most clear he stood, and scanned my soul, and gave his emblems to mine hand. pentheus what like be they, these emblems? dionysus that may none reveal, nor know, save his elect alone. pentheus and what good bring they to the worshipper? dionysus good beyond price, but not for thee to hear. pentheus thou trickster? thou wouldst prick me on the more to seek them out! dionysus his mysteries abhor the touch of sin-lovers. pentheus and so thine eyes saw this god plain; what guise had he? dionysus what guise it liked him. 'twas not i ordained his shape. pentheus aye, deftly turned again. an idle jape, and nothing answered! dionysus wise words being brought to blinded eyes will seem as things of nought. pentheus and comest thou first to thebes, to have thy god established? dionysus nay; all barbary hath trod his dance ere this. pentheus a low blind folk, i ween, beside our hellenes! dionysus higher and more keen in this thing, though their ways are not thy way. pentheus how is thy worship held, by night or day? dionysus most oft by night; 'tis a majestic thing, the darkness. pentheus ha! with women worshipping? 'tis craft and rottenness! dionysus by day no less, whoso will seek may find unholiness-- pentheus enough! thy doom is fixed, for false pretence corrupting thebes. dionysus not mine; but thine, for dense blindness of heart, and for blaspheming god! pentheus a ready knave it is, and brazen-browed, this mystery-priest! dionysus come, say what it shall be, my doom; what dire thing wilt thou do to me? pentheus first, shear that delicate curl that dangles there. [_he beckons to the soldiers, who approach_ dionysus.] dionysus i have vowed it to my god; 'tis holy hair. [_the soldiers cut off the tress_.] pentheus next, yield me up thy staff! dionysus raise thine own hand to take it. this is dionysus' wand. [pentheus _takes the staff_.] pentheus last, i will hold thee prisoned here. dionysus my lord god will unloose me, when i speak the word. pentheus he may, if e'er again amid his bands of saints he hears thy voice! dionysus even now he stands close here, and sees all that i suffer. pentheus what? where is he? for mine eyes discern him not. dionysus where i am! 'tis thine own impurity that veils him from thee. pentheus the dog jeers at me! at me and thebes! bind him! [_the soldiers begin to bind him_.] dionysus i charge ye, bind me not! i having vision and ye blind! pentheus and i, with better right, say bind the more! [_the soldiers obey_.] dionysus thou knowest not what end thou seekest, nor what deed thou doest, nor what man thou art! pentheus (_mocking_) agâvê's son, and on the father's part echion's, hight pentheus! dionysus so let it be, a name fore-written to calamity! pentheus away, and tie him where the steeds are tied; aye, let him lie in the manger!--there abide and stare into the darkness!--and this rout of womankind that clusters thee about, thy ministers of worship, are my slaves! it may be i will sell them o'er the waves, hither and thither; else they shall be set to labour at my distaffs, and forget their timbrel and their songs of dawning day! dionysus i go; for that which may not be, i may not suffer! yet for this thy sin, lo, he whom thou deniest cometh after thee for recompense. yea, in thy wrong to us, thou hast cast him into thy prison-house! [dionysus, _without his wand, his hair shorn, and his arms tightly bound, is led off by the guards to his dungeon._ pentheus _returns into the palace._] chorus _some maidens_ achelous' roaming daughter, holy dircê, virgin water, bathed he not of old in thee, the babe of god, the mystery? when from out the fire immortal to himself his god did take him, to his own flesh, and bespake him: "enter now life's second portal, motherless mystery; lo, i break mine own body for thy sake, thou of the twofold door, and seal thee mine, o bromios,"--thus he spake-- "and to this thy land reveal thee." _all_ still my prayer toward thee quivers, dircê, still to thee i hie me; why, o blessed among rivers, wilt thou fly me and deny me? by his own joy i vow, by the grape upon the bough, thou shalt seek him in the midnight, thou shalt love him, even now! _other maidens_ dark and of the dark impassioned is this pentheus' blood; yea, fashioned of the dragon, and his birth from echion, child of earth. he is no man, but a wonder; did the earth-child not beget him, as a red giant, to set him against god, against the thunder? he will bind me for his prize, me, the bride of dionyse; and my priest, my friend, is taken even now, and buried lies; in the dark he lies forsaken! _all_ lo, we race with death, we perish, dionysus, here before thee! dost thou mark us not, nor cherish, who implore thee, and adore thee? hither down olympus' side, come, o holy one defied, be thy golden wand uplifted o'er the tyrant in his pride! _a maiden_ oh, where art thou? in thine own nysa, thou our help alone? o'er fierce beasts in orient lands doth thy thronging thyrsus wave, by the high corycian cave, or where stern olympus stands; in the elm-woods and the oaken, there where orpheus harped of old, and the trees awoke and knew him, and the wild things gathered to him, as he sang amid the broken glens his music manifold? dionysus loveth thee; blessed land of piërie, he will come to thee with dancing, come with joy and mystery; with the maenads at his hest winding, winding to the west; cross the flood of swiftly glancing axios in majesty; cross the lydias, the giver of good gifts and waving green; cross that father-stream of story, through a land of steeds and glory rolling, bravest, fairest river e'er of mortals seen! a voice within io! io! awake, ye damsels; hear my cry, calling my chosen; hearken ye! a maiden who speaketh? oh, what echoes thus? another a voice, a voice, that calleth us! the voice be of good cheer! lo, it is i, the child of zeus and semelê. a maiden o master, master, it is thou! another o holy voice, be with us now! the voice spirit of the chained earthquake, hear my word; awake, awake! [_an earthquake suddenly shakes the pillars of the castle._] a maiden ha! what is coming? shall the hall of pentheus racked in ruin fall? leader our god is in the house! ye maids adore him! chorus we adore him all! the voice unveil the lightning's eye; arouse the fire that sleeps, against this house! [_fire leaps upon the tomb of semelê._] a maiden ah, saw ye, marked ye there the flame from semelê's enhallowed sod awakened? yea, the death that came ablaze from heaven of old, the same hot splendour of the shaft of god? leader oh cast ye, cast ye, to the earth! the lord cometh against this house! oh, cast ye down, ye trembling damsels; he, our own adored, god's child hath come, and all is overthrown! [_the maidens cast themselves upon the ground, their eyes earthward._ dionysus, _alone and unbound, enters from the castle._] dionysus ye damsels of the morning hills, why lie ye thus dismayed? ye marked him, then, our master, and the mighty hand he laid on tower and rock, shaking the house of pentheus?--but arise, and cast the trembling from your flesh, and lift untroubled eyes. leader o light in darkness, is it thou? o priest, is this thy face? my heart leaps out to greet thee from the deep of loneliness. dionysus fell ye so quick despairing, when beneath the gate i passed? should the gates of pentheus quell me, or his darkness make me fast? leader oh, what was left if thou wert gone? what could i but despair? how hast thou 'scaped the man of sin? who freed thee from the snare? dionysus i had no pain nor peril; 'twas mine own hand set me free. leader thine arms were gyvèd! dionysus nay, no gyve, no touch, was laid on me! 'twas there i mocked him, in his gyves, and gave him dreams for food. for when he laid me down, behold, before the stall there stood a bull of offering. and this king, he bit his lips and straight fell on and bound it, hoof and limb, with gasping wrath and sweat. and i sat watching!--then a voice; and lo, our lord was come, and the house shook, and a great flame stood o'er his mother's tomb. and pentheus hied this way and that, and called his thralls amain for water, lest his roof-tree burn; and all toiled, all in vain. then deemed a-sudden i was gone; and left his fire, and sped back to the prison portals, and his lifted sword shone red. but there, methinks, the god had wrought--i speak but as i guess-- some dream-shape in mine image; for he smote at emptiness, stabbed in the air, and strove in wrath, as though 'twere me he slew. then 'mid his dreams god smote him yet again! he overthrew all that high house. and there in wreck for evermore it lies, that the day of this my bondage may be sore in pentheus' eyes! and now his sword is fallen, and he lies outworn and wan who dared to rise against his god in wrath, being but man. and i uprose and left him, and in all peace took my path force to my chosen, recking light of pentheus and his wrath. but soft, methinks a footstep sounds even now within the hall; 'tis he; how think ye he will stand, and what words speak withal? i will endure him gently, though he come in fury hot. for still are the ways of wisdom, and her temper trembleth not! [_enter_ pentheus _in fury_] pentheus it is too much! this eastern knave hath slipped his prison, whom i held but now, hard gripped in bondage.--ha! 'tis he!--what, sirrah, how show'st thou before my portals? [_he advances furiously upon him._] dionysus and set a quiet carriage to thy rage. pentheus how comest thou here? how didst thou break thy cage? speak! dionysus said i not, or didst thou mark not me, there was one living that should set me free? pentheus who? ever wilder are these tales of thine. dionysus he who first made for man the clustered vine. pentheus i scorn him and his vines. dionysus for dionyse 'tis well; for in thy scorn his glory lies. pentheus (_to his guard_) go swift to all the towers, and bar withal each gate! dionysus what, cannot god o'erleap a wall? pentheus oh, wit thou hast, save where thou needest it! dionysus whereso it most imports, there is my wit!-- nay, peace! abide till he who hasteth from the mountain side with news for thee, be come. we will not fly, but wait on thy command. [_enter suddenly and in haste a messenger from the mountain._] messenger great pentheus, lord of all this theban land, i come from high kithaeron, where the frore snow spangles gleam and cease not evermore.... pentheus and what of import may thy coming bring? messenger i have seen the wild white women there, o king, whose fleet limbs darted arrow-like but now from thebes away, and come to tell thee how they work strange deeds and passing marvel. yet i first would learn thy pleasure. shall i set my whole tale forth, or veil the stranger part? yea lord, i fear the swiftness of thy heart, thine edgèd wrath and more than royal soul. pentheus thy tale shall nothing scathe thee.--tell the whole. it skills not to be wroth with honesty. nay, if thy news of them be dark, 'tis he shall pay it, who bewitched and led them on. messenger our herded kine were moving in the dawn up to the peaks, the greyest, coldest time, when the first rays steal earthward, and the rime yields, when i saw three bands of them. the one autonoë led, one ino, one thine own mother, agâvê. there beneath the trees sleeping they lay, like wild things flung at ease in the forest; one half sinking on a bed of deep pine greenery; one with careless head amid the fallen oak leaves; all most cold in purity--not as thy tale was told of wine-cups and wild music and the chase for love amid the forest's loneliness. then rose the queen agâvê suddenly amid her band, and gave the god's wild cry, "awake, ye bacchanals! i hear the sound of hornèd kine. awake ye!"--then, all round, alert, the warm sleep fallen from their eyes, a marvel of swift ranks i saw them rise, dames young and old, and gentle maids unwed among them. o'er their shoulders first they shed their tresses, and caught up the fallen fold of mantles where some clasp had loosened hold, and girt the dappled fawn-skins in with long quick snakes that hissed and writhed with quivering tongue. and one a young fawn held, and one a wild wolf cub, and fed them with white milk, and smiled in love, young mothers with a mother's breast and babes at home forgotten! then they pressed wreathed ivy round their brows, and oaken sprays and flowering bryony. and one would raise her wand and smite the rock, and straight a jet of quick bright water came. another set her thyrsus in the bosomed earth, and there was red wine that the god sent up to her, a darkling fountain. and if any lips sought whiter draughts, with dipping finger-tips they pressed the sod, and gushing from the ground came springs of milk. and reed-wands ivy-crowned ran with sweet honey, drop by drop.--o king, hadst thou been there, as i, and seen this thing, with prayer and most high wonder hadst thou gone to adore this god whom now thou rail'st upon! howbeit, the kine-wardens and shepherds straight came to one place, amazed, and held debate; and one being there who walked the streets and scanned the ways of speech, took lead of them whose hand knew but the slow soil and the solemn hill, and flattering spoke, and asked: "is it your will, masters, we stay the mother of the king, agâvê, from her lawless worshipping, and win us royal thanks?"--and this seemed good to all; and through the branching underwood we hid us, cowering in the leaves. and there through the appointed hour they made their prayer and worship of the wand, with one accord of heart and cry--"iacchos, bromios, lord, god of god born!"--and all the mountain felt, and worshipped with them; and the wild things knelt and ramped and gloried, and the wilderness was filled with moving voices and dim stress. soon, as it chanced, beside my thicket-close the queen herself passed dancing, and i rose and sprang to seize her. but she turned her face upon me: "ho, my rovers of the chase, my wild white hounds, we are hunted! up, each rod and follow, follow, for our lord and god!" thereat, for fear they tear us, all we fled amazed; and on, with hand unweaponèd they swept toward our herds that browsed the green hill grass. great uddered kine then hadst thou seen bellowing in sword-like hands that cleave and tear, a live steer riven asunder, and the air tossed with rent ribs or limbs of cloven tread, and flesh upon the branches, and a red rain from the deep green pines. yea, bulls of pride, horns swift to rage, were fronted and aside flung stumbling, by those multitudinous hands dragged pitilessly. and swifter were the bands of garbèd flesh and bone unbound withal than on thy royal eyes the lids may fall. then on like birds, by their own speed upborne, they swept toward the plains of waving corn that lie beside asopus' banks, and bring to thebes the rich fruit of her harvesting. on hysiae and erythrae that lie nursed amid kithaeron's bowering rocks, they burst destroying, as a foeman's army comes. they caught up little children from their homes, high on their shoulders, babes unheld, that swayed and laughed and fell not; all a wreck they made; yea, bronze and iron did shatter, and in play struck hither and thither, yet no wound had they; caught fire from out the hearths, yea, carried hot flames in their tresses and were scorchèd not! the village folk in wrath took spear and sword, and turned upon the bacchae. then, dread lord, the wonder was. for spear nor barbèd brand could scathe nor touch the damsels; but the wand, the soft and wreathèd wand their white hands sped, blasted those men and quelled them, and they fled dizzily. sure some god was in these things! and the holy women back to those strange springs returned, that god had sent them when the day dawned, on the upper heights; and washed away the stain of battle. and those girdling snakes hissed out to lap the waterdrops from cheeks and hair and breast. therefore i counsel thee o king, receive this spirit, whoe'er he be, to thebes in glory. greatness manifold is all about him; and the tale is told that this is he who first to man did give the grief-assuaging vine. oh, let him live; for if he die, then love herself is slain, and nothing joyous in the world again! leader albeit i tremble, and scarce may speak my thought to a king's face, yet will i hide it not. dionyse is god, no god more true nor higher! pentheus it bursts hard by us, like a smothered fire, this frenzy of bacchic women! all my land is made their mock.--this needs an iron hand! ho, captain! quick to the electran gate; bid gather all my men-at-arms thereat; call all that spur the charger, all who know to wield the orbèd targe or bend the bow; we march to war--'fore god, shall women dare such deeds against us? 'tis too much to bear! dionysus thou mark'st me not, o king, and holdest light my solemn words; yet, in thine own despite, i warn thee still. lift thou not up thy spear against a god, but hold thy peace, and fear his wrath! he will not brook it, if thou fright his chosen from the hills of their delight. pentheus peace, thou! and if for once thou hast slipped chain, give thanks!--or shall i knot thine arms again? dionysus better to yield him prayer and sacrifice than kick against the pricks, since dionyse is god, and thou but mortal. pentheus that will i! yea, sacrifice of women's blood, to cry his name through all kithaeron! dionysus ye shall fly, all, and abase your shields of bronzen rim before their wands. pentheus there is no way with him, this stranger that so dogs us! well or ill i may entreat him, he must babble still! dionysus wait, good my friend! these crooked matters may even yet be straightened. [pentheus _has started as though to seek his army at the gate._] pentheus aye, if i obey mine own slaves' will; how else? dionysus myself will lead the damsels hither, without sword or steed. pentheus how now?--this is some plot against me! dionysus what dost fear? only to save thee do i plot. pentheus it is some compact ye have made, whereby to dance these hills for ever! dionysus verily, that is my compact, plighted with my lord! pentheus (_turning from him_) ho, armourers! bring forth my shield and sword!-- and thou, be silent! dionysus (_after regarding him fixedly, speaks with resignation_) ah!--have then thy will! [_he fixes his eyes upon_ pentheus _again, while the armourers bring out his armour; then speaks in a tone of command._] man, thou wouldst fain behold them on the hill praying! pentheus (_who during the rest of this scene, with a few exceptions, simply speaks the thoughts that_ dionysus _puts into him, losing power over his own mind_) that would i, though it cost me all the gold of thebes! dionysus so much? thou art quick to fall to such great longing. pentheus (_somewhat bewildered at what he has said_) aye; 'twould grieve me much to see them flown with wine. dionysus yet cravest thou such a sight as would much grieve thee? pentheus yes; i fain would watch, ambushed among the pines. dionysus 'twere vain to hide. they soon will track thee out. pentheus well said! 'twere best done openly. dionysus wilt thou be led by me, and try the venture? pentheus aye, indeed! lead on. why should we tarry? dionysus first we need a rich and trailing robe of fine-linen to gird thee. pentheus nay; am i a woman, then, and no man more. dionysus wouldst have them slay thee dead? no man may see their mysteries. pentheus well said'-- i marked thy subtle temper long ere now. dionysus 'tis dionyse that prompteth me. pentheus and how mean'st thou the further plan? dionysus first take thy way within. i will array thee. pentheus what array! the woman's? nay, i will not. dionysus doth it change so soon, all thy desire to see this strange adoring? pentheus wait! what garb wilt thou bestow about me? dionysus first a long tress dangling low beneath thy shoulders. pentheus aye, and next? dionysus the same red robe, falling to thy feet; and on thine head a snood. pentheus and after? hast thou aught beyond? dionysus surely; the dappled fawn-skin and the wand. pentheus (_after a struggle with himself_) enough! i cannot wear a robe and snood. dionysus wouldst liefer draw the sword and spill men's blood? pentheus (_again doubting_) true, that were evil.--aye; 'tis best to go first to some place of watch. dionysus far wiser so, than seek by wrath wrath's bitter recompense. pentheus what of the city streets? canst lead me hence unseen of any? dionysus lonely and untried thy path from hence shall be, and i thy guide! pentheus i care for nothing, so these bacchanals triumph not against me! ...forward to my halls within!--i will ordain what seemeth best. dionysus so be it, o king! 'tis mine to obey thine hest, whate'er it be. pentheus (_after hesitating once more and waiting_) well, i will go--perchance to march and scatter them with serried lance. perchance to take thy plan.... i know not yet. [_exit_ pentheus _into the castle._] dionysus damsels, the lion walketh to the net! he finds his bacchae now, and sees and dies, and pays for all his sin!--o dionyse, this is thine hour and thou not far away. grant us our vengeance!--first, o master, stay the course of reason in him, and instil a foam of madness. let his seeing will, which ne'er had stooped to put thy vesture on, be darkened, till the deed is lightly done. grant likewise that he find through all his streets loud scorn, this man of wrath and bitter threats that made thebes tremble, led in woman's guise. i go to fold that robe of sacrifice on pentheus, that shall deck him to the dark. his mother's gift!--so shall he learn and mark god's true son, dionyse, in fulness god, most fearful, yet to man most soft of mood. [_exit_ dionysus, _following pentheus into castle._] chorus _some maidens_ will they ever come to me, ever again, the long long dances, on through the dark till the dim stars wane? shall i feel the dew on my throat, and the stream of wind in my hair? shall our white feet gleam in the dim expanses? oh, feet of a fawn to the greenwood fled, alone in the grass and the loveliness; leap of the hunted, no more in dread, beyond the snares and the deadly press: yet a voice still in the distance sounds, a voice and a fear and a haste of hounds; o wildly labouring, fiercely fleet, onward yet by river and glen ... is it joy or terror, ye storm-swift feet? ... to the dear lone lands untroubled of men, where no voice sounds, and amid the shadowy green the little things of the woodland live unseen. what else is wisdom? what of man's endeavour or god's high grace, so lovely and so great? to stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; to hold a hand uplifted over hate; and shall not loveliness be loved for ever? _others_ o strength of god, slow art thou and still, yet failest never! on them that worship the ruthless will, on them that dream, doth his judgment wait. dreams of the proud man, making great and greater ever, things which are not of god. in wide and devious coverts, hunter-wise, he coucheth time's unhasting stride, following, following, him whose eyes look not to heaven. for all is vain, the pulse of the heart, the plot of the brain, that striveth beyond the laws that live. and is thy fate so much to give, is it so hard a thing to see, that the spirit of god, whate'er it be, the law that abides and changes not, ages long, the eternal and nature-born--these things be strong? what else is wisdom? what of man's endeavour or god's high grace so lovely and so great? to stand from fear set free, to breathe and wait; to hold a hand uplifted over hate; and shall not loveliness be loved for ever? leader happy he, on the weary sea who hath fled the tempest and won the haven. happy whoso hath risen, free, above his striving. for strangely graven is the orb of life, that one and another in gold and power may outpass his brother, and men in their millions float and flow and seethe with a million hopes as leaven; and they win their will, or they miss their will, and the hopes are dead or are pined for still, but whoe'er can know, as the long days go, that to live is happy, hath found his heaven! [_re-enter_ dionysus, _from the castle_] dionysus o eye that cravest sights thou must not see, o heart athirst for that which slakes not! thee, pentheus, i call; forth and be seen, in guise of woman, maenad, saint of dionyse, to spy upon his chosen and thine own mother! [_enter_ pentheus, _clad like a bacchanal, and strangely excited, a spirit of bacchic madness overshadowing him._] thy shape, methinks, is like to one of cadmus' royal maids! pentheus yea; and mine eye is bright! yon sun shines twofold in the sky, thebes twofold and the wall of seven gates.... and is it a wild bull this, that walks and waits before me? there are horns upon thy brow! what art thou, man or beast! for surely now the bull is on thee! dionysus he who erst was wrath, goes with us now in gentleness. he hath unsealed thine eyes to see what thou shouldst see. pentheus say; stand i not as ino stands, or she who bore me? dionysus when i look on thee, it seems i see their very selves!--but stay; why streams that lock abroad, not where i laid it, crossed under the coif? pentheus i did it, as i tossed my head in dancing, to and fro, and cried his holy music! dionysus (_tending him_) it shall soon be tied aright. 'tis mine to tend thee. . . . nay, but stand with head straight. pentheus in the hollow of thine hand i lay me. deck me as thou wilt. dionysus thy zone is loosened likewise; and the folded gown not evenly falling to the feet. pentheus 'tis so, by the right foot. but here methinks, they flow in one straight line to the heel. dionysus (_while tending him_) and if thou prove their madness true, aye, more than true, what love and thanks hast thou for me? pentheus (_not listening to him_) in my right hand is it, or thus, that i should bear the wand to be most like to them? dionysus up let it swing in the right hand, timed with the right foot's spring.... 'tis well thy heart is changed! pentheus (_more wildly_) what strength is this! kithaeron's steeps and all that in them is-- how say'st thou?--could my shoulders lift the whole? dionysus surely thou canst, and if thou wilt! thy soul, being once so sick, now stands as it should stand. pentheus shall it be bars of iron? or this bare hand and shoulder to the crags, to wrench them down? dionysus wouldst wreck the nymphs' wild temples, and the brown rocks, where pan pipes at noonday? pentheus nay; not i! force is not well with women. i will lie hid in the pine-brake. dionysus even as fits a spy on holy and fearful things, so shalt thou lie! pentheus (_with a laugh_) they lie there now, methinks--the wild birds, caught by love among the leaves, and fluttering not! dionysus it may be. that is what thou goest to see, aye, and to trap them--so they trap not thee! pentheus forth through the thebans' town! i am their king, aye, their one man, seeing i dare this thing! dionysus yea, thou shalt bear their burden, thou alone; therefore thy trial awaiteth thee!--but on; with me into thine ambush shalt thou come unscathed; then let another bear thee home! pentheus the queen, my mother. dionysus marked of every eye. pentheus for that i go! dionysus thou shalt be borne on high! pentheus that were like pride! dionysus thy mother's hands shall share thy carrying. pentheus nay; i need not such soft care! dionysus so soft? pentheus whate'er it be, i have earned it well! [_exit_ pentheus _towards the mountain._] dionysus fell, fell art thou; and to a doom so fell thou walkest, that thy name from south to north shall shine, a sign for ever!--reach thou forth thine arms, agâvê, now, and ye dark-browed cadmeian sisters! greet this prince so proud to the high ordeal, where save god and me, none walks unscathed!--the rest this day shall see. [_exit_ dionysus _following_ pentheus.] chorus _some maidens_ o hounds raging and blind, up by the mountain road, sprites of the maddened mind, to the wild maids of god; fill with your rage their eyes, rage at the rage unblest, watching in woman's guise, the spy upon god's possessed. _a bacchanal_ who shall be first, to mark eyes in the rock that spy, eyes in the pine-tree dark-- is it his mother?--and cry: "lo, what is this that comes, haunting, troubling still, even in our heights, our homes, the wild maids of the hill? what flesh bare this child? never on woman's breast changeling so evil smiled; man is he not, but beast! loin-shape of the wild, gorgon-breed of the waste!" _all the chorus_ hither, for doom and deed! hither with lifted sword, justice, wrath of the lord, come in our visible need! smite till the throat shall bleed, smite till the heart shall bleed, him the tyrannous, lawless, godless, echîon's earthborn seed! _other maidens_ tyrannously hath he trod; marched him, in law's despite, against thy light, o god, yea, and thy mother's light; girded him, falsely bold, blinded in craft, to quell and by man's violence hold, things unconquerable _a bacchanal_ a strait pitiless mind is death unto godliness; and to feel in human kind life, and a pain the less. knowledge, we are not foes! i seek thee diligently; but the world with a great wind blows, shining, and not from thee; blowing to beautiful things, on, amid dark and light, till life, through the trammellings of laws that are not the right, breaks, clean and pure, and sings glorying to god in the height! _all the chorus_ hither for doom and deed! hither with lifted sword, justice, wrath of the lord, come in our visible need! smite till the throat shall bleed, smite till the heart shall bleed, him the tyrannous, lawless, godless, echion's earthborn seed! leader appear, appear, whatso thy shape or name o mountain bull, snake of the hundred heads, lion of burning flame! o god, beast, mystery, come! thy mystic maids are hunted!--blast their hunter with thy breath, cast o'er his head thy snare; and laugh aloud and drag him to his death, who stalks thy herded madness in its lair! [_enter hastily a_ messenger _from the mountain, pale and distraught._] messenger woe to the house once blest in hellas! woe to thee, old king sidonian, who didst sow the dragon-seed on ares' bloody lea! alas, even thy slaves must weep for thee! leader news from the mountain?--speak! how hath it sped? messenger pentheus, my king, echîon's son, is dead! leader all hail, god of the voice, manifest ever more! messenger what say'st thou?--and how strange thy tone, as though in joy at this my master's overthrow! leader with fierce joy i rejoice, child of a savage shore; for the chains of my prison are broken, and the dread where i cowered of yore! messenger and deem'st thou thebes so beggared, so forlorn of manhood, as to sit beneath thy scorn? leader thebes hath o'er me no sway! none save him i obey, dionysus, child of the highest, him i obey and adore! messenger one can forgive thee!--yet 'tis no fair thing, maids, to rejoice in a man's suffering. leader speak of the mountain side! tell us the doom he died, the sinner smitten to death, even where his sin was sore! messenger we climbed beyond the utmost habitings of theban shepherds, passed asopus' springs, and struck into the land of rock on dim kithaeron--pentheus, and, attending him, i, and the stranger who should guide our way, then first in a green dell we stopped, and lay, lips dumb and feet unmoving, warily watching, to be unseen and yet to see. a narrow glen it was, by crags o'ertowered, torn through by tossing waters, and there lowered a shadow of great pines over it. and there the maenad maidens sate; in toil they were, busily glad. some with an ivy chain tricked a worn wand to toss its locks again; some, wild in joyance, like young steeds set free, made answering songs of mystic melody. but my poor master saw not the great band before him. "stranger," he cried, "where we stand mine eyes can reach not these false saints of thine. mount we the bank, or some high-shouldered pine, and i shall see their follies clear!" at that there came a marvel. for the stranger straight touched a great pine-tree's high and heavenward crown, and lower, lower, lower, urged it down to the herbless floor. round like a bending bow, or slow wheel's rim a joiner forces to. so in those hands that tough and mountain stem bowed slow--oh, strength not mortal dwelt in them!-- to the very earth. and there he set the king, and slowly, lest it cast him in its spring. let back the young and straining tree, till high it towered again amid the towering sky; and pentheus in the branches! well, i ween, he saw the maenads then, and well was seen! for scarce was he aloft, when suddenly there was no stranger any more with me, but out of heaven a voice--oh, what voice else?-- 'twas he that called! "behold, o damosels, i bring ye him who turneth to despite both me and ye, and darkeneth my great light. tis yours to avenge!" so spake he, and there came 'twixt earth and sky a pillar of high flame. and silence took the air, and no leaf stirred in all the forest dell. thou hadst not heard in that vast silence any wild things's cry. and up they sprang; but with bewildered eye, agaze and listening, scarce yet hearing true. then came the voice again. and when they knew their god's clear call, old cadmus' royal brood, up, like wild pigeons startled in a wood, on flying feet they came, his mother blind, agâvê, and her sisters, and behind all the wild crowd, more deeply maddened then, through the angry rocks and torrent-tossing glen, until they spied him in the dark pine-tree: then climbed a crag hard by and furiously some sought to stone him, some their wands would fling lance-wise aloft, in cruel targeting. but none could strike. the height o'ertopped their rage, and there he clung, unscathed, as in a cage caught. and of all their strife no end was found. then, "hither," cried agâvê; "stand we round and grip the stem, my wild ones, till we take this climbing cat-o'-the-mount! he shall not make a tale of god's high dances!" out then shone arm upon arm, past count, and closed upon the pine, and gripped; and the ground gave, and down it reeled. and that high sitter from the crown of the green pine-top, with a shrieking cry fell, as his mind grew clear, and there hard by was horror visible. 'twas his mother stood o'er him, first priestess of those rites of blood. he tore the coif, and from his head away flung it, that she might know him, and not slay to her own misery. he touched the wild cheek, crying: "mother, it is i, thy child, thy pentheus, born thee in echion's hall! have mercy, mother! let it not befall through sin of mine, that thou shouldst slay thy son!" but she, with lips a-foam and eyes that run like leaping fire, with thoughts that ne'er should be on earth, possessed by bacchios utterly, stays not nor hears. round his left arm she put both hands, set hard against his side her foot, drew ... and the shoulder severed!--not by might of arm, but easily, as the god made light her hand's essay. and at the other side was ino rending; and the torn flesh cried, and on autonoë pressed, and all the crowd of ravening arms. 'yea, all the air was loud with groans that faded into sobbing breath, dim shrieks, and joy, and triumph-cries of death. and here was borne a severed arm, and there a hunter's booted foot; white bones lay bare with rending; and swift hands ensanguinèd tossed as in sport the flesh of pentheus dead. his body lies afar. the precipice hath part, and parts in many an interstice lurk of the tangled woodland--no light quest to find. and, ah, the head! of all the rest, his mother hath it, pierced upon a wand, as one might pierce a lion's, and through the land, leaving her sisters in their dancing place, bears it on high! yea, to these walls her face was set, exulting in her deed of blood, calling upon her bromios, her god, her comrade, fellow-render of the prey, her all-victorious, to whom this day she bears in triumph ... her own broken heart. for me, after that sight, i will depart before agave comes.--oh, to fulfil god's laws, and have no thought beyond his will, is man's best treasure. aye, and wisdom true, methinks, for things of dust to cleave unto! [_the_ messenger _departs into the castle_.] chorus _some maidens_ weave ye the dance, and call praise to god! bless ye the tyrant's fall! down is trod pentheus, the dragon's seed! wore he the woman's weed? clasped he his death indeed, clasped the rod? _a bacchanal_ yea, the wild ivy lapt him, and the doomed wild bull of sacrifice before him loomed! _others_ ye who did bromios scorn, praise him the more, bacchanals, cadmus-born; praise with sore agony, yea, with tears! great are the gifts he bears! hands that a mother rears red with gore! leader but stay, agâvê cometh! and her eyes make fire around her, reeling! ho, the prize cometh! all hail, o rout of dionyse! [_enter from the mountain_ agave, _mad, and to all seeming wondrously happy, bearing the head of_ pentheus _in her hand. the_ chorus maidens _stand horror-struck at the sight; the_ leader, _also horror-struck, strives to accept it and rejoice in it as the god's deed_.] agave ye from the lands of morn! leader call me not; i give praise! agave lo, from the trunk new-shorn hither a mountain thorn bear we! o asia-born bacchanals, bless this chase! leader i see. yea; i see. have i not welcomed thee? agave (_very calmly and peacefully_) he was young in the wildwood without nets i caught him! nay; look without fear on the lion; i have ta'en him! leader where in the wildwood? whence have ye brought him? agave kithaeron. . . . leader kithaeron? agave the mountain hath slain him! leader who first came nigh him? agave i, i, 'tis confessèd! and they named me there by him agave the blessèd! leader who was next in the band on him? agave the daughters.... leader the daughters? agave of cadmus laid hand on him. but the swift hand that slaughters is mine; mine is the praise! bless ye this day of days! [_the_ leader _tries to speak, but is not able;_ agave _begins gently stroking the head_.] agave gather ye now to the feast! leader feast!--o miserable! agave see, it falls to his breast, curling and gently tressed, the hair of the wild bull's crest-- the young steer of the fell! leader most like a beast of the wild that head, those locks defiled. agave (_lifting up the head, more excitedly_) he wakened his mad ones, a chase-god, a wise god! he sprang them to seize this! he preys where his band preys. leader (_brooding, with horror_) in the trail of thy mad ones thou tearest thy prize, god! agave dost praise it? leader i praise this? agave ah, soon shall the land praise! leader and pentheus, o mother, thy child? agave he shall cry on my name as none other, bless the spoils of the lion! leader aye, strange is thy treasure! agave and strange was the taking! leader thou art glad? agave beyond measure; yea, glad in the breaking of dawn upon all this land, by the prize, the prize of my hand! leader show them to all the land, unhappy one, the trophy of this deed that thou hast done! agave ho, all ye men that round the citadel and shining towers of ancient thêbê dwell, come! look upon this prize, this lion's spoil, that we have taken--yea, with our own toil, we, cadmus' daughters! not with leathern-set thessalian javelins, not with hunter's net, only white arms and swift hands' bladed fall why make ye much ado, and boast withal your armourers' engines? see, these palms were bare that caught the angry beast, and held, and tare the limbs of him! ... father! ... go, bring to me my father! ... aye, and pentheus, where is he, my son? he shall set up a ladder-stair against this house, and in the triglyphs there nail me this lion's head, that gloriously i bring ye, having slain him--i, even i! [_she goes through the crowd towards the castle, showing the head and looking for a place to hang it. enter from the mountain_ cadmus, _with attendants, bearing the body of_ pentheus _on a bier_.] cadmus on, with your awful burden. follow me, thralls, to his house, whose body grievously with many a weary search at last in dim kithaeron's glens i found, torn limb from limb, and through the intervening forest weed scattered.--men told me of my daughters' deed, when i was just returned within these walls, with grey teiresias, from the bacchanals. and back i hied me to the hills again to seek my murdered son. there saw i plain actaeon's mother, ranging where he died, autonoë; and ino by her side, wandering ghastly in the pine-copses. agâvê was not there. the rumour is she cometh fleet-foot hither.--ah! 'tis true; a sight i scarce can bend mine eyes unto. agave (_turning from the palace and seeing him_) my father, a great boast is thine this hour. thou hast begotten daughters, high in power and valiant above all mankind--yea, all valiant, though none like me! i have let fall the shuttle by the loom, and raised my hand for higher things, to slay from out thy land wild beasts! see, in mine arms i bear the prize, that nailed above these portals it may rise to show what things thy daughters did! do thou take it, and call a feast. proud art thou now and highly favoured in our valiancy! cadmus o depth of grief, how can i fathom thee or look upon thee!--poor, poor bloodstained hand! poor sisters!--a fair sacrifice to stand before god's altars, daughter; yea, and call me and my citizens to feast withal! nay, let me weep--for thine affliction most, then for mine own. all, all of us are lost, not wrongfully, yet is it hard, from one who might have loved--our bromios, our own! agave how crabbèd and how scowling in the eyes is man's old age!--would that my son likewise were happy of his hunting, in my way when with his warrior bands he will essay the wild beast!--nay, his valiance is to fight with god's will! father, thou shouldst set him right. will no one bring him thither, that mine eyes may look on his, and show him this my prize! cadmus alas, if ever ye can know again the truth of what ye did, what pain of pain that truth shall bring! or were it best to wait darkened for evermore, and deem your state not misery, though ye know no happiness? agave what seest thou here to chide, or not to bless? cadmus (_after hesitation, resolving himself_) raise me thine eyes to yon blue dome of air! agave 'tis done. what dost thou bid me seek for there? cadmus is it the same, or changèd in thy sight? agave more shining than before, more heavenly bright! cadmus and that wild tremour, is it with thee still? agave (_troubled_) i know not what thou sayest; but my will clears, and some change cometh, i know not how. cadmus canst hearken then, being changed, and answer, now! agave i have forgotten something; else i could. cadmus what husband led thee of old from mine abode? agave echîon, whom men named the child of earth. cadmus and what child in echîon's house had birth? agave pentheus, of my love and his father's bred. cadmus thou bearest in thine arms an head--what head? agave (_beginning to tremble, and not looking at what she carries_) a lion's--so they all said in the chase. cadmus turn to it now--'tis no long toil--and gaze. agave ah! but what is it? what am i carrying here? cadmus look once upon it full, till all be clear! agave i see... most deadly pain! oh, woe is me! cadmus wears it the likeness of a lion to thee? agave no; 'tis the head--o god!--of pentheus, this! cadmus blood-drenched ere thou wouldst know him! aye, 'tis his. agave who slew him?--how came i to hold this thing? cadmus o cruel truth, is this thine home-coming? agave answer! my heart is hanging on thy breath! cadmus 'twas thou.--thou and thy sisters wrought his death. agave in what place was it? his own house, or where? cadmus where the dogs tore actaeon, even there. agave why went he to kithaeron? what sought he? cadmus to mock the god and thine own ecstasy. agave but how should we be on the hills this day? cadmus being mad! a spirit drove all the land that way. agave 'tis dionyse hath done it! now i see. cadmus (_earnestly_) ye wronged him! ye denied his deity! agave (_turning from him_) show me the body of the son i love! cadmus (_leading her to the bier_) 'tis here, my child. hard was the quest thereof. agave laid in due state? [_as there is no answer, she lifts the veil of the bier, and sees._] oh, if i wrought a sin, 'twas mine! what portion had my child therein! cadmus he made him like to you, adoring not the god; who therefore to one bane hath brought you and this body, wrecking all our line, and me. aye, no man-child was ever mine; and now this first-fruit of the flesh of thee, sad woman, foully here and frightfully lies murdered! whom the house looked up unto, [_kneeling by the body._] o child, my daughter's child! who heldest true my castle walls; and to the folk a name of fear thou wast; and no man sought to shame my grey beard, when they knew that thou wast there, else had they swift reward!--and now i fare forth in dishonour, outcast, i, the great cadmus, who sowed the seed-rows of this state of thebes, and reaped the harvest wonderful. o my belovèd, though thy heart is dull in death, o still belovèd, and alway beloved! never more, then, shalt thou lay thine hand to this white beard, and speak to me thy "mother's father"; ask "who wrongeth thee? who stints thine honour, or with malice stirs thine heart? speak, and i smite thine injurers!" but now--woe, woe, to me and thee also, woe to thy mother and her sisters, woe alway! oh, whoso walketh not in dread of gods, let him but look on this man dead! leader lo, i weep with thee. 'twas but due reward god sent on pentheus; but for thee ... 'tis hard. agave my father, thou canst see the change in me, * * * * * * * * * * [_a page or more has here been torn out of the ms. from which all our copies of "the bacchae" are derived. it evidently contained a speech of agâvê (followed presumably by some words of the chorus), and an appearance of_ dionysus _upon a cloud. he must have pronounced judgment upon the thebans in general, and especially upon the daughters of_ cadmus, _have justified his own action, and declared his determination to establish his godhead. where the ms begins again, we find him addressing_ cadmus.] * * * * * dionysus * * * * * * * * * * and tell of time, what gifts for thee he bears, what griefs and wonders in the winding years. for thou must change and be a serpent thing strange, and beside thee she whom thou didst bring of old to be thy bride from heaven afar, harmonia, daughter of the lord of war. yea, and a chariot of kine--so spake the word of zeus--thee and thy queen shall take through many lands, lord of a wild array of orient spears. and many towns shall they destroy beneath thee, that vast horde, until they touch apollo's dwelling, and fulfil their doom, back driven on stormy ways and steep. thee only and thy spouse shall ares keep, and save alive to the islands of the blest. thus speaketh dionysus, son confessed of no man but of zeus!--ah, had ye seen truth in the hour ye would not, all had been well with ye, and the child of god your friend! agave dionysus, we beseech thee! we have sinned! dionysus too late! when there was time, ye knew me not! agave we have confessed. yet is thine hand too hot. dionysus ye mocked me, being god; this your wage. agave should god be like a proud man in his rage? dionysus 'tis as my sire, zeus, willed it long ago. agave (_turning from him almost with disdain_) old man, the word is spoken; we must go. dionysus and seeing ye must, what is it that ye wait? cadmus child, we are come into a deadly strait, all; thou, poor sufferer, and thy sisters twain, and my sad self. far off to barbarous men, a grey-haired wanderer, i must take my road. and then the oracle, the doom of god, that i must lead a raging horde far-flown to prey on hellas; lead my spouse, mine own harmonia. ares' child, discorporate and haunting forms, dragon and dragon-mate, against the tombs and altar-stones of greece, lance upon lance behind us; and not cease from toils, like other men, nor dream, nor past the foam of acheron find my peace at last. agave father! and i must wander far from thee! cadmus o child, why wilt thou reach thine arms to me, as yearns the milk-white swan, when old swans die? agave where shall i turn me else? no home have i. cadmus i know not; i can help thee not. agave farewell, o home, o ancient tower! lo, i am outcast from my bower, and leave ye for a worser lot. cadmus go forth, go forth to misery, the way actaeon's father went! agave father, for thee my tears are spent. cadmus nay, child, 'tis i must weep for thee; for thee and for thy sisters twain! agave on all this house, in bitter wise, our lord and master, dionyse, hath poured the utter dregs of pain! dionysus in bitter wise, for bitter was the shame ye did me, when thebes honoured not my name. agave then lead me where my sisters be; together let our tears be shed, our ways be wandered; where no red kithaeron waits to gaze on me; nor i gaze back; no thyrsus stem, nor song, nor memory in the air. oh, other bacchanals be there, not i, not i, to dream of them! [agave _with her group of attendants goes out on the side away from the mountain._ dionysus _rises upon the cloud and disappears._] chorus there may be many shapes of mystery, and many things god makes to be, past hope or fear. and the end men looked for cometh not, and a path is there where no man thought. so hath it fallen here. [_exeunt_.] the extant odes of pindar translated into english with introduction and short notes by ernest myers, m.a. _sometime fellow of wadham college, oxford_ _first edition printed ._ _reprinted (with corrections) , , , , , _ son of the lightning, fair and fiery star, strong-winged imperial pindar, voice divine, let these deep draughts of thy enchanted wine lift me with thee in soarings high and far prouder than pegasean, or the car wherein apollo rapt the huntress maid. so let me range mine hour, too soon to fade into strange presence of the things that are. yet know that even amid this jarring noise of hates, loves, creeds, together heaped and hurled, some echo faint of grace and grandeur stirs from thy sweet hellas, home of noble joys. first fruit and best of all our western world; whate'er we hold of beauty, half is hers. introduction. probably no poet of importance equal or approaching to that of pindar finds so few and so infrequent readers. the causes are not far to seek: in the first and most obvious place comes the great difficulty of his language, in the second the frequent obscurity of his thought, resulting mainly from his exceeding allusiveness and his abrupt transitions, and in the third place that amount of monotony which must of necessity attach to a series of poems provided for a succession of similar occasions. it is as an attempt towards obviating the first of these hindrances to the study of pindar, the difficulty of his language, that this translation is of course especially intended. to whom and in what cases are translations of poets useful? to a perfect scholar in the original tongue they are superfluous, to one wholly ignorant of it they are apt to be (unless here and there to a keats) meaningless, flat, and puzzling. there remains the third class of those who have a certain amount of knowledge of a language, but not enough to enable them to read unassisted its more difficult books without an expenditure of time and trouble which is virtually prohibitive. it is to this class that a translation ought, it would seem, chiefly to address itself. an intelligent person of cultivated literary taste, and able to read the easier books in an acquired language, will feel himself indebted to a hand which unlocks for him the inner chambers of a temple in whose outer courts he had already delighted to wander. without therefore saying that the merely 'english reader' may never derive pleasure and instruction from a translation of a foreign poet, for to this rule our current version of the hebrew psalmists and prophets furnish one marked exception at least--still, it is probably to what may be called the half-learned class that the translator must preeminently look to find an audience. the other causes of pindar's unpopularity to which reference was made above, the obscurity of his thought and the monotony of his subjects, will in great measure disappear by means of attentive study of the poems themselves, and of other sources from which may be gathered an understanding of the region of thought and feeling in which they move. in proportion to our familiarity not only with hellenic mythology and history, but with hellenic life and habits of thought generally, will be our readiness and facility in seizing the drift and import of what pindar says, in divining what has passed through his mind: and in his case perhaps even more than in the case of other poets, this facility will increase indefinitely with our increasing acquaintance with his works and with the light thrown on each part of them by the rest[ ]. the monotony of the odes, though to some extent unquestionably and unavoidably real, is to some extent also superficial and in appearance only. the family of the victor, or his country, some incident of his past, some possibility of his future life, suggest in each case some different legendary matter, some different way of treating it, some different application of it, general or particular, or both. out of such resources pindar is inexhaustible in building up in subtly varying forms the splendid structure of his song. yet doubtless the drawbacks in reading pindar, though they may be largely reduced, will always in some degree exist: we shall always wish that he was easier to construe, that his allusions to things unfamiliar and sometimes undiscoverable to us were less frequent, that family pride had not made it customary for him to spend so many lines on an enumeration of prizes won elsewhere and at other times by the victor of the occasion or by his kin. such drawbacks can only fall into insignificance when eclipsed by consideration of the far more than counterbalancing attractions of the poems, of their unique and surpassing interest, poetical, historical, and moral. of pindar as a poet it is hard indeed to speak adequately, and almost as hard to speak briefly, for a discussion of his poetical characteristics once begun may wander far before even a small part has been said of what might be. to say that to his poetry in supreme degree belong the qualities of force, of vividness, often of impressive weight, of a lofty style, seeming to be the expression of a like personality, of a mastery of rhythm and metre and imaginative diction, of a profoundly hellenic spirit modified by an unmistakable individuality, above all of a certain sweep and swiftness as of the flight of an eagle's wing--to say all this would be to suggest some of the most obvious features of these triumphal odes; and each of these qualities, and many more requiring exacter delineation, might be illustrated with numberless instances which even in the faint image of a translation would furnish ample testimony[ ]. but as this introduction is intended for those who purpose reading pindar's poetry, or at any rate the present translation of it, for themselves, i will leave it to them to discover for themselves the qualities which have given pindar his high place among poets, and will pass on to suggest briefly his claims to interest us by reason of his place in the history of human action and human thought. we know very little of pindar's life. he was born in or about the year b.c. , at the village of kynoskephalai near thebes. he was thus a citizen of thebes and seems to have always had his home there. but he travelled among other states, many of which have been glorified by his art. for his praise of athens, 'bulwark of hellas,' the city which at artemision 'laid the foundation of freedom,' the thebans are said to have fined him; but the generous athenians paid the fine, made him their proxenos, and erected his statue at the public cost. for the magnificent sicilian princes, hieron of syracuse and theron of akragas, not unlike the medici in the position they held, pindar wrote five of the longest of his extant odes, and probably visited them in sicily. but he would not quit his home to be an ornament of their courts. when asked why he did not, like simonides, accept the invitations of these potentates to make his home with them, he answered that he had chosen to live his own life, and not to be the property of another. he died at the age of , that is, probably, in the year , twelve years before the peloponnesian war began. legend said that he died in the theatre of argos, in the arms of theoxenos, the boy in whose honour he wrote a skolion of which an immortal fragment remains to us. other myths gathered round his name. it was said that once when in childhood he had fallen asleep by the way 'a bee had settled on his lips and gathered honey,' and again that 'he saw in a dream that his mouth was filled with honey and the honeycomb;' that pan himself learnt a poem of his and rejoiced to sing it on the mountains; that finally, while he awaited an answer from the oracle of ammon, whence he had enquired what was best for man, persephone appeared to him in his sleep and said that she only of the gods had had no hymn from him, but that he should make her one shortly when he had come to her; and that he died within ten days of the vision. two several conquerors of thebes, pausanias of sparta and alexander of macedon, 'bade spare the house of pindarus, when temple and tower went to the ground.' at delphi they kept with reverence his iron chair, and the priest of apollo cried nightly as he closed the temple, 'let pindar the poet go in unto the supper of the god.' thus pindar was contemporary with an age of greek history which justifies the assertion of his consummate interest for the student of hellenic life in its prime. it was impossible that a man of his genius and temperament should have lived through these times without representing to us with breadth and intensity the spirit that was in them, and there are several points in pindar's circumstances which make his relation to his age peculiarly interesting. we may look on him as in some points supplementary to the great athenian dramatists, whose works are doubtless far the most valuable literary legacy of the time. perhaps however the surpassing brilliance of athenian literature and history has made us somewhat prone to forget the importance of non-athenian elements in the complex whole of hellenic life and thought. athens was the eye of hellas, nay, she had at marathon and salamis made good her claim to be called the saving arm, but there were other members not to be forgotten if we would picture to ourselves the national body in its completeness. pindar was a boeotian, of a country not rich in literary or indeed any kind of intellectual eminence, yet by no means to be ignored in an estimate of the hellenic race. politically indeed it only rises into pre-eminence under epameinondas; before and afterwards boeotian policy under the domination of thebes is seldom either beneficent or glorious: it must be remembered, however, that the gallant plataeans also were boeotians. the people of boeotia seem to have had generally an easy, rather sensually inclined nature, which accorded with their rich country and absence of nautical and commercial enterprise and excitement, but in their best men this disposition remains only in the form of a genial simplicity. pelopidas in political, and plutarch and pausanias in literary history, will be allowed to be instances of this. that the poetry which penetrated hellenic life was not wanting in boeotia we have proof enough in the existence of the sacred band, that goodly fellowship of friends which seems to have united what hallam has called the three strongest motives to enthusiastic action that have appeared in history, patriotism, chivalric honour, and religion. nor is there any nobler figure in history than that of epameinondas. one fact indeed there is which must always make the thought of pindar's theban citizenship painful to us, and that is the shameful part taken by thebes in the persian war, when compulsion of her exposed situation, and oligarchical cabal within her walls, drew her into unholy alliance with the barbarian invader. had it been otherwise how passionately pure would pindar's joy have uttered itself when the 'stone of tantalos' that hung over the head of hellas was smitten into dust in that greatest crisis of the fortunes of humanity. he exults nobly as it is, he does all honour to athens, 'bulwark of hellas,' but the shame of his own city, his 'mother' thebes, must have caused him a pang as bitter as a great soul has ever borne. for his very calling of song-writer to all hellenic states without discrimination, especially when the songs he had to write were of the class which we still possess, triumphal odes for victories in those great games which drew to them all men of hellenic blood at the feet of common deities, and which with each recurring festival could even hush the clamour of war in an imperious truce of god--such a calling and such associations must have cherished in him the passion for panhellenic brotherhood and unanimity, even had there not been much else both within and without him to join to the same generous end. it was the time when panhellenic feeling was probably stronger than ever before or after. before, the states had been occupied in building up their own polities independently; the hellenic activity had been dispersing itself centrifugally among the trans-marine colonies, and those of italy and sicily seemed at one time to make it doubtful whether the nucleus of civilization were to be there or in the mother-country. but by the time of the persian war the best energies of the race had concentrated themselves between the aegean and ionian seas; and the supreme danger of the war had bound the states together against the common enemy and taught them to forget smaller differences in the great strife between hellene and barbarian. yet again when that supreme danger was past the old quarrels arose anew more deadly and more complicated: instead of a persian there was a peloponnesian war, and the peloponnesian war in its latter stages came, by virtue of the political principles involved, to partake much of the character of a civil war. but the time of pindar, of aeschylus, of sophocles, of pheidias, of polygnotos, was that happy interval when hellas had beaten off the barbarian from her throat and had not yet murdered herself. and pindar's imagination and generosity were both kindled by the moment; there was no room in his mind for border squabbles, for commercial jealousies, for oligarchic or democratic envy: these things were overridden by a sentiment of nationality wanting indeed in many circumstances which modern nationalities deem essential to the existence of such sentiment, and many of which are really essential to its permanence--yet a sentiment which no other nation ever before or since can have possessed in the peculiar lustre which it then wore in hellas; for no other nation has ever before or since known what it was to stand alone immeasurably advanced at the head of the civilization of the world. pindar was of a noble family, of the house of the aigeidai, and it is probable that his kinsmen, or some of them, may have taken the side of oligarchy in the often recurring dissensions at thebes, but of this we know nothing certain. he himself seems to have taken no part in politics. when he speaks on the subject in his odes it is not with the voice of a partisan. an ochlocracy is hateful to him, but if he shows himself an 'aristocrat' it is in the literal and etymological meaning of the word. doubtless if pindar had been asked where the best servants of the state in public life were most likely to be found he would have answered that it would be among those ancient families in whose veins ran the blood of gods and demigods, who had spent blood and money for the city's honour, championing her in war or in the mimic strife of the games, who had honourable traditions to be guided by and an honourable name to lose or save. these things were seldom undervalued by hellenic feeling: even in athens, after it was already the headquarters of the democratic principle, the noble and wealthy families obtained, not probably without wisdom of their own in loyally accepting a democratic position, as fair a place and prospects as anywhere in hellas. but that, when the noble nature, the [greek: aretae], which traditions of nobility ought to have secured, was lacking, then wealth and birth were still entitled to power, this was a doctrine repugnant utterly to pindar's mind: nor would his indignation slumber when he saw the rich and highborn, however gifted, forgetting at any time that their power was a trust for the community and using it for their own selfish profit. an 'aristocrat' after pindar's mind would assuredly have a far keener eye to his duties than to his rights, would consider indeed that in his larger share of duties lay his infinitely most precious right. but he 'loved that beauty should go beautifully;' personal excellence of some kind was in his eyes essential; but on this he would fain shed outward radiance and majesty. his imagination rejoiced in splendour--splendour of stately palace--halls where the columns were of marble and the entablature of wrought gold, splendour of temples of gods where the sculptor's waxing art had brought the very deities to dwell with man, splendour of the white-pillared cities that glittered across the aegean and sicilian seas, splendour of the holy panhellenic games, of whirlwind chariots and the fiery grace of thoroughbreds, of the naked shapely limbs of the athlete man and boy. on this characteristic of pindar it is needless to dwell, for there are not many odes of those remaining which do not impress it on our minds. and it is more with him than a mere manner in poetical style. the same defect which we feel more or less present in all poets of antiquity--least of all perhaps in virgil and sophokles, but even in them somewhat--a certain want of widely sympathetic tenderness, this is unquestionably present in pindar. what of this quality may have found expression in his lost poems, especially the dirges, we can scarcely guess, but in his triumphal odes it hardly appears at all, unless in the touches of tender gracefulness into which he softens when speaking of the young. and we find this want in him mainly because objects of pity, such as especially elicit that quality of tenderness, are never or seldom present to pindar's mind. he sees evil only in the shape of some moral baseness, falsehood, envy, arrogance, and the like, to be scathed in passing by the good man's scorn, or else in the shape of a dark mystery of pain, to be endured by those on whom it causelessly falls in a proud though undefiant silence. it was not for him, as for the great tragedians, to 'purge the mind by pity and fear,' for those passions had scarcely a place in his own mind or in the minds of those of whom he in his high phantasy would fain have had the world consist. and as in this point somewhat, so still more in others, does pindar remind us, even more than might have been expected in a contemporary, of aeschylus. the latter by virtue of his athenian nurture as well as of his own greater natural gifts reveals to us a greater number of thoughts, and those more advanced and more interesting than we find in pindar, but the similarity in moral temper and tone is very striking, as also is the way in which we see this temper acting on their beliefs. both hold strongly, as is the wont of powerful minds in an age of stability as opposed to an age of transition, to the traditions and beliefs on which the society around them rests, but both modify these traditions and beliefs according to the light which arises in them, and which is as much moral as intellectual light. in so doing they are indeed in harmony with the best instincts of the society around them, but they lead and guide such instincts and give them shape and definiteness. in the oresteän trilogy of aeschylus we have an ever-memorable assertion of the supreme claims of human morality to human allegiance, of the eternal truth that humanity can know no object of reverence and worship except itself idealised, its own virtues victorious over its own vices, and existing in the greatest perfection which it can at any given time conceive. somewhat the same lesson as that of the oresteia is taught later, with more of sweetness and harmony, but not with more force, in the oedipus coloneus of sophokles. and in pindar we see the same tendencies inchoate. like aeschylus he does by implication subordinate to morality both politics and religion. he ignores or flatly denies tales that bring discredit on the gods; he will only bow down to them when they have the virtues he respects in man. yet he, like aeschylus and sophokles, does so bow down, sincerely and without hesitation, and that poets of their temper could do so was well indeed for poetry. by rare and happy fortune they were inspired at once by the rich and varied presences of mythology, 'the fair humanities of old religion,' and also by the highest aspirations of an age of moral and intellectual advance. we do not of course always, or even often, find the moral principles clearly and consciously expressed or consistently supported, but we cannot but feel that they are present in the shape of instincts, and those instincts pervading and architectonic. and if we allow so much of ethical enlightenment to these great spokesmen of the hellenic people, we cannot deny something of like honour to the race among whom they were reared. let us apportion our debt of gratitude to our forerunners as it is justly due. there would seem to be much of fallacy and of the injustice of a shallow judgment in the contrast as popularly drawn between 'hellenism' and 'hebraism,' according to which the former is spoken of as exclusively proclaiming to the world the value of beauty, the latter the value of righteousness. in this there is surely much injustice done to hellas. because she taught the one, she did not therefore leave the other untaught. it may have been for a short time, as her other greatness was for a short time, though its effects are eternal, but for that short time the national life, of athens at any rate, is at least as full of high moral feeling as that of any other people in the world. will not the names of solon, of aristeides, of kallikratidas, of epameinondas, of timoleon and many more, remind us that life could be to the hellene something of deeper moral import than a brilliant game, or a garden of vivid and sweet sights and sounds where beauty and knowledge entered, but goodness was forgotten and shut out? for it is not merely that these men, and very many more endowed with ample portion of their spirit, were produced and reared among the race; they were honoured and valued in a way that surely postulated the existence of high ethical feeling in their countrymen. and even when the days of unselfish statesmen and magnanimous cities were over, there were philosophers whose schools were not the less filled because they claimed a high place for righteousness in human life. to solon and aristeides succeeded socrates and plato, to epameinondas and timoleon succeeded zeno and epictetus. that the morality of the hellenes was complete on all sides, it would of course be irrational to maintain. they had not, for instance, any more than the hebrews, or any other nation of antiquity, learnt to abhor slavery, though probably it existed in a milder form at athens than anywhere else in the old or new world: they were more implacable in revenge and laxer in sexual indulgence than the christian ethics would allow in theory, though not perhaps much more so than christendom has shown itself in practice. and though undoubtedly the greatest single impulse ever given to morality came from palestine, yet the ground which nurtured the seeds of christianity was as much hellenic as hebrew. it would be impossible here to enter on an exhaustive comparison of the ethical capacities of the two races, but before we pronounce hastily for the superiority of the hebrew there are surely some difficulties to surmount. we may well ask, for example, would hellas ever have accepted as her chief national hero such a man as david a man who in his life is conspicuous by his crimes not less than by his brilliant gifts, and who dies with the words of blood and perfidy on his lips, charging his son with the last slaughterous satisfaction of his hate which he had sworn before his god to forego? and though the great hebrew prophets teach often a far loftier morality than this, they cannot have been nearly so representative of the feeling of this nation as were aeschylus and sophocles and pindar of the feeling of theirs. the hebrews of the prophets' age 'slew the prophets,' and left it to the slayers' descendants to 'build their sepulchres,' and at the same time to show their inherited character still more unmistakeably by once more slaying the last prophet and the greatest.[ ] in truth in the literature, the art, the life generally of hellas in her prime, the moral interest whenever it appears, and that is not seldom, claims for itself the grave and preponderant attention which it must claim if it is to appear with fit dignity. but it is not thrust forward unseasonably or in exaggeration, nor is it placed in a false opposition to the interests of the aesthetic instincts, which after all shade into the moral more imperceptibly than might be generally allowed. there must be a moral side to all societies, and the hellenic society, the choicest that the world has seen, the completest, that is, at once in sensibilities and in energies, could not but show the excellence of its sensibilities in receiving moral impressions, the excellence of its energies in achieving moral conduct. this, however, is no place to discuss at length questions in the history of ethics. yet it must be remembered that in the ancient world departments of thought, and the affairs of men generally, were far less specialized than in modern times. if the philosophy of hellas be the most explicit witness to her ethical development, her poetry is the most eloquent. and scarcely at any time, scarcely even in aristotle, did hellenic philosophy in any department lose most significant traces of its poetical ancestry. but enough here if i have succeeded in pointing out that in the great poet with whom we are concerned there is an ethical as well as a poetical and historical interest, supplying one more reason against neglect of his legacy of song. yet indeed even now there remains a further question which to the mind of any one who at present labours in this field of classical scholarship must recur persistently if not depressingly, and on which it is natural if not necessary to say a few words. if the selection of pindar in particular as a greek poet with claims to be further popularized among englishmen may be defended, there is still a more general count to which all who make endeavours to attract or retain attention to greek literature will in these times be called upon to plead by voices which command respect. to such pleas this is not the place to give large room, or to discriminate in detail between the reasonable and unreasonable elements in the attacks on a system of education in which a preeminent position is allotted to the literature of antiquity. while fully admitting that much time and labour are still wasted in efforts to plant the study of ancient and especially of greek literature in uncongenial soil, while admitting also most fully the claims, and the still imperfect recognition of the claims, of physical science to a rank among the foremost in modern education, i should yet be abundantly willing that this attempt to help in facilitating the study of a greek author should be looked on as implying adhesion to the protest still sometimes raised, that in the higher parts of a liberal education no study can claim a more important place than the study of the history and the literature of hellas. the interest which belongs to these is far wider and deeper than any mere literary interest. to the human mind the most interesting of phenomena are and ought to be the phenomena of the human mind, and this granted, can there be any knowledge more desirable than the knowledge of the most vigorous and sensitive and in some ways also the most fruitful action of human minds that the world has known hitherto? but again, we are told that the age we seek thus toilsomely to illustrate and realize is too remote to justify the attempt, that our civilisation is of too different a type from the hellenic, and that a gulf of three-and-twenty centuries is too much for our sight to strain across. but is not the hellenic life at least less remote now to western europe than it has ever been since the northern invasions? though the separation in time widens does not the separation in thought decrease? is not one civilisation more like another than it can be to any barbarism? and shall not this same physical science herself by accustoming us to look on men in large masses at once, and on the development of humanity as a process of infinite duration, as a sectional growth included in universal evolution--science, in whose eyes a thousand years are as a watch in the night--shall she not thereby quicken our sympathies with the most gifted race that has appeared in our short human history, and arouse the same feeling toward it as a family may cherish toward the memory of their best and choicest, who has died young? only let us take heed that such regret shall make us not more but less unworthy of those noble forerunners. one symptom of the renewed influence of antiquity on the modern world is doubtless and has been from time to time since the revival of letters a tendency to selfish and somewhat sickly theories so-called of life, where sensibility degenerates through self-consciousness into affectation, and efforts to appreciate fully the delightfulness of life and art are overstrained into a wearisome literary voluptuousness, where duty has already disappeared and the human sympathies on which duty is based scarcely linger in a faint aesthetic form, soon to leave the would-be exquisiteness to putrefy into the vulgarity of egoism. such tendencies have less in common with the hellenic prime than with the court of leo the tenth, though even that had perhaps an advantage over them as being in some ways a more real thing. but that the hellenic prime with all its exquisite sensibility was deficient in recognition of a high ideal of duty can never be believed among those who have studied it candidly and attentively; i have endeavoured above to suggest that in this point, take it all in all, it yields to no age or race. it would indeed be a mistaken following of those noble servants of humanity to draw from their memories an argument for selfish isolation or for despair of the commonwealth of man. he who has drunk deeply of that divine well and gazed long at the fair vision of what then was, will, if his nature be capable of true sympathy with the various elements of that wonderful age, turn again without bitterness to the confused modern world, saddened but not paralysed by the comparison, grieving, but with no querulous grief, for the certainty that those days are done. . prefatory note. the few notes appended to this translation are not intended to supply the place of such reference to dictionaries of mythology, antiquities and geography, as is needful to the student of pindar who is not already somewhat accomplished in knowledge of the customs, history and legendary traditions of hellas. and although it may reasonably be supposed that the chief of these will be already known to most readers of pindar, yet so profusely allusive is this poet that to understand his allusions will very often require knowledge which would not have been derived from a study of the more commonly read hellenic writers. nor have i attempted to trace in detail the connection of the parts in each ode which binds them into one harmonious whole with many meanings--a connection so consummately contrived where we can trace it that we may suppose it no less exquisite where we cannot. study and thought will generally suggest explanations, though these will sometimes approve themselves differently to different minds. too often we must acknowledge, as elsewhere in ancient literature, that the key is lost beyond all certain hope of recovery. still less have i attempted to discuss questions of critical scholarship. sometimes where there are more than one plausible reading i have signified which i adopt; once only (ol. . .) i have ventured on an emendation of my own. for the most part i have, as was natural, followed the text of böckh and dissen. in the spelling of names i remain in that inconsistency which at present attaches to most modern writers who deal with them. olympus, athens, corinth, syracuse, and the like are naturalized among us by long familiarity; it seems at present at least pedantic to change them. in the case of other less familiar names i have concurred with the desire, which seems in the main a reasonable one, that the names of hellenic persons and places should be reproduced, as far as possible, without latin mediation. of the fragments i have translated six of the longest and most interesting. they are in all, but the greater part are not longer than a line or two, and very many even shorter. the odes are unequal in poetical merit, and many readers may not unreasonably wish to have those pointed out which, in the judgement of one acquainted with all, are among the best worth reading; though of course the choice of individual readers will not always be the same. to those therefore who would wish to begin with a selection, the following may be recommended as at any rate among those of preeminent merit: pyth. , , , , ; ol. , , , , , , ; nem. , ; isthm. , ; all the fragments translated. in the arrangement of the odes i have adhered to the traditional order. i should much have liked to place them in what must always be the most interesting and rational arrangement of a poet's works, that is, in chronological order. this would have been approximately possible, as we know the dates of the greater part of them. but convenience of reference and of comparison with the greek text seems to supply a balance of reasons on the other side. subjoined however is a list of the odes in their probable chronological order so far as it can be obtained. pythian -------------b.c. . " ------------- " . " ------------- " or . " ------------- " . " ------------- " or . olympian } ---------- " . " } ---------- " . isthmian nemean isthmian ------------ " . isthmian pythian -------------- " . " -------------- " . " -------------- " . " -------------- " . olympian -------------- " . " }----------------- " . " }----------------- " . pythian nemean --------------- " . olympian --------------- " . " -------------- " . nemean isthmian olympian -------------- " . pythian }------------- " . " } olympian -------------- " . " -------------- " . nemean " " " " olympian -------------- " . isthmian olympian }------------ " . " } the olympic games were held once in four years, in honour of zeus. the prize was a wreath of wild olive. the pythian games were held once in four years, in honour of apollo. the prize was a wreath of bay. the nemean games were held once in two years, in honour of zeus. the prize was a wreath of wild parsley. the isthmian games were held once in two years, in honour of poseidon. the prize was a wreath of wild parsley or of pine. [footnote : the importance and interest to a student in hellenic literature of a collateral study of whatever remains to us of hellenic plastic art--statues, vases, gems, and coins--can hardly be too strongly insisted on.] [footnote : in mr. j.a. symonds' 'studies of the greek poets' there is an essay on pindar which dwells with much appreciative eloquence upon the poets literary characteristics.] [footnote : in thus touching on the obligations of our morality to the hebrew and to the hellene respectively, i have insisted more exclusively on the weak points of the former than i should have done in a fuller discussion of the subject: here i am merely concerned to question in passing what seems to be a popular one-sided estimate.] * * * * * olympian odes. i. for hieron of syracuse, winner in the horse-race. * * * * * this ode seems to owe its position at the head of pindar's extant works to aristophanes the grammarian, who placed it there on account of its being specially occupied with the glorification of the olympic games in comparison with others, and with the story of pelops, who was their founder. hieron won this race b.c. , while at the height of his power at syracuse. probably the ode was sung at syracuse, perhaps, as has been suggested, at a banquet. * * * * * best is water of all, and gold as a flaming fire in the night shineth eminent amid lordly wealth; but if of prizes in the games thou art fain, o my soul, to tell, then, as for no bright star more quickening than the sun must thou search in the void firmament by day, so neither shall we find any games greater than the olympic whereof to utter our voice: for hence cometh the glorious hymn and entereth into the minds of the skilled in song, so that they celebrate the son[ ] of kronos, when to the rich and happy hearth of hieron they are come; for he wieldeth the sceptre of justice in sicily of many flocks, culling the choice fruits of all kinds of excellence: and with the flower of music is he made splendid, even such strains as we sing blithely at the table of a friend. take from the peg the dorian lute, if in any wise the glory of pherenikos[ ] at pisa hath swayed thy soul unto glad thoughts, when by the banks of alpheos he ran, and gave his body ungoaded in the course, and brought victory to his master, the syracusans' king, who delighteth in horses. bright is his fame in lydian pelops' colony[ ], inhabited of a goodly race, whose founder mighty earth-enfolding poseidon loved, what time from the vessel of purifying[ ] klotho took him with the bright ivory furnishment of his shoulder. verily many things are wondrous, and haply tales decked out with cunning fables beyond the truth make false men's speech concerning them. for charis[ ], who maketh all sweet things for mortal men, by lending honour unto such maketh oft the unbelievable thing to be believed; but the days that follow after are the wisest witnesses. meet is it for a man that concerning gods he speak honourably; for the reproach is less. of thee, son of tantalos, i will speak contrariwise to them who have gone before me, and i will tell how when thy father had bidden thee to that most seemly feast at his beloved sipylos, repaying to the gods their banquet, then did he of the bright trident[ ], his heart vanquished by love, snatch thee and bear thee behind his golden steeds to the house of august zeus in the highest, whither again on a like errand came ganymede in the after time. but when thou hadst vanished, and the men who sought thee long brought thee not to thy mother, some one of the envious neighbours said secretly that over water heated to boiling they had hewn asunder with a knife thy limbs, and at the tables had shared among them and eaten sodden fragments of thy flesh. but to me it is impossible to call one of the blessed gods cannibal; i keep aloof; in telling ill tales is often little gain. now if any man ever had honour of the guardians of olympus, tantalos was that man; but his high fortune he could not digest, and by excess thereof won him an overwhelming woe, in that the father hath hung above him a mighty stone that he would fain ward from his head, and therewithal he is fallen from joy. this hopeless life of endless misery he endureth with other three[ ], for that he stole from the immortals and gave to his fellows at a feast the nectar and ambrosia, whereby the gods had made him incorruptible. but if a man thinketh that in doing aught he shall be hidden from god, he erreth. therefore also the immortals sent back again his son to be once more counted with the short-lived race of men. and he when toward the bloom of his sweet youth the down began to shade his darkening cheek, took counsel with himself speedily to take to him for his wife the noble hippodameia from her pisan father's hand. and he came and stood upon the margin of the hoary sea, alone in the darkness of the night, and called aloud on the deep-voiced wielder of the trident; and he appeared unto him nigh at his foot. then he said unto him: 'lo now, o poseidon, if the kind gifts of the cyprian goddess are anywise pleasant in thine eyes, restrain oinomaos' bronze spear, and send me unto elis upon a chariot exceeding swift, and give the victory to my hands. thirteen lovers already hath oinomaos slain, and still delayeth to give his daughter in marriage. now a great peril alloweth not of a coward: and forasmuch as men must die, wherefore should one sit vainly in the dark through a dull and nameless age, and without lot in noble deeds? not so, but i will dare this strife: do thou give the issue i desire.' thus spake he, nor were his words in vain: for the god made him a glorious gift of a golden car and winged untiring steeds: so he overcame oinomaos and won the maiden for his bride. and he begat six sons, chieftains, whose thoughts were ever of brave deeds: and now hath he part in honour of blood-offerings in his grave beside alpheos' stream, and hath a frequented tomb, whereto many strangers resort: and from afar off he beholdeth the glory of the olympian games in the courses called of pelops, where is striving of swift feet and of strong bodies brave to labour; but he that overcometh hath for the sake of those games a sweet tranquillity throughout his life for evermore. now the good that cometh of to-day is ever sovereign unto every man. my part it is to crown hieron with an equestrian strain in aeolian mood: and sure am i that no host among men that now are shall i ever glorify in sounding labyrinths of song more learned in the learning of honour and withal with more might to work thereto. a god hath guard over thy hopes, o hieron, and taketh care for them with a peculiar care: and if he fail thee not, i trust that i shall again proclaim in song a sweeter glory yet, and find thereto in words a ready way, when to the fair-shining hill of kronos i am come. her strongest-wingëd dart my muse hath yet in store. of many kinds is the greatness of men; but the highest is to be achieved by kings. look not thou for more than this. may it be thine to walk loftily all thy life, and mine to be the friend of winners in the games, winning honour for my art among hellenes everywhere. [footnote : the olympic games were sacred to zeus.] [footnote : the horse that won this race for hieron.] [footnote : peloponnesos.] [footnote : i. e. immediately on his birth, for among the fates klotho was peculiarly concerned with the beginning of man's life. pindar refuses to accept the legend which made pelops' ivory shoulder a substitute for his fleshly one eaten at tantalos' table by the gods; for thus the gods would have been guilty of an infamous act.] [footnote : goddess of grace or beauty. often there are three charites or graces. pindar means here that men are prone to believe an untrue tale for the sake of the beauty of the form in which it is presented, but that such tales will not stand the test of time.] [footnote : poseidon.] [footnote : sisyphos, ixion, and tityos.] ii. for theron of akragas, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * theron's ancestors the emmenidai migrated from rhodes to sicily and first colonized gela and then akragas (the latin agrigentum and italian girgenti). his chariot won this victory b.c. . * * * * * lords of the lute[ ], my songs, what god, what hero, or what man, are we to celebrate?[ ] verily of zeus is pisa the abode, of herakles the olympian feast was founded from the chief spoils of war, and theron's name must we proclaim for his victory with the four-horse-car, a righteous and god-fearing host, the stay of akragas, of famous sires the flower, a saviour of the state. they after long toils bravely borne took by a river's side a sacred dwelling place, and became the eye of sicily, and a life of good luck clave to them, bringing them wealth and honour to crown their inborn worth. o son of kronos and of rhea, lord of olympus' seat, and of the chief of games and of alpheos' ford, for joy in these my songs guard ever graciously their native fields for their sons that shall come after them. now of deeds done whether they be right or wrong not even time the father of all can make undone the accomplishment, yet with happy fortune forgetfulness may come. for by high delights an alien pain is quelled and dieth, when the decree of god sendeth happiness to grow aloft and widely. and this word is true concerning kadmos' fair-throned daughters, whose calamities were great, yet their sore grief fell before greater good. amid the olympians long-haired semele still liveth, albeit she perished in the thunder's roar, and pallas cherisheth her ever, and father zeus exceedingly, and her son, the ivy-bearing god. and in the sea too they say that to ino, among the sea-maids of nereus, life incorruptible hath been ordained for evermore. ay but to mortals the day of death is certain never, neither at what time we shall see in calm the end of one of the sun's children, the days, with good thitherto unfailing; now this way and now that run currents bringing joys or toils to men. thus destiny which from their fathers holdeth the happy fortune of this race[ ], together with prosperity heaven-sent bringeth ever at some other time better reverse: from the day when laïos was slain by his destined son[ ] who met him on the road and made fulfilment of the oracle spoken of old at pytho. then swift erinys when she saw it slew by each other's hand his war-like sons: yet after that polyneikes fell thersander[ ] lived after him and won honour in the second strife[ ] and in the fights of war, a saviour scion to the adrastid house. from him they have beginning of their race: meet is it that ainesidamos receive our hymn of triumph, on the lyre. for at olympia he himself received a prize and at pytho, and at the isthmus to his brother of no less a lot did kindred graces bring crowns for the twelve rounds of the four-horse chariot-race. victory setteth free the essayer from the struggle's griefs, yea and the wealth that a noble nature hath made glorious bringeth power for this and that, putting into the heart of man a deep and eager mood, a star far seen, a light wherein a man shall trust if but[ ] the holder thereof knoweth the things that shall be, how that of all who die the guilty souls pay penalty, for all the sins sinned in this realm of zeus one judgeth under earth, pronouncing sentence by unloved constraint. but evenly ever in sunlight night and day an unlaborious life the good receive, neither with violent hand vex they the earth nor the waters of the sea, in that new world; but with the honoured of the gods, whosoever had pleasure in keeping of oaths, they possess a tearless life: but the other part suffer pain too dire to look upon. then whosoever have been of good courage to the abiding steadfast thrice on either side of death and have refrained their souls from all iniquity, travel the road of zeus unto the tower of kronos: there round the islands of the blest the ocean-breezes blow, and golden flowers are glowing, some from the land on trees of splendour, and some the water feedeth, with wreaths whereof they entwine their hands: so ordereth rhadamanthos' just decree, whom at his own right hand hath ever the father kronos, husband of rhea, throned above all worlds[ ]. peleus and kadmos are counted of that company; and the mother of achilles, when her prayer had moved the heart of zeus, bare thither her son, even him who overthrew hector, troy's unbending invincible pillar, even him who gave kyknos to death and the ethiop son[ ] of the morning. many swift arrows have i beneath my bended arm within my quiver, arrows that have a voice for the wise, but for the multitude they need interpreters. his art is true who of his nature hath knowledge; they who have but learnt, strong in the multitude of words, are but as crows that chatter vain things in strife against the divine bird of zeus. come bend thy bow on the mark, o my soul--at whom again are we to launch our shafts of honour from a friendly mind? at akragas will i take aim, and will proclaim and swear it with a mind of truth, that for a hundred years no city hath brought forth a man of mind more prone to well-doing towards friends or of more liberal mood than theron. yet praise is overtaken of distaste, wherewith is no justice, but from covetous men it cometh, and is fain to babble against and darken the good man's noble deeds. the sea-sand none hath numbered; and the joys that theron hath given to others--who shall declare the tale thereof? [footnote : in hellenic music the accompaniment was deemed subordinate to the words.] [footnote : here are three questions and three answers.] [footnote : the emmenidai.] [footnote : oedipus.] [footnote : son of polyneikes. theron traced his descent from him.] [footnote : the war of the epigonoi against thebes.] [footnote : reading [greek: ei ge min echon]. the old readings were [greek: ei de min echon] and [greek: ei de min echei; eu de min echon] has also been suggested; but of these three none seems to me to be at all satisfactory. in the reading i suggest the change is very slight, and it makes good sense.] [footnote : for pindar's ideas as to a future life see especially the fragments of his dirges which remain to us. he seems to have been influenced by pythagoreanism.] [footnote : memnon.] iii. for theron of akragas, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this ode celebrates the same victory as the preceeding one. it was sung at the feast of the theoxenia, given by theron in the name of the dioskouroi (kastor and polydeukes) to the other gods. hence the epithet _hospitable_ ([greek: philoxeinois]) applied to the dioskouroi in the first line. the clan of the emmenidai to which theron belonged was especially devoted to the worship of the twins. * * * * * tyndareus' hospitable sons and lovely-haired helen shall i please assuredly in doing honour to renownëd akragas by a hymn upraised for theron's olympian crown; for hereunto hath the muse been present with me that i should find out a fair new[ ] device, fitting to feet that move in dorian time the komos-voices' splendid strain. for crowns entwined about his hair demand from me this god-appointed debt, that for ainesidamos' son i join in seemly sort the lyre of various tones with the flute's cry and ordering of words. and pisa bids me speak aloud, for from her come to men songs of divine assignment, when the just judge of games the aitolian[ ] man, fulfilling herakles' behests of old, hath laid upon one's hair above his brows pale-gleaming glory of olive. that tree from ister's shadowy springs did the son of amphitryon bear to be a memorial most glorious of olympian triumphs, when that by his words he had won the hyperborean folk, who serve apollo. in loyal temper he besought for the precinct of zeus, whereto all men go up, a plant that should be a shadow of all folk in common, and withal a crown for valorous deeds. for already, when the altars had been sanctified to his sire, the midmonth moon riding her golden car lit full the counter-flame of the eye of even, and just judgment of great games did he ordain, and the fifth year's feast beside the holy steeps of alpheos[ ]. but no fair trees were nursed upon that place in kronian pelops' glens; whereof being naked his garden seemed to him to be given over to the keen rays of the sun. then was it that his soul stirred to urge him into the land of ister; where leto's horse-loving daughter[ ] received him erst when he was come from the ridged hills and winding dells of arcady, what time his father laid constraint upon him to go at eurystheus' bidding to fetch the golden-hornëd hind, which once taÿgete vowed to her[ ] of orthion and made a sign thereon of consecration. for in that chase he saw also the land that lieth behind the blast of the cold north-wind: there he halted and marvelled at the trees: and sweet desire thereof possessed him that he might plant them at the end of the course which the race-horses should run twelve times round. so now to this feast cometh he in good-will in company with the twins divine, deep-girdled leto's children. for to them he gave charge when he ascended into olympus to order the spectacle of the games, both the struggle of man with man, and the driving of the nimble car. me anywise my soul stirreth to declare that to the emmenidai and to theron hath glory come by gift of the tyndaridai of goodly steeds, for that beyond all mortals they do honour to them with tables of hospitality, keeping with pious spirit the rite of blessed gods. now if water be the best[ ], and of possessions gold be the most precious, so now to the furthest bound doth theron by his fair deeds attain, and from his own home touch the pillars of herakles. pathless the things beyond, pathless alike to the unwise and the wise. here i will search no more; the quest were vain. [footnote : i. e. probably a new combination of lyre and flute to accompany the singing.] [footnote : when the dorians invaded peloponnesos one of their leaders is said to have been oxylos, a man of elean descent but living in aitolia. as a result of the invasion he became king of elis; and the judge at the olympic games seems to have been considered a descendant of him or of some aitolian who came with him.] [footnote : the olympic games were held in the middle of the month hekatombaion, when the moon was full. it is here implied that herakles wished to institute them when the moon was full, as that was a season of good luck.] [footnote : artemis.] [footnote : artemis.] [footnote : see ol. i. .] iv. for psaumis of kamarina, winner in the mule-chariot-race. * * * * * psaumis won this race in the year ; therefore this ode and its companion, the next following, are the latest work of pindar possessed by us to which we can assign a date. the mule-chariot-race was introduced at olympia b.c. and abolished b.c. , according to pausanias. this ode seems to have been written immediately on psaumis' victory, to be sung the same night beneath the moon by the company of friends who escorted the winner to return thanks at the altar of zeus. * * * * * hurler of thunderbolts unfaltering, the most high zeus, for that thy chosen hour recurrent hath sent me with a song set to the music of the subtle lute for a witness to the greatest of all games--and when friends have good hap the good are glad forthwith at the sweet tidings--now therefore, o son of kronos, unto whom Ã�tna belongeth, the wind-beaten burden that crusheth fierce typhon's hundred heads, receive thou this band of triumph for an olympian victory won by the graces' aid, a most enduring light of far-prevailing valorous deeds. for the sake of psaumis' mule-chariot it draweth nigh to thee--psaumis, who, crowned with pisan olive, hasteth to raise up glory for kamarina. may god be gracious to our prayers for what shall be! for i praise him as a man most zealous in the rearing of horses, and delighting in ever-open hospitality, and bent on peace and on the welfare of his city, with guileless soul. with no lie will i tinge my tale: trial is the test of men; this it was that delivered the son of klymenos from the lemnian women's slight. he, when he had won the foot-race in bronze armour[ ], spake thus to hypsipyle as he went to receive his crown: 'for fleetness such am i: hands have i and a heart to match. so also on young men grow oftentimes grey hairs even before the natural season of man's life[ ].' [footnote : see introduction to pythian ix.] [footnote : we may suppose that psaumis probably had grey hair.] v. for psaumis of kamarina, winner in the mule-chariot-race. * * * * * this ode is for the same victory as the foregoing one, but was to be sung after psaumis' return home, at kamarina, and probably at, or in procession to, a temple of either pallas, zeus, or the tutelary nymph kamarina, all of whom are invoked. the city is called 'new-peopled' ([greek: neoikos]) because it had been destroyed by gelo, and was only restored b.c. , nine years before this victory, the first which had been won by any citizen since its restoration. * * * * * of lofty deeds and crowns olympian this sweet delight, o daughter[ ] of ocean, with glad heart receive, the gift of psaumis and his untiring car. he to make great thy city, kamarina, with its fostered folk, hath honoured six twin altars in great feasts of the gods with sacrifices of oxen and five-day contests of games, with chariots of horses and of mules and with the steed of single frontlet[ ]. to thee hath the victor consecrated the proud token[ ] of his fame, and hath glorified by the herald's voice his father akron and this new-peopled town. also, returning from the gracious dwelling place of oinomaos and pelops, thy sacred grove, o city-guarding pallas, doth he sing, and the river oanis, and the lake of his native land, and the sacred channels wherethrough doth hipparis give water to the people, and build[ ] with speed a lofty forest of stedfast dwellings, bringing from perplexity to the light this commonwealth of citizens. now ever in fair deeds must toil and cost contend toward an accomplishment hidden in perilous chance: yet if men have good hap therein, even to their own townsfolk is their wisdom approved. o guardian zeus that sittest above the clouds, that inhabitest the kronian hill and honourest the broad river of alpheos and ida's holy cave, suppliant to thee i come, making my cry on lydian flutes, to pray thee that thou wilt glorify this city with brave men's renown. for thee also, olympian victor, i pray that, joying in the steeds poseidon[ ] gave, thou mayest bear with thee to the end a serene old age, and may thy sons, o psaumis, be at thy side. if a man cherish his wealth to sound ends, having a sufficiency of goods and adding thereto fair repute, let him not seek to become a god. [footnote : kamarina.] [footnote : i. e. probably with horses ridden, not driven.] [footnote : his olympian crown of wild olive.] [footnote : this seems to mean that the new city was built with wood brought down the stream of the river hipparis.] [footnote : when poseidon and athene were contending for the protectorate of athens, poseidon brought the first horse up out of the earth, athene the first olive-tree.] vi. for agesias of syracuse, winner in the mule-chariot-race. * * * * * one of the iamid clan, to which belonged hereditary priestly functions in arcadia and at olympia, had come with the first colonists to syracuse, and from him the present victor agesias was descended. thus the ode is chiefly concerned with the story of his ancestor iamos. agesias was a citizen of stymphalos in arcadia, as well as of syracuse, where he lived, and the ode was sung by a chorus in stymphalos, b.c. . * * * * * golden pillars will we set up in the porch of the house of our song, as in a stately palace-hall; for it beseemeth that in the fore-front of the work the entablature shoot far its splendour. now if one be an olympian conqueror and treasurer to the prophetic altar of zeus at pisa, and joint founder[ ] of glorious syracuse, shall such an one hide him from hymns of praise, if his lot be among citizens who hear without envy the desired sounds of song? for in a sandal of such sort let the son of sostratos know that his fortunate foot is set. deeds of no risk are honourless whether done among men or among hollow ships; but if a noble deed be wrought with labour, many make mention thereof. for thee, agesias, is that praise prepared which justly and openly adrastos spake of old concerning the seer amphiaraos the son of oikleus, when the earth had swallowed him and his shining steeds. for afterward, when on seven pyres dead men were burnt, the son[ ] of talaos spake on this wise: 'i seek the eye of my host, him who was alike a good seer and a good fighter with the spear.' this praise also belongeth to the syracusan who is lord of this triumphal song. i who am no friend of strife or wrongful quarrel will bear him this witness even with a solemn oath, and the sweet voice of the muses shall not say me nay. o phintis[ ] yoke me now with all speed the strength of thy mules that on the clear highway we may set our car, that i may go up to the far beginning of this race. for those mules know well to lead the way in this course as in others, who at olympia have won crowns: it behoveth them that we throw open to them the gates of song, for to pitane by eurotas' stream must i begone betimes to-day. now pitane[ ], they say, lay with poseidon the son of kronos and bare the child euadne with tresses iris-dark. the fruit of her body unwedded she hid by her robe's folds, and in the month of her delivery she sent her handmaids and bade them give the child to the hero son[ ] of elatos to rear, who was lord of the men of arcady who dwelt at phaisane, and had for his lot alpheos to dwell beside. there was the child euadne nurtured, and by apollo's side she first knew the joys of aphrodite. but she might not always hide from aipytos the seed of the god within her; and he in his heart struggling with bitter strain against a grief too great for speech betook him to pytho that he might ask of the oracle concerning the intolerable woe. but she beneath a thicket's shade put from her silver pitcher and her girdle of scarlet web, and she brought forth a boy in whom was the spirit of god. by her side the gold-haired god set kindly eleutho and the fates, and from her womb in easy travail came forth iamos to the light. him in her anguish she left upon the ground, but by the counsel of gods two bright-eyed serpents nursed and fed him with the harmless venom[ ] of the bee. but when the king came back from rocky delphi in his chariot he asked all who were in the house concerning the child whom euadne had born; for he said that the sire whereof he was begotten was phoibos, and that he should be a prophet unto the people of the land excelling all mortal men, and that his seed should be for ever. such was his tale, but they answered that they had neither seen nor heard of him, though he was now born five days. for he was hidden among rushes in an impenetrable brake, his tender body all suffused with golden and deep purple gleams of iris flowers; wherefore his mother prophesied saying that by this holy name[ ] of immortality he should be called throughout all time. but when he had come to the ripeness of golden-crowned sweet youth, he went down into the middle of alpheos and called on wide-ruling poseidon his grandsire, and on the guardian of god-built delos, the bearer of the bow[ ], praying that honour might be upon his head for the rearing of a people; and he stood beneath the heavens, and it was night. then the infallible voice of his father answered and said unto him: arise, my son, and come hither, following my voice, into a place where all men shall meet together. so they came to the steep rock of lofty kronion; there the god gave him a twofold treasure of prophecy, that for the time then being he should hearken to his voice that cannot lie; but when herakles of valorous counsels, the sacred scion of the alkeidai, should have come, and should have founded a multitudinous feast and the chief ordinance of games[ ], then again on the summit of the altar of zeus he bade him establish yet another oracle, that thenceforth the race of iamidai should be glorious among hellenes. good luck abode with them; for that they know the worth of valour they are entered on a glorious road. the matter proveth the man, but from the envious calumny ever threateneth them on whom, as they drive foremost in the twelfth[ ] round of the course, charis sheddeth blushing beauty to win them fame more fair. now if in very truth, agesias, thy mother's ancestors dwelling by the borders of kyllene did piously and oft offer up prayer and sacrifice to hermes, herald of the gods, who hath to his keeping the strife and appointment of games, and doeth honour to arcadia the nurse of goodly men,--then surely he, o son of sostratos, with his loud-thundering sire, is the accomplisher of this thy bliss. methinks i have upon my tongue a whetstone of loud sounding speech, which to harmonious breath constraineth me nothing loth. mother of my mother was stymphalian metope[ ] of fair flowers, for she bare thebe the charioteer, whose pleasant fountain i will drink, while i weave for warriors the changes of my song. now rouse thy fellows, ainëas, first to proclaim the name of maiden[ ] hera, and next to know for sure whether we are escaped from the ancient reproach that spake truly of boeotian swine. for thou art a true messenger, a writing-tally[ ] of the muses goodly-haired, a bowl wherein to mix high-sounding songs. and bid them make mention of syracuse and of ortygia, which hieron ruleth with righteous sceptre devising true counsels, and doth honour to demeter whose footsteps make red the corn, and to the feast of her daughter with white steeds, and to the might of aetnaean zeus. also he is well known of the sweet voices of the song and lute. let not the on-coming time break his good fortune. and with joyful welcome may he receive this triumphal song, which travelleth from home to home, leaving stymphalos' walls, the mother-city of arcadia, rich in flocks. good in a stormy night are two anchors let fall from a swift ship. may friendly gods grant to both peoples[ ] an illustrious lot: and thou o lord and ruler of the sea, husband of amphitrite of the golden distaff, grant this my friend straight voyage and unharmed, and bless the joyous flower of my song. [footnote : agesias is so called because an iamid ancestor of his had gone with archias when he planted the corinthian colony of syracuse.] [footnote : adrastos.] [footnote : phintis was agesias' charioteer.] [footnote : i. e. the nymph who gave her name to the place.] [footnote : aipytos.] [footnote : honey.] [footnote : iamos, from [greek: ion]: the iris was considered a symbol of immortality.] [footnote : his father, apollo.] [footnote : at olympia.] [footnote : the course in the chariot-race was twelve times round the hippodrome.] [footnote : the nymph of the lake metopë near stymphalos.] [footnote : hera was worshipped in her prenuptial as well as her postnuptial state.] [footnote : it was a custom between correspondents who wished for secrecy to have duplicate [greek: skutalai], or letter-sticks. the writer wrote on a roll wrapt round his stick, and the receiver of the letter read it wrapt similarly on his. and thus aineas the bearer of this ode would teach the chorus of stymphalians how rightly to sing and understand it. see [greek: skutalae] in dict. ant.] [footnote : i. e. of stymphalos and syracuse. agesias was a citizen of both, and thus his two homes are compared to two anchors.] vii. for diagoras of rhodes, winner in the boxing-match. * * * * * rhodes is said to have been colonised at the time of the dorian migrations by argive dorians from epidauros, who were herakleidai of of the family of tlepolemos. they founded a confederacy of three cities, kameiros, lindos, and ialysos. ialysos was then ruled by the dynasty of the eratidai. their kingly power had now been extinct two hundred years, but the family was still pre-eminent in the state. of this family was diagoras, and probably the ode was sung at a family festival; but it commemorates the glories of the island generally. the rhodians caused it to be engraved in letters of gold in the temple of athene at lindos. there is a noteworthy incident of the peloponnesian war which should be remembered in connection with this ode. in the year , fifty-eight years after this victory of diagoras, during the final and most embittering agony of athens, one dorieus, a son of diagoras, and himself a famous athlete, was captured by the athenians in a sea-fight. it was then the custom either to release prisoners of war for a ransom or else to put them to death. the athenians asked no ransom of dorieus, but set him free on the spot. * * * * * as when from a wealthy hand one lifting a cup, made glad within with the dew of the vine, maketh gift thereof to a youth his daughter's spouse, a largess of the feast from home to home, an all-golden choicest treasure, that the banquet may have grace, and that he may glorify his kin; and therewith he maketh him envied in the eyes of the friends around him for a wedlock wherein hearts are wedded-- so also i, my liquid nectar sending, the muses' gift, the sweet fruit of my soul, to men that are winners in the games at pytho or olympia make holy offering. happy is he whom good report encompasseth; now on one man, now on another doth the grace that quickeneth look favourably, and tune for him the lyre and the pipe's stops of music manifold. thus to the sound of the twain am i come with diagoras sailing home, to sing the sea-girt rhodes, child of aphrodite and bride of helios, that to a mighty and fair-fighting man, who by alpheos' stream and by kastalia's hath won him crowns, i may for his boxing make award of glory, and to his father demegetos in whom justice hath her delight, dwellers in the isle of three cities with an argive host, nigh to a promontory of spacious asia. fain would i truly tell from the beginning from tlepolemos the message of my word, the common right of this puissant seed of herakles. for on the father's side they claim from zeus, and on the mother's from astydameia, sons of amyntor. now round the minds of men hang follies unnumbered--this is the unachievable thing, to find what shall be best hap for a man both presently and also at the last. yea for the very founder[ ] of this country once on a time struck with his staff of tough wild-olive-wood alkmene's bastard brother likymnios in tiryns as he came forth from midea's chamber, and slew him in the kindling of his wrath. so even the wise man's feet are turned astray by tumult of the soul. then he came to enquire of the oracle of god. and he of the golden hair from his sweet-incensed shrine spake unto him of a sailing of ships that should be from the shore of lerna unto a pasture ringed with sea, where sometime the great king of gods rained on the city golden snow, what time by hephaistos' handicraft beneath the bronze-wrought axe from the crown of her father's head athene leapt to light and cried aloud with an exceeding cry; and heaven trembled at her coming, and earth, the mother. then also the god who giveth light to men, hyperion, bade his beloved sons see that they guard the payment of the debt, that they should build first for the goddess an altar in the sight of all men, and laying thereon a holy offering they should make glad the hearts of the father and of his daughter of the sounding spear. now reverence, forethought's child, putteth valour and the joy of battle into the hearts of men; yet withal there cometh upon them bafflingly the cloud of forgetfulness and maketh the mind to swerve from the straight path of action. for they though they had brands burning yet kindled not the seed of flame, but with fireless rites they made a grove on the hill of the citadel. for them zeus brought a yellow cloud into the sky and rained much gold upon the land; and glaukopis herself gave them to excel the dwellers upon earth in every art of handicraft. for on their roads ran the semblances of beasts and creeping things: whereof they have great glory, for to him that hath knowledge the subtlety that is without deceit[ ] is the greater altogether. now the ancient story of men saith that when zeus and the other gods made division of the earth among them, not yet was island rhodes apparent in the open sea, but in the briny depths lay hid. and for that helios was otherwhere, none drew a lot for him; so they left him portionless of land, that holy god. and when he spake thereof zeus would cast lots afresh; but he suffered him not, for that he said that beneath the hoary sea he saw a certain land waxing from its root in earth, that should bring forth food for many men, and rejoice in flocks. and straightway he bade her of the golden fillet, lachesis, to stretch her hands on high, nor violate the gods' great oath, but with the son of kronos promise him that the isle sent up to the light of heaven should be thenceforth a title of himself alone. and in the end of the matter his speech had fulfilment; there sprang up from the watery main an island, and the father who begetteth the keen rays of day hath the dominion thereof, even the lord of fire-breathing steeds. there sometime having lain with rhodos he begat seven sons, who had of him minds wiser than any among the men of old; and one begat kameiros, and ialysos his eldest, and lindos: and they held each apart their shares of cities, making threefold division of their father's land, and these men call their dwelling-places. there is a sweet amends for his piteous ill-hap ordained for tlepolemos leader of the tirynthians at the beginning, as for a god, even the leading thither of sheep for a savoury burnt-offering, and the award of honour in games[ ]. of garlands from these games hath diagoras twice won him crowns, and four times he had good luck at famous isthmos and twice following at nemea, and twice at rocky athens. and at argos the bronze shield knoweth him, and the deeds of arcadia and of thebes and the yearly games boeotian, and pellene and aigina where six times he won; and the pillar of stone at megara hath the same tale to tell. but do thou, o father zeus, who holdest sway on the mountain-ridges of atabyrios glorify the accustomed olympian winner's hymn, and the man who hath done valiantly with his fists: give him honour at the hands of citizens and of strangers; for he walketh in the straight way that abhorreth insolence, having learnt well the lessons his true soul hath taught him, which hath come to him from his noble sires. darken not thou the light of one who springeth from the same stock of kallianax. surely with the joys of eratidai the whole city maketh mirth. but the varying breezes even at the same point of time speed each upon their various ways. [footnote : tlepolemos.] [footnote : that is, probably, without magic, or the pretence of being anything but machines. this is considered an allusion to the telchines who lived before the heliadai in rhodes, and were magicians as well as craftsmen. for illustrations of rhodian art at various times the british museum may be consulted, which is particularly rich in vases from kameiros and ialysos.] [footnote : that is, he presides over the celebration of games, as tutelar hero of the island.] viii. for alkimedon of aigina, winner in the wrestling-match of boys. * * * * * the date of this victory is b.c. . long as the ode is, it would seem however to have been written, like the fourth olympian, to be sung in the procession to the altar of zeus on the night of the victory. of the forty-four odes remaining to us no less than eleven are in honour of winners from aigina. * * * * * o mother of gold-crowned contests, olympia, queen of truth; where men that are diviners observing burnt-offerings make trial of zeus the wielder of white lightnings, whether he hath any word concerning men who seek in their hearts to attain unto great prowess and a breathing-space from toil; for it is given in answer to the reverent prayers of men--do thou, o tree-clad precinct of pisa by alpheos, receive this triumph and the carrying of the crown. great is his glory ever on whom the splendour of thy honour waiteth. yet this good cometh to one, that to another, and many are the roads to happy life by the grace of gods. thee, o timosthenes[ ], and thy brother hath destiny assigned to zeus the guardian of your house, even to him who hath made thee glorious at nemea, and alkimedon by the hill of kronos a winner in olympic games. now the boy was fair to look upon, neither shamed he by his deeds his beauty, but in the wrestling match victorious made proclamation that his country was aigina of long oars, where saviour themis who sitteth in judgment by zeus the stranger's succour is honoured more than any elsewhere among men[ ]. for in a matter mighty and bearing many ways to judge with unswayed mind and suitably, this is a hard essay, yet hath some ordinance of immortals given this sea-defended land to be to strangers out of every clime a pillar built of god. may coming time not weary of this work. to a dorian folk was the land given in trust from aiakos, even the man whom leto's son and far-ruling poseidon, when they would make a crown for ilion, called to work with them at the wall, for that it was destined that at the uprising of wars in city-wasting fights it should breathe forth fierce smoke. now when it was new-built three dragons fiery-eyed leapt at the rampart: two fell and perished in despair; but the third sprang in with a war-cry[ ]. then apollo pondering, the sign spake straightway unto aiakos by his side: 'hero, where thy hands have wrought is pergamos taken: thus saith this sign, sent of the son of kronos, loud-thundering zeus. and that not without thy seed; but with the first and fourth it shall be subdued'[ ]. thus plainly spoke the god, and away to xanthos and the amazons of goodly steeds and to ister urged his car. and the trident-wielder for isthmos over seas harnessed his swift chariot, and hither[ ] first he bare with him aiakos behind the golden mares, and so on unto the mount of corinth, to behold his feast of fame. now shall there never among men be aught that pleaseth all alike. if i for melesias[ ] raise up glory in my song of his boys, let not envy cast at me her cruel stone. nay but at nemea too will i tell of honour of like kind with this, and of another ensuing thereon, won in the pankration of men. verily to teach is easier to him that knoweth: it is folly if one hath not first learnt, for without trial the mind wavereth. and beyond all others can melesias declare all works on that wise, what method shall advance a man who from the sacred games may win the longed-for glory. now for the thirtieth time is honour gained for him by the victory of alkimedon, who by god's grace, nor failing himself in prowess, hath put off from him upon the bodies of four striplings the loathed return ungreeted of fair speech, and the path obscure[ ]; and in his father's father he hath breathed new vigour to wrestle with old age. a man that hath done honourable deeds taketh no thought of death. but i must needs arouse memory, and tell of the glory of their hands that gave victory to the blepsiad clan, to whom this is now the sixth crown that hath come from the wreathed games to bind their brows. even the dead have their share when paid them with due rites, and the grace of kinsmen's honour the dust concealeth not. from hermes' daughter fame shall iphion[ ] hear and tell to kallimachos this lustre of olympic glory, which zeus hath granted to this house. honour upon honour may he vouchsafe unto it, and shield it from sore disease[ ]. i pray that for the share of glory fallen to them he raise against them no contrary discontent, but granting them a life unharmed may glorify them and their commonwealth. [footnote : alkimedon's brother. he had won a victory at the nemean games.] [footnote : aigina had a high commercial reputation, and strangers were equitably dealt with in her courts.] [footnote : the two first dragons typify the aiakids, aias and achilles, who failed to enter troy, the third typifies achilles' son, neoptolemos, who succeeded.] [footnote : aiakos' son, telamon, was with herakles when he took troy: his great-grandson neoptolemos was in the wooden horse.] [footnote : to aigina.] [footnote : alkimedon's trainer.] [footnote : i. e. alkimedon has escaped the disagreeable circumstances of defeat and transferred them to the four opponents against whom he was matched in four successive ties.] [footnote : iphion seems to have been the father and kallimachos the uncle of alkimedon.] [footnote : perhaps iphion and kallimachos died of some severe illness.] ix. for epharmostos of opous, winner in the wrestling-match. * * * * * the date of this ode is uncertain. its last line seems to imply that it was sung at a banquet at opous, after crowning the altar of aias oileus, tutelar hero of the lokrians. from the beginning we gather that on the night of the victory at olympia epharmostos' friends had sung in his honour the conventional triple strain of archilochos-- [greek: (o kallinike chair' anax herakleaes autos te k' iolaos, aichmaeta duo. taenella kallinike)] to which perhaps some slight additions had been made, but not by pindar. * * * * * the strain of archilochos sung without music at olympia, the triple resonant psalm of victory, sufficed to lead to the hill of kronos epharmostos triumphing with his comrade friends: but now with darts of other sort, shot from the muses' far-delivering bow, praise zeus of the red lightning, and elis' holy headland, which on a time pelops the lydian hero chose to be hippodameia's goodly dower. and shoot a feathered arrow of sweet song pythoward, for thy words shall not fall to the ground when thou tunest the throbbing lyre to the praise of the wrestlings of a man from famous opous, and celebratest her and her son. for themis and her noble daughter eunomia the preserver have made her their own, and she flourisheth in excellent deeds both at kastalia and beside alpheos' stream: whence come the choicest of all crowns to glorify the mother city of lokrians, the city of beautiful trees. i, to illuminate the city of my friends with eager blaze of song, swifter than high-bred steed or winged ship will send everywhere these tidings, so be it that my hand is blessed at all in labouring in the choice garden of the graces; for they give all pleasant things to men. by fate divine receive men also valour and wisdom: how else[ ] might the hands of herakles have wielded his club against the trident, when at pylos poseidon took his stand and prest hard on him, ay, and there prest him hard embattled phoibos with his silver bow, neither would hades keep his staff unraised, wherewith he leadeth down to ways beneath the hollow earth the bodies of men that die? o my mouth, fling this tale from thee, for to speak evil of gods is a hateful wisdom, and loud and unmeasured words strike a note that trembleth upon madness. of such things talk thou not; leave war of immortals and all strife aside; and bring thy words to the city of protogeneia, where by decree of zeus of the bickering lightning-flash pyrrha and deukalion coming down from parnassos first fixed their home, and without bed of marriage made out of stones a race to be one folk: and hence cometh the name of peoples[ ]. awake for them the clear-toned gale of song, and if old wine be best, yet among songs prefer the newer flowers. truly men say that once a mighty water swept over the dark earth, but by the craft of zeus an ebb suddenly drew off the flood. from these first men came anciently your ancestors of the brazen shields, sons of the women of the stock of iapetos and of the mighty kronidai, kings that dwelt in the land continually; until the olympian lord caught up the daughter[ ] of opöeis from the land of the epeians, and lay with her in a silent place among the ridges of mainalos; and afterward brought her unto lokros, that age might not bring him[ ] low beneath the burden of childlessness. but the wife bare within her the seed of the mightiest, and the hero saw the bastard born and rejoiced, and called him by the name of his mother's father, and he became a man preeminent in beauty and great deeds: and his father gave unto him a city and a people to rule over. then there came unto him strangers, from argos and from thebes, and from arcadia others, and from pisa. but the son of aktor and aigina, menoitios, he honoured above all settlers, him whose son[ ] went with the atreidai to the plain of teuthras and stood alone beside achilles, when telephos had turned the valiant danaoi to flight, and drove them into the sterns of their sea-ships; so proved he to them that had understanding that patroklos' soul was strong. and thenceforward the son of thetis persuaded him that he should never in murderous battle take his post far from his friend's conquering spear. fit speech may i find for my journey in the muses' car; and let me therewith have daring and powers of ample scope. to back the prowess of a friend i came, when lampromachos won his isthmian crown, when on the same day both he and his brother overcame. and afterward at the gates[ ] of corinth two triumphs again befell epharmostos, and more in the valleys of nemea. at argos he triumphed over men, as over boys at athens. and i might tell how at marathon he stole from among the beardless and confronted the full-grown for the prize of silver vessels, how without a fall he threw his men with swift and cunning shock, and how loud the shouting pealed when round the ring he ran, in the beauty of his youth and his fair form and fresh from fairest deeds. also before the parrhasian host was he glorified, at the assembly of lykaian zeus, and again when at pellene he bare away a warm antidote of cold winds[ ]. and the tomb of iolaos, and eleusis by the sea, are just witnesses to his honours. the natural is ever best: yet many men by learning of prowess essay to achieve fame. the thing done without god is better kept in silence. for some ways lead further than do others, but one practice will not train us all alike. skill of all kinds is hard to attain unto: but when thou bringest forth this prize, proclaim aloud with a good courage that by fate divine this man at least was born deft-handed, nimble-limbed, with the light of valour in his eyes, and that now being victorious he hath crowned at the feast oilean alas' altar. [footnote : this is the common interpretation, implying that herakles in contending with the gods here mentioned must have been helped by other gods. but perhaps it might also be translated 'therefore how could the hands, &c.,' meaning that since valour, as has just been said, comes from a divine source, it could not be used against gods, and that thus the story ought to be rejected.] [footnote : perhaps the story of the stones arose from the like sound of [greek: laos] and [greek: laas], words here regarded in the inverse relation to each other.] [footnote : protogeneia.] [footnote : lokros.] [footnote : patroklos.] [footnote : the isthmus, the gate between the two seas.] [footnote : a cloak, the prize.] x. for agesidamos of epizephyrian lokris, winner in the boys' boxing-match. * * * * * this ode bears somewhat the same relation to the next that the fourth does to the fifth. it was to be sung at olympia on the night after the victory, and pindar promises the boy to write a longer one for the celebration of his victory in his italian home. the date is b.c. . * * * * * sometimes have men most need of winds, sometimes of showered waters of the firmament, the children of the cloud. but when through his labour one fareth well, then are due honey-voiced songs, be they even a prelude to words that shall come after, a pledge confirmed by oath in honour of high excellence. ample is the glory stored for olympian winners: thereof my shepherd tongue is fain to keep some part in fold. but only by the help of god is wisdom[ ] kept ever blooming in the soul. son of archestratos, agesidamos, know certainly that for thy boxing i will lay a glory of sweet strains upon thy crown of golden[ ] olive, and will have in remembrance the race of the lokrians' colony in the west. there do ye, o muses, join in the song of triumph: i pledge my word that to no stranger-banishing folk shall ye come, nor unacquainted with things noble, but of the highest in arts and valiant with the spear. for neither tawny fox nor roaring lion may change his native temper. [footnote : perhaps [greek: sophos] (which means often rather clever or skilful than wise) has here the special reference to poetic skill, which it often has in pindar.] [footnote : golden here means supremely excellent, as in the first line of the eighth olympian.] xi. for agesidamos of epizephyrian lokris, winner in the boys' boxing-match. * * * * * it would seem by his own confession that pindar did not remember till long afterwards the promise he made to agesidamos in the last ode. we do not know how long afterwards this was written, but it must have been too late to greet the winner on his arrival in italy; probably it was to be sung at the anniversary or some memorial celebration of his victory. * * * * * read me the name of the olympic winner archestratos' son that i may know where it is written upon my heart: for i had forgotten that i owed him a sweet strain. but do thou, o muse, and thou truth, daughter of zeus, put forth your hands and keep from me the reproach of having wronged a friend by breaking my pledged word. for from afar hath overtaken me the time that was then yet to come, and hath shamed my deep debt. nevertheless from that sore reproach i may be delivered by payment with usury: behold how[ ] the rushing wave sweepeth down the rolling shingle, and how we also will render for our friend's honour a tribute to him and to his people. truth inhabiteth the city of the lokrians of the west, and kalliope they hold in honour and mailëd ares; yea even conquering herakles was foiled by that kykneän combat[ ]. now let agesidamos, winner in the boxing at olympia, so render thanks to ilas[ ] as patroklos of old to achilles. if one be born with excellent gifts, then may another who sharpeneth his natural edge speed him, god helping, to an exceeding weight of glory. without toil there have triumphed a very few. of that light in the life of a man before all other deeds, that first of contests, the ordinances of zeus[ ] have stirred me to sing, even the games which by the ancient tomb of pelops the mighty herakles founded, after that he slew kleatos, poseidon's goodly son, and slew also eurytos, that he might wrest from tyrannous augeas against his will reward for service done[ ]. lying in ambush beneath kleonai did herakles overcome them on the road, for that formerly these same violent sons of molos made havoc of his own tirynthian folk by hiding in the valleys of elis. and not long after the guest-betraying king of the epeans saw his rich native land, his own city, beneath fierce fire and iron blows sink down into the deep moat of calamity. of strife against stronger powers it is hard to be rid. likewise augeas last of all in his perplexity fell into captivity and escaped not precipitate death. then the mighty son of zeus having gathered together all his host at pisa, and all the booty, measured a sacred grove for his sovereign father; and having fenced round the altis he marked the bounds thereof in a clear space, and the plain encompassing it he ordained for rest and feasting, and paid honour to the river alpheos together with the twelve greatest gods. and he named it by the name of the hill of kronos; for theretofore it was without name, when oinomaos was king, and it was sprinkled with much snow[ ]. and at this first-born rite the fates stood hard at hand, and he who alone proveth sure truth, even time. he travelling onward hath told us the clear tale of how the founder set apart the choicest of the spoil for an offering from the war, and sacrificed, and how he ordained the fifth-year feast with the victories of that first olympiad. who then won to their lot the new-appointed crown by hands or feet or chariot, setting before them the prize of glory in the games, and winning it by their act? in the foot-race down the straight course of the stadion was likymnios' son oionos first, from nidea had he led his host: in the wrestling was tegea glorified by echemos: doryklos won the prize of boxing, a dweller in the city of tiryns, and with the four-horse chariot, samos of mantinea, halirrhothios' son: with the javelin phrastor hit the mark: in distance enikeus beyond all others hurled the stone with a circling sweep, and all the warrior company thundered a great applause. then on the evening the lovely shining of the fair-faced moon beamed forth, and all the precinct sounded with songs of festal glee, after the manner which is to this day for triumph. so following the first beginning of old time, we likewise in a song named of proud victory will celebrate the thunder and the flaming bolt of loud-pealing zeus, the fiery lightning that goeth with all victory[ ]. and soft tones to the music of the flute shall meet and mingle with my verse, which beside famous dirke hath come to light after long time. but even as a son by his lawful wife is welcome to a father who hath now travelled to the other side of youth, and maketh his soul warm with love--for wealth that must fall to a strange owner from without is most hateful to a dying man--so also, agesidamos, when a man who hath done honourable deeds goeth unsung to the house of hades, this man hath spent vain breath, and won but brief gladness for his toil. on thee the pleasant lyre and the sweet pipe shed their grace, and the pierian daughters of zeus foster thy wide-spread fame. i with them, setting myself thereunto fervently, have embraced the lokrians' famous race, and have sprinkled my honey upon a city of goodly men: and i have told the praises of archestratos' comely son, whom i beheld victorious by the might of his hand beside the altar at olympia, and saw on that day how fair he was of form, how gifted with that spring-tide bloom, which erst with favour of the cyprian queen warded from ganymede unrelenting death. [footnote : reading [greek: horat on hopa].] [footnote : this kyknos seems to have been a lokrian freebooter, said to have fought with success against herakles.] [footnote : his trainer.] [footnote : probably because zeus was especially concerned, both with the fulfilment of promises and with the olympic games.] [footnote : for the story of these moliones see nestor's speech, hom. il. xi. - .] [footnote : perhaps this implies a tradition of a colder climate anciently prevailing in peloponnesos: perhaps the mention of snow is merely picturesque, referring to the habitual appearance of the hill in winter, and the passage should then rather be rendered 'when oinomaos was king its snow-sprinkled top was without name.'] [footnote : the lokrians worshipped zeus especially as the thunderer, as certain coins of theirs, stamped with a thunderbolt, still testify.] xii. for ergoteles of himera, winner in the long foot-race. * * * * * ergoteles was a native of knosos in crete, but civil dissension had compelled him to leave his country. he came to sicily and was naturalized as a citizen of himera. had he stayed in crete he would not have won this victory; nor the pythian and isthmian victories, referred to at the end of the ode, for the cretans seem to have kept aloof, in an insular spirit, from the panhellenic games. the date of the ode is b.c. , the year after the himeraeans had expelled the tyrant thrasydaios of akragas. the prayer to fortune would seem to have reference specially to this event. the ode was probably sung in a temple either of zeus or of fortune. * * * * * i pray thee, daughter of zeus the deliverer, keep watch over wide-ruling himera, o saviour fortune. by thee upon the sea swift ships are piloted, and on dry land fierce wars and meetings of councils. up and down the hopes of men are tossed as they cleave the waves of baffling falsity: and a sure token of what shall come to pass hath never any man on the earth received from god: the divinations of things to come are blind. many the chances that fall to men when they look not for them, sometimes to thwart delight, yet others after battling with the surge of sorrowful pain have suddenly received for their affliction some happiness profound. son of philanor, verily even the glory of thy fleet feet would have fallen into the sere leaf unrenowned, abiding by the hearth of thy kin, as a cock that fighteth but at home, had not the strife of citizen against citizen driven thee from knosos thy native land. but now at olympia hast thou won a crown, o ergoteles, and at pytho twice, and at isthmos, whereby thou glorifiest the hot springs where the nymphs sicilian bathe, dwelling in a land that is become to thee as thine own. xiii. for xenophon of corinth, winner in the stadion race and in the pentathlon. * * * * * the date of this victory is b.c. , when xenophon won both the stadion, or short foot-race of about a furlong or yards, and also the pentathlon, that is, probably, he won at least three out of the five contests which composed the pentathlon--the jump, throwing the disk, throwing the javelin, the foot-race, and wrestling, ([greek: alma podokeian diskon akonta palaen]). for details, see dict. antiq. and note on nem. vii - . this ode and the speech of glaukos in the sixth book of the iliad are the most conspicuous passages in poetry which refer to the great corinthian hero bellerophon. it is thought that this ode was sung on the winner's public entrance into corinth. * * * * * thrice winner in olympic games, of citizens beloved, to strangers hospitable, the house in whose praise will i now celebrate happy corinth, portal of isthmian poseidon and nursery of splendid youth. for therein dwell order, and her sisters, sure foundation of states, justice and likeminded peace, dispensers of wealth to men, wise themis' golden daughters. and they are minded to keep far from them insolence the braggart mother of loathing. i have fair witness to bear of them, and a just boldness stirreth my tongue to speak. nature inborn none shall prevail to hide. unto you, sons[ ] of aletes, ofttimes have the flowery hours given splendour of victory, as to men excelling in valour, pre-eminent at the sacred games, and ofttimes of old have they put subtleties into your men's hearts to devise; and of an inventor cometh every work. whence were revealed the new graces of dionysos with the dithyramb that winneth the ox[ ]? who made new means of guidance to the harness of horses, or on the shrines of gods set the twin images of the king of birds [ ]? among them thriveth the muse of dulcet breath, and ares in the young men's terrible spears. sovran lord of olympia, be not thou jealous of my words henceforth for ever, o father zeus; rule thou this folk unharmed, and keep unchanged the favourable gale of xenophon's good hap. welcome from him this customary escort of his crown, which from the plains of pisa he is bringing, having won with the five contests the stadion-race beside; the like whereof never yet did mortal man. also two parsley-wreaths shadowed his head before the people at the games of isthmos, nor doth nemea tell a different tale. and of his father thessalos' lightning feet is record by the streams of alpheos, and at pytho he hath renown for the single and for the double stadion gained both in a single day, and in the same month at rocky athens a day of swiftness crowned his hair for three illustrious deeds, and the hellotia[ ] seven times, and at the games of poseidon between seas longer hymns followed his father ptoiodoros with terpsias and eritimos. and how often ye were first at delphi or in the pastures of the lion[ ], though with full many do i match your crowd of honours, yet can i no more surely tell than the tale of pebbles on the sea-shore. but in everything is there due measure, and most excellent is it to have respect unto fitness of times. i with your fleet sailing a privateer will speak no lie concerning the valour of corinth's heroes, whether i proclaim the craft of her men of old or their might in war, whether of sisyphos of subtlest cunning even as a god, and medea who made for herself a marriage in her sire's despite, saviour of the ship argo and her crew: or whether how of old in the struggle before the walls of dardanos the sons of corinth were deemed to turn the issue of battle either way, these with atreus' son striving to win helen back, those to thrust them utterly away[ ]. now when glaukos was come thither out of lydia the danaoi feared him. to them he proclaimed that in the city of peirene his sire bare rule and had rich heritage of land and palace, even he who once, when he longed to bridle the snaky gorgon's son, pegasos, at peirene's spring, suffered many things, until the time when maiden pallas brought to him a bit with head-band of gold, and from a dream behold it was very deed. for she said unto him 'sleepest thou o aiolid king? come, take this charmer of steeds, and show it to thy father[ ] the tamer of horses, with the sacrifice of a white bull.' thus in the darkness as he slumbered spake the maiden wielder of the shadowy aegis--so it seemed unto him--and he leapt up and stood upright upon his feet. and he seized the wondrous bit that lay by his side, and found with joy the prophet of the land, and showed to him, the son of koiranos, the whole issue of the matter, how on the altar of the goddess he lay all night according to the word of his prophecy, and how with her own hands the child of zeus whose spear is the lightning brought unto him the soul-subduing gold. then the seer bade him with all speed obey the vision, and that when he should have sacrificed to the wide-ruling earth-enfolder the strong-foot beast[ ], he should build an altar straightway to athene, queen of steeds. now the power of gods bringeth easily to pass such things as make forecast forsworn. surely with zealous haste did bold bellerophon bind round the winged steed's jaw the softening charm, and make him his: then straightway he flew up and disported him in his brazen arms. in company with that horse also on a time, from out of the bosom of the chill and desert air, he smote the archer host of amazons, and slew the solymoi, and chimaira breathing fire. i will keep silence touching the fate of him: howbeit pegasos hath in olympus found a home in the ancient stalls of zeus. but for me who am to hurl straight the whirling javelin it is not meet to spend beside the mark my store of darts with utmost force of hand: for to the muses throned in splendour and to the oligaithidai a willing ally came i, at the isthmos and again at nemea. in a brief word will i proclaim the host of them, and a witness sworn and true shall be to me in the sweet-tongued voice of the good herald[ ], heard at both places sixty times. now have their acts at olympia, methinks, been told already: of those that shall be hereafter i will hereafter clearly speak. now i live in hope, but the end is in the hands of gods. but if the fortune of the house fail not, we will commit to zeus and enyalios the accomplishment thereof. yet other glories won they, by parnassos' brow, and at argos how many and at thebes, and such as nigh the arcadians[ ] the lordly altar of zeus lykaios shall attest, and pallene, and sikyon, and megara, and the well-fenced grove of the aiakidai, and eleusis, and lusty marathon, and the fair rich cities beneath aetna's towering crest, and euboea. nay over all hellas if thou searchest, thou shalt find more than one sight can view. o king zeus the accomplisher, grant them with so light feet[ ] to move through life, give them all honour, and sweet hap of their goodly things. [footnote : the clan of the oligaithidai, to which xenophon belonged.] [footnote : i. e. as a prize. but the passage may be taken differently as referring to the symbolical identification of dionysos with the bull. dithyrambic poetry was said to have been invented or improved by arion of corinth.] [footnote : this refers to the introduction into architecture by the corinthians of the pediment, within or above which were at that time constantly placed images of eagles.] [footnote : the feast of athene hellotis.] [footnote : nemea.] [footnote : the lykians who fought under glaukos on the trojan side were of corinthian descent.] [footnote : poseidon.] [footnote : a bull.] [footnote : proclaiming the name and city of the winner in the games.] [footnote : reading [greek: arkasin asson].] [footnote : as in their foot-races.] xiv. for asopichos of orchomenos, winner in the boys' short foot-race. * * * * * this ode was to be sung, probably by a chorus of boys, at the winner's city orchomenos, and most likely in the temple of the three or graces, aglaia, euphrosyne and thalia. the date of the victory is b.c. . * * * * * o ye who haunt the land of goodly steeds that drinketh of kephisos' waters, lusty orchomenos' queens renowned in song, o graces, guardians of the minyai's ancient race, hearken, for unto you i pray. for by your gift come unto men all pleasant things and sweet, and the wisdom of a man and his beauty, and the splendour of his fame. yea even gods without the graces' aid rule never at feast or dance; but these have charge of all things done in heaven, and beside pythian apollo of the golden bow they have set their thrones, and worship the eternal majesty of the olympian father. o lady aglaia, and thou euphrosyne, lover of song, children of the mightiest of the gods, listen and hear, and thou thalia delighting in sweet sounds, and look down upon this triumphal company, moving with light step under happy fate. in lydian mood of melody concerning asopichos am i come hither to sing, for that through thee, aglaia, in the olympic games the minyai's home is winner. fly, echo, to persephone's dark-walled home, and to his father bear the noble tidings, that seeing him thou mayest speak to him of his son, saying that for his father's honour in pisa's famous valley he hath crowned his boyish hair with garlands from the glorious games. the pythian odes. i. for hieron of aitna, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * the date of this victory is b.c. in the year , the year of salamis, the syracusans under hieron had defeated the carthaginians in the great battle of himera. in a great eruption of etna (aitna) began. in hieron founded, near the mountain but we may suppose at a safe distance, the new city of aitna, in honour of which he had himself proclaimed as an aitnaian after this and other victories in the games. and in this same year, , he had defeated the etruscans, or tuscans, or tyrrhenians in a great sea-fight before cumae. pindar might well delight to honour those who had been waging so well against the barbarians of the south and west the same war which the hellenes of the mother-country waged against the barbarians of the east. * * * * * o golden lyre, thou common treasure of apollo and the muses violet-tressed, thou whom the dancer's step, prelude of festal mirth, obeyeth, and the singers heed thy bidding, what time with quivering strings thou utterest preamble of choir-leading overture--lo even the sworded lightning of immortal fire thou quenched, and on the sceptre of zeus his eagle sleepeth, slackening his swift wings either side, the king of birds, for a dark mist thou hast distilled on his arched head, a gentle seal upon his eyes, and he in slumber heaveth his supple back, spell-bound beneath thy throbs. yea also violent ares, leaving far off the fierce point of his spears, letteth his heart have joy in rest, for thy shafts soothe hearts divine by the cunning of leto's son and the deep-bosomed muses. but whatsoever things zeus loveth not fly frighted from the voice of the pierides, whether on earth or on the raging sea; whereof is he who lieth in dreadful tartaros, the foe of the gods, typhon of the hundred heads, whom erst the den kilikian of many names did breed, but now verily the sea-constraining cliffs beyond cumae, and sicily, lie heavy on his shaggy breast: and he is fast bound by a pillar of the sky, even by snowy etna, nursing the whole year's length her frozen snow. whereout pure springs of unapproachable fire are vomited from the inmost depths: in the daytime the lava-streams pour forth a lurid rush of smoke: but in the darkness a red rolling flame sweepeth rocks with uproar to the wide deep sea. that dragon-thing[ ] it is that maketh issue from beneath the terrible fiery flood, a monster marvellous to look upon, yea a marvel to hear of from such as go thereby and tell what thing is prisoned between the dark-wooded tops of etna and the plain, where the back of him is galled and furrowed by the bed whereon he lieth. o zeus, be it ours to find favour in thy sight, who art defender of this mountain, the forehead of a fruitful land, whose namesake neighbour city hath been ennobled by her glorious founder, for that on the race-course at the pythian games the herald made proclamation of her name aloud, telling of hieron's fair victory in the chariot-race. now the first boon to men in ships is that a favourable breeze come to them as they set forth upon the sea; for this is promise that in the end also they shall come with good hap home. so after this good fortune doth reason show us hope of crowns to come for aitna's horses, and honour in the banquet-songs. o phoibos, lord of lykia and of delos, who lovest the spring of castaly on thy parnassos, be this the purpose of thy will, and grant the land fair issue of her men. for from gods come all means of mortal valour, hereby come bards and men of mighty hand and eloquent speech. this is the man i am fain to praise, and trust that not outside the ring shall i hurl the bronze-tipped javelin i brandish in my hand, but with far throw outdo my rivals in the match. would that his whole life may give him, even as now, good luck and wealth right onward, and of his pains forgetfulness. verily it shall remind him in what fightings of wars he stood up with steadfast soul, when the people found grace of glory at the hands of gods, such as none of the hellenes hath reaped, a proud crown of wealth. for after the ensample of philoktetes he went but now to war: and when necessity was upon them even they of proud spirit sought of him a boon. to lemnos once they say came godlike heroes to fetch thence the archer son of paian, vexed of an ulcerous wound; and he sacked the city of priam and made an end of the danaoi's labours, for the body wherewith he went was sick, but this was destined from the beginning. even thus to hieron may god be a guide for the time approaching, and give him to lay hold upon the things of his desire. also in the house of deinomenes do me grace, o muse, to sing, for sake of our four-horsed car: no alien joy to him is his sire's victory. come then and next for etna's king let us devise a friendly song, for whom with god-built freedom after the laws of hyllic pattern hath that city been founded of hieron's hand: for the desire of the sons of pamphylos and of the herakleidai dwelling beneath the heights of taÿgetos is to abide continually in the dorian laws of aigimios. at amyklai they dwelt prosperously, when they were come down out of pindos and drew near in honour to the tyndaridai who ride on white horses, and the glory of their spears waxed great. thou zeus, with whom are the issues of things, grant that the true speech of men ever bear no worse report of citizens and kings beside the water of amënas. by thine aid shall a man that is chief and that instructeth his son after him give due honour unto his people and move them to be of one voice peacefully. i pray thee, son of kronos, grant that the phenician and the tuscan war-cry be hushed at home, since they have beheld the calamity of their ships that befell them before cumae, even how they were smitten by the captain of the syracusans, who from their swift ships hurled their youth into the sea, to deliver hellas from the bondage of the oppressor. from salamis shall i of athenians take reward of thanks, at sparta when i shall tell[ ] in a song to come of the battle[ ] before kithairon, wherein the medes that bear crooked bows were overthrown, but by the fair-watered banks of himëras it shall be for the song i have rendered to the sons of deinomenes, which by their valour they have earned, since the men that warred against them are overthrown. if thou shalt speak in season, and comprehend in brief the ends of many matters, less impeachment followeth of men; for surfeit blunteth the eagerness of expectancy; and city-talk of others' praise grieveth hearts secretly. nevertheless, for that envy is preferred before pity[ ], let slip not fair occasion: guide with just helm thy people and forge the sword of thy speech on an anvil whereof cometh no lie. even a word falling lightly is of import in that it proceedeth from thee. of many things art thou steward: many witnesses are there to thy deeds of either kind. but abiding in the fair flower of this spirit, if thou art fain to be continually of good report, be not too careful for the cost: loose free like a mariner thy sail unto the wind. friend, be not deceived by time-serving words of guile. the voice of the report that liveth after a man, this alone revealeth the lives of dead men to the singers and to the chroniclers: the loving-kindness of craesus fadeth not away; but him who burned men with fire within a brazen bull, phalaris that had no pity, men tell of everywhere with hate, neither will any lute in hall suffer him in the gentle fellowship of young boys' themes of songs. to be happy is the chiefest prize; to be glorious the next lot: if a man have lighted on both and taken them to be his, he hath attained unto the supreme crown. [footnote : typhon.] [footnote : reading [greek: erion].] [footnote : plataea.] [footnote : i. e. it is better to be envied than to be pitied.] ii. for hieron of syracuse, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * the classification of this ode as pythian is probably a mistake: perhaps the victory was won at the theban festival in honour of herakles, or of iolaos. anaxilaos, tyrant of rhegium and messana, had been deterred by hieron's threats from attacking the epizephyrian lokrians, and the ode is partly occupied with congratulations of hieron on this protective act. as anaxilaos died b.c. , and hieron was only placed at the head of the syracusan state two years before, this seems to fix the date somewhere in these two years. as pindar talks of sending his song across the sea, we may suppose that it was sung at syracuse. there is much obscurity about the significances of this ode. the poet's motive in telling the story of ixion's sins has been variously guessed at. some think it was meant to deter hieron from contriving the death of his brother polyzelos in battle in order to get possession of polyzelos' wife (and if hieron was to be suspected of such a thought it would be quite in pindar's manner to mingle warning and reproof with praise): some think that it refers to the ingratitude of anaxilaos toward hieron. and most probably the latter part of the ode, in which sincerity is approved, and flattery and calumny are condemned, had some special and personal reference, though we need not suppose, as the commentators are fond of doing here and elsewhere, that it was aimed at bacchylides or other rival poets. * * * * * great city of syracuse, precinct of warrior ares, of iron-armed men and steeds the nursing-place divine, to thee i come[ ], bearing from my bright thebes this song, the tidings of earth-shaking racing of the four-horse car, wherein hath hieron with his goodly chariot overcome, and decked with far-seen splendour of crowns ortygia the dwelling-place of artemis of the river, her by whose help he tamed with soothing hand his colts of spangled rein. for the archer maiden with both hands fitteth the glittering trappings, and hermes, god of games, whensoever hieron to the polished car and bridle-guided wheels[ ] yoketh the strength of his steeds, calling on the wide-ruling god, the trident-wielder. now unto various kings pay various men sweet song, their valour's meed. so the fair speech of cyprus echoeth around the name of kinyras, him whom apollo of the golden hair loved fervently, and who dwelt a priest in the house of aphrodite: for to such praise are men moved by the thankfulness that followeth the recompense of friendly acts. but of thee, o thou son of deinomenes, the maiden daughter of the lokrian in the west before the house-door telleth in her song, being out of bewildering woes of war by thy might delivered, so that her eyes are not afraid for anything. ixion, they say, by order of the gods, writhing on his winged wheel, proclaimeth this message unto men: _to him who doeth thee service make recompense of fair reward_. this lesson learned he plainly; for when that among the friendly kronidai he had gotten a life of pleasantness, his bliss became greater than he could bear, and with mad heart he lusted after hera, whose place was in the happy marriage-bed of zeus: yet insolence drove him to the exceeding folly; but quickly suffering his deserts the man gained to himself a misery most rare. two sins are the causes of his pain; one that he first among the heroes shed blood of kindred[ ] craftily, the other that in the chambers of the ample heavens he attempted the wife of zeus--for in all things it behoveth to take measure by oneself[ ]. yet a mocking love-bed hurried him as he approached the couch[ ] into a sea of trouble; for he lay with a cloud, pursuing the sweet lie, fond man: for its form was as the form of the most highest among the daughters of heaven, even the child of kronos; and the hands of zeus had made it that it might be a snare unto him, a fair mischief. thus came he unto the four-spoked wheel, his own destruction; and having fallen into chains without escape he became proclaimer of that message[ ] unto many. his mate[ ], without favour of the graces, bare unto him a monstrous son, and like no other thing anywhere, even as its mother was, a thing with no place or honour, neither among men, neither in the society of gods. him she reared and called by the name kentauros, and he in the valleys of pelion lay with magnesian mares, and there were born thence a wondrous tribe, like unto both parents, their nether parts like unto the dams, and their upper parts like unto the sire. god achieveth all ends whereon he thinketh--god who overtaketh even the winged eagle, and outstrippeth the dolphin of the sea, and bringeth low many a man in his pride, while to others he giveth glory incorruptible. for me it is meet to eschew the sharp tooth of bitter words; for, though afar off, i have seen the fierce archilochos lacking most things and fattening but on cruel words of hate. of most worth are riches when joined to the happy gift of wisdom. and this lot hast thou, and mayest illustrate it with liberal soul, thou sovereign chief over many streets filled with goodly garlands, and much people. if any saith that ever yet was any man of old time throughout hellas who excelled thee in honour or in the multitude of possessions, such an one with vain purpose essayeth a fruitless task. upon the flower-crowned prow[ ] will i go up to sing of brave deeds done. youth is approved by valour in dread wars; and hence say i that thou hast won boundless renown in thy battles, now with horsemen, now on foot: also the counsels of thine elder years give me sure ground of praising thee every way. all hail! this song like to phenician merchandize is sent across the hoary sea: do thou look favourably on the strain of kaster in aeolian mood[ ], and greet it in honour of the seven-stringed lute. be what thou art, now i have told thee what that is: in the eyes of children the fawning ape is ever comely: but the good fortune of rhadamanthos hath come to him because the fruit that his soul bare was true, neither delighteth he in deceits within his heart, such as by whisperer's arts ever wait upon mortal man. an overpowering evil are the secret speakings of slander, to the slandered and to the listener thereto alike, and are as foxes in relentless temper. yet for the beast whose name is of gain[ ] what great thing is gained thereby? for like the cork above the net, while the rest of the tackle laboureth deep in the sea, i am unmerged in the brine. impossible is it that a guileful citizen utter potent words among the good, nevertheless he fawneth on all and useth every subtlety. no part have i in that bold boast of his, 'let me be a friend to my friend, but toward an enemy i will be an enemy and as a wolf will cross his path, treading now here now there in crooked ways[ ].' for every form of polity is a man of direct speech best, whether under a despotism, or whether the wild multitude, or the wisest, have the state in their keeping. against god it is not meet to strive, who now upholdeth these, and now again to those giveth great glory. but not even this cheereth the heart of the envious; for they measure by an unjust balance, and their own hearts they afflict with bitter pain, till such time as they attain to that which their hearts devise. to take the car's yoke on one's neck and run on lightly, this helpeth; but to kick against the goad is to make the course perilous. be it mine to dwell among the good, and to win their love. [footnote : pindar here identifies himself with his ode, which he sent, not took, to syracuse. compare ol. vii. , &c.] [footnote : properly [greek: harmata] would seem to include all except the body of the chariot ([greek: diphros]) in which the charioteer stood.] [footnote : his father-in-law deioneus.] [footnote : i. e. to estimate rightly one's capacities, circumstances, rights, duties.] [footnote : reading [greek: poti koiton ikont'].] [footnote : the message spoken of above, v. .] [footnote : the cloud, the phantom-hera.] [footnote : the prow of the ship carrying this ode, with which pindar, as has been said, identifies himself.] [footnote : it is supposed that another ode, more especially in honour of the chariot-victory, is here meant, which was to be sent later. from this point to the end the ode reads like a postscript of private import and reference.] [footnote : it is at least doubtful whether [greek: kerdo] a fox is really connected with [greek: kerdos] gain.] [footnote : it appears to me to be an absurdity to suppose that pindar means to express in this sentence his own rule of conduct, as the commentators have fancied. he is all through this passage condemning 'crooked ways.'] iii. for hieron of syracuse, winner in the horse-race. * * * * * the dates both of the victory and of the ode are uncertain. but as pherenikos, the horse that won this race at pytho, is the same that won at olympia b.c. , in honour of which event the first olympian was written, the victory cannot have been very long before that date, though the language of the ode implies that it was written a good deal later, probably for an anniversary of the victory. it must at least have been written before hieron's death in . it is much occupied with his illness. * * * * * fain were i (if meet it be to utter from my mouth the prayer conceived of all) that cheiron the son of philyra were alive and had not perished among men, even the wide-ruling seed of kronos the son of ouranos; and that there still lorded it in pelion's glens that beast untamed, whose soul was loving unto men, even such as when of old he trained the gentle deviser of limb-saving anodynes, asklepios, the hero that was a defence against all kind of bodily plague. of him was the daughter[ ] of phlegyas of goodly steeds not yet delivered by eileithuia aid of mothers, ere by the golden bow she was slain at the hands of artemis, and from her child-bed chamber went down into the house of hades, by contriving of apollo. not idle is the wrath of sons of zeus. she in the folly of her heart had set apollo at nought, and taken another spouse without knowledge of her sire, albeit ere then she had lain with phoibos of the unshorn hair, and bare within her the seed of a very god. neither awaited she the marriage-tables nor the sound of many voices in hymeneal song, such as the bride's girl-mates are wont to sing at eventide with merry minstrelsy: but lo, she had longing for things otherwhere, even as many before and after. for a tribe there is most foolish among men, of such as scorn the things of home, and gaze on things that are afar off, and chase a cheating prey with hopes that shall never be fulfilled. of such sort was the frenzied strong desire fair-robed koronis harboured in her heart, for she lay in the couch of a stranger that was come from arcady. but one that watched beheld her: for albeit he was at sheep-gathering pytho, yet was the temple's king loxias aware thereof, beside his unerring partner[ ], for he gave heed to his own wisdom, his mind that knoweth all things; in lies it hath no part, neither in act or thought may god or man deceive him. therefore when he was aware of how she lay with the stranger ischys son of elatos, and of her guile unrighteous, he sent his sister fierce with terrible wrath to go to lakereia--for by the steep shores of the boibian lake was the home of her virginity--and thus a doom adverse blasted her life and smote her down: and of her neighbours many fared ill therefore and perished with her: so doth a fire that from one spark has leapt upon a mountain lay waste wide space of wood. but when her kinsfolk had laid the damsel upon the pile of wood, and fierce brightness of hephaistos ran around it, then said apollo: 'not any longer may i endure in my soul to slay mine own seed by a most cruel death in company with its mother's grievous fate.' he said, and at the first stride he was there, and from the corpse caught up the child, and the blaze of the burning fiery pile was cloven before him asunder in the midst. then to the kentaur of magnes he bare the child, that he should teach him to be a healer of the many-plaguing maladies of men. and thus all that came unto him whether plagued with self-grown sores or with limbs wounded by the lustrous bronze or stone far-hurled, or marred by summer heat or winter cold--these he delivered, loosing each from his several infirmity, some with emollient spells and some by kindly potions, or else he hung their limbs with charms, or by surgery he raised them up to health. yet hath even wisdom been led captive of desire of gain. even him did gold in his hands glittering beguile for a great reward to bring back from death a man already prisoner thereto: wherefore the hands of the son of kronos smote the twain of them through the midst, and bereft their breasts of breath, and the bright lightning dealt them doom. it behoveth to seek from gods things meet for mortal souls, knowing the things that are in our path and to what portion we are born. desire not thou, dear my soul, a life immortal, but use the tools that are to thine hand. now were wise cheiron in his cavern dwelling yet, and had our sweet-voiced songs laid haply some fair magic on his soul, then had i won him to grant to worthy men some healer of hot plagues, some offspring of leto's son, or of her son's sire[ ]. and then in a ship would i have sailed, cleaving the ionian sea, to the fountain of arethusa, to the home of my aitnaian friend, who ruleth at syracuse, a king of good will to the citizens, not envious of the good, to strangers wondrous fatherly. had i but landed there and brought unto him a twofold joy, first golden health and next this my song of triumph to be a splendour in his pythian crown, which of late pherenikos[ ] won by his victory at kirrha--i say that then should i have come unto him, after that i had passed over the deep sea, a farther-shining light than any heavenly star. but i am minded to pray to the mother[ ] for him, to the awful goddess unto whom, and unto pan, before my door nightly the maidens move in dance and song. yet, o hieron, if thou art skilled to apprehend the true meaning of sayings, thou hast learnt to know this from the men of old; _the immortals deal to men two ill things for one good._ the foolish cannot bear these with steadfastness but the good only, putting the fair side forward. but thee a lot of happiness attendeth, for if on any man hath mighty destiny looked favourably, surely it is on a chief and leader of a people. a life untroubled abode not either with peleus, son of aiakos, or with godlike kadmos: yet of all mortals these, they say, had highest bliss, who both erewhile listened to the singing of the muses golden-filleted, the one in seven-gated thebes, when he wedded large-eyed harmonia, the other on the mountainside, when he took to him thetis to be his wife, wise nereus' glorious daughter. and with both of them gods sate at meat, and they beheld the sons of kronos sitting as kings on thrones of gold, and they received from them gifts for their espousals; and by grace of zeus they escaped out of their former toils and raised up their hearts to gladness. yet again in the after time the bitter anguish of those daughters[ ] robbed kadmos of a part of bliss: howbeit the father zeus came to white-armed thyone's[ ] longed-for couch. and so did the son of peleus whom thetis bare at phthia, her only son, die by an arrow in war, and moved the danaoi to lament aloud, when his body was burning in fire. now if any by wisdom hath the way of truth he may yet lack good fortune, which cometh of the happy gods. the blasts of soaring winds blow various ways at various times. not for long cometh happiness to men, when it accompanieth them in exceeding weight. small will i be among the small, and great among the great. whatever fortune follow me, i will work therewith, and wield it as my power shall suffice. if god should offer me wealth and ease, i have hope that i should first have won high honour to be in the times afar off. nestor and lykian sarpedon, who live in the speech of men, we know from tales of sounding song, built up by cunning builders. by songs of glory hath virtue lasting life, but to achieve them is easy to but few. [footnote : koronis.] [footnote : his father, zeus.] [footnote : some asklepios or apollo.] [footnote : hieron's horse.] [footnote : rhea or kybele, the mother of the gods. 'next door to pindar's house was a temple of the mother of the gods and of pan, which he had built himself.' scholiast.] [footnote : ino, agaue, and autonoe.] [footnote : semele.] iv. for arkesilas of kyrene, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * pindar has made this victory of arkesilas, king of the hellenic colony of kyrene in africa, an occasion for telling the story of jason's expedition with the argonauts. the ostensible reason for introducing the story is that kyrene had been colonised from the island of thera by the descendants of the argonaut euphemos, according to the prophecy of medea related at the beginning of the ode. but pindar had another reason. he wished to suggest an analogy between the relation of the iolkian king pelias to jason and the relation of arkesilas to his exiled kinsman demophilos. demophilos had been staying at thebes, where pindar wrote this ode, to be afterwards recited at kyrene. it was written b.c. , when pindar was fifty-six years of age, and is unsurpassed in his extant works, or indeed by anything of this kind in all poetry. * * * * * this day o muse must thou tarry in a friend's house, the house of the king of kyrene of goodly horses, that with arkesilas at his triumph thou mayst swell the favourable gale of song, the due of leto's children, and of pytho. for at pytho of old she who sitteth beside the eagles of zeus--nor was apollo absent then--the priestess, spake this oracle, that battos should found a power in fruitful libya, that straightway departing from the holy isle he might lay the foundations of a city of goodly chariots upon a white breast of the swelling earth, and might fulfil in the seventeenth generation the word of medea spoken at thera, which of old the passionate child of aietes, queen of colchians, breathed from immortal lips. for on this wise spake she to the warrior jason's god-begotten crew: 'hearken o sons of high-hearted mortals and of gods. lo i say unto you that from this sea-lashed land the daughter[ ] of epaphos shall sometime be planted with a root to bring forth cities that shall possess the minds of men, where zeus ammon's shrine is builded. and instead of short-finned dolphins they shall take to them fleet mares, and reins instead of oars shall they ply, and speed the whirlwind-footed car. by that augury shall it come to pass that thera shall be mother-city of mighty commonwealths, even the augury that once at the outpourings of the tritonian lake euphemos leaping from the prow took at the hands of a god who in the likeness of man tendered this present to the stranger of a clod of earth; and the father kronian zeus confirmed it with a peal of thunder. [ ]what time he came suddenly upon them as they were hanging against the ship the bronze-fluked anchor, fleet argo's bridle; for now for twelve days had we borne from ocean over long backs of desert-land our sea-ship, after that by my counsel we drew it up upon the shore. then came to us the solitary god, having put on the splendid semblance of a noble man; and he began friendly speech, such as well-doers use when they bid new-comers to the feast. but the plea of the sweet hope of home suffered us not to stay. then he said that he was eurypylos son of the earth-embracer, immortal ennosides; and for that he was aware that we hasted to be gone, he straightway caught up of the chance earth at his feet a gift that he would fain bestow. nor was the hero unheeding, but leaping on the shore and striking hand in hand he took to him the fateful clod. but now i hear that it was washed down from the ship and departed into the sea with the salt spray of evening, following the watery deep. yet verily often did i charge the labour-lightening servants that they should keep it safe, but they forgat: and now upon this island[ ] is the imperishable seed of spacious libya strown before the time appointed; for if the royal son[ ] of poseidon, lord of horses, whom europa tityos' child bare him on kephisos' banks, had in his own home thrown it down beside the mouth of hades'[ ] gulf, then in the fourth generation of his sons his seed would have taken that wide continent of libya, for then they would have gone forth from mighty lakedaimon, and from the argive gulf, and from mykenai. but now he shall in wedlock with a stranger-wife raise up a chosen seed, who coming to this island with worship of their gods shall beget one to be lord of the misty plains[ ]. him sometime shall phoibos in his golden house admonish by oracles, when in the latter days he shall go down into the inner shrine at pytho, to bring a host in ships to the rich nile-garden of the son of kronos[ ].' so ran medea's rhythmic utterance, and motionless in silence the godlike heroes bowed their heads as they hearkened to the counsels of wisdom. thee, happy son[ ] of polymnestos, did the oracle of the delphian bee[ ] approve with call unasked to be the man whereof the word was spoken, for thrice she bid thee hail and declared thee by decree of fate kyrene's king, what time thou enquiredst what help should be from heaven for thy labouring speech. and verily even now long afterward, as in the bloom of rosy-blossomed spring, in the eighth descent from battos the leaf of arkesilas is green. to him apollo and pytho have given glory in the chariot-race at the hands of the amphiktyons: him will i commend to the muses, and withal the tale of the all-golden fleece; for this it was the minyai sailed to seek when the god-given glories of their race began. what power first drave them in the beginning to the quest? what perilous enterprise clenched them with strong nails of adamant? there was an oracle of god which said that pelias should die by force or by stern counsels of the proud sons of aiolos, and there had come to him a prophecy that froze his cunning heart, spoken at the central stone of tree-clad mother earth, that by every means he should keep safe guard against the man of one sandal, whensoever from a homestead on the hills he shall have come to the sunny land of glorious iolkos, whether a stranger or a citizen he be. so in the fulness of time he came, wielding two spears, a wondrous man; and the vesture that was upon him was twofold, the garb of the magnetes' country close fitting to his splendid limbs, but above he wore a leopard-skin to turn the hissing showers; nor were the bright locks of his hair shorn from him but over all his back ran rippling down. swiftly he went straight on, and took his stand, making trial of his dauntless soul, in the marketplace when the multitude was full. him they knew not; howbeit some one looking reverently on him would speak on this wise: 'not apollo surely is this, nor yet aphrodite's lord of the brazen car; yea and in glistening naxos died ere now, they say, the children of iphimedeia, otos and thou, bold king ephialtes: moreover tityos was the quarry of artemis' swift arrow sped from her invincible quiver, warning men to touch only the loves within their power.' they answering each to each thus talked; but thereon with headlong haste of mules and polished car came pelias; and he was astonied when he gazed on the plain sign of the single sandal on the right foot. but he dissembled his fear within his heart and said unto him, 'what land, o stranger, dost thou claim to be thy country, and who of earth-born mortals bare thee of her womb out of due time[ ]? tell me thy race and shame it not by hateful lies.' and him with gentle words the other answered undismayed, 'i say to thee that i bear with me the wisdom of cheiron, for from chariklo and philyra i come, from the cave where the centaur's pure daughters reared me up, and now have i fulfilled twenty years among them without deceitful word or deed, and i am come home to seek the ancient honour of my father, held now in rule unlawful, which of old zeus gave to the chief aiolos and his children. for i hear that pelias yielding lawlessly to evil thoughts hath robbed it from my fathers whose right it was from the beginning; for they, when first i looked upon the light, fearing the violence of an injurious lord, made counterfeit of a dark funeral in the house as though i were dead, and amid the wailing of women sent me forth secretly in purple swathing-bands, when none but night might know the way we went, and gave me to cheiron the son of kronos to be reared. but of these things the chief ye know. now therefore kind citizens show me plainly the house of my fathers who drave white horses; for it shall hardly be said that a son of aison, born in the land, is come hither to a strange and alien soil. and jason was the name whereby the divine beast[ ] spake to me.' thus he said, and when he had entered in, the eyes of his father knew him; and from his aged eyelids gushed forth tears, for his soul was glad within him when he beheld his son, fairest of men and goodliest altogether. then came to him both brothers, when they heard that jason was come home, pheres from hard by, leaving the fountain hypereis, and out of messena amythaon, and quickly came admetos and melampos to welcome home their cousin. and at a common feast with gracious words jason received them and made them friendly cheer, culling for five long nights and days the sacred flower of joyous life. but on the sixth day he began grave speech, and set the whole matter before his kinsmen from the beginning, and they were of one mind with him. then quickly he rose up with them from their couches, and they came to pelias' hall, and they made haste and entered and stood within. and when he heard them the king himself came forth to them, even the son of tyro of the lovely hair. then jason with gentle voice opened on him the stream of his soft speech, and laid foundation of wise words: 'son of poseidon of the rock, too ready are the minds of mortal men to choose a guileful gain rather than righteousness, howbeit they travel ever to a stern reckoning. but thee and me it behoveth to give law to our desires, and to devise weal for the time to come. though thou knowest it yet will i tell thee, how that the same mother bare kretheus and rash salmoneus, and in the third generation we again were begotten and look upon the strength of the golden sun. now if there be enmity between kin, the fates stand aloof and would fain hide the shame. not with bronze-edged swords nor with javelins doth it beseem us twain to divide our forefathers' great honour, nor needeth it, for lo! all sheep and tawny herds of kine i yield, and all the lands whereon thou feedest them, the spoil of my sires wherewith thou makest fat thy wealth. that these things furnish forth thy house moveth me not greatly; but for the kingly sceptre and throne whereon the son of kretheus sate of old and dealt justice to his chivalry, these without wrath between us yield to me, lest some new evil arise up therefrom.' thus he spake, and mildly also did pelias make reply: 'i will be even as thou wilt, but now the sere of life alone remaineth to me, whereas the flower of thy youth is but just burgeoning; thou art able to take away the sin that maketh the powers beneath the earth wroth with us: for phrixos biddeth us lay his ghost, and that we go to the house of aietes, and bring thence the thick-fleeced hide of the ram, whereby of old he was delivered from the deep and from the impious weapons of his stepmother. this message cometh to me in the voice of a strange dream: also i have sent to ask of the oracle at kastalia whether it be worth the quest, and the oracle chargeth me straightway to send a ship on the sacred mission. this deed do thou offer me to do, and i swear to give thee up the sway and kingly rule. let zeus the ancestral god of thee and me be witness of my oath and stablish it surely in thine eyes.' so they made this covenant and parted; but jason straightway bade heralds to make known everywhere that a sailing was toward. and quickly came three sons of zeus, men unwearied in battle, whose mothers were alkmene and leto of the glancing eyes[ ], and two tall-crested men of valour, children of the earth-shaker, whose honour was perfect as their might, from pylos and from farthest tainaros: hereby was the excellence of their fame established--even euphemos' fame, and thine, wide-ruling periklymenos. and at apollo's bidding came the minstrel father of song, orpheus of fair renown. and hermes of the golden staff sent two sons to the toilsome task, echion and eurytos in the joy of their youth; swiftly they came, even from their dwelling at the foot of pangaios: and willingly and with glad heart their father boreas, king of winds, harnessed zetes and kalaïs, men both with bright wings shooting from their backs. for hera kindled within those sons of gods the all-persuading sweet desire for the ship argo, that none should be left behind and stay by his mother's side in savourless and riskless life, but each, even were death the price, achieve in company with his peers a magic potency of his valour. now when that goodly crew were come to iolkos, jason mustered them with thanks to each, and the seer mopsos prophesied by omens and by sacred lots, and with good will sped the host on board. and when they had hung the anchors over the prow, then their chief taking in his hands a golden goblet stood up upon the stern and called on zeus whose spear is the lightning, and on the rush of waves and winds and the nights and paths of the deep, to speed them quickly over, and for days of cheer and friendly fortune of return. and from the clouds a favourable voice of thunder pealed in answer; and there came bright lightning flashes bursting through. then the heroes took heart in obedience to the heavenly signs; and the seer bade them strike into the water with their oars, while he spake to them of happy hopes; and in their rapid hands the rowing sped untiringly. and with breezes of the south they came wafted to the mouth of the axine sea; there they founded a shrine and sacred close of poseidon, god of seas, where was a red herd of thracian bulls, and a new-built altar of stone with hollow top[ ]. then as they set forth toward an exceeding peril they prayed the lord of ships that they might shun the terrible shock of the clashing rocks: for they were twain that had life, and plunged along more swiftly than the legions of the bellowing winds; but that travel of the seed of gods made end of them at last[ ]. after that they came to the phasis; there they fought with dark-faced kolchians even in the presence of aietes. and there the queen of keenest darts, the cyprus-born, first brought to men from olympus the frenzied bird, the speckled wry-neck[ ], binding it to a four-spoked wheel without deliverance, and taught the son of aison to be wise in prayers and charms, that he might make medea take no thought to honour her parents, and longing for hellas might drive her by persuasion's lash, her heart afire with love. then speedily she showed him the accomplishment of the tasks her father set, and mixing drugs with oil gave him for his anointment antidotes of cruel pain, and they vowed to be joined together in sweet wedlock. but when aietes had set in the midst a plough of adamant, and oxen that from tawny jaws breathed flame of blazing fire, and with bronze hoofs smote the earth in alternate steps, and had led them and yoked them single-handed, he marked out in a line straight furrows, and for a fathom's length clave the back of the loamy earth; then he spake thus: 'this work let your king, whosoever he be that hath command of the ship, accomplish me, and then let him bear away with him the imperishable coverlet, the fleece glittering with tufts of gold.' he said, and jason flung off from him his saffron mantle, and putting his trust in god betook himself to the work; and the fire made him not to shrink, for that he had had heed to the bidding of the stranger maiden skilled in all pharmacy. so he drew to him the plough and made fast by force the bulls' necks in the harness, and plunged the wounding goad into the bulk of their huge sides, and with manful strain fulfilled the measure of his work. and a cry without speech came from aietes in his agony, at the marvel of the power he beheld. then to the strong man his comrades stretched forth their hands, and crowned him with green wreaths, and greeted him with gracious words. and thereupon the wondrous son[ ] of helios told him in what place the knife of phrixos had stretched the shining fell; yet he trusted that this labour at least should never be accomplished by him. for it lay in a thick wood and grasped by a terrible dragon's jaws, and he in length and thickness was larger than their ship of fifty oars, which the iron's blows had welded. long were it for me to go by the beaten track, for the time is nigh out, and i know a certain short path, and many others look to me for skill. the glaring speckled dragon, o arkesilas, he slew by subtlety, and by her own aid he stole away medea, the murderess of pelias. and they went down into the deep of ocean and into the red sea, and to the lemnian race of husbandslaying wives; there also they had games and wrestled for a prize of vesture, and lay with the women of the land. and then it was that in a stranger womb, by night or day, the fateful seed was sown of the bright fortune of thy race. for there began the generations of euphemos, which should be thenceforth without end. and in time mingling among the homes of lakedaimonian men they made their dwelling in the isle that once was kalliste[ ]: and thence the son of leto gave thy race the libyan plain to till it and to do honour therein to your gods, and to rule the divine city of golden-throned kyrene with devising of the counsels of truth. now hearken to a wise saying even as the wisdom of oedipus. if one with sharp axe lop the boughs of a great oak and mar the glorious form, even in the perishing of the fruit thereof it yet giveth token of that it was; whether at the last it come even to the winter fire, or whether with upright pillars in a master's house it stand, to serve drear service within alien walls, and the place thereof knoweth it no more[ ]. but thou art a physician most timely, and the god of healing maketh thy light burn brightly. a gentle hand must thou set to a festering wound. it is a small thing even for a slight man to shake a city, but to set it firm again in its place this is hard struggle indeed, unless with sudden aid god guide the ruler's hand. for thee are prepared the thanks which these deeds win. be strong to serve with all thy might kyrene's goodly destiny. and of homer's words take this to ponder in thy heart: _of a good messenger_, he saith, _cometh great honour to every deed._ even to the muse is right messengership a gain. now good cause have kyrene and the glorious house of battos to know the righteous mind of demophilos. for he was a boy with boys, yet in counsels an old man of a hundred years: and the evil tongue he robbeth of its loud voice, and hath learnt to abhor the insolent, neither will he make strife against the good, nor tarry when he hath a deed in hand. for a brief span hath opportunity for men, but of him it is known surely when it cometh, and he waiteth thereon a servant but no slave. now this they say is of all griefs the sorest, that one knowing good should of necessity abide without lot therein. yea thus doth atlas struggle now against the burden of the firmament, far from his native land and his possessions. yet the titans were set free by immortal zeus. as time runneth on the breeze abateth and there are shiftings of the sails. and he hath hope that when he shall have endured to the end his grievous plague he shall see once more his home, and at apollo's fountain[ ] joining in the feast give his soul to rejoice in her youth, and amid citizens who love his art, playing on his carven lute, shall enter upon peace, hurting and hurt of none. then shall he tell how fair a fountain of immortal verse he made to flow for arkesilas, when of late he was the guest of thebes. [footnote : libya. epaphos was son of zeus by io.] [footnote : this incident happened during the wanderings of the argonauts on their return with the golden fleece from kolchis to iolkos.] [footnote : thera.] [footnote : euphemos.] [footnote : at tainaros there was a cave supposed to be a mouth of hades.] [footnote : of libya.] [footnote : the purport of this is: if euphemos had taken the clod safely home to tainaros in lakonia, then his great-grandsons with emigrants from other peloponnesian powers would have planted a colony in libya. but since the clod had fallen into the sea and would be washed up on the shore of the island of thera, it was necessary that euphemos' descendants should first colonize thera, and then, but not till the seventeenth generation, proceed, under battos, to found the colony of kyrene in libya.] [footnote : battos.] [footnote : the priestess.] [footnote : the epithet [greek: polias] is impossible to explain satisfactorily. it has been suggested to me by professor s.h. butcher, that [greek: chamaigenaes] may have been equivalent to [greek: gaegenaes] and that pelias may thus mean, half ironically, to imply that jason's stature, garb and mien, as well as his mysteriously sudden appearance, argue him a son of one of the ancient giants who had been seen of old among men.] [footnote : the kentaur cheiron.] [footnote : i. e. one son of zeus and alkmene, herakles, and two sons of zeus and leto, kastor and polydeukes.] [footnote : for the blood of the victims.] [footnote : the symplegades having failed to crush the ship argo between them were themselves destroyed by the shock of their encounter with each other. probably a tradition of icebergs survived in this story.] [footnote : used as a love-charm.] [footnote : aietes.] [footnote : thera.] [footnote : in this parable the oak is the state, the boughs its best men, the fire and the alien house destruction and servitude.] [footnote : the fountain kyra in the heart of the city kyrene.] v. for arkesilas of kyrene, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this ode celebrates the same victory as the foregoing. it would seem that the chariot had been consecrated to apollo and left in the temple at delphi, but the horses were brought home to kyrene and led in procession through the sacred street of apollo, with their charioteer karrhotos, brother of arkesilas' wife. * * * * * wide-reaching is the power of wealth, whensoever a mortal man hath received it at the hands of fate with pure virtue mingled, and bringeth it to his home, a follower that winneth him many friends. arkesilas, thou favourite of the gods, thou verily seekest after it with good report from the first steps of thy glorious life, with aid of kastor of the golden car, who after the wintry storm hath shed bright calm about thy happy hearth[ ]. now the wise bear better the power that is given of god. and thou walkest in righteousness amid thy prosperity which is now great; first, for that thou art king of mighty cities, thy inborn virtue hath brought this majestic honour to thy soul, and again thou art now blessed in that from the famous pythian games thou hast won glory by thy steeds, and hast received this triumphal song of men, apollo's joy. therefore forget not, while at kyrene round aphrodite's pleasant garden thy praise is sung, to set god above every other as the cause thereof: also love thou karrhotos[ ] chiefest of thy friends; who hath not brought with him excuse the daughter of late-considering afterthought back to the house of the just-ruling sons of battos; but beside the waters of kastalia a welcomed guest he crowned thy hair with the crown of the conquering car, for the reins were safe[ ] in his hands throughout the twelve swift turns along the sacred course. of the strong harness brake he no whit: but there is hung up[ ] all that cunning work of the artificers that he brought with him when he passed over the krisaian hill to the plain within the valley of the god: therefore now the chamber of cypress-wood possesseth it, hard by the statue which the bow-bearing kretans dedicated in the parnassian shrine, the natural image in one block[ ]. therefore with eager heart it behoveth thee to go forth to meet him who hath done thee this good service. thee also, son[ ] of alexibios, the charites of lovely hair make glorious. blessed art thou for that after much toil thou hast a monument of noble words. among forty charioteers who fell[ ] thou didst with soul undaunted bring thy car unhurt, and hast now come back from the glorious games unto the plain of libya and the city of thy sires. without lot in trouble hath there been never any yet, neither shall be: yet still the ancient bliss of battos followeth the race, albeit with various fortune; a bulwark is it to the city, and to strangers a most welcome light. from battos even deep-voiced lions[ ] fled in fear when he uttered before them a voice from overseas: for the captain and founder apollo gave the beasts over to dire terror, that he might not be false to his oracles which he had delivered to the ruler of kyrene. apollo it is who imparteth unto men and women cures for sore maladies, and hath bestowed on them the lute, and giveth the muse to whomsoever he will, bringing into their hearts fair order of peace; and inhabiteth the secret place of his oracles; whereby at lakedaimon and at argos and at sacred pylos he made to dwell the valiant sons of herakles and aigimios[ ]. from sparta they say came my own dear famous race[ ]: thence sprang the sons of aigeus who came to thera, my ancestors, not without help of god; but a certain destiny brought thither a feast of much sacrifice[ ], and thence receiving, o apollo, thy karneia we honour at the banquet the fair-built city of kyrene, which the spear-loving strangers haunt[ ], the trojan seed of antenor. for with helen they came thither after they had seen their native city smoking in the fires of war. and now to that chivalrous race do the men whom aristoteles[ ] brought, opening with swift ships a track through the deep sea, give greeting piously, and draw nigh to them with sacrifice and gifts. he also planted greater groves of gods, and made a paved road[ ] cut straight over the plain, to be smitten with horsehoofs in processions that beseech apollo's guardianship for men; and there at the end of the market-place he lieth apart in death. blessed was he while he dwelt among men, and since his death the people worship him as their hero. and apart from him before their palace lie other sacred kings that have their lot with hades; and even now perchance they hear, with such heed as remaineth to the dead, of this great deed sprinkled with kindly dew of outpoured song triumphal, whence have they bliss in common with their son arkesilas unto whom it falleth due. him it behoveth by the song of the young men to celebrate phoibos of the golden sword, seeing that from pytho he hath won a recompense of his cost in this glad strain of glorious victory. of him the wise speak well: i but repeat their words saying that he cherisheth understanding above his years, that in eloquent speech and boldness he is as the wide-winged eagle among birds, and his strength in combat like a tower. and he hath wings to soar with the muses, as his mother before him, and now hath he proved him a cunning charioteer: and by all ways that lead to honour at home hath he adventured. as now the favour of god perfecteth his might, so for the time to come, blest children of kronos, grant him to keep it in counsel and in deed, that never at any time the wintry blast of the late autumn winds[ ] sweep him away. surely the mighty mind of zeus guideth the destiny of the men he loveth. i pray that to the seed of battos he may at olympia grant a like renown. [footnote : kastor was not only a patron of charioteers, but also, with his twin-brother polydeukes, a protector of mariners and giver of fair weather.] [footnote : the charioteer.] [footnote : i. e. well-handled and un-broken in the sharp turns round the goal.] [footnote : i. e. in apollo's temple at delphi.] [footnote : this would seem to have been a piece of wood growing naturally in the form of a man.] [footnote : karrhotos.] [footnote : this seems great havoc among the starters. probably besides the forty who fell there were others who were not actually upset but yet did not win. no doubt the race must have been run in heats, but these must still have been crowded enough to make the crush at the turns exceedingly dangerous.] [footnote : pausanias says that battos, the founder of kyrene, was dumb when he went to africa, but that on suddenly meeting a lion the fright gave him utterance. according to pindar the lions seem to have been still more alarmed, being startled by battos' foreign accent.] [footnote : the dorians.] [footnote : there were aigidai at sparta and spartan colonies, of which kyrene was one, and also at thebes: to the latter branch of the family pindar belonged.] [footnote : the karneia, a dorian feast of which we hear often in history.] [footnote : these trojan refugees were supposed to have anciently settled on the site where kyrene was afterwards built. battos (or aristoteles) and his new settlers honoured the dead trojans as tutelar heroes of the spot.] [footnote : battos.] [footnote : the sacred street of apollo, along which the procession moved which sang this ode. the pavement, and the tombs cut in the rock on each side are still to be seen, or at least were in , when the italian traveller della cella visited the place. böckh quotes from his viaggio da tripoli di barberia alle frontiere occedentali dell' egitto, p. : 'oggi ho passeggiato in una delle strade (di cirene) che serba ancora papparenza di essere stata fra le più cospicue. non solo è tutta intagliata nel vivo sasso, ma a due lati è fiancheggiata da lunga fila di tombe quadrate di dieci circa piedi di altezza, anch' esse tutte d'un pezzo scavate nella roccia.'] [footnote : i. e., probably, calamity in old age.] vi. for xenokrates of akragas, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this victory was won b.c. , when pindar was twenty-eight years old, and the ode was probably written to be sung at delphi immediately on the event. thus, next to the tenth pythian, written eight years before, this is the earliest of pindar's poems that remains to us. xenokrates was a son of ainesidamos and brother of theron. the second isthmian is also in his honour. * * * * * hearken! for once more we plough the field[ ] of aphrodite of the glancing eyes, or of the graces call it if you will, in this our pilgrimage to the everlasting centre-stone of deep-murmuring[ ] earth. for there for the blissful emmenidai, and for akragas by the riverside, and chiefliest for xenokrates, is builded a ready treasure of song within the valley of apollo rich in golden gifts. that treasure of his shall neither wind nor wintry rain-storm coming from strange lands, as a fierce host born of the thunderous cloud, carry into the hiding places of the sea, to be beaten by the all-sweeping drift: but in clear light its front shall give tidings of a victory won in krisa's dells, glorious in the speech of men to thy father thrasyboulos, and to all his kin with him. thou verily in that thou settest him ever at thy right hand cherishest the charge which once upon the mountains they say the son[ ] of philyra gave to him of exceeding might, even to the son of peleas, when he had lost his sire: first that of all gods he most reverence kronos' son, the deep-voiced lord of lightnings and of thunders, and then that he never rob of like honour a parent's spell of life. also of old time had mighty antilochos this mind within him, who died for his father's sake, when he abode the murderous onset of memnon, the leader of the ethiop hosts. for nestor's chariot was stayed by a horse that was stricken of the arrows of paris, and memnon made at him with his mighty spear. then the heart of the old man of messene was troubled, and he cried unto his son; nor wasted he his words in vain; in his place stood up the godlike man and bought his father's flight by his own death. so by the young men of that ancient time he was deemed to have wrought a mighty deed, and in succouring of parents to be supreme. these things are of the past; but of men that now are thrasyboulos hath come nearest to our fathers' gauge. and following his uncle also he hath made glory to appear for him; and with wisdom doth he handle wealth, neither gathereth the fruit of an unrighteous or overweening youth, but rather of knowledge amid the secret places of the pierides. and to thee, earthshaker, who didst devise ventures of steeds, with right glad heart he draweth nigh. sweet is his spirit toward the company of his guests, yea sweeter than the honeycomb, the toil of bees. [footnote : the field of poesy.] [footnote : an epithet appropriate to volcanic soils.] [footnote : cheiron.] vii. for megakles of athens, winner in the four-horse chariot-race. * * * * * megakles won this victory b.c. , the year of the battle of marathon. he was a member of the great house of the alkmaionidai, to which kleisthenes and perikles belonged. megakles was a frequent name in the family: this megakles was probably the nephew, possibly the son, of kleisthenes. * * * * * fairest of preludes is the great name of athens to whosoever will lay foundation of songs for the mighty race of alkmaionidai and for their steeds. what country, what house among all lands shall i name more glorious throughout hellas? for unto all cities is the fame familiar of the citizens of erechtheus, who at divine pytho have wrought thee, o apollo, a glorious house[ ]. and i hereto am led by victories, at isthmos five, and one pre-eminent, won at olympia at the feast of zeus, and two at kirrha, which thou, o megakles, and thy sire have won. now at this new good fortune i rejoice; yet somewhat also i grieve, even to behold how envy requiteth noble deeds[ ]. yet thus ever, they say, must fair hap abiding with a man engender bad with good. [footnote : the alkmainodai had lately been spending large sums on the rebuilding of apollo's temple at delphi.] [footnote : megakles was twice ostracized.] viii. for aristomenes of aigina, winner in the wrestling-match. * * * * * the precise date of this ode is uncertain, but there is strong internal evidence of its having been written soon after the battle of salamis, after which, as is well known, the [greek: aristeia] or first honours for valour, were awarded to aigina. the insolence of the barbarian despot seems to be symbolized by that of the giants typhon and porphyrion. the ode was apparently to be sung on the winner's return to aigina. no less than eleven of the extant odes were written for winners from that island. * * * * * o kindly peace, daughter of righteousness, thou that makest cities great, and boldest the supreme keys of counsels and of wars, welcome thou this honour to aristomenes, won in the pythian games. thou knowest how alike to give and take gentleness in due season: thou also, if any have moved thy heart unto relentless wrath, dost terribly confront the enemy's might, and sinkest insolence in the sea. thus did porphyrion provoke thee unaware. now precious is the gain that one beareth away from the house of a willing giver. but violence shall ruin a man at the last, boast he never so loudly. he of kilikia, typhon of the hundred heads, escaped not this, neither yet the king of giants[ ]: but by the thunderbolt they fell and by the bow of apollo, who with kind intent hath welcomed xenarches home from kirrha, crowned with parnassian wreaths and dorian song. not far from the graces' ken falleth the lot of this righteous island-commonwealth, that hath attained unto the glorious deeds of the sons of aiakos[ ]: from the beginning is her fame perfect, for she is sung of as the nurse of heroes foremost in many games and in violent fights: and in her mortal men also is she pre-eminent. but my time faileth me to offer her all i might tell at length by lute and softer voice of man, so that satiety vex not. so let that which lieth in my path, my debt to thee, o boy, the youngest of thy country's glories, run on apace, winged by my art. for in wrestlings thou art following the footsteps of thy uncles, and shamest neither theognetos at olympia, nor the victory that at isthmos was won by kleitomachos' stalwart limbs. and in that thou makest great the clan of the midylidai thou attainest unto the very praise which on a time the son of oikleus spake in a riddle, when he saw at seven-gated thebes the sons of the seven standing to their spears, what time from argos came the second race on their new enterprise[ ]. thus spake he while they fought: 'by nature, son, the noble temper of thy sires shineth forth in thee. i see clearly the speckled dragon that alkmaion weareth on his bright shield, foremost at the kadmean gates. and he who in the former fight fared ill, hero adrastos, is now endowed with tidings of a better omen. yet in his own house his fortune shall be contrariwise: for he alone of all the danaan host, after that he shall have gathered up the bones of his dead son, shall by favour of the gods come back with unharmed folk to the wide streets of abas[ ].' on this wise spake amphiaraos. yea and with joy i too myself throw garlands on alkmaion's grave, and shower it withal with songs, for that being my neighbour and guardian of my possessions[ ] he met me as i went up to the earth's centre-stone, renowned in song, and showed forth the gift of prophecy which belongeth unto his house[ ]. but thou, far-darter, ruler of the glorious temple whereto all men go up, amid the glens of pytho didst there grant this the greatest of joys: and at home before didst thou bring to him at the season of thy feast the keen-sought prize of the pentathlon. my king, with willing heart i make avowal that through thee is harmony before mine eyes in all that i sing of every conqueror. by the side of our sweet-voiced song of triumph hath righteousness taken her stand, and i pray, o xenarches[ ], that the favour of god be unfailing toward the fortune of thee and thine. for if one hath good things to his lot without long toil, to many he seemeth therefore to be wise among fools and to be crowning his life by right devising of the means. but these things lie not with men: it is god that ordereth them, who setteth up one and putteth down another, so that he is bound beneath the hands of the adversary. now at megara also hast thou won a prize, and in secluded marathon, and in the games of hera in thine own land, three times, aristomenes, hast thou overcome. and now on the bodies of four others[ ] hast thou hurled thyself with fierce intent, to whom the pythian feast might not award, as unto thee, the glad return, nor the sweet smile that welcometh thee to thy mother's side; nay but by secret ways they shrink from meeting their enemies, stricken down by their evil hap. now he that hath lately won glory in the time of his sweet youth is lifted on the wings of his strong hope and soaring valour, for his thoughts are above riches. in a little moment groweth up the delight of men; yea and in like sort falleth it to the ground, when a doom adverse hath shaken it. things of a day--what are we, and what not? man is a dream of shadows. nevertheless when a glory from god hath shined on them, a clear light abideth upon men, and serene life. aigina[ ], mother dear, this city in her march among the free, with zeus and lordly aiakos, with peleus and valiant telamon and with achilles, guard thou well. [footnote : porphyrion.] [footnote : aiakos and his descendants, especially aias, were the chief national heroes of aigina.] [footnote : it seems doubtful what this legend exactly was. either amphiaraos, during the attack of the first seven against thebes, saw by prophetic vision the future battle of the second seven, the epigonoi, among whom were his own son alkmaion, and adrastos, the sole survivor of the first seven; or else these are the words of his oracle after his death, spoken when the battle of the epigonoi had begun but was not yet ended.] [footnote : abas was an ancient king of argos.] [footnote : probably there was a shrine of alkmaion near pindar's house at thebes, so that he considered his household to be under the hero's protection: perhaps he had deposited money in the shrine, for temples were often used as treasuries.] [footnote : probably in some vision seen by pindar on his journey to delphi.] [footnote : father of aristomenes.] [footnote : his competitors in four ties of the wrestling-match.] [footnote : the nymph, protectress of the island.] ix. for telesikrates of kyrene, winner of the foot-race in full armour. * * * * * the hellenic heavy-armed soldier was often called upon to advance at a run, as for instance in the charge at marathon. with a view no doubt to such occasions this race in full armour had been instituted at pytho in , and in it was won by telesikrates. the ode was probably sung in a procession at thebes, before telesikrates had gone back to kyrene, but the legends related are mainly connected with kyrene. probably the commentators are right in supposing that telesikrates was to take home with him a bride from the mother-country, a fact which makes the legends told specially appropriate. * * * * * i have desire to proclaim with aid of the deep-vested graces a victory at pytho of telesikrates bearing the shield of bronze, and to speak aloud his name, for his fair fortune and the glory wherewith he hath crowned kyrene, city of charioteers. kyrene[ ] once from pelion's wind-echoing dells leto's son, the flowing-haired, caught up and in a golden car bore away the huntress-maiden to the place where he made her queen of a land rich in flocks, yea richest of all lands in the fruits of the field, that her home might be the third part[ ] of the mainland of earth, a stock that should bear lovely bloom. and silver-foot aphrodite awaited the delian stranger issuing from his car divine, and lightly laid on him her hand: then over their sweet bridal-bed she cast the loveliness of maiden shame, and in a common wedlock joined the god and the daughter of wide-ruling hypseus, who then was king of the haughty lapithai, a hero whose father's father was the ocean-god--for amid the famous mountain-dells of pindos the naiad kreüsa bare him after she had delight in the bed of peneus, kreüsa, daughter of earth. now the child he reared was kyrene of the lovely arms: she was not one who loved the pacings to and fro before the loom, neither the delights of feastings with her fellows within the house, but with bronze javelins and a sword she fought against and slew wild beasts of prey; yea and much peace and sure she gave thereby to her father's herds, but for sleep, the sharer of her bed, short spent she it and sweet, descending on her eyelids as the dawn drew near. once as she struggled alone, without spear, with a terrible lion, he of the wide quiver, far-darting apollo, found her: and straightway he called cheiron from his hall and spake to him aloud: 'son of philyra, come forth from thy holy cave, and behold and wonder at the spirit of this woman, and her great might, what strife she wageth here with soul undaunted, a girl with heart too high for toil to quell; for her mind shaketh not in the storm of fear. what man begat her? from what tribe was she torn to dwell in the secret places of the shadowing hills? she hath assayed a struggle unachievable. is it lawful openly to put forth my hand to her, or rather on a bridal-bed pluck the sweet flower?' to him the centaur bold with a frank smile on his mild brow made answer straightway of his wisdom: 'secret are wise lovecraft's keys unto love's sanctities, o phoibos, and among gods and men alike all deem this shame, to have pleasure of marriage at the first openly. now even thee, who mayest have no part in lies, thy soft desire hath led to dissemble in this thy speech. the maiden's lineage dost thou, o king, enquire of me--thou who knowest the certain end of all things, and all ways? how many leaves the earth sendeth forth in spring, how many grains of sand in sea and river are rolled by waves and the winds' stress, what shall come to pass, and whence it shall be, thou discernest perfectly. but if even against wisdom i must match myself, i will speak on. to wed this damsel camest thou unto this glen, and thou art destined to bear her beyond the sea to a chosen garden of zeus, where thou shalt make her a city's queen, when thou hast gathered together an island-people to a hill in the plain's midst. and now shall queenly libya of broad meadow-lands well-pleased receive for thee within a golden house thy glorious bride, and there make gift to her of a portion in the land, to be an inhabiter thereof with herself, neither shall it be lacking in tribute of plants bearing fruit after all kinds, neither a stranger to the beasts of chase. there shall she bring forth a son, whom glorious hermes taking up from his mother's arms shall bear to the fair-throned hours and to earth: and they shall set the babe upon their knees, and nectar and ambrosia they shall distil upon his lips, and shall make him as an immortal, a zeus or a holy apollo, to men beloved of him a very present help, a tutelar of flocks, and to some agreus and nomios; but to others aristaios shall be his name.' by these words he made him ready for the bridal's sweet fulfilment. and swift the act and short the ways of gods who are eager to an end. that same day made accomplishment of the matter, and in a golden chamber of libya they lay together; where now she haunteth a city excellent in beauty and glorious in the games. and now at sacred pytho hath the son of karneadas wedded that city to the fair flower of good luck: for by his victory there he hath proclaimed kyrene's name, even her's who shall receive him with glad welcome home, to the country of fair women bringing precious honour out of delphi. great merits stir to many words: yet to be brief and skilful on long themes is a good hearing for bards: for fitness of times is in everything alike of chief import. that iolaos had respect thereto[ ] seven-gated thebes knoweth well, for when he had stricken down the head of eurystheus beneath the edge of the sword, she buried the slayer beneath the earth in the tomb of amphitryon the charioteer, where his father's father was laid, a guest of the spartoi, who had left his home to dwell among the streets of the sons of kadmos who drave white horses. to him and to zeus at once did wise alkmene bear the strength of twin sons prevailing in battle. dull is that man who lendeth not his voice to herakles, nor hath in remembrance continually the waters of dirke that nurtured him and iphikles. to them will i raise a song of triumph for that i have received good at their hands, after that i had prayed to them that the pure light of the voiceful graces might not forsake me. for at aigma and on the hill of nisos twice ere now i say that i have sung kyrene's praise, and by my act have shunned the reproach of helpless dumbness. wherefore if any of the citizens be our friend, yea even if he be against us, let him not seek to hide the thing that hath been well done in the common cause, and so despise the word of the old god of the sea[ ]. he biddeth one give praise with the whole heart to noble deeds, yea even to an enemy, so be it that justice be on his side. full many times at the yearly feast of pallas have the maidens seen thee winner, and silently they prayed each for herself that such an one as thou, o telesikrates, might be her beloved husband or her son; and thus also was it at the games of olympia and of ample-bosomed earth[ ], and at all in thine own land. me anywise to slake my thirst for song the ancient glory of thy forefathers summoneth to pay its due and rouse it yet again--to tell how that for love of a libyan woman there went up suitors to the city of irasa to woo antaios' lovely-haired daughter of great renown; whom many chiefs of men, her kinsmen, sought to wed, and many strangers also; for the beauty of her was marvellous, and they were fain to cull the fruit whereto her gold-crowned youth had bloomed. but her father gained for his daughter a marriage more glorious still. now he had heard how sometime danaos at argos devised for his forty and eight maiden daughters, ere mid-day was upon them, a wedding of utmost speed--for he straightway set the whole company at the race-course end, and bade determine by a foot-race which maiden each hero should have, of all the suitors that had come. even on this wise gave the libyan a bridegroom to his daughter, and joined the twain. at the line he set the damsel, having arrayed her splendidly, to be the goal and prize, and proclaimed in the midst that he should lead her thence to be his bride who, dashing to the front, should first touch the robes she wore. thereon alexidamos, when that he had sped through the swift course, took by her hand the noble maiden, and led her through the troops of nomad horsemen. many the leaves and wreaths they showered on him; yea and of former days many plumes of victories had he won. [footnote : a thessalian maiden, from whom, according to this legend, the colony of kyrene in africa took its name.] [footnote : i. e. libya, the continent which we now call africa.] [footnote : i. e. by seizing the moment left to him before it should be too late to act. thebes and kyrene were connected by the fact that members of the aigid family lived at both places.] [footnote : nereus. powers of divination and wisdom generally are often attributed to sea-deities.] [footnote : i. e. at delphi or pytho. as being the supposed centre of the earth it was the place of the worship of the earth-goddess.] x. for hippokleas of thessaly, winner in the two-stadion foot-race of boys. * * * * * the only reason we know for the digression about perseus which occupies great part of this ode seems to be that thorax, who engaged pindar to write it for hippokleas, and perhaps hippokleas himself, belonged to the family of the aleuadai, who were descended through herakles from perseus. this ode is the earliest entire poem of pindar's which survives. he wrote it when he was twenty years old. the simplicity of the style and manner of composition are significant of this. but there can scarcely be said to be traces here of pindar's early tendency in dealing with mythological allusions to 'sow not with the hand but with the whole sack,' which korinna advised him to correct, and which is conspicuous in a fragment remaining to us of one of his hymns. * * * * * happy is lakedaimon, blessed is thessaly: in both there reigneth a race sprung from one sire, from herakles bravest in the fight. what vaunt is this unseasonable? nay, now, but pytho calleth me, and pelinnaion[ ], and the sons of aleuas who would fain lead forth the loud voices of a choir of men in honour of hippokleas. for now hath he tasted the joy of games, and to the host of the dwellers round about hath the valley beneath parnassos proclaimed him best among the boys who ran the double race[ ]. o apollo, sweet is the end when men attain thereto, and the beginning availed more when it is speeded of a god. surely of thy devising were his deeds: and this his inborn valour hath trodden in the footsteps of his father twice victor at olympia in panoply of war-affronting arms[ ]: moreover the games in the deep meadow beneath kirrha's cliff gave victory to the fleet feet of phrikias[ ]. may good luck follow them, so that even in after days the splendour of their wealth shall bloom. of the pleasant things of hellas they have no scanty portion to their lot; may they happen on no envious repentings of the gods. a god's heart, it may be, is painless ever; but happy and a theme of poet's song is that man who for his valiance of hands or feet the chiefest prizes hath by strength and courage won, and in his life-time seen his young son by good hap attaining to the pythian crown. never indeed shall he climb the brazen heaven, but whatsoever splendours we of mortal race may reach, through such he hath free course even to the utmost harbourage. but neither by taking ship, neither by any travel on foot, to the hyperborean folk shalt thou find the wondrous way. yet of old the chieftain perseus entered into their houses and feasted among them, when that he had lighted on them as they were sacrificing ample hecatombs of asses to their god. for ever in their feasts and hymns hath apollo especial joy, and laugheth to see the braying ramp of the strange beasts. nor is the muse a stranger to their lives, but everywhere are stirring to and fro dances of maidens and shrill noise of pipes: and binding golden bay-leaves in their hair they make them merry cheer. nor pestilence nor wasting eld approach that hallowed race: they toil not neither do they fight, and dwell unharmed of cruel nemesis. in the eagerness of his valiant heart went of old the son of danaë, for that athene led him on his way, unto the company of that blessed folk. also he slew the gorgon and bare home her head with serpent tresses decked, to the island folk a stony death. i ween there is no marvel impossible if gods have wrought thereto. let go the oar, and quickly drive into the earth an anchor from the prow, to save us from the rocky reef, for the glory of my song of praise flitteth like a honey-bee from tale to tale. i have hope that when the folk of ephyra pour forth my sweet strains by peneus' side, yet more glorious shall i make their hippokleas for his crowns and by my songs among his fellows and his elders, and i will make him possess the minds of the young maidens. for various longings stir secretly the minds of various men; yet each if he attain to the thing he striveth for will hold his eager desire for the time present to him, but what a year shall bring forth, none shall foreknow by any sign. my trust is in the kindly courtesy of my host thorax, of him who to speed my fortune hath yoked this four-horse car of the pierides, as friend for friend, and willing guide for guide. as gold to him that trieth it by a touch-stone, so is a true soul known. his noble brethren also will we praise, for that they exalt and make great the thessalians' commonwealth. for in the hands of good men lieth the good piloting of the cities wherein their fathers ruled. [footnote : hippokleas' birth-place.] [footnote : down the stadion ( yards) and back.] [footnote : i. e. in the race run in full armour, like that at pytho which telesikrates, of kyrene won, celebrated in the fore-going ode.] [footnote : probably a horse with which hippokleas' father won a race at pytho.] xi. for thrasydaios of thebes, winner in the boys' short foot-race. * * * * * the date of this victory was b.c. , nearly two years after the battle of plataea, and the deliverance of thebes from persian influence and the sway of a tyrannous oligarchy. but beyond this we have nothing certain to which we can refer the allusions to theban affairs, public and private, which we have reason to think present in the ode. * * * * * daughters of kadmos, thou semele whose goings are with the queens of olympus, and thou ino leukothea who housest with the nereids of the sea, come ye up with the mother[ ] of a mighty son, even of herakles, unto the temple of m[)e]lia[ ] and into the holy place of the golden tripods, which beyond all others loxias hath honoured, and named it the shrine ismenian, a truthful seat of seers; where now, o children of harmonia, he calleth the whole heroic sisterhood of the soil to assemble themselves together, that of holy themis and of pytho and the earth-navel of just judgments ye may sing at early evening, doing honour to seven-gated thebes, and to the games at kirrha, wherein thrasydaios hath made his father's house glorious by casting thereon a third wreath for his victory in the rich cornlands[ ] of pylades, who was the host of lakonian orestes. orestes, on the murder of his father, arsinoë his nurse saved from the violent hands of klytaimnestra and out of the ruinous treason, what time the daughter of dardanid priam, kassandra, was by the glittering bronze in company with agamemnon's soul sped to the shadowy shore of acheron by the woman who had no pity. did then the slaughter of iphigenia far from her own land on euripos' shore so sting her mother to the arousal of a wrath of grievous act? or had nocturnal loves misguided her, in thraldom to a paramour's embrace? a sin in new-wed brides most hateful, and that cannot be hidden for the talk of stranger tongues: for the citizens repeat the shame. for prosperity must sustain an envy equalling itself: but concerning the man of low place the rumour is obscure. thus died the hero himself[ ], the son of atreus, when after long time he came unto famous amyklai, and drew down with him to death the maiden prophetess[ ], after that he consumed with fire the trojans' habitations of softness. and thus orestes, in the tenderness of his youth, came and was the guest of the old man strophios, who dwelt at the foot of parnassos: but with long-tarrying sword he slew his mother, and left aigisthos' body in its blood. verily, my friends, by triple roads of interchanging ways i have wound about, though heretofore i had kept on a straight track. or hath some wind blown me out of my course, as when it bloweth a boat upon the sea? but thine it is, my muse, since thou for reward didst promise the loan thereof, to raise thy voice for silver now on this tale, now on that, so that for this time at least it is on behalf either of thrasydaios or of his sire who conquered at pytho: for of both are the joy and glory burning lights. of old for victories in the chariot-race they had bright glory at olympia in the famous games for the swiftness of their steeds: and now have they gone down among the naked runners in the stadion, and have put to rebuke the host of the hellenes by their speed. god grant me to desire things honourable, seeking things possible in my life's prime. the middle course i find to prosper most enduringly in the commonwealth, and a state of tyranny i condemn. on well-doing for the common good[ ] i bestow my pains: so are the envious baffled, if one hath excelled in such acts to the uttermost, and bearing it modestly hath shunned the perilous reproach of insolence: so also at the end shall he find black death more gracious unto him, to his dear children leaving the best of possessions, even the glory of an honourable name. this it is that beareth abroad the name of iolaos in song, and the names of the mighty kastor and of thee, king polydeukes, ye sons of gods, who one day in therapnai and the next in olympus have your dwelling-place. [footnote : alkmene.] [footnote : mother of ismenios and teucros, by apollo.] [footnote : in phokis.] [footnote : agamemnon. it is a strange variety of the tale that he is spoken of as having been murdered at amyklai and not at argos or mykenai. so above orestes is called lakonian.] [footnote : kassandra.] [footnote : (not for a party.)] xii. for midas of akragas, winner in the flute-playing match. * * * * * this is an early ode: the victory was won either in or . it was to be sung, it would seem, at akragas, and very probably in a procession to the shrine of the tutelar divinity of the city, with an address to whom it seemingly begins, though it is difficult to say what degree of personification is intended. * * * * * i pray thee, lover of splendour, most beautiful among the cities of men, haunt of persephone, thou who by the banks of akragas' stream that nourisheth thy flocks, inhabitest a citadel builded pleasantly--o queen, graciously and with goodwill of gods and men welcome this crown that is come forth from pytho for midas' fair renown; and him too welcome therewithal who hath overcome all hellas in the art which once on a time pallas athene devised, when she made music of the fierce gorgon's death-lament. that heard she pouring from the maiden heads and heads of serpents unapproachable amidst the anguish of their pains, when perseus had stricken the third sister, and to the isle seriphos and its folk bare thence their doom. yea also he struck with blindness the wondrous brood of phorkos[ ], and to polydektes' bridal brought a grievous gift, and grievous eternally he made for that man his mother's slavery and ravished bed: for this he won the fair-faced medusa's head, he who was the son of danaë, and sprung, they say, from a living stream of gold. but the maiden[ ], when that she had delivered her well-beloved from these toils, contrived the manifold music of the flute, that with such instrument she might repeat the shrill lament that reached her from euryale's[ ] ravening jaws. a goddess was the deviser thereof, but having created it for a possession of mortal men, she named that air she played the many-headed[ ] air, that speaketh gloriously of folk-stirring games, as it issueth through the thin-beat bronze and the reeds which grow by the graces' city of goodly dancing-ground in the precinct of kephisos' nymph, the dancers' faithful witnesses. but if there be any bliss among mortal men, without labour it is not made manifest: it may be that god will accomplish it even to-day, yet the thing ordained is not avoidable: yea, there shall be a time that shall lay hold on a man unaware, and shall give him one thing beyond his hope, but another it shall bestow not yet. [footnote : the three grey sisters, whose one common eye perseus stole, [greek: daenaiai korai treis kyknomorphoi koinon omm' ektaemenai monodontes, has outh' haelios prosderketai aktisin, outh' hae nukteros maenae pote.] aesch. prom. . this must mean some kind of twilight, not total darkness, or they could hardly have missed their eye.] [footnote : athene.] [footnote : one of the gorgons.] [footnote : a certain [greek: nomos aulaetikos] was known by this name.] the nemean odes. i. for chromios of aitna, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this chromios was a son of agesidamos and brother-in-law of hieron, and the same man for whom the ninth nemean was written. he had become a citizen of hieron's new city of aitna, and won this victory b.c. . this ode seems to have been sung before his house in ortygia, a peninsula on which part of syracuse was built, and in which was the fountain arethusa. the legend of arethusa and alpheos explains the epithets of ortygia with which the ode opens. the greater part of the ode is occupied with the story of herakles, perhaps because chromios was of the hyllean tribe and thus traced his descent to herakles. * * * * * o resting-place august of alpheos, ortygia, scion of famous syracuse, thou that art a couch of artemis and a sister of delos[ ], from thee goeth forth a song of sweet words, to set forth the great glory of whirlwind-footed steeds in honour of aitnaian zeus. for now the car of chromios, and nemea, stir me to yoke to his victorious deeds the melody of a triumphal song. and thus by that man's heaven-sped might i lay my foundations in the praise of gods. in good fortune men speak well of one altogether: and of great games the muse is fain to tell. sow then some seed of splendid words in honour of this isle, which zeus, the lord of olympus, gave unto persephone, and bowed his hair toward her in sign that this teeming sicily he would exalt to be the best land in the fruitful earth, with gorgeous crown of citadels. and the son of kronos gave unto her a people that wooeth mailed war, a people of the horse and of the spear, and knowing well the touch of olympia's golden olive-leaves. thus shoot i arrows many, and without falsehood i have hit the mark. and now at the doors of the hall of a hospitable man i stand to sing a goodly song, where is prepared for me a friendly feast, and not unwonted in that house are frequent stranger-guests: thus hath he found good friends to pour a quenching flood on the mouldering fire of reproach. each hath his several art: but in straight paths it behoveth him to walk, and to strive hard wherein his nature setteth him. thus worketh strength in act, and mind in counsels, when one is born to foresee what shall come after. in thy nature, son of agesidamos, are uses both for this and that. i love not to keep hidden in my house great wealth, but to have joy of that i have, and to have repute of liberality to my friends: for the hopes of much-labouring men seem to me even as mine. now i to herakles cleave right willingly, among high deeds of valour rousing an ancient tale; how that when from his mother's womb the son of zeus escaping the birth-pang came quickly into the glorious light with his twin-brother, not unobserved of hera did he put on the saffron swaddling bands; but the queen of gods in the kindling of her anger sent presently the two snakes, and they when the doors were opened went right on into the wide bedchamber, hasting to entwine the children, that they should be a prey to their fierce teeth. but the boy lifted up his head upright and was first to essay the fight, seizing with inevitable grasp of both his hands the two serpents by the necks, and time, as he strangled them, forced the breath out of their monstrous forms. but a shock unendurable startled the women about alkmene's bed, yea and herself too started to her feet from the couch half-robed, and would fain have beaten back the fierce beasts' violence. and quickly ran thronging thither with bronze arms the captains of the sons of kadmos; and brandishing in his hand his sword bare of its sheath came amphitryon smitten with sharp pain; for everyone alike is grieved by the ills of his own house, but the heart is soon quit of sorrow that careth but for another's care. and he stood in amazement, and gladness mingled with his fear; for he saw the marvellous courage and might of his son, since the immortals had turned to the contrary the saying of the messengers unto him. then he called a man that lived nigh to him, a chosen prophet of the most high zeus, teiresias the true seer: and he set forth to him and to all his company with what manner of fortune should the child have his lot cast, how many lawless monsters on the dry land, how many on the sea he should destroy. others moreover, of men the hatefullest, who walked in guile and insolence, he prophesied that he should deliver over unto death: saying that when on phlegra's plain the gods should meet the giants in battle, beneath the rush of his arrows their bright hair should be soiled with earth; but he in peace himself should obtain a reward of rest from his great toils throughout all time continually within the house of bliss, and after that he had received fair hebe to be his bride, and made his marriage-feast, should remain beside zeus, the son of kronos, well-pleased with his dwelling-place divine. [footnote : i. e. so honoured by artemis as to rank with her native delos.] ii. for timodemos of athens, winner in the pankration. * * * * the date of this ode is unknown. it would seem to have been sung at athens on the winner's return home. he belonged to the clan of the timodemidai of salamis, but to the deme of acharnai. as to the nature of the pankration see dict. ant. it was a combination of wrestling and boxing, probably with wide license of rules. the best extant illustration of it in sculpture is the famous group of the pankratiasts (commonly called the luttatori) in the tribune of the uffizi at florence. * * * * * from the self-same beginning whence the homerid bards draw out the linkèd story of their song, even a prelude calling upon zeus--so also nemeaian zeus it is in whose far-famous grove this man hath attained unto laying his first foundation of victory in the sacred games. and yet again must the son of timonoös, if in the way of his fathers' guiding him straight this age hath given him to be a glory of great athens--yet again and often must he pluck the noble flower of isthmian games, and in the pythian conquer. like is it that not far from the mountain-brood of pleiads[ ] shall be the rising of orion. well able verily is salamis to rear a man of battles: so at troy was hektor aware of aias; and so now, o timodemos, art thou glorified by thy stubborn prowess in the pankration. acharnai of old was famous for its men, and as touching games the timodemidai rank there pre-eminent. beneath parnassos' lordly height they won four victories in the games; moreover in the valleys of noble pelops they have obtained eight crowns at the hands of the men of corinth, and seven at nemea; and at home more than may be numbered, at the games of zeus: to whose glory, o citizens, sing for timodemos a song of triumph, and bring him in honour home, and chant our prelude tunefully. [footnote : the pleiads were daughters of atlas. one victory betokens another to come, as the rising of a constellation betokens the rising of its neighbour.] iii. for aristokleides of aigina, winner in the pankration. * * * * * the date of the victory is unknown: the ode seems to have been written long afterwards, probably for some anniversary celebration of the event. * * * * * o divine muse, our mother, i pray thee come unto this dorian isle aigina stranger-thronged, for the sacred festival of the nemean games[ ]: for by the waters of asopos[ ] young men await thee, skilled to sing sweet songs of triumph, and desiring to hear thy call. for various recompense are various acts athirst; but victory in the games above all loveth song, of crowns and valiant deeds the fittest follower. thereof grant us large store for our skill, and to the king of heaven with its thronging clouds do thou who art his daughter begin a noble lay; and i will marry the same to the voices of singers and to the lyre. a pleasant labour shall be mine in glorifying this land where of old the myrmidons dwelt, whose ancient meeting-place aristokleides through thy favour hath not sullied with reproach by any softness in the forceful strife of the pankration; but a healing remedy of wearying blows he hath won at least in this fair victory in the deep-lying plain of nemea. now if this son of aristophanes, being fair of form and achieving deeds as fair, hath thus attained unto the height of manly excellence, no further is it possible for him to sail untraversed sea beyond the pillars of herakles, which the hero-god set to be wide-famed witnesses of the end of voyaging: for he had overcome enormous wild-beasts on the seas, and tracked the streams through marshes to where he came to the goal that turned him to go back homeward, and there did he mark out the ends of the earth. but to what headland of a strange shore, o my soul, art thou carrying aside the course of my ship? to aiakos and to his race i charge thee bring the muse. herein is perfect justice, to speak the praise of good men: neither are desires for things alien the best for men to cherish: search first at home: a fitting glory for thy sweet song hast thou gotten there in deeds of ancient valour. glad was king peleus when he cut him his gigantic spear, he who took iolkos by his single arm without help of any host, he who held firm in the struggle thetis the daughter of the sea. also the city of laomedon did mighty telamon sack, when he fought with iolaos by his side, and again to the war of the amazons with brazen bows he followed him; neither at any time did man-subduing terror abate the vigour of his soul. by inborn worth doth one prevail mightily; but whoso hath but precepts is a vain man and is fain now for this thing and now again for that, but a sure step planteth he not at any time, but handleth countless enterprises with a purpose that achieveth naught. now achilles of the yellow hair, while he dwelt in the house of philyra[ ], being yet a child made mighty deeds his play; and brandishing many a time his little javelin in his hands, swift as the wind he dealt death to wild lions in the fight, and boars he slew also and dragged their heaving bodies to the centaur, son of kronos, a six years' child when he began, and thenceforward continually. and artemis marvelled at him, and brave athene, when he slew deer without dogs or device of nets; for by fleetness of foot he overcame them. this story also of the men of old have i heard: how within his cavern of stone did deep-counselled cheiron rear jason, and next asklepios, whom he taught to apportion healing drugs with gentle hand: after this it was that he saw the espousals of nereus' daughter of the shining wrists, and fondling nursed her son, strongest of men, rearing his soul in a life of harmony; until by blowing of sea winds wafted to troy he should await the war-cry of the lykians and of the phrygians and of the dardanians, cried to the clashing of spears; and joining in battle with the lancer ethiops hand to hand should fix this purpose in his soul, that their chieftain memnon, helenos' fiery cousin, should go back again to his home no more. thenceforward burneth ever a far-shining light for the house of aiakos; for thine o zeus is their blood, even as thine also are the games whereat my song is aimed, by the voice of the young men of the land proclaiming aloud her joy. for victorious aristokleides hath well earned a cheer, in that he hath brought new renown to this island, and to the theoroi[ ] of the pythian god, by striving for glory in the games. by trial is the issue manifest, wherein may one be more excellent than his fellows, whether among boys a boy, or among men a man, or in the third age among elders, according to the nature of our mortal race. four virtues doth a long life bring, and biddeth one fit his thought to the things about him[ ]. from such virtues this man is not far. friend, fare thee well: i send to thee this honey mingled with white milk, and the dew of the mixing hangeth round about it, to be a drink of minstrelsy distilled in breathings of aiolian flutes; albeit it come full late. swift is the eagle among the birds of the air, who seizeth presently with his feet his speckled prey[ ], seeking it from afar off; but in low places dwell[ ] the chattering daws. to thee at least, by the will of throned kleio, for sake of thy zeal in the games, from nemea and from epidauros and from megara hath a great light shined. [footnote : i. e. commemorating the nemean games and the victories obtained by citizens of aigina there.] [footnote : there seems to have been a stream of this name in aigina, as well as in boeotia.] [footnote : cheiron's mother.] [footnote : sent from aigina to apollo's temple at delphi.] [footnote : this is very obscure: böckh said that the longer he considered it the more obscure it became to him. donaldson 'is inclined to think that pindar is speaking with reference to the pythagorean division of virtue into four species, and that he assigns one virtue to each of the four ages of human life (on the same principle as that which shakespeare has followed in his description of the seven ages) namely temperance as the virtue of youth, courage of early manhood, justice of mature age, and prudence of old age.'] [footnote : snakes.] [footnote : or 'on vile things feed.'] iv. for timasarchos of aigina, winner in the boys' wrestling-match. * * * * * the date of this ode is unknown: we can only infer, from the way in which athens is spoken of, that it was written before the war between that state and aigina. it seems to have been sung on the winner's return home, very likely in a procession through the streets. * * * * * best of physicians for a man's accomplished toil is festive joy: and the touch of songs, wise daughters of the muses, hath power of comforting. less doth warm water avail to bathe limbs for soothing than words of praise married to the music of the lyre. for speech is longer-lived than act, whensoever by favour of the graces the tongue hath drawn it forth out of the depth of the heart. be it the prelude of my hymn to dedicate it to zeus the son of kronos, and to nemea, and to the wrestling of timasarchos; and may it have welcome in the aiakids' stronghold of goodly towers, the common light of all, which aideth the stranger with justice[ ]. now if thy sire timokritos were still cheered by the quickening sun, full oft with music manifold of the lute would he have bent him unto this my theme, and sounded a hymn for the fair triumphs that have brought thee a chain of wreaths, even from the games of the kleonaians[ ] now, and erewhile from the bright and famous athens, and at seven-gated thebes: for beside amphitryon's splendid sepulchre the sons of kadmos nothing loth sprinkled the winner with flowers for aigina's sake. for thither as a friend to friends he came, though to a city not his own, and abode in the fortunate hall of herakles. with herakles on a time did mighty telamon destroy the city of troy, and the meropes, and the man of war, the great and terrible alkyoneus, yet not until by hurling of stones he had subdued twelve four-horse chariots, and horse-taming heroes twice so many thereupon. unversed in battles must he be who understandeth not this tale, for whoso will do aught is like to suffer also. but to tell the tale at length custom forbiddeth me, and the constraining hours: and a love-spell draweth me to put forth my hand to the feast of the new moon. albeit the deep brine of the sea hold thee even to thy waist, nevertheless bear bravely up against conspirings; assuredly shall we shine forth above our enemies as we sail home in open day; while another man of envious eye turneth about in darkness an empty purpose that falleth to the ground. for me i know certainly that whatsoever excellence fate that is our lord hath given me, time creeping onward will bring to its ordained fulfilment. weave then this woof too presently, sweet my lute, a strain with lydian harmony that shall be dear to oinone[ ], and to cyprus, where teukros, son of telamon, holdeth rule in a new land. but aias hath the salamis of his father: and in the euxine sea achilles hath a shining isle, and at phthia hath thetis power, and neoptolemos in wide epeiros, where cattle-pasturing headlands, from dodona onwards, slope forward to the ionian sea. and beside the foot of pelion did peleus set his face against iolkos, and deliver it over to be a servant to the haimones, after that he had proved the guileful counsels of hippolyte, akastos' wife. for by (stealing) his sword of cunning workmanship the son[ ] of pelias prepared death for him in an ambush; but cheiron delivered him out of his hand; and thus he fulfilled the destiny ordained him of zeus, and having escaped the violence of the fire and the dauntless lion's claws exceeding keen, and the bitings of teeth most terrible[ ], he espoused one of the nereids high-enthroned, and beheld the circle of fair seats whereon were sitting the kings of heaven and of the sea, as they revealed unto him their gifts, and the kingdom that should be unto him and unto his seed. nightward[ ] beyond gadeira none may pass. turn back again to the mainland of europe the tackle of our ship; for it were impossible for me to go through unto the end all the tale of the sons of aiakos. for the theandrid clan came i a ready herald of games that make men's limbs wax strong, to olympia and to isthmos, and to nemea according to my promise, where having put themselves to the proof they are returning homeward, not without wreaths whose fruitage is renown; and there report hath told us, o timasarchos, that thy clan's name is preeminent in songs of victory. or if further for thy mother's brother kallikles thou biddest me set up a pillar whiter than parian stone, lo as the refining of gold showeth forth all his splendours, so doth a song that singeth a man's rare deeds make him as the peer of kings. let kallikles in his dwelling beside acheron find in my tongue a minstrel of his praise, for that at the games[ ] of the deep-voiced wielder of the trident his brows were green with parsley of corinth; of him, boy, did euphänes, thy aged grandsire, rejoice erewhile to sing. each hath his own age-fellow; and what each hath seen for himself that may he hope to set forth best of all. how for melesias'[ ] praise must such an one grapple in the strife, bending the words beneath his grasp, yielding not his ground as he wrestleth in speech, of gentle temper toward the good, but to the froward a stern adversary. [footnote : aigina. see ol viii. ; pyth. viii. .] [footnote : kleonai was very near nemea, and the kleonaians were for a long time managers of the nemean games.] [footnote : seemingly the same personage as aigina.] [footnote : akastos.] [footnote : thetis, resisting her wooer peleus, changed herself into fire and wild beasts. see dict. myth.] [footnote : westward.] [footnote : the isthmian games.] [footnote : timasarchos' trainer in wrestling. he is here praised in terms borrowed from the wrestling-school.] v. for pytheas of aigina, winner in the boys' pankration. * * * * * the date of this ode is uncertain. the winner's brother phylakidas, gained the two victories, also in the pankration, which are celebrated in the fourth and fifth isthmians. * * * * * no statuary i, that i should fashion images to rest idly on their pedestals, nay but by every trading-ship and plying boat forth from aigina fare, sweet song of mine, and bear abroad the news, how that lampon's son, the strong-limbed pytheas, hath won at nemea the pankratiast's crown, while on his cheeks he showeth not as yet the vine-bloom's mother, mellowing midsummer. so to the warrior heroes sprung from kronos and zeus and from the golden nymphs, even to the aiakidai, hath he done honour, and to the mother-city, a friendly field to strangers. that she should have issue of goodly men and should be famous in her ships, this prayed they of old, standing beside the altar of their grandsire, zeus hellenios, and together stretched forth their hands toward heaven, even the glorious sons of endais[ ] and the royal strength of phokos, the goddess-born, whom on the sea-beach psamatheia[ ] bare. of their deed portentous and unjustly dared i am loth to tell, and how they left that famous isle, and of the fate that drove the valiant heroes from oinone. i will make pause: not for every perfect truth is it best that it discover its face: silence is oft man's wisest thought. but if the praise of good hap or of strength of hand or of steel-clad war be my resolve, let one mark me a line for a long leap hence: in my knees i have a nimble spring: even beyond the sea the eagles wing their way. with goodwill too for the aiakidai in pelion sang the muses' choir most fair, and in the midst apollo playing with golden quill upon his seven-toned lyre led them in ever-changing strains. they first of all from zeus beginning sang of holy thetis and of peleus, and how that kretheus' dainty daughter hippolyte would fain have caught him by her wile, and persuaded his friend the king of the magnetes her husband by counsels of deceit, for she forged a lying tale thereto devised, how that he essayed to go in unto her in akastos' bridal bed. but the truth was wholly contrary thereto, for often and with all her soul she had besought him with beguiling speech; but her bold words vexed his spirit; and forthwith he refused the bride, fearing the wrath of the father who guardeth host and guest. and he, the cloud-compelling zeus in heaven, the immortal's king, was aware thereof, and he promised him that with all speed he would find him a sea-bride from among the nereids of golden distaffs, having persuaded thereto poseidon, their kinsman by his marriage, who from aigai to the famous dorian isthmus cometh oftentimes, where happy troops with the reed-flute's noise welcome the god, and in bold strength of limb men strive. the fate that is born with a man is arbiter of all his acts. thou, euthymenes[ ], at aigina falling into the goddess victory's arms didst win thee hymns of subtle strain: yea and now too to thee, o pytheas, who art his kinsman of the same stock and followest in his footsteps, doth thy mother's brother honour. nemea is favourable unto him, and the month[ ] of his country that apollo loveth: the youth that came to strive with him he overcame, both at home and by nisos' hill of pleasant glades[ ]. i have joy that the whole state striveth for glory. know that through menander's[ ] aid thou hast attained unto sweet recompense of toils. and meet it is that from athens a fashioner of athletes come. but if thou comest to themistios[ ], to sing of him, away with chill reserve, shout aloud, hoist to the top-yard of the mast the sail, and tell how in the boxing and the pankration at epidauros he won a double prize of valour, and to the portals of aiakos bare fresh wreaths of flowers, led by the graces of the yellow hair. [footnote : wife of aiakos and mother of peleus and telamon. they killed phokos.] [footnote : a sea-nymph, mother of phokos by aiakos.] [footnote : maternal uncle of pytheas.] [footnote : the month called in aigina delphinios (april-may) when the nemean games took place.] [footnote : at megara] [footnote : pytheas' trainer, an athenian.] [footnote : maternal grandfather of pytheas.] vi. for alkimidas of aigina, winner in the boys' wrestling-match. * * * * * the date of this ode is unknown, but from the mention of the trainer melesias it has been inferred that it was among pindar's later works. it would seem to have been sung at aigina, perhaps at some feast of the bassid clan given in honour of the victory. * * * * * one race there is of men and one of gods, but from one mother[ ] draw we both our breath, yet is the strength of us diverse altogether, for the race of man is as nought, but the brazen heaven abideth, a habitation steadfast unto everlasting. yet withal have we somewhat in us like unto the immortals' bodily shape or mighty mind, albeit we know not what course hath destiny marked out for us to run, neither in the daytime, neither in the night. and now doth alkimidas give proof that it is with his kindred as with fruitful fields: for they in turn now yield to man his yearly bread upon the plains, and now again they pause, and gather back their strength[ ]. from the pleasant meeting-places of nemea hath the athlete boy come back, who following the ordinance[ ] of zeus hath now approved him no baffled hunter in his wrestling-quest, and hath guided his feet by the foot-prints of praxidamas, his father father, of whose blood he sprang. for praxidamas also by his olympian victory first won olive-wreath from alpheos for the aiakidai, and five times been crowned at isthmos, and at nemea thrice, he took away thereby the obscurity of sokleides, who was the eldest of the sons of agesimachos[ ]. for these three-warriors attained unto the topmost height of prowess, of all who essayed the games, and by grace of god to no other house hath the boxing-match given keeping of so many crowns in this inmost place of all hellas. i deem that though my speech be of high sound i yet shall hit the mark, as it were an archer shooting from a bow. come, muse, direct thou upon this house a gale of glorious song: for after that men are vanished away, the minstrel's story taketh up their noble acts, whereof is no lack to the bassid clan; old in story is the race and they carry cargo of home-made renown, able to deliver into the muses' husbandmen rich matter of song in honour of their lofty deeds. for at sacred pytho in like wise did a scion of the same stock overcome, with the thong of the boxer bound about his hand, even kallias in whom were well-pleased the children of leto of the golden distaff, and beside kastaly in the evening his name burnt bright, when the glad sounds of the graces rose. also the bridge[ ] of the untiring sea did honour unto kreontidas at the triennial sacrifice of bulls by the neighbour states in the holy place of poseidon; and once did the herb[ ] of the lion shadow his brows for a victory won beneath the shadeless primal hills of phlious. wide avenues of glory are there on every side for chroniclers to draw nigh to do honour unto this isle: for supreme occasion have the children of aiakos given them by the showing forth of mighty feats. over land and beyond the sea is their name flown forth from afar: even unto the ethiopians it sprang forth, for that memnon came not home: for bitter was the battle that achilles made against him, having descended from his chariot upon the earth, what time by his fierce spear's point he slew the son of the bright morn. and herein found they of old time a way wherein to drive their car: and i too follow with my burden of song: and all men's minds, they say, are stirred the most by whatsoever wave at the instant rolleth nearest to the mainsheet of the ship. on willing shoulders bear i this double load, and am come a messenger to proclaim this honour won in the games that men call holy to be the five-and-twentieth that the noble house of alkimidas hath shown forth: yet were two wreaths in the olympian games beside the precinct of kronion denied to thee, boy, and to polytimidas, by the fall of the lot[ ]. peer of the dolphin hurrying through the brine--such would i call melesias[ ] by whom thy hands and strength were guided, as a chariot by the charioteer. [footnote : earth.] [footnote : the ancients understood little of the rotation of crops, and often let their fields lie fallow alternate years.] [footnote : of the celebrity of alternate generations.] [footnote : the order of descent was: agesimachos, sokleides, praxidamas, theon, alkimidas. of these the first, third, and fifth, were distinguished athletes, the others not.] [footnote : the isthmos.] [footnote : the parsley which grew near the lair of the nemean lion.] [footnote : this can hardly mean, as some commentators take it, the drawing of any particular tie; for if better men than any given competitor were entered for the match, his defeat would be inevitable whether they were encountered sooner or later.] [footnote : alkimidas' trainer.] vii. for sogenes of aigina, winner in the boys' pentathlon. * * * * * this victory was probably won b.c. . the ode would seem to be full of allusions, which however we cannot with any certainty explain. it is partly occupied with the celebration of achilles' son neoptolemos, and pindar seems anxious to repel the charge of having on some occasion depreciated that hero. * * * * * o eileithuia that sittest beside the deep-counselling moirai, child of the mighty hera, thou who bringest babes to the birth, hearken unto us! without thee looked we never on the light or on the darkness of the night, nor came ever unto her who is thy sister, even hebe of the comely limbs. but we receive our breath not all for a like life; each to his several lot is kept apart by the yoke of fate. now by thy grace hath sogenes the son of thearion been foremost in prowess, and his glory is sung aloud among the winners of the five-game prize. for he is a dweller in a city that loveth song, even this city of the spear-clashing sons of aiakos, and exceeding fain are they to cherish a spirit apt for the strife of the games. if a man have good hap in his attempt, he throweth into the muses' stream sweet cause of song: for even deeds of might for lack of song fall into deep darkness, and in but one way have we knowledge of a mirror for fair deeds, if by the grace of mnemosyne of the shining fillet they attain unto a recompense of toils by the sound of voice and verse. wise shipmates know that the wind which tarrieth shall come on the third day, nor throw away their goods through greed of more[ ]: the rich and the poor alike fare on their way to death. now i have suspicion that the fame of odysseus is become greater than his toils, through the sweet lays that homer sang; for over the feigning of his winged craft something of majesty abideth, and the excellence of his skill persuadeth us to his fables unaware. blind hearts have the general folk of men; for could they have discovered the truth, never would stalwart aias in anger for the arms have struck through his midriff the sharp sword--even he who after achilles was best in battle of all men whom, to win back his bride for fair-haired menelaos, the fair breeze of straight-blowing zephyros wafted in swift ships toward ilos' town. but to all men equally cometh the wave of death, and falleth on the fameless and the famed: howbeit honour ariseth for them whose fair story god increaseth to befriend them even when dead, whoso have journeyed to the mighty centre-stone of wide-bosomed earth. there now beneath the floor of pytho lieth neoptolemos, dying there when he had sacked the city of priam where the danaoi toiled with him. he sailing thence missed skyros, and they wandered till they came to ephyra, and in molossia he was king for a little while: howbeit his race held this state[ ] continually. then was he gone to the god's home[ ], carrying an offering of the chief spoils from troy: and there in quarrel concerning meats a man smote him with a knife. thereat were the delphian entertainers of strangers grieved exceedingly: nevertheless he but paid a debt to destiny: for it was needful that in that most ancient grove someone of the lords the sons of aiakos should abide within thenceforward, beside the goodly walls of the god's house, and that when with plenteous sacrifice the processions do honour to the heroes, he should keep watch that fair right be done. three words shall be enough: when he presideth over the games there is no lie found in his testimony thereof. o thou aigina, of thy children that are of zeus i have good courage to proclaim that as of inheritance they claim the path to glory, through splendour of their valorous deeds: howbeit in every work a rest is sweet, yea even of honey cometh surfeit and of the lovely flowers of love. now each of us is in his nature diverse, and several are the lots of life we draw, one this and one another: but that one man receive perfect bliss, this is impossible to men. i cannot find to tell of any to whom fate hath given this award abidingly. to thee, thearion[ ], she giveth fair measure of bliss, first daring in goodly deeds, and then understanding and sound mind. thy friend am i, and i will keep far from the man i love the secret slander, and bring nigh unto him praise and true glory, as it were streams of water: for meet is such recompense for the good. if there be near me now a man of the achaians who dwelleth far up the ionian sea, he shall not upbraid me: i have faith in my proxeny[ ]: and among the folk of my own land i look forth with clear gaze, having done naught immoderate, and having put away all violence from before my feet. so let the life that remaineth unto me run cheerly on. he who knoweth shall say if indeed i come with slanderous speech upon my lips to strike a jarring note. to thee, sogenes of the house of the sons of euxenos, i swear that without overstepping the bound i have sent forth the swift speech of my tongue as it were a bronze-headed javelin, such as saveth from the wrestling the strong neck sweatless yet, or ever the limbs be plunged in the sun's fire[ ]. if toil there were, delight more abundant followeth after. let be; if somewhat over far i soared when i cried aloud, yet am i not froward, that i should deny his glory unto one that conquereth. the weaving of wreaths is an easy thing: tarry a little: behold the muse fasteneth together gold and white ivory, and a lily flower withal, that she hath plucked from beneath the deep sea's dew[ ]. of zeus be mindful when thou tellest of nemea, and guide the multitudinous voices of our song with a quiet mind: meet is it that with gentle voice we celebrate in this land the king of gods: for they tell how he begat aiakos of a mortal mother, to be for his own fortunate land a ruler of cities, and for thee, herakles, a loving friend and brother. and if man receiveth aught from man, then may we say that neighbour is to neighbour a joy worth all else, if he loveth him with steadfast soul: now if even a god will consent hereto, then in such bond with thee, o conqueror of the giants[ ], is sogenes fain to dwell happily in the well-built sacred street of his ancestors, cherishing a mind of tenderness toward his sire: for as when four horses are yoked together in a car, so hath he his house in the midst of thy holy places, and goeth in unto them both on the right hand and on the left[ ]. o blessed spirit, thine is it to win hereto the husband of hera, and the grey-eyed maid[ ]; and thou art able to give to mortals strength ever and again against baffling perplexities. make thou to cleave to them[ ] a life of steadfast strength, and wind the bliss thereof amid both youth and a serene old age, and may their children's children possess continually the honours that they now have, and greater in the time to come. never shall my heart confess that i have outraged neoptolemos with irreclaimable words. but thrice and four times to tell over the same tale is emptiness in the end thereof, even as he of the proverb that babbleth among children how that korinthos was the son of zeus[ ]. [footnote : retaining the reading [greek: hupo kerdei balon]. i conjecture it to mean, 'do not in their eagerness for trade choose an unfavourable and dangerous time for their voyage, but wait for the [greek: kairos], the right opportunity.'] [footnote : the kingdom of epeiros. pyrrhos, the invader of italy, called himself a descendant of neoptolemos (who was also called pyrrhos).] [footnote : delphi.] [footnote : father of sogenes.] [footnote : pindar would seem to have been [greek: proxenos] at thebes for some state of epeiros, to which fact he appeals as a proof that he stood well with the epirot descendants of neoptolemos.] [footnote : the pentathlon was composed of five contests, namely, the jump, throwing the disk, throwing the javelin, the foot-race, and wrestling. the prize was for the best man in three contests out of the five. these came in the order in which they are enumerated above; thus if the best javelin-thrower had already won two of the other matches he would not be challenged to wrestle, as the prize of the pentathlon would be already his. very probably this had been the case with sogenes, so that it would naturally occur to pindar thus allusively to expand his not unfrequent comparison of his own art of poetry to that of a javelin-thrower or archer. on the pentathlon may be consulted an article by professor percy gardner in the _journal of hellenic studies_ for october, ; and also smith's _dictionary of antiquities_ (revised edition).] [footnote : coral.] [footnote : herakles.] [footnote : thearion's house seems to have had a shrine, or at least some sacred ground, of herakles at each side of it, so that he might regard that hero as his neighbour.] [footnote : athene.] [footnote : thearion and sogenes.] [footnote : a proverbial equivalent for vain and wearisome repetition.] viii. for deinis of aigina, winner in the short foot-race. * * * * * the date of this ode is unknown. it was probably sung before the shrine of aiakos at aigina. * * * * * spirit of beautiful youth, thou herald of aphrodite's loves ambrosial, who on the eyes of girl or boy alighting, with tenderly constraining hands dost handle one, but other otherwise--it is enough if one not swerving from the true aim, in his every act prevail to attain to the fulfilment of his worthier loves. such loves were they that waited on the bridal-bed of zeus and aigina, and were dispensers unto them of the cyprian's[ ] gifts: and thence sprang there a son[ ] to be king of oinone[ ], in might of hand and in counsel excellent, and many a time did many pray that they might look on him: for the chosen among the heroes that dwelt around him were fain of their own will to submit them unto his sovereignty, both whoso in rocky athens were leaders of the host, and at sparta the children of pelops. so aiakos' holy knees clasp i a suppliant for a city well-beloved and for these citizens, and i bear a lydian crown wrought cunningly with the sound of song, a glory out of nemea for two races run, of deinis and of his father meges. behold, the happiness that is planted with the favour of god is most abiding among men; even such as once in the isle of cyprus loaded kinyras with riches. with poised feet i stand, and take breath for a little ere i speak. for much and in many ways hath been said ere now; and the contriving of new things and putting them to the touchstone to be tried is perilous altogether. in words find the envious their dainties: envy fasteneth ever on the good, and careth not to strive against the base. yea thus did envy slay the son of telamon, thrusting him through with his own sword. verily if one be of stout heart but without gift of speech, such an one is a prey unto forgetfulness in a bitter strife, and to the shiftiness of lies is proffered the prize of the greatest. for in the secret giving of their votes the danaoi courted odysseus, and thus did aias, robbed of the golden arms, wrestle in the grip of a bloody death. yet diverse verily were the strokes wherewith those twain had cloven the warm flesh of the foe, what time they bare up the war against the hedge of spears, whether about achilles newly slain, or in whatsoever labours else of those wide-ruining days. thus was there even of old the treacherous speech of hate, that walketh with the subtleties of tales, intent on guile, slander that breedeth ill: so doth it violence on the thing that shineth, and uplifteth the rottenness of dim men's fame. never in me be this mind, o our father zeus, but to the paths of simplicity let me cleave throughout my life, that being dead i may set upon my children a name that shall be of no ill report. for gold some pray, and some for limitless lands: mine be it amid my townsfolk's love to shroud my limbs in earth, still honouring where honour is due, and sowing rebuke on the evildoers. thus groweth virtue greater, uplifted of the wise and just, as when a tree watered by fresh dew shooteth toward the moist air on high. manifold are the uses of friends, chiefest truly amid the press of toil, yet doth joy also desire to behold his own assurance.[ ] ah meges, to bring back thy spirit to earth is to me impossible, and of empty hopes the end is naught. yet for thy house and the clan of chariadai i can upraise a lofty column of song in honour of these two pairs of fortunate feet[ ]. i have joy to utter praise meet for the act, for by such charms of song doth a man make even labour a painless thing. yet surely was there a komos-song even of old time, yea before strife began between adrastos and the sons of kadmos[ ]. [footnote : aphrodite.] [footnote : aiakos.] [footnote : aigina.] [footnote : through celebration in song, which a friendly poet can give.] [footnote : of meges and deinis.] [footnote : the invention of encomiastic hymns was attributed by legend to the time of the expedition of adrastos and the other six against thebes.] ix. for chromios of aitna, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this ode is placed by usage among the nemeans, but the victory was not won at nemea, but at sikyon, in the local games called pythian. its date is unknown: it must have been after the founding of aitna, b.c. . probably the ode was sung in a procession at aitna, some length of time after the victory. the chromios is the chromios of the first nemean, hieron's brother-in-law. * * * * * from apollo at sikyon will we lead our triumph forth, ye muses, unto the new-made city of aitna, where doors are opened wide to greet the invading guests, even to the fortunate house of chromios. come claim for him a song of sweetness: for he goeth up into the chariot of his victory, and biddeth us sing aloud to the mother[ ] and her twin children who keep watch over high pytho in fellowship. now there is a saying among men, that one hide not in silence on the ground a good deed done: and meet for such brave tales is divine song. therefore will we arouse the pealing lyre and rouse the flute, in honour of the very crown of all contests of steeds, which adrastos in honour of phoibos ordained beside asopos' stream. whereof when i make mention with voiceful honour i will celebrate withal the hero[ ], who then being king in that place did by the founding of a new feast and struggles of the strength of men and of carven cars make his city known abroad and glorious. for he was flying before amphiaraos of bold counsels, and before a dangerous civil strife, from argos and his father's house: for no longer were the sons of talaos lords therein, for a sedition had thrust them forth. the stronger man endeth the contention that hath been before. but when they had given to the son of oikleus for his wife, as one should give surety of an oath, eriphyle, the slayer of her husband, they became the greatest of the fair-haired danaoi. so thereafter led they on a time against seven-gated thebes a host of men, but not by a road of signs propitious: nor would the son of kronos speed them on their mad journey from their homes, but by the quivering lightnings he darted forth he bade them hold from their road[ ]. but unto a revealed calamity hasted that company to go forth with bronze shields and the gear of steeds; and on the banks of ismenos, stayed from their sweet return, they fed the white smoke with their bodies. for seven pyres devoured the young men's limbs, but for amphiaraos zeus by almighty thunderbolt clave the deep-breasted earth, and buried him with his steeds, or ever the warrior's soul should be shamed by the smiting of him in the back by periklymenos' spear. for when the terror cometh of heaven, then flee even the sons of gods. if it be possible, o son of kronos, this trial of valour against phenician spears[ ] for life or death i would fain defer unto the utmost: and i beg of thee to grant unto the sons of the men of aitna for long time a portion in good laws, and to make their people to dwell among glories that the citizens have won. men are there here that love steeds and that have souls above desire of wealth. hard of credence is the word i have spoken; for the spirit of honour which bringeth glory is stolen secretly by lust of gain. hadst thou been shield-bearer to chromios among foot and horse and in fightings of ships, thou hadst judged concerning his jeopardy in the fierce fray, for in war did that divine honour stir his warrior-soul to ward off havoc of enyalios. few are there who may prevail by strength or valour to contrive a turning of the cloud of imminent death against the ranks of the enemy. howbeit they tell how hektor's glory flowered beside skamander's streams, and thus on the steep cliffs of heloros' banks[ ], where men call the ford the fountain of ares, hath this light shined for agesidamos' son in the beginning of his praise. and other deeds on other days will i declare, many done amid the dust on the dry land, and yet others on the neighbouring sea. now out of toils which in youth have been done with righteousness there ripeneth toward old age a day of calm. let chromios know that he hath from the gods a lot of wondrous bliss. for if one together with much wealth have won him glorious renown, it is impossible that a mortal's feet touch any further mountain-top. the banquet loveth peace, and by a gentle song a victory flourisheth afresh, and beside the bowl the singer's voice waxeth brave. let one mix it now, that sweet proclaimer of the triumphal song, and in silver goblets hand the grapes' potent child, even the goblets which for chromios his mares erst won, and sent to him from sacred sikyon, entwined with well-earned crowns of leto's son. now claim i, father zeus, to have well sung this excellent deed by aid of the charites, and beyond many to do honour to this victory by my words, for the javelin that i throw falleth nearest to the muses' mark. [footnote : leto.] [footnote : adrastos.] [footnote : lightning and thunder were often an encouraging sign (there is an instance in the fourth pythian), but this would depend on the manner of them.] [footnote : war with the carthaginians, who were still threatening the hellenic colonists in sicily, in spite of their recent defeat.] [footnote : about b.c. a battle was fought on the heloros between the syracusans and the army of hippokrates, tyrant of gela.] x. for theaios of argos, winner in the wrestling-match. * * * * * this ode, like the last, is improperly called nemean. it commemorates a victory won at the feast of the hekatombaia at argos. the date is unknown. * * * * * the city of danaos and of his fifty bright-throned daughters, argos the home of hera, meet abode of gods, sing graces! for by excellencies innumerable it is made glorious in the deeds of valiant men. long is the tale of perseus[ ], that telleth of the gorgon medusa: many are the cities in egypt founded by the hands of epaphos[ ]: neither went hypermnestra's choice astray when she kept sheathed her solitary sword[ ]. also their diomedes did the grey-eyed goddess make incorruptible and a god: and at thebes, the earth blasted by the bolts of zeus received within her the prophet[ ], the son of oikleus, the storm-cloud of war. moreover in women of beautiful hair doth the land excel. thereto in days of old zeus testified, when he followed after alkmene and after danaë. and in the father of adrastos and in lynkeus did argos mingle ripe wisdom with upright justice: and she reared the warrior amphitryon. now he came to the height of honour in his descendants, for in bronze armour he slew the teleboai, and in his likeness the king of the immortals entered his hall, bearing the seed of fearless herakles, whose bride in olympos is hebe, who by the side of her mother, the queen of marriage, walketh of all divinities most fair. my tongue would fail to tell in full the honours wherein the sacred argive land hath part: also the distaste[ ] of men is ill to meet. yet wake the well-strung lyre, and take thought of wrestlings; a strife for the bronze shield stirreth the folk to sacrifice of oxen unto hera and to the issue of games, wherein the son of oulias, theaios, having overcome twice, hath obtained forgetfulness of the toils he lightly bore. also on a time at pytho he was first of the hellenic host, and won crowns at isthmos and at nemea, led thither by fair hap, and gave work for the muses' plough by thrice winning at the gates[ ] of the sea and thrice on the famous plains in the pastures of adrastos' home[ ]. of that he longeth for, o father zeus, his mouth is silent, with thee are the issues of deeds: but with a spirit strong to labour and of a good courage he prayeth thy grace. both theaios, and whosoever struggleth in the perfect consummation of all games, know this, even the supremacy of the ordinance of herakles that is holden at pisa[ ]: yet sweet preluding strains are those that twice have welcomed his triumph at the festival of the athenians: and in earthenware baked in the fire, within the closure of figured urns, there came among the goodly folk of hera[ ] the prize of the olive fruit[ ]. on the renowned race of thy mother's sires there waiteth glory of games by favour of the graces and the sons of tyndareus together. were i kinsman of thrasyklos and antias i would claim at argos not to hide mine eyes. for with how many victories hath this horse-breeding city of proitos flourished! even in the corinthian corner and from the men of kleonai[ ] four times, and from sikyon they came laden with silver, even goblets for wine, and out of pellene clad in soft woof of wool[ ]. but to tell over the multitude of their prizes of bronze is a thing impossible--to count them longer leisure were needed--which kleitor and tegea and the achaians' high-set cities and the lykaion set for a prize by the race-course of zeus for the conquerors by strength of hands or feet. and since kastor and his brother polydeukes came to be the guests of pamphaes[ ], no marvel is it that to be good athletes should be inborn in the race. for they[ ] it is who being guardians of the wide plains of sparta with hermes and herakles mete out fair hap in games, and to righteous men they have great regard. faithful is the race of gods. now, changing climes alternately, they dwell one day with their dear father zeus, and the next in the secret places under the earth, within the valleys of therapnai, fulfilling equal fate: because on this wise chose polydeukes to live his life rather than to be altogether god and abide continually in heaven, when that kastor had fallen in the fight. him did idas, wroth for his oxen, smite with a bronze spearhead, when from his watch upon taÿgetos lynkeus had seen them sitting within a hollow oak; for he of all men walking the earth had keenest eyes. so with swift feet they were straightway come to the place, and compassed speedily a dreadful deed[ ]. but terrible also was the vengeance which by the devising of zeus those sons[ ] of aphareus suffered: for on the instant came leto's son[ ] in chase of them: and they stood up against him hard by the sepulchre of their father. thence wrenched they a carved headstone that was set to glorify the dead, and they hurled it at the breast of polydeukes. but they crushed him not, neither made him give back, but rushing onward with fierce spear he drave the bronze head into lynkeus' side. and against idas zeus hurled a thunderbolt of consuming fire. so were those brothers in one flame[ ] burnt unbefriended: for a strife with the stronger is grievous for men to mix in. then quickly came back the son of tyndareus[ ] to his great brother, and found him not quite dead, but the death-gasp rattled in his throat. then polydeukes wept hot tears, and groaned, and lifted up his voice, and cried: 'father kronion--ah! what shall make an end of woes? bid me, me also, o king, to die with him. the glory is departed from a man bereaved of friends. few are they who in a time of trouble are faithful in companionship of toil.' thus said he, and zeus came, and stood before his face, and spake these words: 'thou art my son: but thy brother afterward was by mortal seed begotten in thy mother of the hero that was her husband. but nevertheless, behold i give thee choice of these two lots: if, shunning death and hateful old age, thou desirest for thyself to dwell in olympus with athene and with ares of the shadowing spear, this lot is thine to take: but if in thy brother's cause thou art so hot, and art resolved in all to have equal share with him, then half thy time thou shalt be alive beneath the earth, and half in the golden house of heaven.' thus spake his father, and polydeukes doubted not which counsel he should choose. so zeus unsealed the eye, and presently the tongue also, of kastor of the brazen mail. [footnote : son of the argive danaë.] [footnote : son of the argive io.] [footnote : or perhaps: 'neither were hypermnestra's story misplaced here, how she, &c.'] [footnote : amphiaraos.] [footnote : disgust at hearing anything profusely praised.] [footnote : at corinth, in the isthmian games.] [footnote : nemea.] [footnote : the olympic games.] [footnote : the argives.] [footnote : the athenian prize seems to have been an olive-bough in a vase of burnt clay.] [footnote : near nemea.] [footnote : i. e. with prizes of cloaks.] [footnote : an ancestor of theaios. probably he had given theoxenia. see ol. iii.] [footnote : kastor and polydeukes.] [footnote : they slew kastor.] [footnote : idas and lynkeus.] [footnote : polydeukes.] [footnote : either of the thunderbolt, or of a funeral-pile.] [footnote : both brothers were nominally sons of tyndareus, but really only kastor was: polydeukes was a son of zeus.] xi. for aristagoras of tenedos, on his election to the presidency of the senate. * * * * * this ode again was written neither for a nemean nor for any other athletic victory, but for the [greek: eisitaeria] or initiatory ceremonies at the election of a new [greek: prytanis] of tenedos. the prytanis would seem to have been a kind of president of the senate. the date is unknown. * * * * * daughter of rhea, who hast in thy keeping the city halls[ ], o hestia! sister of highest zeus and of hera sharer of his throne, with good-will welcome aristagoras to thy sanctuary, with good-will also his fellows[ ] who draw nigh to thy glorious sceptre, for they in paying honour unto thee keep tenedos in her place erect, by drink-offerings glorifying thee many times before the other gods, and many times by the savour of burnt sacrifice; and the sound of their lutes is loud, and of their songs: and at their tables never-failing are celebrated the rites of zeus, the stranger's friend. so with fair fame and unvexed heart may aristagoras fulfil his twelve-month term. blessed among men i count his father arkesilas, and himself for his splendid body and his heritage of a dauntless heart. but if any man shall possess wealth, and withal surpass his fellows in comely form, and in games have shown his strength to be the best, let such an one remember that his raiment is upon mortal limbs, and that the earth shall be his vesture at the end. yet in good words of his fellow-citizens is it meet that his praise be told, and that we make his name comely with notes of honey-sounding song. now among the neighbouring peoples sixteen illustrious victories have crowned aristagoras and his famous clan in the wrestling-match and in the pankration of weighty honour. but hopes too diffident of his parents kept back the might of their son from essaying the pythian or olympian strife: yet verily by the god of truth i am persuaded that both at castaly and at the tree-clad hill of kronos, had he gone thither, he should have turned back home with more honour than any of his rivals who had striven with him, when that he had kept the fifth year's feast[ ] ordained of herakles with dance and song, and with the shining shoots had bound his hair. but thus among mortals is one cast down from weal by empty boasts, while another through overmuch mistrusting of his strength is robbed of his due honours, for that a spirit of little daring draggeth him backward by the hand. this were an easy thing to divine, that peisander's[ ] stock was from sparta in the time of old (for from amyklai he came[ ] with orestes, bringing hither an army of aiolians in bronze mail): and also that the blood of his mother's brother melanippos was blended with ismenos' stream[ ]. the virtues of an old descent repeat their vigour uncertainly in the generations of men. neither doth the black-soiled tilth bring forth fruit continually, neither will the trees be persuaded to bear with every year's return a fragrant flower of equal wealth, but in their turns only. thus also doth destiny lead on the race of mortals. from zeus there cometh no clear sign to men: yet nevertheless we enter on high counsels, and meditate many acts: for by untameable hope our bodies are enthralled: but the tides of our affairs are hidden from our fore-knowledge. meet is it to pursue advantage moderately: fiercest is the madness that springeth from unappeasable desires. [footnote : the sacred fire of the state, over which hestia watched, was kept in the prytaneion.] [footnote : the other senators.] [footnote : the olympic.] [footnote : ancestor of aristagoras and head of his clan.] [footnote : 'in the loins of his father.'] [footnote : i. e. a theban alliance.] the isthmian odes. i. for herodotos of thebes. winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * the date of this ode is unknown. we gather from the first strophe that pindar was engaged at the time to write an ode in honour of the delian apollo to be sung at keos, but that he put this off in order first to write the present ode in honour of a victory won for his own native state of thebes. * * * * * o mother, thebe of the golden shield, thy service will i set even above the matter that was in my hand. may rocky delos, whereto i am vowed, be not therefore wroth with me. is there aught dearer to the good than noble parents? give place o apollonian isle: these twain fair offices, by the grace of god, will i join together in their end, and to phoibos of the unshorn hair in island keos with men of her sea-race will i make my choral song, and therewithal this other for the sea-prisoning cliffs of isthmos. for six crowns hath isthmos given from her games to the people of kadmos, a fair glory of triumph for my country, for the land wherein alkmene bare her dauntless son, before whom trembled aforetime the fierce hounds of geryon. but i for herodotos' praise am fain to do honour unto his four-horsed car, and to marry to the strain of kastoreian or iolaic song the fame that he hath earned, handling his reins in his own and no helping hand. for these kastor and iolaos were of all heroes the mightiest charioteers, the one to lakedaimon, the other born to thebes. and at the games they entered oftenest for the strife, and with tripods and caldrons and cups of gold they made fair their houses, attaining unto victorious crowns: clear shineth their prowess in the foot-race, run naked or with the heavy clattering shield; and when they hurled the javelin and the quoit: for then was there no five-fold game[ ], but for each several feat there was a prize. oft did they bind about their hair a crowd of crowns, and showed themselves unto the waters of dirke or on eurotas' banks[ ], the son of iphikles a fellow-townsman of the spartoi's race, the son of tyndareus inhabiting the upland dwelling-place of therapna[ ] among the achaians. so hail ye and farewell: i on poseidon and holy isthmos, and on the lake-shores of onchestos will throw the mantle of my song, and will among the glories of this man make glorious also the story of his father asopodoros' fate, and his new country orchomenos, which, when he drave ashore on a wrecked ship, harboured him amid his dismal hap[ ]. but now once more hath the fortune of his house raised him up to see the fair days of the old time: and he who hath suffered pain beareth forethought within his soul. if a man's desire be wholly after valour, and he give thereto both wealth and toil, meet is it that to such as attain unto it we offer with ungrudging heart high meed of praise. for an easy gift it is for a son of wisdom[ ], by a good word spoken in recompense for labour manifold to set on high the public fame. for diverse meeds for diverse works are sweet to men, to the shepherd and to the ploughman, to the fowler and to him whom the sea feedeth--howbeit all those strive but to keep fierce famine from their bellies; but whoso in the games or in war hath won delightful fame, receiveth the highest of rewards in fair words of citizens and of strangers. us it beseemeth to requite the earth-shaking son of kronos, who is also neighbour unto us, and to sound his praise as our well-doer, who hath given speed to the horses of our car, and to call upon thy sons[ ], amphitryon, and the inland dwelling[ ] of minyas, and the famous grove of demeter, even eleusis, and euboia with her curving race-course. and thy holy place, protesilas, add i unto these, built thee at phylake by achaian men. but to tell over all that hermes lord of games hath given to herodotos by his horses, the short space of my hymn alloweth not. yea and full oft doth the keeping of silence bring forth a larger joy. now may herodotos, up-borne upon the sweet-voiced muse's shining wings, yet again with wreaths from pytho and choice wreaths from alpheos from the olympian games entwine his hand, and bring honour unto seven-gated thebes. now if one at home store hidden wealth, and fall upon other men to mock them, this man considereth not that he shall give up his soul to death having known no good report. [footnote : the pentathlon. see introduction to ol. xiii, and note on nem. vii, p. .] [footnote : rivers were [greek: kourotrophoi] (nurturers of youth), and thus young men who had achieved bodily feats were especially bound to return thanks to the streams of their native places.] [footnote : in lakonia.] [footnote : asopodoros seems to have been banished from thebes and kindly received in his banishment by orchomenos.] [footnote : here, as elsewhere probably in the special sense of a poet.] [footnote : herakles and iolaos.] [footnote : orchomenos.] ii. for xenokrates of akragas, winner in the chariot-race. * * * * * this is the same winner for whom the sixth pythian ode was written. its date would seem to be , while that of the sixth pythian was . yet the opening passage of this ode seems to imply that xenokiates' son thrasyboulos was still little more than a boy, whereas in he had been old enough to be his father's charioteer, and this would be eighteen years later. but perhaps the passage is only an allusion to thrasyboulos' boyhood as a time past. and certainly both xenokrates and his brother theron seem to be spoken of in this ode as already dead, and we know that theron did not die till . perhaps therefore thrasyboulos was celebrating in the anniversary of his deceased father's victory, four years after the victory itself. * * * * * the men of old, thrasyboulos, who went up into the muse's car to give welcome with the loud-voiced lyre, lightly for honour of boys shot forth their honey-sounding songs, whensoever in one fair of form was found that sweetest summer-bloom that turneth hearts to think on fair-throned aphrodite. for then the muse was not yet covetous nor a hireling, neither were sweet lays tender-voiced sold with silvered faces by terpsichore of honeyed speech. but now doth she bid heed the word of the argive man[ ] which keepeth nigh to the paths of truth: 'money, money maketh man,' he said, when robbed of goods at once and friends. forasmuch as thou art wise it is nothing hidden to thee that i sing, while i do honour to the isthmian victory won by speed of horses, which to xenokrates did poseidon give, and sent to him a wreath of dorian parsley to bind about his hair, a man of goodly chariot, a light of the people of akragas. also at krisa did far-prevailing apollo look upon him, and gave him there too glory: and again when he attained unto the crowns of the erectheidai in shining athens he found no fault in the chariot-saving hand of the man nikomachos who drave his horses, the hand wherewith in the instant of need he bare on all the reins[ ]. moreover the heralds of the seasons[ ], the elean truce-bringers of zeus the son of kronos, recognized him, having met belike with hospitality from him, and in a voice of dulcet breath they gave him greeting for that he had fallen at the knees of golden victory in their land which men call the holy place of olympic zeus, where the sons[ ] of ainesidamos attained unto honour everlasting. for no stranger is your house, o thrasyboulos, to pleasant shouts of triumph, neither to sweet-voiced songs. for not uphill neither steep-sloped is the path whereby one bringeth the glories of the helikonian maidens to dwell with famous men. by a far throw of the quoit may i hurl even so far as did xenokrates surpass all men in the sweetness of his spirit. in converse with citizens was he august, and upheld horse-racing after the hellenes' wont: also worshipped he at all festivals of the gods, nor ever did the breeze that breathed around his hospitable board give him cause to draw in his sail, but with the summer-gales he would fare unto phasis, and in his winter voyage unto the shores of nile[ ]. let not thrasyboulos now, because that jealous hopes beset the mind of mortals, be silent concerning his father's prowess, nor from these hymns: for not to lie idle have i devised them. that message give him, nikesippos, when thou comest unto my honoured friend. [footnote : aristodemos.] [footnote : i. e. either tightened the near or slackened the off reins to the utmost in turning the goal, or perhaps, gave full rein to his horses between each turn or after the final one.] [footnote : the heralds who proclaimed throughout hellas the approach of the olympic games, and an universal solemn truce during their celebration.] [footnote : theron, the tyrant of akragas, and xenokrates.] [footnote : metaphorically, in the extent of his hospitality.] iii. for melissos of thebes, winner in the pankration. * * * * * the date of this ode is uncertain, though some on the hypothesis that the battle alluded to is the battle of plataiai, have dated it or . in this battle, whatever it was, the kleonymid clan to which melissos belonged had lost four men. the celebrity of the clan in the games seems to have been eclipsed for some time, but melissos revived it by a chariot-victory at nemea and this pankration-victory at the isthmus, won in spite of his small stature which might have seemed to place him at a disadvantage. the ode compares his match against his antagonists with that of herakles against the african giant antaios. very probably this ode was sung at a night meeting of the clan, while the altars of herakles were blazing. * * * * * if any among men having good fortune and dwelling amid prizes of renown or the power of wealth restraineth in his heart besetting insolence, this man is worthy to have part in his citizens' good words. but from thee, o zeus, cometh all high excellence to mortals; and longer liveth their bliss who have thee in honour, but with minds perverse it consorteth never steadfastly, flourishing throughout all time. in recompense for glorious deeds it behoveth that we sing the valiant, and amid his triumphal company exalt him with fair honours. of two prizes is the lot fallen to melissos, to turn his heart unto sweet mirth, for in the glens of isthmos hath he won crowns, and again in the hollow vale of the deep-chested lion being winner in the chariot-race he made proclamation that his home was thebes. thus shameth he not the prowess of his kinsmen. ye know the ancient fame of kleonymos with the chariot: also on the mother's side being akin to the labdakidai his race hath been conversant with riches, and bestowed them on the labours of the four-horse car. but time with rolling days bringeth changes manifold: only the children of gods are free of wounds. by grace of god i have ways countless everywhere open unto me[ ]: for thou hast shown forth to me, o melissos, in the isthmian games an ample means to follow in song the excellence of thy race: wherein the kleonymidai flourish continually, and in favour with god pass onward through the term of mortal life: howbeit changing gales drive all men with ever-changing drift. these men verily are spoken of as having honour at thebes from the beginning, for that they cherished the inhabitants round about, and had no part in loud insolence; if there be borne about by the winds among men aught of witness to the great honour of quick or dead, unto such have they attained altogether. by the brave deeds of their house they have touched the pillars of herakles, that are at the end of things. beyond that follow thou no excellence. horse-breeders moreover have they been, and found favour with mailed ares; but in one day the fierce snow-storm of war hath made a happy hearth to be desolate of four men. but now once more after that wintry gloom hath it blossomed, even as in the flowery months the earth blossometh with red roses, according to the counsels of gods. for the shaker of earth who inhabiteth onchestos and the bridge[ ] between seas that lieth before the valley of corinth, now giveth to the house this hymn of wonder, and leadeth up out of her bed the ancient glory of the famous deeds thereof: for she was fallen on sleep; but she awaketh and her body shineth preeminent, as among stars the morning-star. for in the land of athens proclaiming a victory of the car, and at sikyon at the games of adrastos did she give like wreaths of song for the sons of kleonymos that then were. for neither did they refrain to contend with the curved chariot in the great meetings of the people, but they had delight to strive with the whole folk of hellas in spending their wealth on steeds. touching the unproven there is silence, and none knoweth them: yea and even from them that strive fortune hideth herself until they come unto the perfect end; for she giveth of this and of that. the better man hath been ere now overtaken and overthrown by the craft of worse. verily ye know the bloody deed of aias, that he wrought beneath the far-spent night, when he smote himself through with his own sword, whereby he upbraideth yet the children of the hellenes, as many as went forth to troy. but lo! homer hath done him honour among men, and by raising up his excellence in the fulness thereof hath through the rod[ ] of his divine lays delivered it to bards after him to sing. for the thing that one hath well said goeth forth with a voice unto everlasting: over fruitful earth and beyond the sea hath the light of fair deeds shined, unquenchable for ever. may we find favour with the muses, that for melissos too we kindle such beacon-blaze of song, a worthy prize of the pankration for this scion of telesias' son. he being like unto the roaring lions in courage taketh unto him their spirit to be his own in the struggle: but in sleight he is as the fox that spreadeth out her feet[ ] and preventeth the swoop of the eagle: for all means must be essayed by him that would prevail over his foe. for not of the stature of orion was this man, but his presence is contemptible, yet terrible is he to grapple with in his strength. and verily once to the house of antaios came a man to wrestle against him, of short stature but of unbending soul, from kadmean thebes even unto corn-bearing libya, that he might cause him to cease from roofing poseidon's temple with the skulls of strangers--even the son of alkmene, he who ascended up to olympus, after that he had searched out the surface of the whole earth and of the crag-walled hoary sea, and had made safe way for the sailing of ships. and now beside the aegis-bearer he dwelleth, possessing happiness most fair, and hath honour from the immortals as their friend, and hath hebe to wife, and is lord of a golden house, and husband of hera's child. unto his honour upon the heights elektrai we of this city prepare a feast and new-built altar-ring, where we offer burnt sacrifice in honour of the eight mail-clad men that are dead, whom megara, kreon's daughter, bore to be sons of herakles. to them at the going down of the day there ariseth a flame of fire and burneth all night continually, amid a savoury smoke hurling itself against the upper air: and on the second day is the award of the yearly games, a trial of strength. therein did this our man, his head with myrtle-wreaths made white, show forth a double victory, after another won already among the boys, for that he had regard unto the many counsels of him who was the pilot of his helm[ ]. and with orseas' name i join him in my triumphal song, and shed over them a glory of delight. [footnote : 'many themes on which i can justly praise the clan.'] [footnote : the isthmus.] [footnote : the rod or staff carried anciently by poets and reciters of poems.] [footnote : i. e. throwing herself on her back with feet upward. if it is meant that she counterfeits death, then of course the parallel with the pankratiast will only hold good to the extent of the supine posture.] [footnote : his trainer, orseas.] iv. for phylakidas of aigina, winner in the pankration. * * * * * this phylakidas was a son of lampon, and a brother of the pytheas for whom the fifth nemean was written. this ode must have been written shortly after the battle of salamis, probably b.c. , and was to be sung at aigina, perhaps at a festival of the goddess theia who is invoked at the beginning. she, according to hesiod, was the mother of the sun, the moon, and the morning, and was also called [greek: euruphaessa] and [greek: chruse], from which latter name perhaps came her association with gold and wealth. * * * * * mother of the sun, theia of many names, through thee it is that men prize gold as mighty above all things else: for ships that strive upon the sea and horses that run in chariots, for the honour that is of thee, o queen, are glorified in swiftly circling struggle. and that man also hath won longed-for glory in the strife of games, for whose strong hand or fleet foot abundant wreaths have bound his hair. through god is the might of men approved. two things alone there are that cherish life's bloom to its utmost sweetness amidst the fair flowers of wealth--to have good success and to win therefore fair fame. seek not to be as zeus; if the portion of these honours fall to thee, thou hast already all. the things of mortals best befit mortality. for thee, phylakidas, a double glory of valour is at isthmos stored, and at nemea both for thee and for pytheas a pankratiast's crown. not without the sons of aiakos will my heart indite of song: and in company of the graces am i come for sake of lampon's sons to this commonwealth of equal laws[ ]. if then on the clear high road of god-given deeds she hath set her feet, grudge not to mingle in song a seemly draught of glory for her toil. for even the great men of old that were good warriors have profited of the telling of their tale, and are glorified on the lute and in the pipe's strains manifold, through immeasurable time: and to the cunning in words[ ] they give matter by the grace of zeus. thus by their worship with the blaze of burnt-offerings among aitolians have the mighty sons[ ] of oineus honour, and at thebes iolaos the charioteer, and at argos perseus, and by the streams of eurotas polydeukes and kastor's spear: but in oinone the great souls of aiakos and his sons, who after much fighting twice sacked the trojans' town, first when they went with herakles, and again with the sons of atreus. now drive me upward still; say who slew kyknos, and who hektor, and the dauntless chief of ethiop hosts, bronze-mailed memnon. what man was he who with his spear smote noble telephos by kaïkos' banks? even they whose home my mouth proclaimeth to be aigina's glorious isle: a tower is she, builded from long ago, to tempt the climb of high-adventuring valour. many arrows hath my truthful tongue in store wherewith to sound the praises of her sons: and even but now in war might aias' city, salamis, bear witness thereto in her deliverance by aigina's seamen amid the destroying tempest of zeus, when death came thick as hail on the unnumbered hosts. yet let no boast be heard. zeus ordereth this or that, zeus, lord of all. now in pleasant song even these honours also of the games welcome the joy for a fair victory. let any strive his best in such, who hath learnt what kleonikos' house can do. undulled is the fame of their long toil, nor ever was their zeal abated by any counting of the cost. also have i praise for pytheas, for that he guided aright[ ] the course of phylakidas' blows in the struggle of hands that bring limbs low, an adversary he of cunning soul. take for him a crown, and bring the fleecy fillet, and speed him on his way with this new winged hymn. [footnote : aigina.] [footnote : poets.] [footnote : meleager and his brothers.] [footnote : pytheas had given his brother example, and very probably precept also, in the pankration.] v. for phylakidas of aigina, winner in the pankration. * * * * * this ode seems to be of earlier date than the last, though placed after it in our order. the occasion is similar. probably it was sung at a banquet at lampon's house. * * * * * as one may do amid merry revel of men, so mingle we a second time the bowls of muses' melody in honour of lampon's athlete progeny. our first, o zeus, was unto thee, when at nemea we[ ] won thy excellent crown, and now is this second unto the lord[ ] of isthmos and unto the fifty daughters of nereus, for that phylakidas the youngest son is winner in the games. and be it ours to make ready yet a third for the saviour[ ], the olympian one, and in honour of aigina make libation of our honey-speaking song. for if a man rejoice to suffer cost and toil, and achieve god-builded excellence, and therewithal fate plant for him fair renown, already at the farthest bounds of bliss hath such an one cast anchor, for the glory that he hath thereby from god. with such desires prayeth the son[ ] of kleonikos that he may fulfil them ere he meet death or hoary eld. now i call on high-throned klotho and her sister fates to draw nigh unto the praying of the man i love. and upon you also, golden-charioted seed of aiakos, i say it is clear law to me to shed the dew of my good words, what time i set my foot[ ] upon this isle. for innumerable hundred-foot[ ] straight roads are cleft for your fair deeds to go forth, beyond the springs of nile, and through the hyperboreans' midst: neither is any town so barbarous and strange of speech that it knoweth not the fame of peleus, that blissful son-in-law of gods, or of aias son of telamon, and of aias' sire; whom unto brazen war an eager ally with tirynthian men alkmene's son took with him in his ships to troy, to the place of heroes' toil, to take vengeance for laomedon's untruth. there did herakles take the city of pergamos, and with help of telamon slew the nations of the meropes, and the herdsman whose stature was as a mountain, alkyoneus whom he found at phlegrai, and spared not of his hands the terrible twanging bowstring. but when he went to call the son of aiakos to the voyage he found the whole company at the feast. and as he stood there in his lion's skin, then did telamon their chief challenge amphitryon's son of the mighty spear to make initiative libation of nectar, and handed on unto him the wine-cup rough with gold. and herakles stretched forth to heaven his invincible hands and spake on this wise: 'if ever, o father zeus, thou hast heard my prayer with willing heart, now, even now, with strong entreaty i pray thee that thou give this man a brave child of eriboia's womb, that by award of fate my friend may gain a son of body as staunch[ ] as this hide that hangeth about me, which was of the beast that i slew at nemea, first of all my labours; and let his soul be of like sort.' and when he had thus spoken, the god sent forth the king of birds, a mighty eagle, and sweet delight thrilled him within, and he spake aloud as a seer speaketh: 'behold, the son whom thou askest shall be born unto thee, o telamon:' also after the bird's name that had appeared unto them he said that the child's name should be the mighty aias[ ], terrible in the strife of warring hosts: so he spake, and sate him down straightway. but for me it were long to tell all those valiant deeds. for for phylakidas am i come, o muse, a dispenser of thy triumphal songs, and for pytheas, and for euthymenes[ ]; therefore in argive fashion my tale shall be of fewest words. three victories have they won in the pankration of isthmos, and others at leafy nemea, even these noble sons and their mother's brother: how fair a portion of song have they brought to light! yea and they water with the charites' delicious dew their clan of the psalychidai, and have raised up the house of themistios, and dwell here in a city which the gods love well. and lampon, in that he bestoweth practice on all he doth, holdeth in high honour the word of hesiod which speaketh thereof[ ], and exhorteth thereunto his sons, whereby he bringeth unto his city a general fame: and for his kind entreating of strangers is he loved, to the just mean aspiring, to the just mean holding fast; and his tongue departeth not from his thoughts: and among athlete men he is as the bronze-grinding naxian whetstone amid stones[ ]. now will i give him to drink of the holy water of dirke, which golden-robed mnemosyne's deep-girdled daughters made once to spring out of the earth, beside the well-walled gates of kadmos. [footnote : i. e. pytheas. see nem. v.] [footnote : poseidon.] [footnote : [greek: zeus sotaer], to whom the third cup at a feast was drunk. he is here invoked also to give a third victory to the family at the olympic games.] [footnote : lampon.] [footnote : figuratively said, as elsewhere.] [footnote : a hundred feet wide, seemingly.] [footnote : not 'invulnerable.' a magic invulnerability was only attributed to heroes by later legend.] [footnote : from [greek: aietos] an eagle.] [footnote : maternal uncle of pytheas and phylakidas.] [footnote : [greek: melete de ergon ophellei]. opp. .] [footnote : i. e. he stimulates their zeal and skill. the naxian whetstone seems to be emery.] vi. for strepsiades of thebes, winner in the pankration. * * * * * the date of this ode is not fixed, but it has been supposed that the battle referred to--apparently a defeat--in which the winner's uncle was killed was the battle of oinophyta, fought b.c. . but this, and the notion that the democratic revolution at thebes is referred to, are only conjectures. * * * * * wherewithal of the fair deeds done in thy land, o divine thebe, hath thy soul had most delight? whether when thou broughtest forth to the light dionysos of the flowing hair, who sitteth beside demeter to whom the cymbals clang? or when at midnight in a snow of gold thou didst receive the mightiest of the gods, what time he stood at amphitryon's doors and beguiled his wife, to the begetting of herakles? or when thou hadst honour in the wise counsels of teiresias, or in iolaos the cunning charioteer, or the unwearied spears of the spartoi? or when out of the noise of the strong battle-cry thou sentest adrastos home to horse-breeding argos, of his countless company forlorn? or when thou madest the dorian colony of the men of lakedaimon stand upright upon its feet[ ], and the sons of aigeus thy progeny took amyklai, according to the oracles of pytho? nay, but the glory of the old time sleepeth, and mortals are unmindful thereof, save such as married to the sounding stream of song attaineth unto the perfect meed that wisdom[ ] giveth. new triumph now lead for strepsiades with melodious hymn: for at isthmos hath he borne away the pankratiast's prize. wondrous in strength is he, and to look upon of goodly shape, and his valour is such as shameth not his stature. so shineth he forth by grace of the muses iris-haired, and to his uncle of like name hath he given to share his crown, for albeit bronze-shielded ares gave him over unto death, yet remaineth there for the valiant a recompense of renown. for let whoso amid the cloud of war from his beloved country wardeth the bloody shower, and maketh havoc in the enemy's host, know assuredly that for the race of his fellow-citizens he maketh their renown wax mightily, yea when he is dead even as while he was yet alive. so didst thou, son[ ] of diodotos, following the praise of the warrior meleagros, and of hektor, and of amphiaraos, breathe forth the spirit of thy fair-flowering youth amid the company of fighters in the front, where the bravest on slenderest hopes bare up the struggle of war. then suffered i a pang unspeakable, but now hath the earth-grasper[ ] granted unto me a calm after the storm: i will set chaplets on my hair and sing. now let no jealousy of immortals mar whatever sweet thing through a day's pursuit i follow, as it leadeth on up to old age, and unto the term of life appointed. for all we in like manner die, albeit our lots be diverse. if any lift up his eye to look upon things afar off, yet is he too weak to attain unto the bronze-paved dwelling of the gods. thus did winged pegasos throw his lord bellerophon, when he would fain enter into the heavenly habitations and mix among the company of zeus. unrighteous joyance a bitter end awaiteth. but to us, o loxias of the golden-flowing hair, give also at thy pythian games a new fair-flowering crown. [footnote : the theban aigidai helped the mythical 'return of the herakleidai.'] [footnote : wisdom of bards.] [footnote : strepsiades the uncle.] [footnote : poseidon.] vii. for kleandros of aigina, winner in the pankration. * * * * * all that we can be certain of as to the date of this ode is that it was written soon after the final expulsion of the persians. from the first strophe we learn that kleandros had won a nemean as well as an isthmian victory, and perhaps this ode really belongs to the former. it was to be sung, it seems, before the house of telesarchos the winner's father, at aigina. * * * * * for kleandros in his prime let some of you, ye young men, go stand before the shining portal of his father telesarchos, and rouse a song of triumph, to be a glorious recompense of his toils, for that he hath achieved reward of victory at isthmos, and hath showed his strength in the games of nemea. for him i also, albeit heavy at heart[ ], am bidden to call upon the golden muse. yea since we are come forth from our sore troubles let us not fall into the desolation of crownlessness, neither nurse our griefs; but having ease from our ills that are past mending, we will set some pleasant thing before the people, though it follow hard on pain: inasmuch as some god hath put away from us the tantalos-stone that hung above our heads, a curse intolerable to hellas. but now hath the passing of this terror ended my sore disquietude, and ever it is better to look only on the thing hard by. for the guile of time hangeth above the heads of men, and maketh the way of their life crooked, yet if freedom abide with them, even such things may mortals cure. but it is meet that a man cherish good hope: and meet also that i, whom seven-gated thebes reared, proffer chiefly unto aigina the choicest of the graces' gifts, for that from one sire were two daughters[ ] born, youngest of the children of asopos, and found favour in the eyes of the king zeus. one by the fair stream of dirke he set to be the queen of a city of charioteers, and thee the other he bare to the oinopian isle, and lay with thee, whence to the sire of great thunderings thou didst bear the godlike aiakos, best of men upon the earth. this man even among divinities became a decider of strife: and his godlike sons and his sons' sons delighting in battle were foremost in valour when they met in the ringing brazen melley: chaste also were they approved, and wise of heart. thereof was the god's council mindful, what time for the hand of thetis there was strife between zeus and glorious poseidon, each having desire that she should be his fair bride, for love had obtained dominion over them. yet did not the wisdom of the immortal gods fulfil for them such marriage, when they had heard a certain oracle. for themis of wise counsels spake in the midst of them of how it was pre-destined that the sea-goddess should bear a royal offspring mightier than his father, whose hand should wield a bolt more terrible than the lightning or the dread trident, if she came ever into the bed of zeus, or of brethren of zeus. 'cease ye herefrom: let her enter a mortal's couch and see her son fall in war, who shall be as ares in the might of his hands, and as the lightning in the swiftness of his feet. my counsel is that ye give her to be the heaven-sent prize of peleus son of aiakos, whom the speech of men showeth to be their most righteous, an offspring of iolkos' plain. thus straightway let the message go forth to cheiron's cave divine, neither let the daughter of nereus put a second time into your hands the ballot-leaves of strife. so on the evening of the mid-month moon shall she unbind for the hero the fair girdle of her virginity.' thus spake the goddess her word to the children of kronos, and they bowed their everlasting brows. nor failed her words of fruit, for they say that to thetis' bridals came those twain kings even with the rest. out of the mouths of the wise hath the young valour of achilles been declared to them that beheld it not. he it was who stained the vine-clad mysian plain with the dark blood of telephos that he shed thereon, and made for the sons of atreus a safe return across the sea, and delivered helen, when that he had cut asunder with his spear the sinews of troy, even the men who kept him back as he plied the work of slaughterous battle on the plain, the strength of memnon and high-hearted hektor, and other chiefs of pride. unto all these did achilles, champion of the aiakid race, point the way to the house of persephone, and thereby did he glorify aigina and the root whence he was sprung. neither in death was he of songs forsaken, for at his funeral pyre and beside his tomb stood the helikonian maiden-choir, and poured thereon a dirge of many melodies. for so the immortals willed, to give charge unto the songs of goddesses over that valorous man even in his death. and now also holdeth such charge good, and the muses' chariot speedeth to sound the glories of nikokles the boxer[ ]. honour to him who in the isthmian vale hath won the dorian parsley: for he even as achilles overcame men in battle, turning them to confusion, with hand from which flight was vain. him shameth not this kinsman of his father's noble brother. wherefore let some one of the young men his fellows twine for kleandros a wreath of tender myrtle for his pankratiast victory. for the games whose name is of alkathoos[ ], and the youth of epidauros[ ], have ere now entertained him with good hap. to praise him is given unto the good: for in no hidden corner quenched he his youth, unproven in honourable deeds. [footnote : because, though the persians had been defeated, thebes, pindar's city, had not shared the glory.] [footnote : thebe and aigine.] [footnote : uncle of the winner.] [footnote : a son of pelops: he slew the lion of kithairon.] [footnote : the epidaurian games were in honour of asklepios.] fragments. nearly two-thirds of the fragments cannot be assigned to any distinct class: the rest are divided among ( ) [greek: epinikia], or triumphal odes (such as are the odes remaining to us entire), ( ) [greek: hymnoi], or hymns sung by a choir in honour of gods, ( ) [greek: paianes], or hymns of a like kind but anciently addressed especially to apollo and artemis for their intervention against pestilence, ( ) [greek: dithyramboi], or choral songs of more general compass, verging sometimes on the drama, ( ) [greek: prosodia], or processional songs, ( ) [greek: parthenia], or songs for a choir of maidens, ( ) [greek: hyporchaemata], or songs with accompaniment of dance, ( ) [greek: enkomia], or odes sung by a [greek: komos] in praise of some person but not necessarily on any special occasion, ( ) [greek: skolia], or songs to be sung at banquets, ( ) [greek: thraenoi], or dirges. fragment of a dithyramb, to be sung at athens. hither! olympian gods to our choice dance, and make your grace to descend thereon and to glorify it, ye who in sacred athens visit the city's incensed centre-stone, and her famed market-place of splendid ornament; receive ye violet-entwinëd crowns and drink-offerings of spring-gathered herbs, and look on me who am come from the house of zeus with my bright song a second time unto the ivy-crownëd god, whom we call bromios, even the god of clamorous shout. to sing the offspring[ ] of the highest and of kadmeän mothers am i come. in argive nemea the prophet of the god overlooketh not the branch of palm, what time with the opening of the chamber of the hours, the nectarous plants perceive the fragrant spring[ ]. then, then are strown over the face of the eternal earth the lovely violet-tufts, then are roses twined in hair, then sound to the flute's accompaniment voices of song, then sound our choice hymns unto the honour of bright-filleted semele ... [footnote : dionysos, son of zeus and of semele, daughter of kadmos.] [footnote : bockh has suggested the following ingenious explanation of this passage. in the temple of zeus at nemea grew a sacred palm, and a branch of this was given, together with his crown, to a winner in the nemean games. pindar had been at those games in the winter, and means that he, like the priest of the temple, could foresee from the tokens of the branch that spring was approaching, and with spring the vernal dionysia at athens.] fragments of a procession-song ([greek: prosodion]), in honour of delos. hail! god-reared daughter of the sea, earth-shoot most dear to bright-haired leto's children, wide earth's immoveable marvel, who of mortals art called delos, but of the blessed gods in olympus the dark earth's far-seen star[ ]... ... for of old time it[ ] drifted before the waves and stress of winds from every side; but when she[ ] of koios set foot thereon, as the swift pains of her travailing drew nigh, then verily from roots deep down in earth there sprang upright four pillars with adamantine base, and on their capitals they held up the rock: there was the goddess delivered, and looked upon her blessed brood........ [footnote : the old mythical name of delos was asteria.] [footnote : the island.] [footnote : leto.] * * * * * fragment of a song with accompaniment of dance ([greek: huporchaema]), written on occasion of an eclipse of the sun, probably that of april , b.c. . wherefore, o light of the sun, thou that seest all things and givest bounds unto the sight of mine eyes--wherefore o star supreme hast thou in the daytime hidden thyself, and made useless unto men the wings of their strength and the paths that wisdom findeth, and hastest along a way of darkness to bring on us some strange thing? now in the name of zeus i pray unto thee, o holy light, that by thy swift steeds thou turn this marvel in the sight of all men to be for the unimpaired good hap of thebes. yet if the sign which thou showest us be of some war, or destruction of harvest, or an exceeding storm of snow, or ruinous civil strife, or emptying of the sea upon the earth, or freezing of the soil, or summer rains pouring in vehement flood, or whether thou wilt drown the earth and make anew another race of men, then will i suffer it amid the common woe of all.... fragments. i fragments of dirges (thraenoi). .... for them shineth below the strength of the sun while in our world it is night, and the space of crimsonflowered meadows before their city is full of the shade of frankincense-trees, and of fruits of gold. and some in horses, and in bodily feats, and some in dice, and some in harp-playing have delight; and among them thriveth all fair-flowering bliss; and fragrance streameth ever through the lovely land, as they mingle incense of every kind upon the altars of the gods.... ii. .... by happy lot travel all unto an end that giveth them rest from toils. and the body indeed is subject unto the great power of death, but there remaineth yet alive a shadow of life; for this only is from the gods; and while the limbs stir, it sleepeth, but unto sleepers in dreams discovereth oftentimes the judgment that draweth nigh for sorrow or for joy.. iii but from whomsoever persephone accepteth atonement made for an ancient woe, their souls unto the light of the sun above she sendeth back again in the ninth year. and from those souls spring noble kings, and men swift and strong and in wisdom very great: and through the after-time they are called holy heroes among men...... the end. note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) tales of troy and greece [illustration: the stealing of helen.] [_see_ p. .] tales of troy and greece by andrew lang illustrated by h. j. ford dover publications, inc. mineola, new york bibliographical note this dover edition, first published in , is an unabridged republication of the printing of the work originally published by longmans, green and co., london and new york, in . we have slightly repositioned a few of the illustrations. manufactured in the united states of america dover publications, inc., east nd street, mineola, n.y. to h. rider haggard contents _ulysses the sacker of cities_ page i. the boyhood and parents of ulysses ii. how people lived in the time of ulysses iii. the wooing of helen of the fair hands iv. the stealing of helen v. trojan victories vi. battle at the ships vii. the slaying and avenging of patroclus viii. the cruelty of achilles, and the ransoming of hector ix. how ulysses stole the luck of troy x. the battles with the amazons and memnon--the death of achilles xi. ulysses sails to seek the son of achilles--the valour of eurypylus xii. the slaying of paris xiii. how ulysses invented the device of the horse of tree xiv. the end of troy and the saving of helen _the wanderings of ulysses_ i. the slaying of agamemnon and the sorrows of ulysses ii. the enchantress circe, the land of the dead, the sirens iii. the whirlpool, the sea monster, and the cattle of the sun iv. how telemachus went to seek his father v. how ulysses escaped from the island of calypso vi. how ulysses was wrecked, yet reached phaeacia vii. how ulysses came to his own country, and for safety disguised himself as an old beggar man viii. ulysses comes disguised as a beggar to his own palace ix. the slaying of the wooers x. the end _the fleece of gold_ i. the children of the cloud. ii. the search for the fleece iii. the winning of the fleece _theseus_ i. the wedding of aethra ii. the boyhood of theseus iii. adventures of theseus iv. theseus finds his father v. heralds come for tribute vi. theseus in crete vii. the slaying of the minotaur _perseus_ i. the prison of danae ii. the vow of perseus iii. perseus and andromeda iv. how perseus avenged danae illustrations the stealing of helen _frontispiece_ map of greece _facing p. _ ulysses, when a youth, fights the wild boar and gets his wound in his thigh " helen points out the chief heroes in the greek host to priam " achilles pities penthesilea after slaying her " paris comes back to oenone " menelaus refrains from killing helen at the intercession of ulysses " circe sends the swine (the companions of ulysses) to the styes " the adventure with scylla " calypso takes pity on ulysses " how ulysses met nausicaa " ulysses shoots the first arrow at the wooers " king athamas steals nephele's clothes so that she cannot float away with her sisters " how the serpent that guarded the golden fleece was slain " theseus tries to lift the stone " how theseus slew the minotaur " perseus in the garden of the hesperides " the rescue of andromeda " tales of troy and greece [illustration: greece] tales of troy ulysses the sacker of cities i the boyhood and parents of ulysses long ago, in a little island called ithaca, on the west coast of greece, there lived a king named laertes. his kingdom was small and mountainous. people used to say that ithaca 'lay like a shield upon the sea,' which sounds as if it were a flat country. but in those times shields were very large, and rose at the middle into two peaks with a hollow between them, so that ithaca, seen far off in the sea, with her two chief mountain peaks, and a cloven valley between them, looked exactly like a shield. the country was so rough that men kept no horses, for, at that time, people drove, standing up in little light chariots with two horses; they never rode, and there was no cavalry in battle: men fought from chariots. when ulysses, the son of laertes, king of ithaca grew up, he never fought from a chariot, for he had none, but always on foot. if there were no horses in ithaca, there was plenty of cattle. the father of ulysses had flocks of sheep, and herds of swine, and wild goats, deer, and hares lived in the hills and in the plains. the sea was full of fish of many sorts, which men caught with nets, and with rod and line and hook. thus ithaca was a good island to live in. the summer was long, and there was hardly any winter; only a few cold weeks, and then the swallows came back, and the plains were like a garden, all covered with wild flowers--violets, lilies, narcissus, and roses. with the blue sky and the blue sea, the island was beautiful. white temples stood on the shores; and the nymphs, a sort of fairies, had their little shrines built of stone, with wild rose-bushes hanging over them. other islands lay within sight, crowned with mountains, stretching away, one behind the other, into the sunset. ulysses in the course of his life saw many rich countries, and great cities of men, but, wherever he was, his heart was always in the little isle of ithaca, where he had learned how to row, and how to sail a boat, and how to shoot with bow and arrow, and to hunt boars and stags, and manage his hounds. the mother of ulysses was called anticleia: she was the daughter of king autolycus, who lived near parnassus, a mountain on the mainland. this king autolycus was the most cunning of men. he was a master thief, and could steal a man's pillow from under his head, but he does not seem to have been thought worse of for this. the greeks had a god of thieves, named hermes, whom autolycus worshipped, and people thought more good of his cunning tricks than harm of his dishonesty. perhaps these tricks of his were only practised for amusement; however that may be, ulysses became as artful as his grandfather; he was both the bravest and the most cunning of men, but ulysses never stole things, except once, as we shall hear, from the enemy in time of war. he showed his cunning in stratagems of war, and in many strange escapes from giants and man-eaters. soon after ulysses was born, his grandfather came to see his mother and father in ithaca. he was sitting at supper when the nurse of ulysses, whose name was eurycleia, brought in the baby, and set him on the knees of autolycus, saying, 'find a name for your grandson, for he is a child of many prayers.' 'i am very angry with many men and women in the world,' said autolycus, 'so let the child's name be _a man of wrath_,' which, in greek, was odysseus. so the child was called odysseus by his own people, but the name was changed into ulysses, and we shall call him ulysses. we do not know much about ulysses when he was a little boy, except that he used to run about the garden with his father, asking questions, and begging that he might have fruit trees 'for his very own.' he was a great pet, for his parents had no other son, so his father gave him thirteen pear trees, and forty fig trees, and promised him fifty rows of vines, all covered with grapes, which he could eat when he liked, without asking leave of the gardener. so he was not tempted to steal fruit, like his grandfather. when autolycus gave ulysses his name, he said that he must come to stay with him, when he was a big boy, and he would get splendid presents. ulysses was told about this, so, when he was a tall lad, he crossed the sea and drove in his chariot to the old man's house on mount parnassus. everybody welcomed him, and next day his uncles and cousins and he went out to hunt a fierce wild boar, early in the morning. probably ulysses took his own dog, named argos, the best of hounds, of which we shall hear again, long afterwards, for the dog lived to be very old. soon the hounds came on the scent of a wild boar, and after them the men went, with spears in their hands, and ulysses ran foremost, for he was already the swiftest runner in greece. he came on a great boar lying in a tangled thicket of boughs and bracken, a dark place where the sun never shone, nor could the rain pierce through. then the noise of the men's shouts and the barking of the dogs awakened the boar, and up he sprang, bristling all over his back, and with fire shining from his eyes. in rushed ulysses first of all, with his spear raised to strike, but the boar was too quick for him, and ran in, and drove his sharp tusk sideways, ripping up the thigh of ulysses. but the boar's tusk missed the bone, and ulysses sent his sharp spear into the beast's right shoulder, and the spear went clean through, and the boar fell dead, with a loud cry. the uncles of ulysses bound up his wound carefully, and sang a magical song over it, as the french soldiers wanted to do to joan of arc when the arrow pierced her shoulder at the siege of orleans. then the blood ceased to flow, and soon ulysses was quite healed of his wound. they thought that he would be a good warrior, and gave him splendid presents, and when he went home again he told all that had happened to his father and mother, and his nurse, eurycleia. but there was always a long white mark or scar above his left knee, and about that scar we shall hear again, many years afterwards. [illustration: ulysses, when a youth, fights the wild boar and gets his wound in his thigh.] ii how people lived in the time of ulysses when ulysses was a young man he wished to marry a princess of his own rank. now there were at that time many kings in greece, and you must be told how they lived. each king had his own little kingdom, with his chief town, walled with huge walls of enormous stone. many of these walls are still standing, though the grass has grown over the ruins of most of them, and in later years, men believed that those walls must have been built by giants, the stones are so enormous. each king had nobles under him, rich men, and all had their palaces, each with its courtyard, and its long hall, where the fire burned in the midst, and the king and queen sat beside it on high thrones, between the four chief carved pillars that held up the roof. the thrones were made of cedar wood and ivory, inlaid with gold, and there were many other chairs and small tables for guests, and the walls and doors were covered with bronze plates, and gold and silver, and sheets of blue glass. sometimes they were painted with pictures of bull hunts, and a few of these pictures may still be seen. at night torches were lit, and placed in the hands of golden figures of boys, but all the smoke of fire and torches escaped by a hole in the roof, and made the ceiling black. on the walls hung swords and spears and helmets and shields, which needed to be often cleaned from the stains of the smoke. the minstrel or poet sat beside the king and queen, and, after supper he struck his harp, and sang stories of old wars. at night the king and queen slept in their own place, and the women in their own rooms; the princesses had their chambers upstairs, and the young princes had each his room built separate in the courtyard. there were bath rooms with polished baths, where guests were taken when they arrived dirty from a journey. the guests lay at night on beds in the portico, for the climate was warm. there were plenty of servants, who were usually slaves taken in war, but they were very kindly treated, and were friendly with their masters. no coined money was used; people paid for things in cattle, or in weighed pieces of gold. rich men had plenty of gold cups, and gold-hilted swords, and bracelets, and brooches. the kings were the leaders in war and judges in peace, and did sacrifices to the gods, killing cattle and swine and sheep, on which they afterwards dined. they dressed in a simple way, in a long smock of linen or silk, which fell almost to the feet, but was tucked up into a belt round the waist, and worn longer or shorter, as they happened to choose. where it needed fastening at the throat, golden brooches were used, beautifully made, with safety pins. this garment was much like the plaid that the highlanders used to wear, with its belt and brooches. over it the greeks wore great cloaks of woollen cloth when the weather was cold, but these they did not use in battle. they fastened their breastplates, in war, over their smocks, and had other armour covering the lower parts of the body, and leg armour called 'greaves'; while the great shield which guarded the whole body from throat to ankles was carried by a broad belt slung round the neck. the sword was worn in another belt, crossing the shield belt. they had light shoes in peace, and higher and heavier boots in war, or for walking across country. the women wore the smock, with more brooches and jewels than the men; and had head coverings, with veils, and mantles over all, and necklaces of gold and amber, earrings, and bracelets of gold or of bronze. the colours of their dresses were various, chiefly white and purple; and, when in mourning, they wore very dark blue, not black. all the armour, and the sword blades and spearheads were made, not of steel or iron, but of bronze, a mixture of copper and tin. the shields were made of several thicknesses of leather, with a plating of bronze above; tools, such as axes and ploughshares, were either of iron or bronze; and so were the blades of knives and daggers. to us the houses and way of living would have seemed very splendid, and also, in some ways, rather rough. the palace floors, at least in the house of ulysses, were littered with bones and feet of the oxen slain for food, but this happened when ulysses had been long from home. the floor of the hall in the house of ulysses was not boarded with planks, or paved with stone: it was made of clay; for he was a poor king of small islands. the cooking was coarse: a pig or sheep was killed, roasted and eaten immediately. we never hear of boiling meat, and though people probably ate fish, we do not hear of their doing so, except when no meat could be procured. still some people must have liked them; for in the pictures that were painted or cut in precious stones in these times we see the half-naked fisherman walking home, carrying large fish. the people were wonderful workers of gold and bronze. hundreds of their golden jewels have been found in their graves, but probably these were made and buried two or three centuries before the time of ulysses. the dagger blades had pictures of fights with lions, and of flowers, inlaid on them, in gold of various colours, and in silver; nothing so beautiful is made now. there are figures of men hunting bulls on some of the gold cups, and these are wonderfully life-like. the vases and pots of earthenware were painted in charming patterns: in short, it was a splendid world to live in. the people believed in many gods, male and female, under the chief god, zeus. the gods were thought to be taller than men, and immortal, and to live in much the same way as men did, eating, drinking, and sleeping in glorious palaces. though they were supposed to reward good men, and to punish people who broke their oaths and were unkind to strangers, there were many stories told in which the gods were fickle, cruel, selfish, and set very bad examples to men. how far these stories were believed is not sure; it is certain that 'all men felt a need of the gods,' and thought that they were pleased by good actions and displeased by evil. yet, when a man felt that his behaviour had been bad, he often threw the blame on the gods, and said that they had misled him, which really meant no more than that 'he could not help it.' there was a curious custom by which the princes bought wives from the fathers of the princesses, giving cattle and gold, and bronze and iron, but sometimes a prince got a wife as the reward for some very brave action. a man would not give his daughter to a wooer whom she did not love, even if he offered the highest price, at least this must have been the general rule, for husbands and wives were very fond of each other, and of their children, and husbands always allowed their wives to rule the house, and give their advice on everything. it was thought a very wicked thing for a woman to like another man better than her husband, and there were few such wives, but among them was the most beautiful woman who ever lived. iii the wooing of helen of the fair hands this was the way in which people lived when ulysses was young, and wished to be married. the worst thing in the way of life was that the greatest and most beautiful princesses might be taken prisoners, and carried off as slaves to the towns of the men who had killed their fathers and husbands. now at that time one lady was far the fairest in the world: namely, helen, daughter of king tyndarus. every young prince heard of her and desired to marry her; so her father invited them all to his palace, and entertained them, and found out what they would give. among the rest ulysses went, but his father had a little kingdom, a rough island, with others near it, and ulysses had not a good chance. he was not tall; though very strong and active, he was a short man with broad shoulders, but his face was handsome, and, like all the princes, he wore long yellow hair, clustering like a hyacinth flower. his manner was rather hesitating, and he seemed to speak very slowly at first, though afterwards his words came freely. he was good at everything a man can do; he could plough, and build houses, and make ships, and he was the best archer in greece, except one, and could bend the great bow of a dead king, eurytus, which no other man could string. but he had no horses, and had no great train of followers; and, in short, neither helen nor her father thought of choosing ulysses for her husband out of so many tall, handsome young princes, glittering with gold ornaments. still, helen was very kind to ulysses, and there was great friendship between them, which was fortunate for her in the end. tyndarus first made all the princes take an oath that they would stand by the prince whom he chose, and would fight for him in all his quarrels. then he named for her husband menelaus, king of lacedaemon. he was a very brave man, but not one of the strongest; he was not such a fighter as the gigantic aias, the tallest and strongest of men; or as diomede, the friend of ulysses; or as his own brother, agamemnon, the king of the rich city of mycenae, who was chief over all other princes, and general of the whole army in war. the great lions carved in stone that seemed to guard his city are still standing above the gate through which agamemnon used to drive his chariot. the man who proved to be the best fighter of all, achilles, was not among the lovers of helen, for he was still a boy, and his mother, thetis of the silver feet, a goddess of the sea, had sent him to be brought up as a girl, among the daughters of lycomedes of scyros, in an island far away. thetis did this because achilles was her only child, and there was a prophecy that, if he went to the wars, he would win the greatest glory, but die very young, and never see his mother again. she thought that if war broke out he would not be found hiding in girl's dress, among girls, far away. so at last, after thinking over the matter for long, tyndarus gave fair helen to menelaus, the rich king of lacedaemon; and her twin sister clytaemnestra, who was also very beautiful, was given to king agamemnon, the chief over all the princes. they all lived very happily together at first, but not for long. in the meantime king tyndarus spoke to his brother icarius, who had a daughter named penelope. she also was very pretty, but not nearly so beautiful as her cousin, fair helen, and we know that penelope was not very fond of her cousin. icarius, admiring the strength and wisdom of ulysses, gave him his daughter penelope to be his wife, and ulysses loved her very dearly, no man and wife were ever dearer to each other. they went away together to rocky ithaca, and perhaps penelope was not sorry that a wide sea lay between her home and that of helen; for helen was not only the fairest woman that ever lived in the world, but she was so kind and gracious and charming that no man could see her without loving her. when she was only a child, the famous prince theseus, whose story is to be told later, carried her away to his own city of athens, meaning to marry her when she grew up, and, even at that time, there was a war for her sake, for her brothers followed theseus with an army, and fought him, and brought her home. she had fairy gifts: for instance, she had a great red jewel, called 'the star,' and when she wore it red drops seemed to fall from it and vanished before they touched and stained her white breast--so white that people called her 'the daughter of the swan.' she could speak in the very voice of any man or woman, so folk also named her echo, and it was believed that she could neither grow old nor die, but would at last pass away to the elysian plain and the world's end, where life is easiest for men. no snow comes thither, nor great storm, nor any rain; but always the river of ocean that rings round the whole earth sends forth the west wind to blow cool on the people of king rhadamanthus of the fair hair. these were some of the stories that men told of fair helen, but ulysses was never sorry that he had not the fortune to marry her, so fond he was of her cousin, his wife, penelope, who was very wise and good. when ulysses brought his wife home they lived, as the custom was, in the palace of his father, king laertes, but ulysses, with his own hands, built a chamber for penelope and himself. there grew a great olive tree in the inner court of the palace, and its stem was as large as one of the tall carved pillars of the hall. round about this tree ulysses built the chamber, and finished it with close-set stones, and roofed it over, and made close-fastening doors. then he cut off all the branches of the olive tree, and smoothed the trunk, and shaped it into the bed-post, and made the bedstead beautiful with inlaid work of gold and silver and ivory. there was no such bed in greece, and no man could move it from its place, and this bed comes again into the story, at the very end. now time went by, and ulysses and penelope had one son called telemachus; and eurycleia, who had been his father's nurse, took care of him. they were all very happy, and lived in peace in rocky ithaca, and ulysses looked after his lands, and flocks, and herds, and went hunting with his dog argos, the swiftest of hounds. iv the stealing of helen this happy time did not last long, and telemachus was still a baby, when war arose, so great and mighty and marvellous as had never been known in the world. far across the sea that lies on the east of greece, there dwelt the rich king priam. his town was called troy, or ilios, and it stood on a hill near the seashore, where are the straits of hellespont, between europe and asia; it was a great city surrounded by strong walls, and its ruins are still standing. the kings could make merchants who passed through the straits pay toll to them, and they had allies in thrace, a part of europe opposite troy, and priam was chief of all princes on his side of the sea, as agamemnon was chief king in greece. priam had many beautiful things; he had a vine made of gold, with golden leaves and clusters, and he had the swiftest horses, and many strong and brave sons; the strongest and bravest was named hector, and the youngest and most beautiful was named paris. there was a prophecy that priam's wife would give birth to a burning torch, so, when paris was born, priam sent a servant to carry the baby into a wild wood on mount ida, and leave him to die or be eaten by wolves and wild cats. the servant left the child, but a shepherd found him, and brought him up as his own son. the boy became as beautiful, for a boy, as helen was for a girl, and was the best runner, and hunter, and archer among the country people. he was loved by the beautiful oenone, a nymph--that is, a kind of fairy--who dwelt in a cave among the woods of ida. the greeks and trojans believed in these days that such fair nymphs haunted all beautiful woodland places, and the mountains, and wells, and had crystal palaces, like mermaids, beneath the waves of the sea. these fairies were not mischievous, but gentle and kind. sometimes they married mortal men, and oenone was the bride of paris, and hoped to keep him for her own all the days of his life. it was believed that she had the magical power of healing wounded men, however sorely they were hurt. paris and oenone lived most happily together in the forest; but one day, when the servants of priam had driven off a beautiful bull that was in the herd of paris, he left the hills to seek it, and came into the town of troy. his mother, hecuba, saw him, and looking at him closely, perceived that he wore a ring which she had tied round her baby's neck when he was taken away from her soon after his birth. then hecuba, beholding him so beautiful, and knowing him to be her son, wept for joy, and they all forgot the prophecy that he would be a burning torch of fire, and priam gave him a house like those of his brothers, the trojan princes. the fame of beautiful helen reached troy, and paris quite forgot unhappy oenone, and must needs go to see helen for himself. perhaps he meant to try to win her for his wife, before her marriage. but sailing was little understood in these times, and the water was wide, and men were often driven for years out of their course, to egypt, and africa, and far away into the unknown seas, where fairies lived in enchanted islands, and cannibals dwelt in caves of the hills. paris came much too late to have a chance of marrying helen; however, he was determined to see her, and he made his way to her palace beneath the mountain taygetus, beside the clear swift river eurotas. the servants came out of the hall when they heard the sound of wheels and horses' feet, and some of them took the horses to the stables, and tilted the chariots against the gateway, while others led paris into the hall, which shone like the sun with gold and silver. then paris and his companions were led to the baths, where they were bathed, and clad in new clothes, mantles of white, and robes of purple, and next they were brought before king menelaus, and he welcomed them kindly, and meat was set before them, and wine in cups of gold. while they were talking, helen came forth from her fragrant chamber, like a goddess, her maidens following her, and carrying for her an ivory distaff with violet-coloured wool, which she span as she sat, and heard paris tell how far he had travelled to see her who was so famous for her beauty even in countries far away. then paris knew that he had never seen, and never could see, a lady so lovely and gracious as helen as she sat and span, while the red drops fell and vanished from the ruby called the star; and helen knew that among all the princes in the world there was none so beautiful as paris. now some say that paris, by art magic, put on the appearance of menelaus, and asked helen to come sailing with him, and that she, thinking he was her husband, followed him, and he carried her across the wide waters of troy, away from her lord and her one beautiful little daughter, the child hermione. and others say that the gods carried helen herself off to egypt, and that they made in her likeness a beautiful ghost, out of flowers and sunset clouds, whom paris bore to troy, and this they did to cause war between greeks and trojans. another story is that helen and her bower maiden and her jewels were seized by force, when menelaus was out hunting. it is only certain that paris and helen did cross the seas together, and that menelaus and little hermione were left alone in the melancholy palace beside the eurotas. penelope, we know for certain, made no excuses for her beautiful cousin, but hated her as the cause of her own sorrows and of the deaths of thousands of men in war, for all the greek princes were bound by their oath to fight for menelaus against any one who injured him and stole his wife away. but helen was very unhappy in troy, and blamed herself as bitterly as all the other women blamed her, and most of all oenone, who had been the love of paris. the men were much more kind to helen, and were determined to fight to the death rather than lose the sight of her beauty among them. the news of the dishonour done to menelaus and to all the princes of greece ran through the country like fire through a forest. east and west and south and north went the news: to kings in their castles on the hills, and beside the rivers and on cliffs above the sea. the cry came to ancient nestor of the white beard at pylos, nestor who had reigned over two generations of men, who had fought against the wild folk of the hills, and remembered the strong heracles, and eurytus of the black bow that sang before the day of battle. the cry came to black-bearded agamemnon, in his strong town called 'golden mycenae,' because it was so rich; it came to the people in thisbe, where the wild doves haunt; and it came to rocky pytho, where is the sacred temple of apollo and the maid who prophesies. it came to aias, the tallest and strongest of men, in his little isle of salamis; and to diomede of the loud war-cry, the bravest of warriors, who held argos and tiryns of the black walls of huge stones, that are still standing. the summons came to the western islands and to ulysses in ithaca, and even far south to the great island of crete of the hundred cities, where idomeneus ruled in cnossos; idomeneus, whose ruined palace may still be seen with the throne of the king, and pictures painted on the walls, and the king's own draught-board of gold and silver, and hundreds of tablets of clay, on which are written the lists of royal treasures. far north went the news to pelasgian argos, and hellas, where the people of peleus dwelt, the myrmidons; but peleus was too old to fight, and his boy, achilles, dwelt far away, in the island of scyros, dressed as a girl, among the daughters of king lycomedes. to many another town and to a hundred islands went the bitter news of approaching war, for all princes knew that their honour and their oaths compelled them to gather their spearmen, and bowmen, and slingers from the fields and the fishing, and to make ready their ships, and meet king agamemnon in the harbour of aulis, and cross the wide sea to besiege troy town. now the story is told that ulysses was very unwilling to leave his island and his wife penelope, and little telemachus; while penelope had no wish that he should pass into danger, and into the sight of helen of the fair hands. so it is said that when two of the princes came to summon ulysses, he pretended to be mad, and went ploughing the sea sand with oxen, and sowing the sand with salt. then the prince palamedes took the baby telemachus from the arms of his nurse, eurycleia, and laid him in the line of the furrow, where the ploughshare would strike him and kill him. but ulysses turned the plough aside, and they cried that he was not mad, but sane, and he must keep his oath, and join the fleet at aulis, a long voyage for him to sail, round the stormy southern cape of maleia. whether this tale be true or not, ulysses did go, leading twelve black ships, with high beaks painted red at prow and stern. the ships had oars, and the warriors manned the oars, to row when there was no wind. there was a small raised deck at each end of the ships; on these decks men stood to fight with sword and spear when there was a battle at sea. each ship had but one mast, with a broad lugger sail, and for anchors they had only heavy stones attached to cables. they generally landed at night, and slept on the shore of one of the many islands, when they could, for they greatly feared to sail out of sight of land. the fleet consisted of more than a thousand ships, each with fifty warriors, so the army was of more than fifty thousand men. agamemnon had a hundred ships, diomede had eighty, nestor had ninety, the cretans with idomeneus, had eighty, menelaus had sixty; but aias and ulysses, who lived in small islands, had only twelve ships apiece. yet aias was so brave and strong, and ulysses so brave and wise, that they were ranked among the greatest chiefs and advisers of agamemnon, with menelaus, diomede, idomeneus, nestor, menestheus of athens, and two or three others. these chiefs were called the council, and gave advice to agamemnon, who was commander-in-chief. he was a brave fighter, but so anxious and fearful of losing the lives of his soldiers that ulysses and diomede were often obliged to speak to him very severely. agamemnon was also very insolent and greedy, though, when anybody stood up to him, he was ready to apologise, for fear the injured chief should renounce his service and take away his soldiers. nestor was much respected because he remained brave, though he was too old to be very useful in battle. he generally tried to make peace when the princes quarrelled with agamemnon. he loved to tell long stories about his great deeds when he was young, and he wished the chiefs to fight in old-fashioned ways. for instance, in his time the greeks had fought in clan regiments, and the princely men had never dismounted in battle, but had fought in squadrons of chariots, but now the owners of chariots fought on foot, each man for himself, while his squire kept the chariot near him to escape on if he had to retreat. nestor wished to go back to the good old way of chariot charges against the crowds of foot soldiers of the enemy. in short, he was a fine example of the old-fashioned soldier. aias, though so very tall, strong, and brave, was rather stupid. he seldom spoke, but he was always ready to fight, and the last to retreat. menelaus was weak of body, but as brave as the best, or more brave, for he had a keen sense of honour, and would attempt what he had not the strength to do. diomede and ulysses were great friends, and always fought side by side, when they could, and helped each other in the most dangerous adventures. these were the chiefs who led the great greek armada from the harbour of aulis. a long time had passed, after the flight of helen, before the large fleet could be collected, and more time went by in the attempt to cross the sea to troy. there were tempests that scattered the ships, so they were driven back to aulis to refit; and they fought, as they went out again, with the peoples of unfriendly islands, and besieged their towns. what they wanted most of all was to have achilles with them, for he was the leader of fifty ships and , men, and he had magical armour made, men said, for his father, by hephaestus, the god of armour-making and smithy work. at last the fleet came to the isle of scyros, where they suspected that achilles was concealed. king lycomedes received the chiefs kindly, and they saw all his beautiful daughters dancing and playing at ball, but achilles was still so young and slim and so beautiful that they did not know him among the others. there was a prophecy that they could not take troy without him, and yet they could not find him out. then ulysses had a plan. he blackened his eyebrows and beard and put on the dress of a phoenician merchant. the phoenicians were a people who lived near the jews, and were of the same race, and spoke much the same language, but, unlike the jews, who, at that time were farmers in palestine, tilling the ground, and keeping flocks and herds, the phoenicians were the greatest of traders and sailors, and stealers of slaves. they carried cargoes of beautiful cloths, and embroideries, and jewels of gold, and necklaces of amber, and sold these everywhere about the shores of greece and the islands. ulysses then dressed himself like a phoenician pedlar, with his pack on his back: he only took a stick in his hand, his long hair was turned up, and hidden under a red sailor's cap, and in this figure he came, stooping beneath his pack, into the courtyard of king lycomedes. the girls heard that a pedlar had come, and out they all ran, achilles with the rest, to watch the pedlar undo his pack. each chose what she liked best: one took a wreath of gold; another a necklace of gold and amber; another earrings; a fourth a set of brooches, another a dress of embroidered scarlet cloth; another a veil; another a pair of bracelets; but at the bottom of the pack lay a great sword of bronze, the hilt studded with golden nails. achilles seized the sword. 'this is for me!' he said, and drew the sword from the gilded sheath, and made it whistle round his head. 'you are achilles, peleus' son!' said ulysses; 'and you are to be the chief warrior of the achaeans,' for the greeks then called themselves achaeans. achilles was only too glad to hear these words, for he was quite tired of living among maidens. ulysses led him into the hall where the chiefs were sitting at their wine, and achilles was blushing like any girl. 'here is the queen of the amazons,' said ulysses--for the amazons were a race of warlike maidens--'or rather here is achilles, peleus' son, with sword in hand.' then they all took his hand, and welcomed him, and he was clothed in man's dress, with the sword by his side, and presently they sent him back with ten ships to his home. there his mother, thetis, of the silver feet, the goddess of the sea, wept over him, saying, 'my child, thou hast the choice of a long and happy and peaceful life here with me, or of a brief time of war and undying renown. never shall i see thee again in argos if thy choice is for war.' but achilles chose to die young, and to be famous as long as the world stands. so his father gave him fifty ships, with patroclus, who was older than he, to be his friend, and with an old man, phoenix, to advise him; and his mother gave him the glorious armour that the god had made for his father, and the heavy ashen spear that none but he could wield, and he sailed to join the host of the achaeans, who all praised and thanked ulysses that had found for them such a prince. for achilles was the fiercest fighter of them all, and the swiftest-footed man, and the most courteous prince, and the gentlest with women and children, but he was proud and high of heart, and when he was angered his anger was terrible. the trojans would have had no chance against the greeks if only the men of the city of troy had fought to keep helen of the fair hands. but they had allies, who spoke different languages, and came to fight for them both from europe and from asia. on the trojan as well as on the greek side were people called pelasgians, who seem to have lived on both shores of the sea. there were thracians, too, who dwelt much further north than achilles, in europe and beside the strait of hellespont, where the narrow sea runs like a river. there were warriors of lycia, led by sarpedon and glaucus; there were carians, who spoke in a strange tongue; there were mysians and men from alybe, which was called 'the birthplace of silver,' and many other peoples sent their armies, so that the war was between eastern europe, on one side, and western asia minor on the other. the people of egypt took no part in the war: the greeks and islesmen used to come down in their ships and attack the egyptians as the danes used to invade england. you may see the warriors from the islands, with their horned helmets, in old egyptian pictures. the commander-in-chief, as we say now, of the trojans was hector, the son of priam. he was thought a match for any one of the greeks, and was brave and good. his brothers also were leaders, but paris preferred to fight from a distance with bow and arrows. he and pandarus, who dwelt on the slopes of mount ida, were the best archers in the trojan army. the princes usually fought with heavy spears, which they threw at each other, and with swords, leaving archery to the common soldiers who had no armour of bronze. but teucer, meriones, and ulysses were the best archers of the achaeans. people called dardanians were led by aeneas, who was said to be the son of the most beautiful of the goddesses. these, with sarpedon and glaucus, were the most famous of the men who fought for troy. troy was a strong town on a hill: mount ida lay behind it, and in front was a plain sloping to the sea shore. through this plain ran two beautiful clear rivers, and there were scattered here and there what you would have taken for steep knolls, but they were really mounds piled up over the ashes of warriors who had died long ago. on these mounds sentinels used to stand and look across the water to give warning if the greek fleet drew near, for the trojans had heard that it was on its way. at last the fleet came in view, and the sea was black with ships, the oarsmen pulling with all their might for the honour of being the first to land. the race was won by the ship of the prince protesilaus, who was first of all to leap on shore, but as he leaped he was struck to the heart by an arrow from the bow of paris. this must have seemed a good omen to the trojans, and to the greeks evil, but we do not hear that the landing was resisted in great force, any more than that of norman william was, when he invaded england. the greeks drew up all their ships on shore, and the men camped in huts built in front of the ships. there was thus a long row of huts with the ships behind them, and in these huts the greeks lived all through the ten years that the siege of troy lasted. in these days they do not seem to have understood how to conduct a siege. you would have expected the greeks to build towers and dig trenches all round troy, and from the towers watch the roads, so that provisions might not be brought in from the country. this is called 'investing' a town, but the greeks never invested troy. perhaps they had not men enough; at all events the place remained open, and cattle could always be driven in to feed the warriors and the women and children. moreover, the greeks for long never seem to have tried to break down one of the gates, nor to scale the walls, which were very high, with ladders. on the other hand, the trojans and allies never ventured to drive the greeks into the sea; they commonly remained within the walls or skirmished just beneath them. the older men insisted on this way of fighting, in spite of hector, who always wished to attack and storm the camp of the greeks. neither side had machines for throwing heavy stones, such as the romans used later, and the most that the greeks did was to follow achilles and capture small neighbouring cities, and take the women for slaves, and drive the cattle. they got provisions and wine from the phoenicians, who came in ships, and made much profit out of the war. it was not till the tenth year that the war began in real earnest, and scarcely any of the chief leaders had fallen. fever came upon the greeks, and all day the camp was black with smoke, and all night shone with fire from the great piles of burning wood, on which the greeks burned their dead, whose bones they then buried under hillocks of earth. many of these hillocks are still standing on the plain of troy. when the plague had raged for ten days, achilles called an assembly of the whole army, to try to find out why the gods were angry. they thought that the beautiful god apollo (who took the trojan side) was shooting invisible arrows at them from his silver bow, though fevers in armies are usually caused by dirt and drinking bad water. the great heat of the sun, too, may have helped to cause the disease; but we must tell the story as the greeks told it themselves. so achilles spoke in the assembly, and proposed to ask some prophet why apollo was angry. the chief prophet was calchas. he rose and said that he would declare the truth if achilles would promise to protect him from the anger of any prince whom the truth might offend. achilles knew well whom calchas meant. ten days before, a priest of apollo had come to the camp and offered ransom for his daughter chryseis, a beautiful girl, whom achilles had taken prisoner, with many others, when he captured a small town. chryseis had been given as a slave to agamemnon, who always got the best of the plunder because he was chief king, whether he had taken part in the fighting or not. as a rule he did not. to achilles had been given another girl, briseis, of whom he was very fond. now when achilles had promised to protect calchas, the prophet spoke out, and boldly said, what all men knew already, that apollo caused the plague because agamemnon would not return chryseis, and had insulted her father, the priest of the god. on hearing this, agamemnon was very angry. he said that he would send chryseis home, but that he would take briseis away from achilles. then achilles was drawing his great sword from the sheath to kill agamemnon, but even in his anger he knew that this was wrong, so he merely called agamemnon a greedy coward, 'with face of dog and heart of deer,' and he swore that he and his men would fight no more against the trojans. old nestor tried to make peace, and swords were not drawn, but briseis was taken away from achilles, and ulysses put chryseis on board of his ship and sailed away with her to her father's town, and gave her up to her father. then her father prayed to apollo that the plague might cease, and it did cease--when the greeks had cleansed their camp, and purified themselves and cast their filth into the sea. we know how fierce and brave achilles was, and we may wonder that he did not challenge agamemnon to fight a duel. but the greeks never fought duels, and agamemnon was believed to be chief king by right divine. achilles went alone to the sea shore when his dear briseis was led away, and he wept, and called to his mother, the silver-footed lady of the waters. then she arose from the grey sea, like a mist, and sat down beside her son, and stroked his hair with her hand, and he told her all his sorrows. so she said that she would go up to the dwelling of the gods, and pray zeus, the chief of them all, to make the trojans win a great battle, so that agamemnon should feel his need of achilles, and make amends for his insolence, and do him honour. thetis kept her promise, and zeus gave his word that the trojans should defeat the greeks. that night zeus sent a deceitful dream to agamemnon. the dream took the shape of old nestor, and said that zeus would give him victory that day. while he was still asleep, agamemnon was full of hope that he would instantly take troy, but, when he woke, he seems not to have been nearly so confident, for in place of putting on his armour, and bidding the greeks arm themselves, he merely dressed in his robe and mantle, took his sceptre, and went and told the chiefs about his dream. they did not feel much encouraged, so he said that he would try the temper of the army. he would call them together, and propose to return to greece; but, if the soldiers took him at his word, the other chiefs were to stop them. this was a foolish plan, for the soldiers were wearying for beautiful greece, and their homes, and wives and children. therefore, when agamemnon did as he had said, the whole army rose, like the sea under the west wind, and, with a shout, they rushed to the ships, while the dust blew in clouds from under their feet. then they began to launch their ships, and it seems that the princes were carried away in the rush, and were as eager as the rest to go home. but ulysses only stood in sorrow and anger beside his ship, and never put hand to it, for he felt how disgraceful it was to run away. at last he threw down his mantle, which his herald eurybates of ithaca, a round-shouldered, brown, curly-haired man, picked up, and he ran to find agamemnon, and took his sceptre, a gold-studded staff, like a marshal's baton, and he gently told the chiefs whom he met that they were doing a shameful thing; but he drove the common soldiers back to the place of meeting with the sceptre. they all returned, puzzled and chattering, but one lame, bandy-legged, bald, round-shouldered, impudent fellow, named thersites, jumped up and made an insolent speech, insulting the princes, and advising the army to run away. then ulysses took him and beat him till the blood came, and he sat down, wiping away his tears, and looking so foolish that the whole army laughed at him, and cheered ulysses when he and nestor bade them arm and fight. agamemnon still believed a good deal in his dream, and prayed that he might take troy that very day, and kill hector. thus ulysses alone saved the army from a cowardly retreat; but for him the ships would have been launched in an hour. but the greeks armed and advanced in full force, all except achilles and his friend patroclus with their two or three thousand men. the trojans also took heart, knowing that achilles would not fight, and the armies approached each other. paris himself, with two spears and a bow, and without armour, walked into the space between the hosts, and challenged any greek prince to single combat. menelaus, whose wife paris had carried away, was as glad as a hungry lion when he finds a stag or a goat, and leaped in armour from his chariot, but paris turned and slunk away, like a man when he meets a great serpent on a narrow path in the hills. then hector rebuked paris for his cowardice, and paris was ashamed and offered to end the war by fighting menelaus. if he himself fell, the trojans must give up helen and all her jewels; if menelaus fell, the greeks were to return without fair helen. the greeks accepted this plan, and both sides disarmed themselves to look on at the fight in comfort, and they meant to take the most solemn oaths to keep peace till the combat was lost and won, and the quarrel settled. hector sent into troy for two lambs, which were to be sacrificed when the oaths were taken. in the meantime helen of the fair hands was at home working at a great purple tapestry on which she embroidered the battles of the greeks and trojans. it was just like the tapestry at bayeux on which norman ladies embroidered the battles in the norman conquest of england. helen was very fond of embroidering, like poor mary, queen of scots, when a prisoner in loch leven castle. probably the work kept both helen and mary from thinking of their past lives and their sorrows. [illustration: helen points out the chief heroes in the greek host to priam.] when helen heard that her husband was to fight paris, she wept, and threw a shining veil over her head, and with her two bower maidens went to the roof of the gate tower, where king priam was sitting with the old trojan chiefs. they saw her and said that it was small blame to fight for so beautiful a lady, and priam called her 'dear child,' and said, 'i do not blame you, i blame the gods who brought about this war.' but helen said that she wished she had died before she left her little daughter and her husband, and her home: 'alas! shameless me!' then she told priam the names of the chief greek warriors, and of ulysses, who was shorter by a head than agamemnon but broader in chest and shoulders. she wondered that she could not see her own two brothers, castor and polydeuces, and thought that they kept aloof in shame for her sin; but the green grass covered their graves, for they had both died in battle, far away in lacedaemon, their own country. then the lambs were sacrificed, and the oaths were taken, and paris put on his brother's armour: helmet, breastplate, shield, and leg-armour. lots were drawn to decide whether paris or menelaus should throw his spear first, and, as paris won, he threw his spear, but the point was blunted against the shield of menelaus. but when menelaus threw his spear it went clean through the shield of paris, and through the side of his breastplate, but only grazed his robe. menelaus drew his sword, and rushed in, and smote at the crest of the helmet of paris, but his bronze blade broke into four pieces. menelaus caught paris by the horsehair crest of his helmet, and dragged him towards the greeks, but the chin-strap broke, and menelaus turning round threw the helmet into the ranks of the greeks. but when menelaus looked again for paris, with a spear in his hand, he could see him nowhere! the greeks believed that the beautiful goddess aphrodite, whom the romans called venus, hid him in a thick cloud of darkness and carried him to his own house, where helen of the fair hands found him and said to him, 'would that thou hadst perished, conquered by that great warrior who was my lord! go forth again and challenge him to fight thee face to face.' but paris had no more desire to fight, and the goddess threatened helen, and compelled her to remain with him in troy, coward as he had proved himself. yet on other days paris fought well; it seems that he was afraid of menelaus because, in his heart, he was ashamed of himself. meanwhile menelaus was seeking for paris everywhere, and the trojans, who hated him, would have shown his hiding place. but they knew not where he was, and the greeks claimed the victory, and thought that, as paris had the worst of the fight, helen would be restored to them, and they would all sail home. v trojan victories the war might now have ended, but an evil and foolish thought came to pandarus, a prince of ida, who fought for the trojans. he chose to shoot an arrow at menelaus, contrary to the sworn vows of peace, and the arrow pierced the breastplate of menelaus through the place where the clasped plates meet, and drew his blood. then agamemnon, who loved his brother dearly, began to lament, saying that, if he died, the army would all go home and trojans would dance on the grave of menelaus. 'do not alarm all our army,' said menelaus, 'the arrow has done me little harm;' and so it proved, for the surgeon easily drew the arrow out of the wound. then agamemnon hastened here and there, bidding the greeks arm and attack the trojans, who would certainly be defeated, for they had broken the oaths of peace. but with his usual insolence he chose to accuse ulysses and diomede of cowardice, though diomede was as brave as any man, and ulysses had just prevented the whole army from launching their ships and going home. ulysses answered him with spirit, but diomede said nothing at the moment; later he spoke his mind. he leaped from his chariot, and all the chiefs leaped down and advanced in line, the chariots following them, while the spearmen and bowmen followed the chariots. the trojan army advanced, all shouting in their different languages, but the greeks came on silently. then the two front lines clashed, shield against shield, and the noise was like the roaring of many flooded torrents among the hills. when a man fell he who had slain him tried to strip off his armour, and his friends fought over his body to save the dead from this dishonour. ulysses fought above a wounded friend, and drove his spear through head and helmet of a trojan prince, and everywhere men were falling beneath spears and arrows and heavy stones which the warriors threw. here menelaus speared the man who built the ships with which paris had sailed to greece; and the dust rose like a cloud, and a mist went up from the fighting men, while diomede stormed across the plain like a river in flood, leaving dead bodies behind him as the river leaves boughs of trees and grass to mark its course. pandarus wounded diomede with an arrow, but diomede slew him, and the trojans were being driven in flight, when sarpedon and hector turned and hurled themselves on the greeks; and even diomede shuddered when hector came on, and charged at ulysses, who was slaying trojans as he went, and the battle swayed this way and that, and the arrows fell like rain. but hector was sent into the city to bid the women pray to the goddess athênê for help, and he went to the house of paris, whom helen was imploring to go and fight like a man, saying: 'would that the winds had wafted me away, and the tides drowned me, shameless that i am, before these things came to pass!' then hector went to see his dear wife, andromache, whose father had been slain by achilles early in the siege, and he found her and her nurse carrying her little boy, hector's son, and like a star upon her bosom lay his beautiful and shining golden head. now, while helen urged paris to go into the fight, andromache prayed hector to stay with her in the town, and fight no more lest he should be slain and leave her a widow, and the boy an orphan, with none to protect him. the army, she said, should come back within the walls, where they had so long been safe, not fight in the open plain. but hector answered that he would never shrink from battle, 'yet i know this in my heart, the day shall come for holy troy to be laid low, and priam and the people of priam. but this and my own death do not trouble me so much as the thought of you, when you shall be carried as a slave to greece, to spin at another woman's bidding, and bear water from a grecian well. may the heaped up earth of my tomb cover me ere i hear thy cries and the tale of thy captivity.' then hector stretched out his hands to his little boy, but the child was afraid when he saw the great glittering helmet of his father and the nodding horsehair crest. so hector laid his helmet on the ground and dandled the child in his arms, and tried to comfort his wife, and said good-bye for the last time, for he never came back to troy alive. he went on his way back to the battle, and paris went with him, in glorious armour, and soon they were slaying the princes of the greeks. the battle raged till nightfall, and in the night the greeks and trojans burned their dead; and the greeks made a trench and wall round their camp, which they needed for safety now that the trojans came from their town and fought in the open plain. next day the trojans were so successful that they did not retreat behind their walls at night, but lit great fires on the plain: a thousand fires, with fifty men taking supper round each of them, and drinking their wine to the music of flutes. but the greeks were much discouraged, and agamemnon called the whole army together, and proposed that they should launch their ships in the night and sail away home. then diomede stood up, and said: 'you called me a coward lately. you are the coward! sail away if you are afraid to remain here, but all the rest of us will fight till we take troy town.' then all shouted in praise of diomede, and nestor advised them to send five hundred young men, under his own son, thrasymedes, to watch the trojans, and guard the new wall and the ditch, in case the trojans attacked them in the darkness. next nestor counselled agamemnon to send ulysses and aias to achilles, and promise to give back briseis, and rich presents of gold, and beg pardon for his insolence. if achilles would be friends again with agamemnon, and fight as he used to fight, the trojans would soon be driven back into the town. agamemnon was very ready to beg pardon, for he feared that the whole army would be defeated, and cut off from their ships, and killed or kept as slaves. so ulysses and aias and the old tutor of achilles, phoenix, went to achilles and argued with him, praying him to accept the rich presents, and help the greeks. but achilles answered that he did not believe a word that agamemnon said; agamemnon had always hated him, and always would hate him. no; he would not cease to be angry, he would sail away next day with all his men, and he advised the rest to come with him. 'why be so fierce?' said tall aias, who seldom spoke. 'why make so much trouble about one girl? we offer you seven girls, and plenty of other gifts.' then achilles said that he would not sail away next day, but he would not fight till the trojans tried to burn his own ships, and there he thought that hector would find work enough to do. this was the most that achilles would promise, and all the greeks were silent when ulysses delivered his message. but diomede arose and said that, with or without achilles, fight they must; and all men, heavy at heart, went to sleep in their huts or in the open air at their doors. agamemnon was much too anxious to sleep. he saw the glow of the thousand fires of the trojans in the dark, and heard their merry flutes, and he groaned and pulled out his long hair by handfuls. when he was tired of crying and groaning and tearing his hair, he thought that he would go for advice to old nestor. he threw a lion skin, the coverlet of his bed, over his shoulder, took his spear, went out and met menelaus--for he, too, could not sleep--and menelaus proposed to send a spy among the trojans, if any man were brave enough to go, for the trojan camp was all alight with fires, and the adventure was dangerous. therefore the two wakened nestor and the other chiefs, who came just as they were, wrapped in the fur coverlets of their beds, without any armour. first they visited the five hundred young men set to watch the wall, and then they crossed the ditch and sat down outside and considered what might be done. 'will nobody go as a spy among the trojans?' said nestor; he meant would none of the young men go. diomede said that he would take the risk if any other man would share it with him, and, if he might choose a companion, he would take ulysses. 'come, then, let us be going,' said ulysses, 'for the night is late, and the dawn is near.' as these two chiefs had no armour on, they borrowed shields and leather caps from the young men of the guard, for leather would not shine as bronze helmets shine in the firelight. the cap lent to ulysses was strengthened outside with rows of boars' tusks. many of these tusks, shaped for this purpose, have been found, with swords and armour, in a tomb in mycenae, the town of agamemnon. this cap which was lent to ulysses had once been stolen by his grandfather, autolycus, who was a master thief, and he gave it as a present to a friend, and so, through several hands, it had come to young meriones of crete, one of the five hundred guards, who now lent it to ulysses. so the two princes set forth in the dark, so dark it was that though they heard a heron cry, they could not see it as it flew away. while ulysses and diomede stole through the night silently, like two wolves among the bodies of dead men, the trojan leaders met and considered what they ought to do. they did not know whether the greeks had set sentinels and outposts, as usual, to give warning if the enemy were approaching; or whether they were too weary to keep a good watch; or whether perhaps they were getting ready their ships to sail homewards in the dawn. so hector offered a reward to any man who would creep through the night and spy on the greeks; he said he would give the spy the two best horses in the greek camp. now among the trojans there was a young man named dolon, the son of a rich father, and he was the only boy in a family of five sisters. he was ugly, but a very swift runner, and he cared for horses more than for anything else in the world. dolon arose and said, 'if you will swear to give me the horses and chariot of achilles, son of peleus, i will steal to the hut of agamemnon and listen and find out whether the greeks mean to fight or flee.' hector swore to give these horses, which were the best in the world, to dolon, so he took his bow and threw a grey wolf's hide over his shoulders, and ran towards the ships of the greeks. now ulysses saw dolon as he came, and said to diomede, 'let us suffer him to pass us, and then do you keep driving him with your spear towards the ships, and away from troy.' so ulysses and diomede lay down among the dead men who had fallen in the battle, and dolon ran on past them towards the greeks. then they rose and chased him as two greyhounds course a hare, and, when dolon was near the sentinels, diomede cried 'stand, or i will slay you with my spear!' and he threw his spear just over dolon's shoulder. so dolon stood still, green with fear, and with his teeth chattering. when the two came up, he cried, and said that his father was a rich man, who would pay much gold, and bronze, and iron for his ransom. ulysses said, 'take heart, and put death out of your mind, and tell us what you are doing here.' dolon said that hector had promised him the horses of achilles if he would go and spy on the greeks. 'you set your hopes high,' said ulysses, 'for the horses of achilles are not earthly steeds, but divine; a gift of the gods, and achilles alone can drive them. but, tell me, do the trojans keep good watch, and where is hector with his horses?' for ulysses thought that it would be a great adventure to drive away the horses of hector. 'hector is with the chiefs, holding council at the tomb of ilus,' said dolon; 'but no regular guard is set. the people of troy, indeed, are round their watch fires, for they have to think of the safety of their wives and children; but the allies from far lands keep no watch, for their wives and children are safe at home.' then he told where all the different peoples who fought for priam had their stations; but, said he, 'if you want to steal horses, the best are those of rhesus, king of the thracians, who has only joined us to-night. he and his men are asleep at the furthest end of the line, and his horses are the best and greatest that ever i saw: tall, white as snow, and swift as the wind, and his chariot is adorned with gold and silver, and golden is his armour. now take me prisoner to the ships, or bind me and leave me here while you go and try whether i have told you truth or lies.' 'no,' said diomede, 'if i spare your life you may come spying again,' and he drew his sword and smote off the head of dolon. they hid his cap and bow and spear where they could find them easily, and marked the spot, and went through the night to the dark camp of king rhesus, who had no watch-fire and no guards. then diomede silently stabbed each sleeping man to the heart, and ulysses seized the dead by the feet and threw them aside lest they should frighten the horses, which had never been in battle, and would shy if they were led over the bodies of dead men. last of all diomede killed king rhesus, and ulysses led forth his horses, beating them with his bow, for he had forgotten to take the whip from the chariot. then ulysses and diomede leaped on the backs of the horses, as they had not time to bring away the chariot, and they galloped to the ships, stopping to pick up the spear, and bow, and cap of dolon. they rode to the princes, who welcomed them, and all laughed for glee when they saw the white horses and heard that king rhesus was dead, for they guessed that all his army would now go home to thrace. this they must have done, for we never hear of them in the battles that followed, so ulysses and diomede deprived the trojans of thousands of men. the other princes went to bed in good spirits, but ulysses and diomede took a swim in the sea, and then went into hot baths, and so to breakfast, for rosy-fingered dawn was coming up the sky. vi battle at the ships with dawn agamemnon awoke, and fear had gone out of his heart. he put on his armour, and arrayed the chiefs on foot in front of their chariots, and behind them came the spearmen, with the bowmen and slingers on the wings of the army. then a great black cloud spread over the sky, and red was the rain that fell from it. the trojans gathered on a height in the plain, and hector, shining in armour, went here and there, in front and rear, like a star that now gleams forth and now is hidden in a cloud. the armies rushed on each other and hewed each other down, as reapers cut their way through a field of tall corn. neither side gave ground, though the helmets of the bravest trojans might be seen deep in the ranks of the greeks; and the swords of the bravest greeks rose and fell in the ranks of the trojans, and all the while the arrows showered like rain. but at noon-day, when the weary woodman rests from cutting trees, and takes his dinner in the quiet hills, the greeks of the first line made a charge, agamemnon running in front of them, and he speared two trojans, and took their breastplates, which he laid in his chariot, and then he speared one brother of hector and struck another down with his sword, and killed two more who vainly asked to be made prisoners of war. footmen slew footmen, and chariot men slew chariot men, and they broke into the trojan line as fire falls on a forest in a windy day, leaping and roaring and racing through the trees. many an empty chariot did the horses hurry madly through the field, for the charioteers were lying dead, with the greedy vultures hovering above them, flapping their wide wings. still agamemnon followed and slew the hindmost trojans, but the rest fled till they came to the gates, and the oak tree that grew outside the gates, and there they stopped. but hector held his hands from fighting, for in the meantime he was making his men face the enemy and form up in line and take breath, and was encouraging them, for they had retreated from the wall of the greeks across the whole plain, past the hill that was the tomb of ilus, a king of old, and past the place of the wild fig-tree. much ado had hector to rally the trojans, but he knew that when men do turn again they are hard to beat. so it proved, for when the trojans had rallied and formed in line, agamemnon slew a thracian chief who had come to fight for troy before king rhesus came. but the eldest brother of the slain man smote agamemnon through the arm with his spear, and, though agamemnon slew him in turn, his wound bled much and he was in great pain, so he leaped into his chariot and was driven back to the ships. then hector gave the word to charge, as a huntsman cries on his hounds against a lion, and he rushed forward at the head of the trojan line, slaying as he went. nine chiefs of the greeks he slew, and fell upon the spearmen and scattered them, as the spray of the waves is scattered by the wandering wind. now the ranks of the greeks were broken, and they would have been driven among their ships and killed without mercy, had not ulysses and diomede stood firm in the centre, and slain four trojan leaders. the greeks began to come back and face their enemies in line of battle again, though hector, who had been fighting on the trojan right, rushed against them. but diomede took good aim with his spear at the helmet of hector, and struck it fairly. the spear-point did not go through the helmet, but hector was stunned and fell; and, when he came to himself, he leaped into his chariot, and his squire drove him against the pylians and cretans, under nestor and idomeneus, who were on the left wing of the greek army. then diomede fought on till paris, who stood beside the pillar on the hillock that was the tomb of old king ilus, sent an arrow clean through his foot. ulysses went and stood in front of diomede, who sat down, and ulysses drew the arrow from his foot, and diomede stepped into his chariot and was driven back to the ships. ulysses was now the only greek chief that still fought in the centre. the greeks all fled, and he was alone in the crowd of trojans, who rushed on him as hounds and hunters press round a wild boar that stands at bay in a wood. 'they are cowards that flee from the fight,' said ulysses to himself; 'but i will stand here, one man against a multitude.' he covered the front of his body with his great shield, that hung by a belt round his neck, and he smote four trojans and wounded a fifth. but the brother of the wounded man drove a spear through the shield and breastplate of ulysses, and tore clean through his side. then ulysses turned on this trojan, and he fled, and ulysses sent a spear through his shoulder and out at his breast, and he died. ulysses dragged from his own side the spear that had wounded him, and called thrice with a great voice to the other greeks, and menelaus and aias rushed to rescue him, for many trojans were round him, like jackals round a wounded stag that a man has struck with an arrow. but aias ran and covered the wounded ulysses with his huge shield till he could climb into the chariot of menelaus, who drove him back to the ships. meanwhile, hector was slaying the greeks on the left of their battle, and paris struck the greek surgeon, machaon, with an arrow; and idomeneus bade nestor put machaon in his chariot and drive him to nestor's hut, where his wound might be tended. meanwhile, hector sped to the centre of the line, where aias was slaying the trojans; but eurypylus, a greek chief, was wounded by an arrow from the bow of paris, and his friends guarded him with their shields and spears. thus the best of the greeks were wounded and out of the battle, save aias, and the spearmen were in flight. meanwhile achilles was standing by the stern of his ship watching the defeat of the greeks, but when he saw machaon being carried past, sorely wounded, in the chariot of nestor, he bade his friend patroclus, whom he loved better than all the rest, to go and ask how machaon did. he was sitting drinking wine with nestor when patroclus came, and nestor told patroclus how many of the chiefs were wounded, and though patroclus was in a hurry nestor began a very long story about his own great deeds of war, done when he was a young man. at last he bade patroclus tell achilles that, if he would not fight himself, he should at least send out his men under patroclus, who should wear the splendid armour of achilles. then the trojans would think that achilles himself had returned to the battle, and they would be afraid, for none of them dared to meet achilles hand to hand. so patroclus ran off to achilles; but, on his way, he met the wounded eurypylus, and he took him to his hut and cut the arrow out of his thigh with a knife, and washed the wound with warm water, and rubbed over it a bitter root to take the pain away. thus he waited for some time with eurypylus, but the advice of nestor was in the end to cause the death of patroclus. the battle now raged more fiercely, while agamemnon and diomede and ulysses could only limp about leaning on their spears; and again agamemnon wished to moor the ships near shore, and embark in the night and run away. but ulysses was very angry with him, and said: 'you should lead some other inglorious army, not us, who will fight on till every soul of us perish, rather than flee like cowards! be silent, lest the soldiers hear you speaking of flight, such words as no man should utter. i wholly scorn your counsel, for the greeks will lose heart if, in the midst of battle, you bid them launch the ships.' agamemnon was ashamed, and, by diomede's advice, the wounded kings went down to the verge of the war to encourage the others, though they were themselves unable to fight. they rallied the greeks, and aias led them and struck hector full in the breast with a great rock, so that his friends carried him out of the battle to the river side, where they poured water over him, but he lay fainting on the ground, the black blood gushing up from his mouth. while hector lay there, and all men thought that he would die, aias and idomeneus were driving back the trojans, and it seemed that, even without achilles and his men, the greeks were able to hold their own against the trojans. but the battle was never lost while hector lived. people in those days believed in 'omens:' they thought that the appearance of birds on the right or left hand meant good or bad luck. once during the battle a trojan showed hector an unlucky bird, and wanted him to retreat into the town. but hector said, 'one omen is the best: to fight for our own country.' while hector lay between death and life the greeks were winning, for the trojans had no other great chief to lead them. but hector awoke from his faint, and leaped to his feet and ran here and there, encouraging the men of troy. then the most of the greeks fled when they saw him; but aias and idomeneus, and the rest of the bravest, formed in a square between the trojans and the ships, and down on them came hector and aeneas and paris, throwing their spears, and slaying on every hand. the greeks turned and ran, and the trojans would have stopped to strip the armour from the slain men, but hector cried: 'haste to the ships and leave the spoils of war. i will slay any man who lags behind!' on this, all the trojans drove their chariots down into the ditch that guarded the ships of the greeks, as when a great wave sweeps at sea over the side of a vessel; and the greeks were on the ship decks, thrusting with very long spears, used in sea fights, and the trojans were boarding the ships, and striking with swords and axes. hector had a lighted torch and tried to set fire to the ship of aias; but aias kept him back with the long spear, and slew a trojan, whose lighted torch fell from his hand. and aias kept shouting: 'come on, and drive away hector; it is not to a dance that he is calling his men, but to battle.' the dead fell in heaps, and the living ran over them to mount the heaps of slain and climb the ships. hector rushed forward like a sea wave against a great steep rock, but like the rock stood the greeks; still the trojans charged past the beaks of the foremost ships, while aias, thrusting with a spear more than twenty feet long, leaped from deck to deck like a man that drives four horses abreast, and leaps from the back of one to the back of another. hector seized with his hand the stern of the ship of protesilaus, the prince whom paris shot when he leaped ashore on the day when the greeks first landed; and hector kept calling: 'bring fire!' and even aias, in this strange sea fight on land, left the decks and went below, thrusting with his spear through the portholes. twelve men lay dead who had brought fire against the ship which aias guarded. vii the slaying and avenging of patroclus at this moment, when torches were blazing round the ships, and all seemed lost, patroclus came out of the hut of eurypylus, whose wound he had been tending, and he saw that the greeks were in great danger, and ran weeping to achilles. 'why do you weep,' said achilles, 'like a little girl that runs by her mother's side, and plucks at her gown and looks at her with tears in her eyes, till her mother takes her up in her arms? is there bad news from home that your father is dead, or mine; or are you sorry that the greeks are getting what they deserve for their folly?' then patroclus told achilles how ulysses and many other princes were wounded and could not fight, and begged to be allowed to put on achilles' armour and lead his men, who were all fresh and unwearied, into the battle, for a charge of two thousand fresh warriors might turn the fortune of the day. then achilles was sorry that he had sworn not to fight himself till hector brought fire to his own ships. he would lend patroclus his armour, and his horses, and his men; but patroclus must only drive the trojans from the ships, and not pursue them. at this moment aias was weary, so many spears smote his armour, and he could hardly hold up his great shield, and hector cut off his spearhead with the sword; the bronze head fell ringing on the ground, and aias brandished only the pointless shaft. so he shrank back and fire blazed all over his ship; and achilles saw it, and smote his thigh, and bade patroclus make haste. patroclus armed himself in the shining armour of achilles, which all trojans feared, and leaped into the chariot where automedon, the squire, had harnessed xanthus and balius, two horses that were the children, men said, of the west wind, and a led horse was harnessed beside them in the side traces. meanwhile the two thousand men of achilles, who were called myrmidons, had met in armour, five companies of four hundred apiece, under five chiefs of noble names. forth they came, as eager as a pack of wolves that have eaten a great red deer and run to slake their thirst with the dark water of a well in the hills. so all in close array, helmet touching helmet and shield touching shield, like a moving wall of shining bronze, the men of achilles charged, and patroclus in the chariot led the way. down they came at full speed on the flank of the trojans, who saw the leader, and knew the bright armour and the horses of the terrible achilles, and thought that he had returned to the war. then each trojan looked round to see by what way he could escape, and when men do that in battle they soon run by the way they have chosen. patroclus rushed to the ship of protesilaus, and slew the leader of the trojans there, and drove them out, and quenched the fire; while they of troy drew back from the ships, and aias and the other unwounded greek princes leaped among them, smiting with sword and spear. well did hector know that the break in the battle had come again; but even so he stood, and did what he might, while the trojans were driven back in disorder across the ditch, where the poles of many chariots were broken and the horses fled loose across the plain. the horses of achilles cleared the ditch, and patroclus drove them between the trojans and the wall of their own town, slaying many men, and, chief of all, sarpedon, king of the lycians; and round the body of sarpedon the trojans rallied under hector, and the fight swayed this way and that, and there was such a noise of spears and swords smiting shields and helmets as when many woodcutters fell trees in a glen of the hills. at last the trojans gave way, and the greeks stripped the armour from the body of brave sarpedon; but men say that sleep and death, like two winged angels, bore his body away to his own country. now patroclus forgot how achilles had told him not to pursue the trojans across the plain, but to return when he had driven them from the ships. on he raced, slaying as he went, even till he reached the foot of the wall of troy. thrice he tried to climb it, but thrice he fell back. hector was in his chariot in the gateway, and he bade his squire lash his horses into the war, and struck at no other man, great or small, but drove straight against patroclus, who stood and threw a heavy stone at hector; which missed him, but killed his charioteer. then patroclus leaped on the charioteer to strip his armour, but hector stood over the body, grasping it by the head, while patroclus dragged at the feet, and spears and arrows flew in clouds around the fallen man. at last, towards sunset, the greeks drew him out of the war, and patroclus thrice charged into the thick of the trojans. but the helmet of achilles was loosened in the fight, and fell from the head of patroclus, and he was wounded from behind, and hector, in front, drove his spear clean through his body. with his last breath patroclus prophesied: 'death stands near thee, hector, at the hands of noble achilles.' but automedon was driving back the swift horses, carrying to achilles the news that his dearest friend was slain. after ulysses was wounded, early in this great battle, he was not able to fight for several days, and, as the story is about ulysses, we must tell quite shortly how achilles returned to the war to take vengeance for patroclus, and how he slew hector. when patroclus fell, hector seized the armour which the gods had given to peleus, and peleus to his son achilles, while achilles had lent it to patroclus that he might terrify the trojans. retiring out of reach of spears, hector took off his own armour and put on that of achilles, and greeks and trojans fought for the dead body of patroclus. then zeus, the chief of the gods, looked down and said that hector should never come home out of the battle to his wife, andromache. but hector returned into the fight around the dead patroclus, and here all the best men fought, and even automedon, who had been driving the chariot of patroclus. now when the trojans seemed to have the better of the fight, the greeks sent antilochus, a son of old nestor, to tell achilles that his friend was slain, and antilochus ran, and aias and his brother protected the greeks who were trying to carry the body of patroclus back to the ships. swiftly antilochus came running to achilles, saying: 'fallen is patroclus, and they are fighting round his naked body, for hector has his armour.' then achilles said never a word, but fell on the floor of his hut, and threw black ashes on his yellow hair, till antilochus seized his hands, fearing that he would cut his own throat with his dagger, for very sorrow. his mother, thetis, arose from the sea to comfort him, but he said that he desired to die if he could not slay hector, who had slain his friend. then thetis told him that he could not fight without armour, and now he had none; but she would go to the god of armour-making and bring from him such a shield and helmet and breastplate as had never been seen by men. meanwhile the fight raged round the dead body of patroclus, which was defiled with blood and dust, near the ships, and was being dragged this way and that, and torn and wounded. achilles could not bear this sight, yet his mother had warned him not to enter without armour the battle where stones and arrows and spears were flying like hail; and he was so tall and broad that he could put on the arms of no other man. so he went down to the ditch as he was, unarmed, and as he stood high above it, against the red sunset, fire seemed to flow from his golden hair like the beacon blaze that soars into the dark sky when an island town is attacked at night, and men light beacons that their neighbours may see them and come to their help from other isles. there achilles stood in a splendour of fire, and he shouted aloud, as clear as a clarion rings when men fall on to attack a besieged city wall. thrice achilles shouted mightily, and thrice the horses of the trojans shuddered for fear and turned back from the onslaught, and thrice the men of troy were confounded and shaken with terror. then the greeks drew the body of patroclus out of the dust and the arrows, and laid him on a bier, and achilles followed, weeping, for he had sent his friend with chariot and horses to the war; but home again he welcomed him never more. then the sun set and it was night. now one of the trojans wished hector to retire within the walls of troy, for certainly achilles would to-morrow be foremost in the war. but hector said, 'have ye not had your fill of being shut up behind walls? let achilles fight; i will meet him in the open field.' the trojans cheered, and they camped in the plain, while in the hut of achilles women washed the dead body of patroclus, and achilles swore that he would slay hector. in the dawn came thetis, bearing to achilles the new splendid armour that the god had made for him. then achilles put on that armour, and roused his men; but ulysses, who knew all the rules of honour, would not let him fight till peace had been made, with a sacrifice and other ceremonies, between him and agamemnon, and till agamemnon had given him all the presents which achilles had before refused. achilles did not want them; he wanted only to fight, but ulysses made him obey, and do what was usual. then the gifts were brought, and agamemnon stood up, and said that he was sorry for his insolence, and the men took breakfast, but achilles would neither eat nor drink. he mounted his chariot, but the horse xanthus bowed his head till his long mane touched the ground, and, being a fairy horse, the child of the west wind, he spoke (or so men said), and these were his words: 'we shall bear thee swiftly and speedily, but thou shalt be slain in fight, and thy dying day is near at hand.' 'well i know it,' said achilles, 'but i will not cease from fighting till i have given the trojans their fill of war.' so all that day he chased and slew the trojans. he drove them into the river, and, though the river came down in a red flood, he crossed, and slew them on the plain. the plain caught fire, the bushes and long dry grass blazed round him, but he fought his way through the fire, and drove the trojans to their walls. the gates were thrown open, and the trojans rushed through like frightened fawns, and then they climbed to the battlements, and looked down in safety, while the whole greek army advanced in line under their shields. but hector stood still, alone, in front of the gate, and old priam, who saw achilles rushing on, shining like a star in his new armour, called with tears to hector, 'come within the gate! this man has slain many of my sons, and if he slays thee whom have i to help me in my old age?' his mother also called to hector, but he stood firm, waiting for achilles. now the story says that he was afraid, and ran thrice in full armour round troy, with achilles in pursuit. but this cannot be true, for no mortal men could run thrice, in heavy armour, with great shields that clanked against their ankles, round the town of troy: moreover hector was the bravest of men, and all the trojan women were looking down at him from the walls. we cannot believe that he ran away, and the story goes on to tell that he asked achilles to make an agreement with him. the conqueror in the fight should give back the body of the fallen to be buried by his friends, but should keep his armour. but achilles said that he could make no agreement with hector, and threw his spear, which flew over hector's shoulder. then hector threw his spear, but it could not pierce the shield which the god had made for achilles. hector had no other spear, and achilles had one, so hector cried, 'let me not die without honour!' and drew his sword, and rushed at achilles, who sprang to meet him, but before hector could come within a sword-stroke achilles had sent his spear clean through the neck of hector. he fell in the dust and achilles said, 'dogs and birds shall tear your flesh unburied.' with his dying breath hector prayed him to take gold from priam, and give back his body to be burned in troy. but achilles said, 'hound! would that i could bring myself to carve and eat thy raw flesh, but dogs shall devour it, even if thy father offered me thy weight in gold.' with his last words hector prophesied and said, 'remember me in the day when paris shall slay thee in the scaean gate.' then his brave soul went to the land of the dead, which the greeks called hades. to that land ulysses sailed while he was still a living man, as the story tells later. then achilles did a dreadful deed; he slit the feet of dead hector from heel to ankle, and thrust thongs through, and bound him by the thongs to his chariot and trailed the body in the dust. all the women of troy who were on the walls raised a shriek, and hector's wife, andromache, heard the sound. she had been in an inner room of her house, weaving a purple web, and embroidering flowers on it, and she was calling her bower maidens to make ready a bath for hector when he should come back tired from battle. but when she heard the cry from the wall she trembled, and the shuttle with which she was weaving fell from her hands. 'surely i heard the cry of my husband's mother,' she said, and she bade two of her maidens come with her to see why the people lamented. she ran swiftly, and reached the battlements, and thence she saw her dear husband's body being whirled through the dust towards the ships, behind the chariot of achilles. then night came over her eyes and she fainted. but when she returned to herself she cried out that now none would defend her little boy, and other children would push him away from feasts, saying, 'out with you; no father of thine is at our table,' and his father, hector, would lie naked at the ships, unclad, unburned, unlamented. to be unburned and unburied was thought the greatest of misfortunes, because the dead man unburned could not go into the house of hades, god of the dead, but must always wander, alone and comfortless, in the dark borderland between the dead and the living. viii the cruelty of achilles, and the ransoming of hector when achilles was asleep that night the ghost of patroclus came, saying, 'why dost thou not burn and bury me? for the other shadows of dead men suffer me not to come near them, and lonely i wander along the dark dwelling of hades.' then achilles awoke, and he sent men to cut down trees, and make a huge pile of fagots and logs. on this they laid patroclus, covered with white linen, and then they slew many cattle, and achilles cut the throats of twelve trojan prisoners of war, meaning to burn them with patroclus to do him honour. this was a deed of shame, for achilles was mad with sorrow and anger for the death of his friend. then they drenched with wine the great pile of wood, which was thirty yards long and broad, and set fire to it, and the fire blazed all through the night and died down in the morning. they put the white bones of patroclus in a golden casket, and laid it in the hut of achilles, who said that, when he died, they must burn his body, and mix the ashes with the ashes of his friend, and build over it a chamber of stone, and cover the chamber with a great hill of earth, and set a pillar of stone above it. this is one of the hills on the plain of troy, but the pillar has fallen from the tomb, long ago. then, as the custom was, achilles held games--chariot races, foot races, boxing, wrestling, and archery--in honour of patroclus. ulysses won the prize for the foot race, and for the wrestling, so now his wound must have been healed. but achilles still kept trailing hector's dead body each day round the hill that had been raised for the tomb of patroclus, till the gods in heaven were angry, and bade thetis tell her son that he must give back the dead body to priam, and take ransom for it, and they sent a messenger to priam to bid him redeem the body of his son. it was terrible for priam to have to go and humble himself before achilles, whose hands had been red with the blood of his sons, but he did not disobey the gods. he opened his chests, and took out twenty-four beautiful embroidered changes of raiment; and he weighed out ten heavy bars, or talents, of gold, and chose a beautiful golden cup, and he called nine of his sons, paris, and helenus, and deiphobus, and the rest, saying, 'go, ye bad sons, my shame; would that hector lived and all of you were dead!' for sorrow made him angry; 'go, and get ready for me a wain, and lay on it these treasures.' so they harnessed mules to the wain, and placed in it the treasures, and, after praying, priam drove through the night to the hut of achilles. in he went, when no man looked for him, and kneeled to achilles, and kissed his terrible death-dealing hands. 'have pity on me, and fear the gods, and give me back my dead son,' he said, 'and remember thine own father. have pity on me, who have endured to do what no man born has ever done before, to kiss the hands that slew my sons.' then achilles remembered his own father, far away, who now was old and weak: and he wept, and priam wept with him, and then achilles raised priam from his knees and spoke kindly to him, admiring how beautiful he still was in his old age, and priam himself wondered at the beauty of achilles. and achilles thought how priam had long been rich and happy, like his own father, peleus, and now old age and weakness and sorrow were laid upon both of them, for achilles knew that his own day of death was at hand, even at the doors. so achilles bade the women make ready the body of hector for burial, and they clothed him in a white mantle that priam had brought, and laid him in the wain; and supper was made ready, and priam and achilles ate and drank together, and the women spread a bed for priam, who would not stay long, but stole away back to troy while achilles was asleep. all the women came out to meet him, and to lament for hector. they carried the body into the house of andromache and laid it on a bed, and the women gathered around, and each in turn sang her song over the great dead warrior. his mother bewailed him, and his wife, and helen of the fair hands, clad in dark mourning raiment, lifted up her white arms, and said: 'hector, of all my brethren in troy thou wert the dearest, since paris brought me hither. would that ere that day i had died! for this is now the twentieth year since i came, and in all these twenty years never heard i a word from thee that was bitter and unkind; others might upbraid me, thy sisters or thy mother, for thy father was good to me as if he had been my own; but then thou wouldst restrain them that spoke evil by the courtesy of thy heart and thy gentle words. ah! woe for thee, and woe for me, whom all men shudder at, for there is now none in wide troyland to be my friend like thee, my brother and my friend!' so helen lamented, but now was done all that men might do; a great pile of wood was raised, and hector was burned, and his ashes were placed in a golden urn, in a dark chamber of stone, within a hollow hill. ix how ulysses stole the luck of troy after hector was buried, the siege went on slowly, as it had done during the first nine years of the war. the greeks did not know at that time how to besiege a city, as we saw, by way of digging trenches and building towers, and battering the walls with machines that threw heavy stones. the trojans had lost courage, and dared not go into the open plain, and they were waiting for the coming up of new armies of allies--the amazons, who were girl warriors from far away, and an eastern people called the khita, whose king was memnon, the son of the bright dawn. now everyone knew that, in the temple of the goddess pallas athênê, in troy, was a sacred image, which fell from heaven, called the palladium, and this very ancient image was the luck of troy. while it remained safe in the temple people believed that troy could never be taken, but as it was in a guarded temple in the middle of the town, and was watched by priestesses day and night, it seemed impossible that the greeks should ever enter the city secretly and steal the luck away. as ulysses was the grandson of autolycus, the master thief, he often wished that the old man was with the greeks, for if there was a thing to steal autolycus could steal it. but by this time autolycus was dead, and so ulysses could only puzzle over the way to steal the luck of troy, and wonder how his grandfather would have set about it. he prayed for help secretly to hermes, the god of thieves, when he sacrificed goats to him, and at last he had a plan. there was a story that anius, the king of the isle of delos, had three daughters, named oeno, spermo, and elais, and that oeno could turn water into wine, while spermo could turn stones into bread, and elais could change mud into olive oil. those fairy gifts, people said, were given to the maidens by the wine god, dionysus, and by the goddess of corn, demeter. now corn, and wine, and oil were sorely needed by the greeks, who were tired of paying much gold and bronze to the phoenician merchants for their supplies. ulysses therefore went to agamemnon one day, and asked leave to take his ship and voyage to delos, to bring, if he could, the three maidens to the camp, if indeed they could do these miracles. as no fighting was going on, agamemnon gave ulysses leave to depart, so he went on board his ship, with a crew of fifty men of ithaca, and away they sailed, promising to return in a month. two or three days after that, a dirty old beggar man began to be seen in the greek camp. he had crawled in late one evening, dressed in a dirty smock and a very dirty old cloak, full of holes, and stained with smoke. over everything he wore the skin of a stag, with half the hair worn off, and he carried a staff, and a filthy tattered wallet, to put food in, which swung from his neck by a cord. he came crouching and smiling up to the door of the hut of diomede, and sat down just within the doorway, where beggars still sit in the east. diomede saw him, and sent him a loaf and two handfuls of flesh, which the beggar laid on his wallet, between his feet, and he made his supper greedily, gnawing a bone like a dog. after supper diomede asked him who he was and whence he came, and he told a long story about how he had been a cretan pirate, and had been taken prisoner by the egyptians when he was robbing there, and how he had worked for many years in their stone quarries, where the sun had burned him brown, and had escaped by hiding among the great stones, carried down the nile in a raft, for building a temple on the seashore. the raft arrived at night, and the beggar said that he stole out from it in the dark and found a phoenician ship in the harbour, and the phoenicians took him on board, meaning to sell him somewhere as a slave. but a tempest came on and wrecked the ship off the isle of tenedos, which is near troy, and the beggar alone escaped to the island on a plank of the ship. from tenedos he had come to troy in a fisher's boat, hoping to make himself useful in the camp, and earn enough to keep body and soul together till he could find a ship sailing to crete. he made his story rather amusing, describing the strange ways of the egyptians; how they worshipped cats and bulls, and did everything in just the opposite of the greek way of doing things. so diomede let him have a rug and blankets to sleep on in the portico of the hut, and next day the old wretch went begging about the camp and talking with the soldiers. now he was a most impudent and annoying old vagabond, and was always in quarrels. if there was a disagreeable story about the father or grandfather of any of the princes, he knew it and told it, so that he got a blow from the baton of agamemnon, and aias gave him a kick, and idomeneus drubbed him with the butt of his spear for a tale about his grandmother, and everybody hated him and called him a nuisance. he was for ever jeering at ulysses, who was far away, and telling tales about autolycus, and at last he stole a gold cup, a very large cup, with two handles, and a dove sitting on each handle, from the hut of nestor. the old chief was fond of this cup, which he had brought from home, and, when it was found in the beggar's dirty wallet, everybody cried that he must be driven out of the camp and well whipped. so nestor's son, young thrasymedes, with other young men, laughing and shouting, pushed and dragged the beggar close up to the scaean gate of troy, where thrasymedes called with a loud voice, 'o trojans, we are sick of this shameless beggar. first we shall whip him well, and if he comes back we shall put out his eyes and cut off his hands and feet, and give him to the dogs to eat. he may go to you, if he likes; if not, he must wander till he dies of hunger.' the young men of troy heard this and laughed, and a crowd gathered on the wall to see the beggar punished. so thrasymedes whipped him with his bowstring till he was tired, and they did not leave off beating the beggar till he ceased howling and fell, all bleeding, and lay still. then thrasymedes gave him a parting kick, and went away with his friends. the beggar lay quiet for some time, then he began to stir, and sat up, wiping the tears from his eyes, and shouting curses and bad words after the greeks, praying that they might be speared in the back, and eaten by dogs. at last he tried to stand up, but fell down again, and began to crawl on hands and knees towards the scaean gate. there he sat down, within the two side walls of the gate, where he cried and lamented. now helen of the fair hands came down from the gate tower, being sorry to see any man treated so much worse than a beast, and she spoke to the beggar and asked him why he had been used in this cruel way? at first he only moaned, and rubbed his sore sides, but at last he said that he was an unhappy man, who had been shipwrecked, and was begging his way home, and that the greeks suspected him of being a spy sent out by the trojans. but he had been in lacedaemon, her own country, he said, and could tell her about her father, if she were, as he supposed, the beautiful helen, and about her brothers, castor and polydeuces, and her little daughter, hermione. 'but perhaps,' he said, 'you are no mortal woman, but some goddess who favours the trojans, and if indeed you are a goddess then i liken you to aphrodite, for beauty, and stature, and shapeliness.' then helen wept; for many a year had passed since she had heard any word of her father, and daughter, and her brothers, who were dead, though she knew it not. so she stretched out her white hand, and raised the beggar, who was kneeling at her feet, and bade him follow her to her own house, within the palace garden of king priam. helen walked forward, with a bower maiden at either side, and the beggar crawling after her. when she had entered her house, paris was not there, so she ordered the bath to be filled with warm water, and new clothes to be brought, and she herself washed the old beggar and anointed him with oil. this appears very strange to us, for though saint elizabeth of hungary used to wash and clothe beggars, we are surprised that helen should do so, who was not a saint. but long afterwards she herself told the son of ulysses, telemachus, that she had washed his father when he came into troy disguised as a beggar who had been sorely beaten. you must have guessed that the beggar was ulysses, who had not gone to delos in his ship, but stolen back in a boat, and appeared disguised among the greeks. he did all this to make sure that nobody could recognise him, and he behaved so as to deserve a whipping that he might not be suspected as a greek spy by the trojans, but rather be pitied by them. certainly he deserved his name of 'the much-enduring ulysses.' meanwhile he sat in his bath and helen washed his feet. but when she had done, and had anointed his wounds with olive oil, and when she had clothed him in a white tunic and a purple mantle, then she opened her lips to cry out with amazement, for she knew ulysses; but he laid his finger on her lips, saying 'hush!' then she remembered how great danger he was in, for the trojans, if they found him, would put him to some cruel death, and she sat down, trembling and weeping, while he watched her. 'oh thou strange one,' she said, 'how enduring is thy heart and how cunning beyond measure! how hast thou borne to be thus beaten and disgraced, and to come within the walls of troy? well it is for thee that paris, my lord, is far from home, having gone to guide penthesilea, the queen of the warrior maids whom men call amazons, who is on her way to help the trojans.' then ulysses smiled, and helen saw that she had said a word which she ought not to have spoken, and had revealed the secret hope of the trojans. then she wept, and said, 'oh cruel and cunning! you have made me betray the people with whom i live, though woe is me that ever i left my own people, and my husband dear, and my child! and now if you escape alive out of troy, you will tell the greeks, and they will lie in ambush by night for the amazons on the way to troy and will slay them all. if you and i were not friends long ago, i would tell the trojans that you are here, and they would give your body to the dogs to eat, and fix your head on the palisade above the wall. woe is me that ever i was born.' ulysses answered, 'lady, as you have said, we two are friends from of old, and your friend i will be till the last, when the greeks break into troy, and slay the men, and carry the women captives. if i live till that hour no man shall harm you, but safely and in honour you shall come to your palace in lacedaemon of the rifted hills. moreover, i swear to you a great oath, by zeus above, and by them that under earth punish the souls of men who swear falsely, that i shall tell no man the thing which you have spoken.' so when he had sworn and done that oath, helen was comforted and dried her tears. then she told him how unhappy she was, and how she had lost her last comfort when hector died. 'always am i wretched,' she said, 'save when sweet sleep falls on me. now the wife of thon, king of egypt, gave me this gift when we were in egypt, on our way to troy, namely, a drug that brings sleep even to the most unhappy, and it is pressed from the poppy heads of the garland of the god of sleep.' then she showed him strange phials of gold, full of this drug: phials wrought by the egyptians, and covered with magic spells and shapes of beasts and flowers. 'one of these i will give you,' she said, 'that even from troy town you may not go without a gift in memory of the hands of helen.' so ulysses took the phial of gold, and was glad in his heart, and helen set before him meat and wine. when he had eaten and drunk, and his strength had come back to him, he said: 'now i must dress me again in my old rags, and take my wallet, and my staff, and go forth, and beg through troy town. for here i must abide for some days as a beggar man, lest if i now escape from your house in the night the trojans may think that you have told me the secrets of their counsel, which i am carrying to the greeks, and may be angry with you.' so he clothed himself again as a beggar, and took his staff, and hid the phial of gold with the egyptian drug in his rags, and in his wallet also he put the new clothes that helen had given him, and a sword, and he took farewell, saying, 'be of good heart, for the end of your sorrows is at hand. but if you see me among the beggars in the street, or by the well, take no heed of me, only i will salute you as a beggar who has been kindly treated by a queen.' so they parted, and ulysses went out, and when it was day he was with the beggars in the streets, but by night he commonly slept near the fire of a smithy forge, as is the way of beggars. so for some days he begged, saying that he was gathering food to eat while he walked to some town far away that was at peace, where he might find work to do. he was not impudent now, and did not go to rich men's houses or tell evil tales, or laugh, but he was much in the temples, praying to the gods, and above all in the temple of pallas athênê. the trojans thought that he was a pious man for a beggar. now there was a custom in these times that men and women who were sick or in distress, should sleep at night on the floors of the temples. they did this hoping that the god would send them a dream to show them how their diseases might be cured, or how they might find what they had lost, or might escape from their distresses. ulysses slept in more than one temple, and once in that of pallas athênê, and the priests and priestesses were kind to him, and gave him food in the morning when the gates of the temple were opened. in the temple of pallas athênê, where the luck of troy lay always on her altar, the custom was that priestesses kept watch, each for two hours, all through the night, and soldiers kept guard within call. so one night ulysses slept there, on the floor, with other distressed people, seeking for dreams from the gods. he lay still all through the night till the turn of the last priestess came to watch. the priestess used to walk up and down with bare feet among the dreaming people, having a torch in her hand, and muttering hymns to the goddess. then ulysses, when her back was turned, slipped the gold phial out of his rags, and let it lie on the polished floor beside him. when the priestess came back again, the light from her torch fell on the glittering phial, and she stooped and picked it up, and looked at it curiously. there came from it a sweet fragrance, and she opened it, and tasted the drug. it seemed to her the sweetest thing that ever she had tasted, and she took more and more, and then closed the phial and laid it down, and went along murmuring her hymn. but soon a great drowsiness came over her, and she sat down on the step of the altar, and fell sound asleep, and the torch sunk in her hand, and went out, and all was dark. then ulysses put the phial in his wallet, and crept very cautiously to the altar, in the dark, and stole the luck of troy. it was only a small black mass of what is now called meteoric iron, which sometimes comes down with meteorites from the sky, but it was shaped like a shield, and the people thought it an image of the warlike shielded goddess, fallen from heaven. such sacred shields, made of glass and ivory, are found deep in the earth in the ruined cities of ulysses' time. swiftly ulysses hid the luck in his rags and left in its place on the altar a copy of the luck, which he had made of blackened clay. then he stole back to the place where he had lain, and remained there till dawn appeared, and the sleepers who sought for dreams awoke, and the temple gates were opened, and ulysses walked out with the rest of them. he stole down a lane, where as yet no people were stirring, and crept along, leaning on his staff, till he came to the eastern gate, at the back of the city, which the greeks never attacked, for they had never drawn their army in a circle round the town. there ulysses explained to the sentinels that he had gathered food enough to last for a long journey to some other town, and opened his bag, which seemed full of bread and broken meat. the soldiers said he was a lucky beggar, and let him out. he walked slowly along the waggon road by which wood was brought into troy from the forests on mount ida, and when he found that nobody was within sight he slipped into the forest, and stole into a dark thicket, hiding beneath the tangled boughs. here he lay and slept till evening, and then took the new clothes which helen had given him out of his wallet, and put them on, and threw the belt of the sword over his shoulder, and hid the luck of troy in his bosom. he washed himself clean in a mountain brook, and now all who saw him must have known that he was no beggar, but ulysses of ithaca, laertes' son. so he walked cautiously down the side of the brook which ran between high banks deep in trees, and followed it till it reached the river xanthus, on the left of the greek lines. here he found greek sentinels set to guard the camp, who cried aloud in joy and surprise, for his ship had not yet returned from delos, and they could not guess how ulysses had come back alone across the sea. so two of the sentinels guarded ulysses to the hut of agamemnon, where he and achilles and all the chiefs were sitting at a feast. they all leaped up, but when ulysses took the luck of troy from within his mantle, they cried that this was the bravest deed that had been done in the war, and they sacrificed ten oxen to zeus. 'so you were the old beggar,' said young thrasymedes. 'yes,' said ulysses, 'and when next you beat a beggar, thrasymedes, do not strike so hard and so long.' that night all the greeks were full of hope, for now they had the luck of troy, but the trojans were in despair, and guessed that the beggar was the thief, and that ulysses had been the beggar. the priestess, theano, could tell them nothing; they found her, with the extinguished torch drooping in her hand, asleep, as she sat on the step of the altar, and she never woke again. x the battles with the amazons and memnon--the death of achilles ulysses thought much and often of helen, without whose kindness he could not have saved the greeks by stealing the luck of troy. he saw that, though she remained as beautiful as when the princes all sought her hand, she was most unhappy, knowing herself to be the cause of so much misery, and fearing what the future might bring. ulysses told nobody about the secret which she had let fall, the coming of the amazons. the amazons were a race of warlike maids, who lived far away on the banks of the river thermodon. they had fought against troy in former times, and one of the great hill-graves on the plain of troy covered the ashes of an amazon, swift-footed myrinê. people believed that they were the daughters of the god of war, and they were reckoned equal in battle to the bravest men. their young queen, penthesilea, had two reasons for coming to fight at troy: one was her ambition to win renown, and the other her sleepless sorrow for having accidentally killed her sister, hippolytê, when hunting. the spear which she threw at a stag struck hippolytê and slew her, and penthesilea cared no longer for her own life, and desired to fall gloriously in battle. so penthesilea and her bodyguard of twelve amazons set forth from the wide streams of thermodon, and rode into troy. the story says that they did not drive in chariots, like all the greek and trojan chiefs, but rode horses, which must have been the manner of their country. penthesilea was the tallest and most beautiful of the amazons, and shone among her twelve maidens like the moon among the stars, or the bright dawn among the hours which follow her chariot wheels. the trojans rejoiced when they beheld her, for she looked both terrible and beautiful, with a frown on her brow, and fair shining eyes, and a blush on her cheeks. to the trojans she came like iris, the rainbow, after a storm, and they gathered round her cheering, and throwing flowers and kissing her stirrup, as the people of orleans welcomed joan of arc when she came to deliver them. even priam was glad, as is a man long blind, when he has been healed, and again looks upon the light of the sun. priam held a great feast, and gave to penthesilea many beautiful gifts: cups of gold, and embroideries, and a sword with a hilt of silver, and she vowed that she would slay achilles. but when andromache, the wife of hector, heard her she said within herself, 'ah, unhappy girl, what is this boast of thine! thou hast not the strength to fight the unconquerable son of peleus, for if hector could not slay him, what chance hast thou? but the piled-up earth covers hector!' in the morning penthesilea sprang up from sleep and put on her glorious armour, with spear in hand, and sword at side, and bow and quiver hung behind her back, and her great shield covering her side from neck to stirrup, and mounted her horse, and galloped to the plain. beside her charged the twelve maidens of her bodyguard, and all the company of hector's brothers and kinsfolk. these headed the trojan lines, and they rushed towards the ships of the greeks. then the greeks asked each other, 'who is this that leads the trojans as hector led them, surely some god rides in the van of the charioteers!' ulysses could have told them who the new leader of the trojans was, but it seems that he had not the heart to fight against women, for his name is not mentioned in this day's battle. so the two lines clashed, and the plain of troy ran red with blood, for penthesilea slew molios, and persinoos, and eilissos, and antiphates, and lernos high of heart, and hippalmos of the loud warcry, and haemonides, and strong elasippus, while her maidens derinoê and cloniê slew each a chief of the greeks. but cloniê fell beneath the spear of podarkes, whose hand penthesilea cut off with the sword, while idomeneus speared the amazon bremousa, and meriones of crete slew evadrê, and diomede killed alcibiê and derimacheia in close fight with the sword, so the company of the twelve were thinned, the bodyguard of penthesilea. the trojans and greeks kept slaying each other, but penthesilea avenged her maidens, driving the ranks of greece as a lioness drives the cattle on the hills, for they could not stand before her. then she shouted, 'dogs! to-day shall you pay for the sorrows of priam! where is diomede, where is achilles, where is aias, that, men say, are your bravest? will none of them stand before my spear?' then she charged again, at the head of the household of priam, brothers and kinsmen of hector, and where they came the greeks fell like yellow leaves before the wind of autumn. the white horse that penthesilea rode, a gift from the wife of the north wind, flashed like lightning through a dark cloud among the companies of the greeks, and the chariots that followed the charge of the amazon rocked as they swept over the bodies of the slain. then the old trojans, watching from the walls, cried: 'this is no mortal maiden but a goddess, and to-day she will burn the ships of the greeks, and they will all perish in troyland, and see greece never more again.' now it so was that aias and achilles had not heard the din and the cry of war, for both had gone to weep over the great new grave of patroclus. penthesilea and the trojans had driven back the greeks within their ditch, and they were hiding here and there among the ships, and torches were blazing in men's hands to burn the ships, as in the day of the valour of hector: when aias heard the din of battle, and called to achilles to make speed towards the ships. so they ran swiftly to their huts, and armed themselves, and aias fell smiting and slaying upon the trojans, but achilles slew five of the bodyguard of penthesilea. she, beholding her maidens fallen, rode straight against aias and achilles, like a dove defying two falcons, and cast her spear, but it fell back blunted from the glorious shield that the god had made for the son of peleus. then she threw another spear at aias, crying, 'i am the daughter of the god of war,' but his armour kept out the spear, and he and achilles laughed aloud. aias paid no more heed to the amazon, but rushed against the trojan men; while achilles raised the heavy spear that none but he could throw, and drove it down through breastplate and breast of penthesilea, yet still her hand grasped her sword-hilt. but, ere she could draw her sword, achilles speared her horse, and horse and rider fell, and died in their fall. there lay fair penthesilea in the dust, like a tall poplar tree that the wind has overthrown, and her helmet fell, and the greeks who gathered round marvelled to see her lie so beautiful in death, like artemis, the goddess of the woods, when she sleeps alone, weary with hunting on the hills. then the heart of achilles was pierced with pity and sorrow, thinking how she might have been his wife in his own country, had he spared her, but he was never to see pleasant phthia, his native land, again. so achilles stood and wept over penthesilea dead. now the greeks, in pity and sorrow, held their hands, and did not pursue the trojans who had fled, nor did they strip the armour from penthesilea and her twelve maidens, but laid the bodies on biers, and sent them back in peace to priam. then the trojans burned penthesilea in the midst of her dead maidens, on a great pile of dry wood, and placed their ashes in a golden casket, and buried them all in the great hill-grave of laomedon, an ancient king of troy, while the greeks with lamentation buried them whom the amazon had slain. [illustration: achilles pities penthesilea after slaying her.] the old men of troy and the chiefs now held a council, and priam said that they must not yet despair, for, if they had lost many of their bravest warriors, many of the greeks had also fallen. their best plan was to fight only with arrows from the walls and towers, till king memnon came to their rescue with a great army of aethiopes. now memnon was the son of the bright dawn, a beautiful goddess who had loved and married a mortal man, tithonus. she had asked zeus, the chief of the gods, to make her lover immortal, and her prayer was granted. tithonus could not die, but he began to grow grey, and then white haired, with a long white beard, and very weak, till nothing of him seemed to be left but his voice, always feebly chattering like the grasshoppers on a summer day. memnon was the most beautiful of men, except paris and achilles, and his home was in a country that borders on the land of sunrising. there he was reared by the lily maidens called hesperides, till he came to his full strength, and commanded the whole army of the aethiopes. for their arrival priam wished to wait, but polydamas advised that the trojans should give back helen to the greeks, with jewels twice as valuable as those which she had brought from the house of menelaus. then paris was very angry, and said that polydamas was a coward, for it was little to paris that troy should be taken and burned in a month if for a month he could keep helen of the fair hands. at length memnon came, leading a great army of men who had nothing white about them but the teeth, so fiercely the sun burned on them in their own country. the trojans had all the more hopes of memnon because, on his long journey from the land of sunrising, and the river oceanus that girdles the round world, he had been obliged to cross the country of the solymi. now the solymi were the fiercest of men and rose up against memnon, but he and his army fought them for a whole day, and defeated them, and drove them to the hills. when memnon came, priam gave him a great cup of gold, full of wine to the brim, and memnon drank the wine at one draught. but he did not make great boasts of what he could do, like poor penthesilea, 'for,' said he, 'whether i am a good man at arms will be known in battle, where the strength of men is tried. so now let us turn to sleep, for to wake and drink wine all through the night is an ill beginning of war.' then priam praised his wisdom, and all men betook them to bed, but the bright dawn rose unwillingly next day, to throw light on the battle where her son was to risk his life. then memnon led out the dark clouds of his men into the plain, and the greeks foreboded evil when they saw so great a new army of fresh and unwearied warriors, but achilles, leading them in his shining armour, gave them courage. memnon fell upon the left wing of the greeks, and on the men of nestor, and first he slew ereuthus, and then attacked nestor's young son, antilochus, who, now that patroclus had fallen, was the dearest friend of achilles. on him memnon leaped, like a lion on a kid, but antilochus lifted a huge stone from the plain, a pillar that had been set on the tomb of some great warrior long ago, and the stone smote full on the helmet of memnon, who reeled beneath the stroke. but memnon seized his heavy spear, and drove it through shield and corselet of antilochus, even into his heart, and he fell and died beneath his father's eyes. then nestor in great sorrow and anger strode across the body of antilochus and called to his other son, thrasymedes, 'come and drive afar this man that has slain thy brother, for if fear be in thy heart thou art no son of mine, nor of the race of periclymenus, who stood up in battle even against the strong man heracles!' but memnon was too strong for thrasymedes, and drove him off, while old nestor himself charged sword in hand, though memnon bade him begone, for he was not minded to strike so aged a man, and nestor drew back, for he was weak with age. then memnon and his army charged the greeks, slaying and stripping the dead. but nestor had mounted his chariot and driven to achilles, weeping, and imploring him to come swiftly and save the body of antilochus, and he sped to meet memnon, who lifted a great stone, the landmark of a field, and drove it against the shield of the son of peleus. but achilles was not shaken by the blow; he ran forward, and wounded memnon over the rim of his shield. yet wounded as he was memnon fought on and struck his spear through the arm of achilles, for the greeks fought with no sleeves of bronze to protect their arms. then achilles drew his great sword, and flew on memnon, and with sword-strokes they lashed at each other on shield and helmet, and the long horsehair crests of the helmets were shorn off, and flew down the wind, and their shields rang terribly beneath the sword strokes. they thrust at each others' throats between shield and visor of the helmet, they smote at knee, and thrust at breast, and the armour rang about their bodies, and the dust from beneath their feet rose up in a cloud around them, like mist round the falls of a great river in flood. so they fought, neither of them yielding a step, till achilles made so rapid a thrust that memnon could not parry it, and the bronze sword passed clean through his body beneath the breast-bone, and he fell, and his armour clashed as he fell. then achilles, wounded as he was and weak from loss of blood, did not stay to strip the golden armour of memnon, but shouted his warcry, and pressed on, for he hoped to enter the gate of troy with the fleeing trojans, and all the greeks followed after him. so they pursued, slaying as they went, and the scaean gate was choked with the crowd of men, pursuing and pursued. in that hour would the greeks have entered troy, and burned the city, and taken the women captive, but paris stood on the tower above the gate, and in his mind was anger for the death of his brother hector. he tried the string of his bow, and found it frayed, for all day he had showered his arrows on the greeks; so he chose a new bowstring, and fitted it, and strung the bow, and chose an arrow from his quiver, and aimed at the ankle of achilles, where it was bare beneath the greave, or leg-guard of metal, that the god had fashioned for him. through the ankle flew the arrow, and achilles wheeled round, weak as he was, and stumbled, and fell, and the armour that the god had wrought was defiled with dust and blood. then achilles rose again, and cried: 'what coward has smitten me with a secret arrow from afar? let him stand forth and meet me with sword and spear!' so speaking he seized the shaft with his strong hands and tore it out of the wound, and much blood gushed, and darkness came over his eyes. yet he staggered forward, striking blindly, and smote orythaon, a dear friend of hector, through the helmet, and others he smote, but now his force failed him, and he leaned on his spear, and cried his warcry, and said, 'cowards of troy, ye shall not all escape my spear, dying as i am.' but as he spoke he fell, and all his armour rang around him, yet the trojans stood apart and watched; and as hunters watch a dying lion not daring to go nigh him, so the trojans stood in fear till achilles drew his latest breath. then from the wall the trojan women raised a great cry of joy over him who had slain the noble hector: and thus was fulfilled the prophecy of hector, that achilles should fall in the scaean gateway, by the hand of paris. then the best of the trojans rushed forth from the gate to seize the body of achilles, and his glorious armour, but the greeks were as eager to carry the body to the ships that it might have due burial. round the dead achilles men fought long and sore, and both sides were mixed, greeks and trojans, so that men dared not shoot arrows from the walls of troy lest they should kill their own friends. paris, and aeneas, and glaucus, who had been the friend of sarpedon, led the trojans, and aias and ulysses led the greeks, for we are not told that agamemnon was fighting in this great battle of the war. now as angry wild bees flock round a man who is taking their honeycombs, so the trojans gathered round aias, striving to stab him, but he set his great shield in front, and smote and slew all that came within reach of his spear. ulysses, too, struck down many, and though a spear was thrown and pierced his leg near the knee he stood firm, protecting the body of achilles. at last ulysses caught the body of achilles by the hands, and heaved it upon his back, and so limped towards the ships, but aias and the men of aias followed, turning round if ever the trojans ventured to come near, and charging into the midst of them. thus very slowly they bore the dead achilles across the plain, through the bodies of the fallen and the blood, till they met nestor in his chariot and placed achilles therein, and swiftly nestor drove to the ships. there the women, weeping, washed achilles' comely body, and laid him on a bier with a great white mantle over him, and all the women lamented and sang dirges, and the first was briseis, who loved achilles better than her own country, and her father, and her brothers whom he had slain in war. the greek princes, too, stood round the body, weeping and cutting off their long locks of yellow hair, a token of grief and an offering to the dead. men say that forth from the sea came thetis of the silver feet, the mother of achilles, with her ladies, the deathless maidens of the waters. they rose up from their glassy chambers below the sea, moving on, many and beautiful, like the waves on a summer day, and their sweet song echoed along the shores, and fear came upon the greeks. then they would have fled, but nestor cried: 'hold, flee not, young lords of the achaeans! lo, she that comes from the sea is his mother, with the deathless maidens of the waters, to look on the face of her dead son.' then the sea nymphs stood around the dead achilles and clothed him in the garments of the gods, fragrant raiment, and all the nine muses, one to the other replying with sweet voices, began their lament. next the greeks made a great pile of dry wood, and laid achilles on it, and set fire to it, till the flames had consumed his body except the white ashes. these they placed in a great golden cup and mingled with them the ashes of patroclus, and above all they built a tomb like a hill, high on a headland above the sea, that men for all time may see it as they go sailing by, and may remember achilles. next they held in his honour foot races and chariot races, and other games, and thetis gave splendid prizes. last of all, when the games were ended, thetis placed before the chiefs the glorious armour that the god had made for her son on the night after the slaying of patroclus by hector. 'let these arms be the prize of the best of the greeks,' she said, 'and of him that saved the body of achilles out of the hands of the trojans.' then stood up on one side aias and on the other ulysses, for these two had rescued the body, and neither thought himself a worse warrior than the other. both were the bravest of the brave, and if aias was the taller and stronger, and upheld the fight at the ships on the day of the valour of hector; ulysses had alone withstood the trojans, and refused to retreat even when wounded, and his courage and cunning had won for the greeks the luck of troy. therefore old nestor arose and said: 'this is a luckless day, when the best of the greeks are rivals for such a prize. he who is not the winner will be heavy at heart, and will not stand firm by us in battle, as of old, and hence will come great loss to the greeks. who can be a just judge in this question, for some men will love aias better, and some will prefer ulysses, and thus will arise disputes among ourselves. lo! have we not here among us many trojan prisoners, waiting till their friends pay their ransom in cattle and gold and bronze and iron? these hate all the greeks alike, and will favour neither aias nor ulysses. let _them_ be the judges, and decide who is the best of the greeks, and the man who has done most harm to the trojans.' agamemnon said that nestor had spoken wisely. the trojans were then made to sit as judges in the midst of the assembly, and aias and ulysses spoke, and told the stories of their own great deeds, of which we have heard already, but aias spoke roughly and discourteously, calling ulysses a coward and a weakling. 'perhaps the trojans know,' said ulysses quietly, 'whether they think that i deserve what aias has said about me, that i am a coward; and perhaps aias may remember that he did not find me so weak when we wrestled for a prize at the funeral of patroclus.' then the trojans all with one voice said that ulysses was the best man among the greeks, and the most feared by them, both for his courage and his skill in stratagems of war. on this, the blood of aias flew into his face, and he stood silent and unmoving, and could not speak a word, till his friends came round him and led him away to his hut, and there he sat down and would not eat or drink, and the night fell. long he sat, musing in his mind, and then rose and put on all his armour, and seized a sword that hector had given him one day when they two fought in a gentle passage of arms, and took courteous farewell of each other, and aias had given hector a broad sword-belt, wrought with gold. this sword, hector's gift, aias took, and went towards the hut of ulysses, meaning to carve him limb from limb, for madness had come upon him in his great grief. rushing through the night to slay ulysses he fell upon the flock of sheep that the greeks kept for their meat. and up and down among them he went, smiting blindly till the dawn came, and, lo! his senses returned to him, and he saw that he had not smitten ulysses, but stood in a pool of blood among the sheep that he had slain. he could not endure the disgrace of his madness, and he fixed the sword, hector's gift, with its hilt firmly in the ground, and went back a little way, and ran and fell upon the sword, which pierced his heart, and so died the great aias, choosing death before a dishonoured life. xi ulysses sails to seek the son of achilles.--the valour of eurypylus when the greeks found aias lying dead, slain by his own hand, they made great lament, and above all the brother of aias, and his wife tecmessa bewailed him, and the shores of the sea rang with their sorrow. but of all no man was more grieved than ulysses, and he stood up and said: 'would that the sons of the trojans had never awarded to me the arms of achilles, for far rather would i have given them to aias than that this loss should have befallen the whole army of the greeks. let no man blame me, or be angry with me, for i have not sought for wealth, to enrich myself, but for honour only, and to win a name that will be remembered among men in times to come.' then they made a great fire of wood, and burned the body of aias, lamenting him as they had sorrowed for achilles. now it seemed that though the greeks had won the luck of troy and had defeated the amazons and the army of memnon, they were no nearer taking troy than ever. they had slain hector, indeed, and many other trojans, but they had lost the great achilles, and aias, and patroclus, and antilochus, with the princes whom penthesilea and memnon slew, and the bands of the dead chiefs were weary of fighting, and eager to go home. the chiefs met in council, and menelaus arose and said that his heart was wasted with sorrow for the death of so many brave men who had sailed to troy for his sake. 'would that death had come upon me before i gathered this host,' he said, 'but come, let the rest of us launch our swift ships, and return each to our own country.' he spoke thus to try the greeks, and see of what courage they were, for his desire was still to burn troy town and to slay paris with his own hand. then up rose diomede, and swore that never would the greeks turn cowards. no! he bade them sharpen their swords, and make ready for battle. the prophet calchas, too, arose and reminded the greeks how he had always foretold that they would take troy in the tenth year of the siege, and how the tenth year had come, and victory was almost in their hands. next ulysses stood up and said that, though achilles was dead, and there was no prince to lead his men, yet a son had been born to achilles, while he was in the isle of scyros, and that son he would bring to fill his father's place. 'surely he will come, and for a token i will carry to him those unhappy arms of the great achilles. unworthy am i to wear them, and they bring back to my mind our sorrow for aias. but his son will wear them, in the front of the spearmen of greece and in the thickest ranks of troy shall the helmet of achilles shine, as it was wont to do, for always he fought among the foremost.' thus ulysses spoke, and he and diomede, with fifty oarsmen, went on board a swift ship, and sitting all in order on the benches they smote the grey sea into foam, and ulysses held the helm and steered them towards the isle of scyros. now the trojans had rest from war for a while, and priam, with a heavy heart, bade men take his chief treasure, the great golden vine, with leaves and clusters of gold, and carry it to the mother of eurypylus, the king of the people who dwell where the wide marshlands of the river caycus clang with the cries of the cranes and herons and wild swans. for the mother of eurypylus had sworn that never would she let her son go to the war unless priam sent her the vine of gold, a gift of the gods to an ancient king of troy. with a heavy heart, then, priam sent the golden vine, but eurypylus was glad when he saw it, and bade all his men arm, and harness the horses to the chariots, and glad were the trojans when the long line of the new army wound along the road and into the town. then paris welcomed eurypylus who was his nephew, son of his sister astyochê, a daughter of priam; but the grandfather of eurypylus was the famous heracles, the strongest man who ever lived on earth. so paris brought eurypylus to his house, where helen sat working at her embroideries with her four bower maidens, and eurypylus marvelled when he saw her, she was so beautiful. but the khita, the people of eurypylus, feasted in the open air among the trojans, by the light of great fires burning, and to the music of pipes and flutes. the greeks saw the fires, and heard the merry music, and they watched all night lest the trojans should attack the ships before the dawn. but in the dawn eurypylus rose from sleep and put on his armour, and hung from his neck by the belt the great shield on which were fashioned, in gold of many colours and in silver, the twelve adventures of heracles, his grandfather; strange deeds that he did, fighting with monsters and giants and with the hound of hades, who guards the dwellings of the dead. then eurypylus led on his whole army, and with the brothers of hector he charged against the greeks, who were led by agamemnon. in that battle eurypylus first smote nireus, who was the most beautiful of the greeks now that achilles had fallen. there lay nireus, like an apple tree, all covered with blossoms red and white, that the wind has overthrown in a rich man's orchard. then eurypylus would have stripped off his armour, but machaon rushed in, machaon who had been wounded and taken to the tent of nestor, on the day of the valour of hector, when he brought fire against the ships. machaon drove his spear through the left shoulder of eurypylus, but eurypylus struck at his shoulder with his sword, and the blood flowed; nevertheless, machaon stooped, and grasped a great stone, and sent it against the helmet of eurypylus. he was shaken, but he did not fall, he drove his spear through breastplate and breast of machaon, who fell and died. with his last breath he said, 'thou, too, shalt fall,' but eurypylus made answer, 'so let it be! men cannot live for ever, and such is the fortune of war.' thus the battle rang, and shone, and shifted, till few of the greeks kept steadfast, except those with menelaus and agamemnon, for diomede and ulysses were far away upon the sea, bringing from scyros the son of achilles. but teucer slew polydamas, who had warned hector to come within the walls of troy; and menelaus wounded deiphobus, the bravest of the sons of priam who were still in arms, for many had fallen; and agamemnon slew certain spearmen of the trojans. round eurypylus fought paris, and aeneas, who wounded teucer with a great stone, breaking in his helmet, but he drove back in his chariot to the ships. menelaus and agamemnon stood alone and fought in the crowd of trojans, like two wild boars that a circle of hunters surrounds with spears, so fiercely they stood at bay. there they would both have fallen, but idomeneus, and meriones of crete, and thrasymedes, nestor's son, ran to their rescue, and fiercer grew the fighting. eurypylus desired to slay agamemnon and menelaus, and end the war, but, as the spears of the scots encompassed king james at flodden field till he ran forward, and fell within a lance's length of the english general, so the men of crete and pylos guarded the two princes with their spears. there paris was wounded in the thigh with a spear, and he retreated a little way, and showered his arrows among the greeks; and idomeneus lifted and hurled a great stone at eurypylus which struck his spear out of his hand, and he went back to find it, and menelaus and agamemnon had a breathing space in the battle. but soon eurypylus returned, crying on his men, and they drove back foot by foot the ring of spears round agamemnon, and aeneas and paris slew men of crete and of mycenae till the greeks were pushed to the ditch round the camp; and then great stones and spears and arrows rained down on the trojans and the people of eurypylus from the battlements and towers of the grecian wall. now night fell, and eurypylus knew that he could not win the wall in the dark, so he withdrew his men, and they built great fires, and camped upon the plain. the case of the greeks was now like that of the trojans after the death of hector. they buried machaon and the other chiefs who had fallen, and they remained within their ditch and their wall, for they dared not come out into the open plain. they knew not whether ulysses and diomede had come safely to scyros, or whether their ship had been wrecked or driven into unknown seas. so they sent a herald to eurypylus, asking for a truce, that they might gather their dead and burn them, and the trojans and khita also buried their dead. meanwhile the swift ship of ulysses had swept through the sea to scyros, and to the palace of king lycomedes. there they found neoptolemus, the son of achilles, in the court before the doors. he was as tall as his father, and very like him in face and shape, and he was practising the throwing of the spear at a mark. right glad were ulysses and diomede to behold him, and ulysses told neoptolemus who they were, and why they came, and implored him to take pity on the greeks and help them. 'my friend is diomede, prince of argos,' said ulysses, 'and i am ulysses of ithaca. come with us, and we greeks will give you countless gifts, and i myself will present you with the armour of your father, such as it is not lawful for any other mortal man to wear, seeing that it is golden, and wrought by the hands of a god. moreover, when we have taken troy, and gone home, menelaus will give you his daughter, the beautiful hermione, to be your wife, with gold in great plenty.' then neoptolemus answered: 'it is enough that the greeks need my sword. to-morrow we shall sail for troy.' he led them into the palace to dine, and there they found his mother, beautiful deidamia, in mourning raiment, and she wept when she heard that they had come to take her son away. but neoptolemus comforted her, promising to return safely with the spoils of troy, 'or, even if i fall,' he said, 'it will be after doing deeds worthy of my father's name.' so next day they sailed, leaving deidamia mournful, like a swallow whose nest a serpent has found, and has killed her young ones; even so she wailed, and went up and down in the house. but the ship ran swiftly on her way, cleaving the dark waves till ulysses showed neoptolemus the far off snowy crest of mount ida; and tenedos, the island near troy; and they passed the plain where the tomb of achilles stands, but ulysses did not tell the son that it was his father's tomb. now all this time the greeks, shut up within their wall and fighting from their towers, were looking back across the sea, eager to spy the ship of ulysses, like men wrecked on a desert island, who keep watch every day for a sail afar off, hoping that the seamen will touch at their isle and have pity upon them, and carry them home, so the greeks kept watch for the ship bearing neoptolemus. diomede, too, had been watching the shore, and when they came in sight of the ships of the greeks, he saw that they were being besieged by the trojans, and that all the greek army was penned up within the wall, and was fighting from the towers. then he cried aloud to ulysses and neoptolemus, 'make haste, friends, let us arm before we land, for some great evil has fallen upon the greeks. the trojans are attacking our wall, and soon they will burn our ships, and for us there will be no return.' then all the men on the ship of ulysses armed themselves, and neoptolemus, in the splendid armour of his father, was the first to leap ashore. the greeks could not come from the wall to welcome him, for they were fighting hard and hand-to-hand with eurypylus and his men. but they glanced back over their shoulders and it seemed to them that they saw achilles himself, spear and sword in hand, rushing to help them. they raised a great battle-cry, and, when neoptolemus reached the battlements, he and ulysses, and diomede leaped down to the plain, the greeks following them, and they all charged at once on the men of eurypylus, with levelled spears, and drove them from the wall. then the trojans trembled, for they knew the shields of diomede and ulysses, and they thought that the tall chief in the armour of achilles was achilles himself, come back from the land of the dead to take vengeance for antilochus. the trojans fled, and gathered round eurypylus, as in a thunderstorm little children, afraid of the lightning and the noise, run and cluster round their father, and hide their faces on his knees. but neoptolemus was spearing the trojans, as a man who carries at night a beacon of fire in his boat on the sea spears the fishes that flock around, drawn by the blaze of the flame. cruelly he avenged his father's death on many a trojan, and the men whom achilles had led followed achilles' son, slaying to right and left, and smiting the trojans, as they ran, between the shoulders with the spear. thus they fought and followed while daylight lasted, but when night fell, they led neoptolemus to his father's hut, where the women washed him in the bath, and then he was taken to feast with agamemnon and menelaus and the princes. they all welcomed him, and gave him glorious gifts, swords with silver hilts, and cups of gold and silver, and they were glad, for they had driven the trojans from their wall, and hoped that to-morrow they would slay eurypylus, and take troy town. but their hope was not to be fulfilled, for though next day eurypylus met neoptolemus in the battle, and was slain by him, when the greeks chased the trojans into their city so great a storm of lightning and thunder and rain fell upon them that they retreated again to their camp. they believed that zeus, the chief of the gods, was angry with them, and the days went by, and troy still stood unconquered. xii the slaying of paris when the greeks were disheartened, as they often were, they consulted calchas the prophet. he usually found that they must do something, or send for somebody, and in doing so they diverted their minds from their many misfortunes. now, as the trojans were fighting more bravely than before, under deiphobus, a brother of hector, the greeks went to calchas for advice, and he told them that they must send ulysses and diomede to bring philoctetes the bowman from the isle of lemnos. this was an unhappy deserted island, in which the married women, some years before, had murdered all their husbands, out of jealousy, in a single night. the greeks had landed in lemnos, on their way to troy, and there philoctetes had shot an arrow at a great water dragon which lived in a well within a cave in the lonely hills. but when he entered the cave the dragon bit him, and, though he killed it at last, its poisonous teeth wounded his foot. the wound never healed, but dripped with venom, and philoctetes, in terrible pain, kept all the camp awake at night by his cries. the greeks were sorry for him, but he was not a pleasant companion, shrieking as he did, and exuding poison wherever he came. so they left him on the lonely island, and did not know whether he was alive or dead. calchas ought to have told the greeks not to desert philoctetes at the time, if he was so important that troy, as the prophet now said, could not be taken without him. but now, as he must give some advice, calchas said that philoctetes must be brought back, so ulysses and diomede went to bring him. they sailed to lemnos, a melancholy place they found it, with no smoke rising from the ruinous houses along the shore. as they were landing they learned that philoctetes was not dead, for his dismal old cries of pain, _ototototoi, ai, ai; pheu, pheu; ototototoi_, came echoing from a cave on the beach. to this cave the princes went, and found a terrible-looking man, with long, dirty, dry hair and beard; he was worn to a skeleton, with hollow eyes, and lay moaning in a mass of the feathers of sea birds. his great bow and his arrows lay ready to his hand: with these he used to shoot the sea birds, which were all that he had to eat, and their feathers littered all the floor of his cave, and they were none the better for the poison that dripped from his wounded foot. when this horrible creature saw ulysses and diomede coming near, he seized his bow and fitted a poisonous arrow to the string, for he hated the greeks, because they had left him in the desert isle. but the princes held up their hands in sign of peace, and cried out that they had come to do him kindness, so he laid down his bow, and they came in and sat on the rocks, and promised that his wound should be healed, for the greeks were very much ashamed of having deserted him. it was difficult to resist ulysses when he wished to persuade any one, and at last philoctetes consented to sail with them to troy. the oarsmen carried him down to the ship on a litter, and there his dreadful wound was washed with warm water, and oil was poured into it, and it was bound up with soft linen, so that his pain grew less fierce, and they gave him a good supper and wine enough, which he had not tasted for many years. next morning they sailed, and had a fair west wind, so that they soon landed among the greeks and carried philoctetes on shore. here podaleirius, the brother of machaon, being a physician, did all that could be done to heal the wound, and the pain left philoctetes. he was taken to the hut of agamemnon, who welcomed him, and said that the greeks repented of their cruelty. they gave him seven female slaves to take care of him, and twenty swift horses, and twelve great vessels of bronze, and told him that he was always to live with the greatest chiefs and feed at their table. so he was bathed, and his hair was cut and combed and anointed with oil, and soon he was eager and ready to fight, and to use his great bow and poisoned arrows on the trojans. the use of poisoned arrow-tips was thought unfair, but philoctetes had no scruples. now in the next battle paris was shooting down the greeks with his arrows, when philoctetes saw him, and cried: 'dog, you are proud of your archery and of the arrow that slew the great achilles. but, behold, i am a better bowman than you, by far, and the bow in my hands was borne by the strong man heracles!' so he cried and drew the bowstring to his breast and the poisoned arrowhead to the bow, and the bowstring rang, and the arrow flew, and did but graze the hand of paris. then the bitter pain of the poison came upon him, and the trojans carried him into their city, where the physicians tended him all night. but he never slept, and lay tossing in agony till dawn, when he said: 'there is but one hope. take me to oenone, the nymph of mount ida!' then his friends laid paris on a litter, and bore him up the steep path to mount ida. often had he climbed it swiftly, when he was young, and went to see the nymph who loved him; but for many a day he had not trod the path where he was now carried in great pain and fear, for the poison turned his blood to fire. little hope he had, for he knew how cruelly he had deserted oenone, and he saw that all the birds which were disturbed in the wood flew away to the left hand, an omen of evil. at last the bearers reached the cave where the nymph oenone lived, and they smelled the sweet fragrance of the cedar fire that burned on the floor of the cave, and they heard the nymph singing a melancholy song. then paris called to her in the voice which she had once loved to hear, and she grew very pale, and rose up, saying to herself, 'the day has come for which i have prayed. he is sore hurt, and has come to bid me heal his wound.' so she came and stood in the doorway of the dark cave, white against the darkness, and the bearers laid paris on the litter at the feet of oenone, and he stretched forth his hands to touch her knees, as was the manner of suppliants. but she drew back and gathered her robe about her, that he might not touch it with his hands. then he said: 'lady, despise me not, and hate me not, for my pain is more than i can bear. truly it was by no will of mine that i left you lonely here, for the fates that no man may escape led me to helen. would that i had died in your arms before i saw her face! but now i beseech you in the name of the gods, and for the memory of our love, that you will have pity on me and heal my hurt, and not refuse your grace and let me die here at your feet.' [illustration: paris comes back to oenone.] then oenone answered scornfully: 'why have you come here to me? surely for years you have not come this way, where the path was once worn with your feet. but long ago you left me lonely and lamenting, for the love of helen of the fair hands. surely she is much more beautiful than the love of your youth, and far more able to help you, for men say that she can never know old age and death. go home to helen and let her take away your pain.' thus oenone spoke, and went within the cave, where she threw herself down among the ashes of the hearth and sobbed for anger and sorrow. in a little while she rose and went to the door of the cave, thinking that paris had not been borne away back to troy, but she found him not; for his bearers had carried him by another path, till he died beneath the boughs of the oak trees. then his bearers carried him swiftly down to troy, where his mother bewailed him, and helen sang over him as she had sung over hector, remembering many things, and fearing to think of what her own end might be. but the trojans hastily built a great pile of dry wood, and thereon laid the body of paris and set fire to it, and the flame went up through the darkness, for now night had fallen. but oenone was roaming in the dark woods, crying and calling after paris, like a lioness whose cubs the hunters have carried away. the moon rose to give her light, and the flame of the funeral fire shone against the sky, and then oenone knew that paris had died--beautiful paris--and that the trojans were burning his body on the plain at the foot of mount ida. then she cried that now paris was all her own, and that helen had no more hold on him: 'and though when he was living he left me, in death we shall not be divided,' she said, and she sped down the hill, and through the thickets where the wood nymphs were wailing for paris, and she reached the plain, and, covering her head with her veil like a bride, she rushed through the throng of trojans. she leaped upon the burning pile of wood, she clasped the body of paris in her arms, and the flame of fire consumed the bridegroom and the bride, and their ashes mingled. no man could divide them any more, and the ashes were placed in a golden cup, within a chamber of stone, and the earth was mounded above them. on that grave the wood nymphs planted two rose trees, and their branches met and plaited together. this was the end of paris and oenone. xiii how ulysses invented the device of the horse of tree after paris died, helen was not given back to menelaus. we are often told that only fear of the anger of paris had prevented the trojans from surrendering helen and making peace. now paris could not terrify them, yet for all that the men of the town would not part with helen, whether because she was so beautiful, or because they thought it dishonourable to yield her to the greeks, who might put her to a cruel death. so helen was taken by deiphobus, the brother of paris, to live in his own house, and deiphobus was at this time the best warrior and the chief captain of the men of troy. meanwhile, the greeks made an assault against the trojan walls and fought long and hardily; but, being safe behind the battlements, and shooting through loopholes, the trojans drove them back with loss of many of their men. it was in vain that philoctetes shot his poisoned arrows, they fell back from the stone walls, or stuck in the palisades of wood above the walls, and the greeks who tried to climb over were speared, or crushed with heavy stones. when night fell, they retreated to the ships and held a council, and, as usual, they asked the advice of the prophet calchas. it was the business of calchas to go about looking at birds, and taking omens from what he saw them doing, a way of prophesying which the romans also used, and some savages do the same to this day. calchas said that yesterday he had seen a hawk pursuing a dove, which hid herself in a hole in a rocky cliff. for a long while the hawk tried to find the hole, and follow the dove into it, but he could not reach her. so he flew away for a short distance and hid himself; then the dove fluttered out into the sunlight, and the hawk swooped on her and killed her. the greeks, said calchas, ought to learn a lesson from the hawk, and take troy by cunning, as by force they could do nothing. then ulysses stood up and described a trick which it is not easy to understand. the greeks, he said, ought to make an enormous hollow horse of wood, and place the bravest men in the horse. then all the rest of the greeks should embark in their ships and sail to the isle of tenedos, and lie hidden behind the island. the trojans would then come out of the city, like the dove out of her hole in the rock, and would wander about the greek camp, and wonder why the great horse of tree had been made, and why it had been left behind. lest they should set fire to the horse, when they would soon have found out the warriors hidden in it, a cunning greek, whom the trojans did not know by sight, should be left in the camp or near it. he would tell the trojans that the greeks had given up all hope and gone home, and he was to say that they feared the goddess pallas was angry with them, because they had stolen her image that fell from heaven, and was called the luck of troy. to soothe pallas and prevent her from sending great storms against the ships, the greeks (so the man was to say) had built this wooden horse as an offering to the goddess. the trojans, believing this story, would drag the horse into troy, and, in the night, the princes would come out, set fire to the city, and open the gates to the army, which would return from tenedos as soon as darkness came on. the prophet was much pleased with the plan of ulysses, and, as two birds happened to fly away on the right hand, he declared that the stratagem would certainly be lucky. neoptolemus, on the other hand, voted for taking troy, without any trick, by sheer hard fighting. ulysses replied that if achilles could not do that, it could not be done at all, and that epeius, a famous carpenter, had better set about making the horse at once. next day half the army, with axes in their hands, were sent to cut down trees on mount ida, and thousands of planks were cut from the trees by epeius and his workmen, and in three days he had finished the horse. ulysses then asked the best of the greeks to come forward and go inside the machine; while one, whom the greeks did not know by sight, should volunteer to stay behind in the camp and deceive the trojans. then a young man called sinon stood up and said that he would risk himself and take the chance that the trojans might disbelieve him, and burn him alive. certainly, none of the greeks did anything more courageous, yet sinon had not been considered brave. had he fought in the front ranks, the trojans would have known him; but there were many brave fighters who would not have dared to do what sinon undertook. then old nestor was the first that volunteered to go into the horse; but neoptolemus said that, brave as he was, he was too old, and that he must depart with the army to tenedos. neoptolemus himself would go into the horse, for he would rather die than turn his back on troy. so neoptolemus armed himself and climbed into the horse, as did menelaus, ulysses, diomede, thrasymedes (nestor's son), idomeneus, philoctetes, meriones, and all the best men except agamemnon, while epeius himself entered last of all. agamemnon was not allowed by the other greeks to share their adventure, as he was to command the army when they returned from tenedos. they meanwhile launched their ships and sailed away. but first menelaus had led ulysses apart, and told him that if they took troy (and now they must either take it or die at the hands of the trojans), he would owe to ulysses the glory. when they came back to greece, he wished to give ulysses one of his own cities, that they might always be near each other. ulysses smiled and shook his head; he could not leave ithaca, his own rough island kingdom. 'but if we both live through the night that is coming,' he said, 'i may ask you for one gift, and giving it will make you none the poorer.' then menelaus swore by the splendour of zeus that ulysses could ask him for no gift that he would not gladly give; so they embraced, and both armed themselves and went up into the horse. with them were all the chiefs except nestor, whom they would not allow to come, and agamemnon, who, as chief general, had to command the army. they swathed themselves and their arms in soft silks, that they might not ring and clash, when the trojans, if they were so foolish, dragged the horse up into their town, and there they sat in the dark waiting. meanwhile, the army burned their huts and launched their ships, and with oars and sails made their way to the back of the isle of tenedos. xiv the end of troy and the saving of helen from the walls the trojans saw the black smoke go up thick into the sky, and the whole fleet of the greeks sailing out to sea. never were men so glad, and they armed themselves for fear of an ambush, and went cautiously, sending forth scouts in front of them, down to the seashore. here they found the huts burned down and the camp deserted, and some of the scouts also caught sinon, who had hid himself in a place where he was likely to be found. they rushed on him with fierce cries, and bound his hands with a rope, and kicked and dragged him along to the place where priam and the princes were wondering at the great horse of tree. sinon looked round upon them, while some were saying that he ought to be tortured with fire to make him tell all the truth about the horse. the chiefs in the horse must have trembled for fear lest torture should wring the truth out of sinon, for then the trojans would simply burn the machine and them within it. but sinon said: 'miserable man that i am, whom the greeks hate and the trojans are eager to slay!' when the trojans heard that the greeks hated him, they were curious, and asked who he was, and how he came to be there. 'i will tell you all, oh king!' he answered priam. 'i was a friend and squire of an unhappy chief, palamedes, whom the wicked ulysses hated and slew secretly one day, when he found him alone, fishing in the sea. i was angry, and in my folly i did not hide my anger, and my words came to the ears of ulysses. from that hour he sought occasion to slay me. then calchas----' here he stopped, saying: 'but why tell a long tale? if you hate all greeks alike, then slay me; this is what agamemnon and ulysses desire; menelaus would thank you for my head.' the trojans were now more curious than before. they bade him go on, and he said that the greeks had consulted an oracle, which advised them to sacrifice one of their army to appease the anger of the gods and gain a fair wind homewards. 'but who was to be sacrificed? they asked calchas, who for fifteen days refused to speak. at last, being bribed by ulysses, he pointed to me, sinon, and said that i must be the victim. i was bound and kept in prison, while they built their great horse as a present for pallas athênê the goddess. they made it so large that you trojans might never be able to drag it into your city; while, if you destroyed it, the goddess might turn her anger against you. and now they have gone home to bring back the image that fell from heaven, which they had sent to greece, and to restore it to the temple of pallas athênê, when they have taken your town, for the goddess is angry with them for that theft of ulysses.' the trojans were foolish enough to believe the story of sinon, and they pitied him and unbound his hands. then they tied ropes to the wooden horse, and laid rollers in front of it, like men launching a ship, and they all took turns to drag the horse up to the scaean gate. children and women put their hands to the ropes and hauled, and with shouts and dances, and hymns they toiled, till about nightfall the horse stood in the courtyard of the inmost castle. then all the people of troy began to dance, and drink, and sing. such sentinels as were set at the gates got as drunk as all the rest, who danced about the city till after midnight, and then they went to their homes and slept heavily. meanwhile the greek ships were returning from behind tenedos as fast as the oarsmen could row them. one trojan did not drink or sleep; this was deiphobus, at whose house helen was now living. he bade her come with them, for he knew that she was able to speak in the very voice of all men and women whom she had ever seen, and he armed a few of his friends and went with them to the citadel. then he stood beside the horse, holding helen's hand, and whispered to her that she must call each of the chiefs in the voice of his wife. she was obliged to obey, and she called menelaus in her own voice, and diomede in the voice of his wife, and ulysses in the very voice of penelope. then menelaus and diomede were eager to answer, but ulysses grasped their hands and whispered the word 'echo!' then they remembered that this was a name of helen, because she could speak in all voices, and they were silent; but anticlus was still eager to answer, till ulysses held his strong hand over his mouth. there was only silence, and deiphobus led helen back to his house. when they had gone away epeius opened the side of the horse, and all the chiefs let themselves down softly to the ground. some rushed to the gate, to open it, and they killed the sleeping sentinels and let in the greeks. others sped with torches to burn the houses of the trojan princes, and terrible was the slaughter of men, unarmed and half awake, and loud were the cries of the women. but ulysses had slipped away at the first, none knew where. neoptolemus ran to the palace of priam, who was sitting at the altar in his courtyard, praying vainly to the gods, for neoptolemus slew the old man cruelly, and his white hair was dabbled in his blood. all through the city was fighting and slaying; but menelaus went to the house of deiphobus, knowing that helen was there. in the doorway he found deiphobus lying dead in all his armour, a spear standing in his breast. there were footprints marked in blood, leading through the portico and into the hall. there menelaus went, and found ulysses leaning, wounded, against one of the central pillars of the great chamber, the firelight shining on his armour. 'why hast thou slain deiphobus and robbed me of my revenge?' said menelaus. 'you swore to give me a gift,' said ulysses, 'and will you keep your oath?' 'ask what you will,' said menelaus; 'it is yours and my oath cannot be broken.' 'i ask the life of helen of the fair hands,' said ulysses; 'this is my own life-price that i pay back to her, for she saved my life when i took the luck of troy, and i swore that hers should be saved.' then helen stole, glimmering in white robes, from a recess in the dark hall, and fell at the feet of menelaus; her golden hair lay in the dust of the hearth, and her hands moved to touch his knees. his drawn sword fell from the hands of menelaus, and pity and love came into his heart, and he raised her from the dust and her white arms were round his neck, and they both wept. that night menelaus fought no more, but they tended the wound of ulysses, for the sword of deiphobus had bitten through his helmet. when dawn came troy lay in ashes, and the women were being driven with spear shafts to the ships, and the men were left unburied, a prey to dogs and all manner of birds. thus the grey city fell, that had lorded it for many centuries. all the gold and silver and rich embroideries, and ivory and amber, the horses and chariots, were divided among the army; all but a treasure of silver and gold, hidden in a chest within a hollow of the wall, and this treasure was found, not very many years ago, by men digging deep on the hill where troy once stood. the women, too, were given to the princes, and neoptolemus took andromache to his home in argos, to draw water from the well and to be the slave of a master, and agamemnon carried beautiful cassandra, the daughter of priam, to his palace in mycenae, where they were both slain in one night. only helen was led with honour to the ship of menelaus. [illustration: menelaus refrains from killing helen at the intercession of ulysses.] the wanderings of ulysses i the slaying of agamemnon and the sorrows of ulysses the greeks left troy a mass of smouldering ashes; the marks of fire are still to be seen in the ruins on the hill which is now called hissarlik. the greeks had many troubles on their way home, and years passed before some of the chiefs reached their own cities. as for agamemnon, while he was at troy his wife, clytaemnestra, the sister of helen, had fallen in love with a young man named aegisthus, who wished to be king, so he married clytaemnestra, just as if agamemnon had been dead. meanwhile agamemnon was sailing home with his share of the wealth of troy, and many a storm drove him out of his course. at last he reached the harbour, about seven miles from his city of mycenae, and he kissed the earth when he landed, thinking that all his troubles were over, and that he would find his son and daughter, orestes and electra, grown up, and his wife happy because of his return. but aegisthus had set, a year before, a watchman on a high tower, to come with the news as soon as agamemnon landed, and the watchman ran to mycenae with the good news. aegisthus placed twenty armed men in a hidden place in the great hall, and then he shouted for his chariots and horses, and drove down to meet agamemnon, and welcome him, and carry him to his own palace. then he gave a great feast, and when men had drunk much wine, the armed men, who had been hiding behind curtains, rushed out, with sword and spear, and fell on agamemnon and his company. though taken by surprise they drew their swords, and fought so well for their lives that none were left alive, not one, neither of the company of agamemnon nor of the company of aegisthus; they were all slain in the hall except aegisthus, who had hidden himself when the fray began. the bodies lay round the great mixing bowl of wine, and about the tables, and the floor ran with blood. before agamemnon died he saw clytaemnestra herself stab cassandra, the daughter of priam, whom he had brought from troy. in the town of agamemnon, mycenae, deep down in the earth, have been found five graves, with bones of men and women, and these bones were all covered with beautiful ornaments of gold, hundreds of them, and swords and daggers inlaid with gold, and golden cups, and a sceptre of gold and crystal, and two gold breastplates. there were also golden masks that had been made to cover the faces of the dead kings, and who knows but that one of these masks may show us the features of the famous agamemnon? ulysses, of course, knew nothing about these murders at the time, for he was being borne by the winds into undiscovered seas. but later he heard all the story from the ghost of a dead prophet, in the land of the dead, and he determined to be very cautious if ever he reached his own island, for who knew what the young men might do, that had grown up since he sailed to troy? of the other greeks nestor soon and safely arrived at his town of pylos, but menelaus and helen were borne by the winds to egypt and other strange countries, and the ship of the brother of aias was wrecked on a rock, and there he was drowned, and calchas the prophet died on land, on his way across greece. when ulysses left troy the wind carried him to the coast of thrace, where the people were allies of the trojans. it was a king of the thracians that diomede killed when he and ulysses stole into the camp of the trojans in the night, and drove away the white horses of the king, as swift as the winds. ismarus was the name of the thracian town where ulysses landed, and his men took it and plundered it, yet ulysses allowed no one to harm the priest of apollo, maron, but protected him and his wife and child, in their house within the holy grove of the god. maron was grateful, and gave ulysses twelve talents, or little wedges, of gold, and a great bowl of silver, and twelve large clay jars, as big as barrels, full of the best and strongest wine. it was so strong that men put into the mixing bowl but one measure of wine to twenty measures of water. these presents ulysses stored up in his ship, and lucky for him it was that he was kind to maron. meanwhile his men, instead of leaving the town with their plunder, sat eating and drinking till dawn. by that time the people of the town had warned their neighbours in the country farms, who all came down in full armour, and attacked the men of ulysses. in this fight he lost seventy-two men, six from each of his twelve ships, and it was only by hard fighting that the others were able to get on board their ships and sail away. a great storm arose and beat upon the ships, and it seems that ulysses and his men were driven into fairyland, where they remained for ten years. we have heard that king arthur and thomas the rhymer were carried into fairyland, but what adventures they met with there we do not know. about ulysses we have the stories which are now to be told. for ten days his ships ran due south, and, on the tenth, they reached the land of the lotus eaters, who eat food of flowers. they went on shore and drew water, and three men were sent to try to find the people of that country, who were a quiet, friendly people, and gave the fruit of the lotus to the strange sailors. now whoever tastes of that fruit has no mind ever to go home, but to sit between the setting sun and the rising moon, dreaming happy dreams, and forgetting the world. the three men ate the lotus, and sat down to dream, but ulysses went after them, and drove them to the ships, and bound their hands and feet, and threw them on board, and sailed away. then he with his ships reached the coast of the land of the cyclopes, which means the round-eyed men, men with only one eye apiece, set in the middle of their foreheads. they lived not in houses, but in caves among the hills, and they had no king and no laws, and did not plough or sow, but wheat and vines grew wild, and they kept great flocks of sheep. there was a beautiful wild desert island lying across the opening of a bay; the isle was full of wild goats, and made a bar against the waves, so that ships could lie behind it safely, run up on the beach, for there was no tide in that sea. there ulysses ran up his ships, and the men passed the time in hunting wild goats, and feasting on fresh meat and the wine of maron, the priest of apollo. next day ulysses left all the ships and men there, except his own ship, and his own crew, and went to see what kind of people lived on the mainland, for as yet none had been seen. he found a large cave close to the sea, with laurels growing on the rocky roof, and a wall of rough stones built round a court in front. ulysses left all his men but twelve with the ship; filled a goat skin with the strong wine of maron, put some corn flour in a sack, and went up to the cave. nobody was there, but there were all the things that are usually in a dairy, baskets full of cheese, pails and bowls full of milk and whey, and kids and lambs were playing in their folds. all seemed very quiet and pleasant. the men wanted to take as much cheese as they could carry back to the ship, but ulysses wished to see the owner of the cave. his men, making themselves at home, lit a fire, and toasted and ate the cheeses, far within the cave. then a shadow thrown by the setting sun fell across the opening of the cave, and a monstrous man entered, and threw down a dry trunk of a tree that he carried for firewood. next he drove in the ewes of his flock, leaving the rams in the yard, and he picked up a huge flat stone, and set it so as to make a shut door to the cave, for twenty-four yoke of horses could not have dragged away that stone. lastly the man milked his ewes, and put the milk in pails to drink at supper. all this while ulysses and his men sat quiet and in great fear, for they were shut up in a cave with a one-eyed giant, whose cheese they had been eating. then the giant, when he had lit the fire, happened to see the men, and asked them who they were. ulysses said that they were greeks, who had taken troy, and were wandering lost on the seas, and he asked the man to be kind to them in the name of their chief god, zeus. 'we cyclopes,' said the giant, 'do not care for zeus or the gods, for we think that we are better men than they. where is your ship?' ulysses answered that it had been wrecked on the coast, to which the man made no answer, but snatched up two of the twelve, knocked out their brains on the floor, tore the bodies limb from limb, roasted them at his fire, ate them, and, after drinking many pailfuls of milk, lay down and fell asleep. now ulysses had a mind to drive his sword-point into the giant's liver, and he felt for the place with his hand. but he remembered that, even if he killed the giant, he could not move the huge stone that was the door of the cave, so he and his men would die of hunger, when they had eaten all the cheeses. in the morning the giant ate two more men for breakfast, drove out his ewes, and set the great stone in the doorway again, as lightly as a man would put a quiverlid on a quiver of arrows. then away he went, driving his flock to graze on the green hills. ulysses did not give way to despair. the giant had left his stick in the cave: it was as large as the mast of a great ship. from this ulysses cut a portion six feet long, and his men cut and rubbed as if they were making a spear shaft: ulysses then sharpened it to a point, and hardened the point in the fire. it was a thick rounded bar of wood, and the men cast lots to choose four, who should twist the bar in the giant's eye when he fell asleep at night. back he came at sunset, and drove his flocks into the cave, rams and all. then he put up his stone door, milked his ewes, and killed two men and cooked them. ulysses meanwhile had filled one of the wooden ivy bowls full of the strong wine of maron, without putting a drop of water into it. this bowl he offered to the giant, who had never heard of wine. he drank one bowl after another, and when he was merry he said that he would make ulysses a present. 'what is your name?' he asked. 'my name is _nobody_,' said ulysses. 'then i shall eat the others first and nobody last,' said the giant. 'that shall be your gift.' then he fell asleep. ulysses took his bar of wood, and made the point red-hot in the fire. next his four men rammed it into the giant's one eye, and held it down, while ulysses twirled it round, and the eye hissed like red-hot iron when men dip it into cold water, which is the strength of iron. the cyclops roared and leaped to his feet, and shouted for help to the other giants who lived in the neighbouring caves. 'who is troubling you, polyphemus,' they answered. 'why do you wake us out of our sleep?' the giant answered, 'nobody is killing me by his cunning, not at all in fair fight.' 'then if nobody is harming you nobody can help you,' shouted a giant. 'if you are ill pray to your father, poseidon, who is the god of the sea.' so the giants all went back to bed, and ulysses laughed low to see how his cunning had deceived them. then the giant went and took down his door and sat in the doorway, stretching out his arms, so as to catch his prisoners as they went out. but ulysses had a plan. he fastened sets of three rams together with twisted withies, and bound a man to each ram in the middle, so that the blind giant's hands would only feel the two outside rams. the biggest and strongest ram ulysses seized, and held on by his hands and feet to its fleece, under its belly, and then all the sheep, went out through the doorway, and the giant felt them, but did not know that they were carrying out the men. 'dear ram!' he said to the biggest, which carried ulysses, 'you do not come out first, as usual, but last, as if you were slow with sorrow for your master, whose eye nobody has blinded!' then all the rams went out into the open country, and ulysses unfastened his men, and drove the sheep down to his ship and so on board. his crew wept when they heard of the death of six of their friends, but ulysses made them row out to sea. when he was just so far away from the cave as to be within hearing distance he shouted at the cyclops and mocked him. then that giant broke off the rocky peak of a great hill and threw it in the direction of the sound. the rock fell in front of the ship, and raised a wave that drove it back to shore, but ulysses punted it off with a long pole, and his men rowed out again, far out. ulysses again shouted to the giant, 'if any one asks who blinded you, say that it was ulysses, laertes' son, of ithaca, the stormer of cities.' then the giant prayed to the sea god, his father, that ulysses might never come home, or if he did, that he might come late and lonely, with loss of all his men, and find sorrow in his house. then the giant heaved and threw another rock, but it fell at the stern of the ship, and the wave drove the ship further out to sea, to the shore of the island. there ulysses and his men landed, and killed some of the giant's sheep, and took supper, and drank wine. but the sea god heard the prayer of his son the blind giant. ulysses and his men sailed on, in what direction and for how long we do not know, till they saw far off an island that shone in the sea. when they came nearer they found that it had a steep cuff of bronze, with a palace on the top. here lived aeolus, the king of the winds, with his six sons and six daughters. he received ulysses kindly on his island, and entertained him for a whole month. then he gave him a leather bag, in which he had bound the ways of all the noisy winds. this bag was fastened with a silver cord, and aeolus left no wind out except the west wind, which would blow ulysses straight home to ithaca. where he was we cannot guess, except that he was to the west of his own island. so they sailed for nine days and nights towards the east, and ulysses always held the helm and steered, but on the tenth day he fell asleep. then his men said to each other, 'what treasure is it that he keeps in the leather bag, a present from king aeolus? no doubt the bag is full of gold and silver, while we have only empty hands.' so they opened the bag when they were so near ithaca that they could see people lighting fires on the shore. then out rushed all the winds, and carried the ship into unknown seas, and when ulysses woke he was so miserable that he had a mind to drown himself. but he was of an enduring heart, and he lay still, and the ship came back to the isle of aeolus, who cried, 'away with you! you are the most luckless of living men: you must be hated by the gods.' thus aeolus drove them away, and they sailed for seven days and nights, till they saw land, and came to a harbour with a narrow entrance, and with tall steep rocks on either side. the other eleven ships sailed into the haven, but ulysses did not venture in; he fastened his ship to a rock at the outer end of the harbour. the place must have been very far north, for, as it was summer, the sun had hardly set till dawn began again, as it does in norway and iceland, where there are many such narrow harbours within walls of rock. these places are called _fiords_. ulysses sent three men to spy out the country, and at a well outside the town they met a damsel drawing water; she was the child of the king of the people, the laestrygonians. the damsel led them to her father's house; he was a giant and seized one of the men of ulysses, meaning to kill and eat him. the two other men fled to the ships, but the laestrygonians ran along the tops of the cliffs and threw down great rocks, sinking the vessels and killing the sailors. when ulysses saw this he drew his sword and cut the cable that fastened his ship to the rock outside the harbour, and his crew rowed for dear life and so escaped, weeping for the death of their friends. thus the prayer of the blind cyclops was being fulfilled, for now out of twelve ships ulysses had but one left. ii the enchantress circe, the land of the dead, the sirens on they sailed till they came to an island, and there they landed. what the place was they did not know, but it was called aeaea, and here lived circe, the enchantress, sister of the wizard king Ã�êtes, who was the lord of the fleece of gold, that jason won from him by help of the king's daughter, medea. for two days ulysses and his men lay on land beside their ship, which they anchored in a bay of the island. on the third morning ulysses took his sword and spear, and climbed to the top of a high hill, whence he saw the smoke rising out of the wood where circe had her palace. he thought of going to the house, but it seemed better to return to his men and send some of them to spy out the place. since the adventure of the cyclops ulysses did not care to risk himself among unknown people, and for all that he knew there might be man-eating giants on the island. so he went back, and, as he came to the bank of the river, he found a great red deer drinking under the shadow of the green boughs. he speared the stag, and, tying his feet together, slung the body from his neck, and so, leaning on his spear, he came to his fellows. glad they were to see fresh venison, which they cooked, and so dined with plenty of wine. next morning ulysses divided his men into two companies, eurylochus led one company and he himself the other. then they put two marked pieces of wood, one for eurylochus, one for ulysses, in a helmet, to decide who should go to the house in the wood. they shook the helmet, and the lot of eurylochus leaped out, and, weeping for fear, he led his twenty-two men away into the forest. ulysses and the other twenty-two waited, and, when eurylochus came back alone, he was weeping, and unable to speak for sorrow. at last he told his story: they had come to the beautiful house of circe, within the wood, and tame wolves and lions were walking about in front of the house. they wagged their tails, and jumped up, like friendly dogs, round the men of ulysses, who stood in the gateway and heard circe singing in a sweet voice, as she went up and down before the loom at which she was weaving. then one of the men of ulysses called to her, and she came out, a beautiful lady in white robes covered with jewels of gold. she opened the doors and bade them come in, but eurylochus hid himself and watched, and saw circe and her maidens mix honey and wine for the men, and bid them sit down on chairs at tables, but, when they had drunk of her cup, she touched them with her wand. then they were all changed into swine, and circe drove them out and shut them up in the styes. when ulysses heard that he slung his sword-belt round his shoulders, seized his bow, and bade eurylochus come back with him to the house of circe; but eurylochus was afraid. alone went ulysses through the woods, and in a dell he met a most beautiful young man, who took his hand and said, 'unhappy one! how shalt thou free thy friends from so great an enchantress?' then the young man plucked a plant from the ground; the flower was as white as milk, but the root was black: it is a plant that men may not dig up, but to the gods all things are easy, and the young man was the cunning god hermes, whom autolycus, the grandfather of ulysses, used to worship. 'take this herb of grace,' he said, 'and when circe has made thee drink of the cup of her enchantments the herb will so work that they shall have no power over thee. then draw thy sword, and rush at her, and make her swear that she will not harm thee with her magic.' then hermes departed, and ulysses went to the house of circe, and she asked him to enter, and seated him on a chair, and gave him the enchanted cup to drink, and then smote him with her wand and bade him go to the styes of the swine. but ulysses drew his sword, and circe, with a great cry, fell at his feet, saying, 'who art thou on whom the cup has no power? truly thou art ulysses of ithaca, for the god hermes has told me that he should come to my island on his way from troy. come now, fear not; let us be friends!' [illustration: circe sends the swine (the companions of ulysses) to the styes.] then the maidens of circe came to them, fairy damsels of the wells and woods and rivers. they threw covers of purple silk over the chairs, and on the silver tables they placed golden baskets, and mixed wine in a silver bowl, and heated water, and bathed ulysses in a polished bath, and clothed him in new raiment, and led him to the table and bade him eat and drink. but he sat silent, neither eating nor drinking, in sorrow for his company, till circe called them out from the styes and disenchanted them. glad they were to see ulysses, and they embraced him, and wept for joy. so they went back to their friends at the ship, and told them how circe would have them all to live with her; but eurylochus tried to frighten them, saying that she would change them into wolves and lions. ulysses drew his sword to cut off the head of eurylochus for his cowardice, but the others prayed that he might be left alone to guard the ship. so ulysses left him; but eurylochus had not the courage to be alone, and slunk behind them to the house of circe. there she welcomed them all, and gave them a feast, and there they dwelt for a whole year, and then they wearied for their wives and children, and longed to return to ithaca. they did not guess by what a strange path they must sail. when ulysses was alone with circe at night he told her that his men were home-sick, and would fain go to ithaca. then circe said, 'there is no way but this: you must sail to the last shore of the stream of the river oceanus, that girdles round the world. there is the land of the dead, and the house of hades and persephone, the king and queen of the ghosts. there you must call up the ghost of the blind prophet, tiresias of thebes, for he alone has knowledge of your way, and the other spirits sweep round shadow-like.' then ulysses thought that his heart would break, for how should he, a living man, go down to the awful dwellings of the dead? but circe told him the strange things that he must do, and she gave him a black ram and a black ewe, and next day ulysses called his men together. all followed him to the ship, except one, elpenor. he had been sleeping, for the sake of the cool air, on the flat roof of the house, and, when suddenly wakened, he missed his foothold on the tall ladder, and fell to the ground and broke his neck. they left him unburned and unburied, and, weeping, they followed ulysses, as follow they must, to see the homes of the ghosts and the house of hades. very sorrowfully they all went on board, taking with them the black ram and the black ewe, and they set the sails, and the wind bore them at its will. now in mid-day they sailed out of the sunlight into darkness, for they had come to the land of the cimmerian men, which the sun never sees, but all is dark cloud and mist. there they ran the ship ashore, and took out the two black sheep, and walked along the dark banks of the river oceanus to a place of which circe had told ulysses. there the two rivers of the dead meet, where a rock divides the two dark roaring streams. there they dug a trench and poured out mead, and wine, and water, and prayed to the ghosts, and then they cut the throat of the black ewe, and the grey ghosts gathered to smell the blood. pale spectres came, spirits of brides who died long ago, and youths unwed, and old unhappy men; and many phantoms were there of men who fell in battle, with shadowy spears in their hands, and battered armour. then ulysses sacrificed the black ram to the ghost of the prophet tiresias, and sat down with his sword in his hand, that no spirit before tiresias might taste the blood in the trench. first the spirit of elpenor came, and begged ulysses to burn his body, for till his body was burned he was not allowed to mingle with the other souls of dead men. so ulysses promised to burn and bury him when he went back to circe's island. then came the shadow of the mother of ulysses, who had died when he was at troy, but, for all his grief, he would not allow the shadow to come near the blood till tiresias had tasted it. at length came the spirit of the blind prophet, and he prayed ulysses to sheathe his sword and let him drink the blood of the black sheep. when he had tasted it he said that the sea god was angry because of the blinding of his son, the cyclops, and would make his voyaging vain. but if the men of ulysses were wise, and did not slay and eat the sacred cattle of the sun god, in the isle called thrinacia, they might all win home. if they were unwise, and if ulysses did come home, lonely and late he would arrive, on the ship of strangers, and he would find proud men wasting his goods and seeking to wed his wife, penelope. even if ulysses alone could kill these men his troubles would not be ended. he must wander over the land, as he had wandered over the waters, carrying an oar on his shoulder, till he came to men who had never heard of the sea or of boats. when one of these men, not knowing what an oar was, came and told him that he carried a fan for winnowing corn, then ulysses must fix the oar in the ground, and offer a sacrifice to the sea god, and go home, where he would at last live in peace. ulysses said, 'so be it!' and asked how he could have speech with the ghosts. tiresias told him how this might be done, and then his mother told him how she died of sorrow for him, and ulysses tried to embrace and kiss her, but his arms only clasped the empty air. then came up the beautiful spirits of many dead, unhappy ladies of old times, and then came the souls of agamemnon, and of achilles, and of aias. achilles was glad when he heard how bravely his young son had fought at troy, but he said it was better to be the servant of a poor farmer on earth than to rule over all the ghosts of the dead in the still grey land where the sun never shone, and no flowers grew but the mournful asphodel. many other spirits of greeks slain at troy came and asked for news about their friends, but aias stood apart and silent, still in anger because the arms of achilles had been given to ulysses. in vain ulysses told him that the greeks had mourned as much for him as for achilles; he passed silently away into the house of hades. at last the legions of the innumerable dead, all that have died since the world began, flocked, and filled the air with their low wailing cries, and fear fell on ulysses, and he went back along that sad last shore of the world's end to his ship, and sailed again out of the darkness into the sunlight, and to the isle of circe. there they burned the body of elpenor, and piled a mound over it, and on the mound set the oar of the dead man, and so went to the palace of circe. ulysses told circe all his adventures, and then she warned him of dangers yet to come, and showed him how he might escape them. he listened, and remembered all that she spoke, and these two said good-bye for ever. circe wandered away alone into the woods, and ulysses and his men set sail and crossed the unknown seas. presently the wind fell, and the sea was calm, and they saw a beautiful island from which came the sound of sweet singing. ulysses knew who the singers were, for circe had told him that they were the sirens, a kind of beautiful mermaids, deadly to men. among the flowers they sit and sing, but the flowers hide the bones of men who have listened and landed on the island, and died of that strange music, which carries the soul away. ulysses now took a great cake of bees' wax and cut it up into small pieces, which he bade his men soften and place in their ears, that they might not hear that singing. but, as he desired to hear it and yet live, he bade the sailors bind him tightly to the mast with ropes, and they must not unbind him, however much he might implore them to set him free. when all this was done the men sat down on the benches, all orderly, and smote the grey sea with their oars, and the ship rushed along through the clear still water, and came opposite the island. then the sweet singing of the sirens was borne over the sea, 'hither, come hither, renowned ulysses, great glory of the achaean name. here stay thy ship, that thou mayest listen to our song. never has any man driven his ship past our island till he has heard our voices, sweet as the honeycomb; gladly he has heard, and wiser has he gone on his way. hither, come hither, for we know all things, all that the greeks wrought and endured in troyland, all that shall hereafter be upon the fruitful earth.' thus they sang, offering ulysses all knowledge and wisdom, which they knew that he loved more than anything in the world. to other men, no doubt, they would have offered other pleasures. ulysses desired to listen, and he nodded to his men to loosen his bonds. but perimedes and eurylochus arose, and laid on him yet stronger bonds, and the ship was driven past that island, till the song of the sirens faded away, and then the men set ulysses free and took the wax out of their ears. iii the whirlpool, the sea monster, and the cattle of the sun they had not sailed far when they heard the sea roaring, and saw a great wave, over which hung a thick shining cloud of spray. they had drifted to a place where the sea narrowed between two high black rocks: under the rock on the left was a boiling whirlpool in which no ship could live; the opposite rock showed nothing dangerous, but ulysses had been warned by circe that here too lay great peril. we may ask, why did ulysses pass through the narrows between these two rocks? why did he not steer on the outer side of one or the other? the reason seems to have been that, on the outer side of these cliffs, were the tall reefs which men called the rocks wandering. between them the sea water leaped in high columns of white foam, and the rocks themselves rushed together, grinding and clashing, while fire flew out of the crevices and crests as from a volcano. circe had told ulysses about the rocks wandering, which do not even allow flocks of doves to pass through them; even one of the doves is always caught and crushed, and no ship of men escapes that tries to pass that way, and the bodies of the sailors and the planks of the ships are confusedly tossed by the waves of the sea and the storms of ruinous fire. of all ships that ever sailed the sea only 'argo,' the ship of jason, has escaped the rocks wandering, as you may read in the story of the fleece of gold. for these reasons ulysses was forced to steer between the rock of the whirlpool and the rock which seemed harmless. in the narrows between these two cliffs the sea ran like a rushing river, and the men, in fear, ceased to hold the oars, and down the stream the oars plashed in confusion. but ulysses, whom circe had told of this new danger, bade them grasp the oars again and row hard. he told the man at the helm to steer under the great rocky cliff, on the right, and to keep clear of the whirlpool and the cloud of spray on the left. well he knew the danger of the rock on the left, for within it was a deep cave, where a monster named scylla lived, yelping with a shrill voice out of her six hideous heads. each head hung down from a long, thin, scaly neck, and in each mouth were three rows of greedy teeth, and twelve long feelers, with claws at the ends of them, dropped down, ready to catch at men. there in her cave scylla sits, fishing with her feelers for dolphins and other great fish, and for men, if any men sail by that way. against this deadly thing none may fight, for she cannot be slain with the spear.[a] [a. there is a picture of this monster attacking a man in a boat. the picture was painted centuries before the time of ulysses.] all this ulysses knew, for circe had warned him. but he also knew that on the other side of the strait, where the sea spray for ever flew high above the rock, was a whirlpool, called charybdis, which would swallow up his ship if it came within the current, while scylla could only catch some of his men. for this reason he bade the helmsman to steer close to the rock of scylla, and he did not tell the sailors that she lurked there with her body hidden in her deep cave. he himself put on his armour, and took two spears, and went and stood in the raised half deck at the front of the ship, thinking that, at least, he would have a stroke at scylla. then they rowed down the swift sea stream, while the wave of the whirlpool now rose up, till the spray hid the top of the rock, and now fell, and bubbled with black sand. they were watching the whirlpool, when out from the hole in the cliff sprang the six heads of scylla, and up into the air went six of ulysses' men, each calling to him, as they were swept within her hole in the rock, where she devoured them. 'this was the most pitiful thing,' ulysses said, 'that my eyes have seen, of all my sorrows in searching out the paths of the sea.' the ship swept through the roaring narrows between the rock of scylla and the whirlpool of charybdis, into the open sea, and the men, weary and heavy of heart, bent over their oars, and longed for rest. now a place of rest seemed near at hand, for in front of the ship lay a beautiful island, and the men could hear the bleating of sheep and the lowing of cows as they were being herded into their stalls. but ulysses remembered that, in the land of the dead, the ghost of the blind prophet had warned him of one thing. if his men killed and ate the cattle of the sun, in the sacred island of thrinacia, they would all perish. so ulysses told his crew of this prophecy, and bade them row past the island. eurylochus was angry and said that the men were tired, and could row no further, but must land, and take supper, and sleep comfortably on shore. on hearing eurylochus, the whole crew shouted and said that they would go no further that night, and ulysses had no power to compel them. he could only make them swear not to touch the cattle of the sun god, which they promised readily enough, and so went ashore, took supper, and slept. [illustration: the adventure with scylla.] in the night a great storm arose: the clouds and driving mist blinded the face of the sea and sky, and for a whole month the wild south wind hurled the waves on the coast, and no ship of these times could venture out in the tempest. meanwhile the crew ate up all the stores in the ship, and finished the wine, so that they were driven to catch sea birds and fishes, of which they took but few, the sea being so rough upon the rocks. ulysses went up into the island alone, to pray to the gods, and when he had prayed he found a sheltered place, and there he fell asleep. eurylochus took the occasion, while ulysses was away, to bid the crew seize and slay the sacred cattle of the sun god, which no man might touch, and this they did, so that, when ulysses wakened, and came near the ship, he smelled the roast meat, and knew what had been done. he rebuked the men, but, as the cattle were dead, they kept eating them for six days; and then the storm ceased, the wind fell, the sun shone, and they set the sails, and away they went. but this evil deed was punished, for when they were out of sight of land, a great thunder cloud overshadowed them, the wind broke the mast, which crushed the head of the helmsman, the lightning struck the ship in the centre; she reeled, the men fell overboard, and the heads of the crew floated a moment, like cormorants, above the waves. but ulysses had kept hold of a rope, and, when the vessel righted, he walked the deck till a wave stripped off all the tackling, and loosened the sides from the keel. ulysses had only time to lash the broken mast with a rope to the keel, and sit on this raft with his feet in the water, while the south wind rose again furiously, and drove the raft back till it came under the rock where was the whirlpool of charybdis. here ulysses would have been drowned, but he caught at the root of a fig tree that grew on the rock, and there he hung, clinging with his toes to the crumbling stones till the whirlpool boiled up again, and up came the timbers. down on the timbers ulysses dropped, and so sat rowing with his hands, and the wind drifted him at last to a shelving beach of an island. here dwelt a kind of fairy, called calypso, who found ulysses nearly dead on the beach, and was kind to him, and kept him in her cave, where he lived for seven long years, always desiring to leave the beautiful fairy and return to ithaca and his wife penelope. but no ship of men ever came near that isle, which is the central place of all the seas, and he had no ship, and no men to sail and row. calypso was very kind, and very beautiful, being the daughter of the wizard atlas, who holds the two pillars that keep earth and sea asunder. but ulysses was longing to see if it were but the smoke going up from the houses of rocky ithaca, and he had a desire to die. iv how telemachus went to seek his father when ulysses had lived nearly seven years in the island of calypso, his son telemachus, whom he had left in ithaca as a little child, went forth to seek for his father. in ithaca he and his mother, penelope, had long been very unhappy. as ulysses did not come home after the war, and as nothing was heard about him from the day when the greeks sailed from troy, it was supposed that he must be dead. but telemachus was still but a boy of twelve years old, and the father of ulysses, laertes, was very old, and had gone to a farm in the country, where he did nothing but take care of his garden. there was thus no king in ithaca, and the boys, who had been about ten years old when ulysses went to troy, were now grown up, and, as their fathers had gone to the war, they did just as they pleased. twelve of them wanted to marry penelope, and they, with about a hundred others as wild as themselves, from the neighbouring islands, by way of paying court to penelope ate and drank all day at her house. they killed the cattle, sheep, and swine; they drank the wine, and amused themselves with penelope's maidens, of whom she had many. nobody could stop them; they would never go away, they said, till penelope chose one of them to be her husband, and king of the island, though telemachus was the rightful prince. penelope at last promised that she would choose one of them when she had finished a great shroud of linen, to be the death shroud of old laertes when he died. all day she wove it, but at night, when her wooers had gone (for they did not sleep in her house), she unwove it again. but one of her maidens told this to the wooers, so she had to finish the shroud, and now they pressed her more than ever to make her choice. but she kept hoping that ulysses was still alive, and would return, though, if he did, how was he to turn so many strong young men out of his house? the goddess of wisdom, athênê, had always favoured ulysses, and now she spoke up among the gods, where they sat, as men say, in their holy heaven. not by winds is it shaken, nor wet with rain, nor does the snow come thither, but clear air is spread about it cloudless, and the white light floats over it. athênê told how good, wise, and brave ulysses was, and how he was kept in the isle of calypso, while men ruined his wealth and wooed his wife. she said that she would herself go to ithaca, and make telemachus appeal to all the people of the country, showing how evilly he was treated, and then sail abroad to seek news of his father. so athênê spoke, and flashed down from olympus to ithaca, where she took the shape of a mortal man, mentes, a chief of the taphians. in front of the doors she found the proud wooers playing at draughts and other games while supper was being made ready. when telemachus, who was standing apart, saw the stranger, he went to him, and led him into the house, and treated him kindly, while the wooers ate and drank, and laughed noisily. then telemachus told athênê (or, as he supposed, the stranger), how evilly he was used, while his father's white bones might be wasting on an unknown shore or rolling in the billows of the salt sea. athênê said, or mentes said, that he himself was an old friend of ulysses, and had touched at ithaca on his way to cyprus to buy copper. 'but ulysses,' he said, 'is not dead; he will certainly come home, and that speedily. you are so like him, you must be his son.' telemachus replied that he was, and mentes was full of anger, seeing how the wooers insulted him, and told him first to complain to an assembly of all the people, and then to take a ship, and go seeking news of ulysses. then athênê departed, and next day telemachus called an assembly, and spoke to the people, but though they were sorry for him they could not help him. one old man, however, a prophet, said that ulysses would certainly come home, but the wooers only threatened and insulted him. in the evening athênê came again, in the appearance of mentor, not the same man as mentes, but an ithacan, and a friend of ulysses. she encouraged telemachus to take a ship, with twenty oarsmen, and he told the wooers that he was going to see menelaus and nestor, and ask tidings of his father. they only mocked him, but he made all things ready for his voyage without telling his mother. it was old eurycleia, who had been his nurse and his father's nurse, that brought him wine and food for his journey; and at night, when the sea wind wakens in summer, he and mentor went on board, and all night they sailed, and at noon next day they reached pylos on the sea sands, the city of nestor the old. nestor received them gladly, and so did his sons, pisistratus and thrasymedes, who fought at troy, and next day, when mentor had gone, pisistratus and telemachus drove together, up hill and down dale, a two days' journey, to lacedaemon, lying beneath mount taygetus on the bank of the clear river eurotas. not one of the greeks had seen ulysses since the day when they all sailed from troy, yet menelaus, in a strange way, was able to tell telemachus that his father still lived, and was with calypso on a lonely island, the centre of all the seas. we shall see how menelaus knew this. when telemachus and pisistratus came, he was giving a feast, and called them to his table. it would not have been courteous to ask them who they were till they had been bathed and clothed in fresh raiment, and had eaten and drunk. after dinner, menelaus saw how much telemachus admired his house, and the flashing of light from the walls, which were covered with bronze panels, and from the cups of gold, and the amber and ivory and silver. such things telemachus had never seen in ithaca. noticing his surprise, menelaus said that he had brought many rich things from troy, after eight years wandering to cyprus, and phoenicia, and egypt, and even to libya, on the north coast of africa. yet he said that, though he was rich and fortunate, he was unhappy when he remembered the brave men who had died for his sake at troy. but above all he was miserable for the loss of the best of them all, ulysses, who was so long unheard of, and none knew whether, at that hour, he was alive or dead. at these words telemachus hid his face in his purple mantle and shed tears, so that menelaus guessed who he was, but he said nothing. then came into the hall, from her own fragrant chamber, helen of the fair hands, as beautiful as ever she had been, her bower maidens carrying her golden distaff, with which she span, and a silver basket to hold her wool, for the white hands of helen were never idle. helen knew telemachus by his likeness to his father, ulysses, and when she said this to menelaus, pisistratus overheard her, and told how telemachus had come to them seeking for news of his father. menelaus was much moved in his heart, and helen no less, when they saw the son of ulysses, who had been the most trusty of all their friends. they could not help shedding tears, for pisistratus remembered his dear brother antilochus, whom memnon slew in battle at troy, memnon the son of the bright dawn. but helen wished to comfort them, and she brought a drug of magical virtue, which polydamna, the wife of thon, king of egypt had given to her. this drug lulls all pain and anger, and brings forgetfulness of every sorrow, and helen poured it from a golden vial into the mixing bowl of gold, and they drank the wine and were comforted. then helen told telemachus what great deeds ulysses did at troy, and how he crept into the town disguised as a beggar, and came to her house, when he stole the luck of troy. menelaus told how ulysses kept him and the other princes quiet in the horse of tree, when deiphobus made helen call to them all in the very voices of their own wives, and to telemachus it was great joy to hear of his father's courage and wisdom. next day telemachus showed to menelaus how hardly he and his mother were treated by the proud wooers, and menelaus prayed that ulysses might come back to ithaca, and slay the wooers every one. 'but as to what you ask me,' he said, 'i will tell you all that i have heard about your father. in my wanderings after i sailed from troy the storm winds kept me for three weeks in the island called pharos, a day's voyage from the mouth of the river "Ã�gyptus"' (which is the old name of the nile). 'we were almost starving, for our food was done, and my crew went round the shores, fishing with hook and line. now in that isle lives a goddess, the daughter of proteus, the old man of the sea. she advised me that if i could but catch her father when he came out of the sea to sleep on the shore he would tell me everything that i needed to know. at noonday he was used to come out, with all his flock of seals round him, and to sleep among them on the sands. if i could seize him, she said, he would turn into all manner of shapes in my hands: beasts, and serpents, and burning fire; but at last he would appear in his own shape, and answer all my questions. 'so the goddess spoke, and she dug hiding places in the sands for me and three of my men, and covered us with the skins of seals. at noonday the old man came out with his seals, and counted them, beginning with us, and then he lay down and fell asleep. then we leaped up and rushed at him and gripped him fast. he turned into the shapes of a lion, and of a leopard, of a snake, and a huge boar; then he was running water, and next he was a tall, blossoming tree. but we held him firmly, and at last he took his own shape, and told me that i should never have a fair wind till i had sailed back into the river Ã�gyptus and sacrificed there to the gods in heaven. then i asked him for news about my brother, agamemnon, and he told me how my brother was slain in his own hall, and how aias was drowned in the sea. lastly, he told me about ulysses: how he was kept on a lonely island by the fairy calypso, and was unhappy, and had no ship and no crew to escape and win home.' this was all that menelaus could tell telemachus, who stayed with menelaus for a month. all that time the wooers lay in wait for him, with a ship, in a narrow strait which they thought he must sail through on his way back to ithaca. in that strait they meant to catch him and kill him. v how ulysses escaped from the island of calypso now the day after menelaus told telemachus that ulysses was still a living man, the gods sent hermes to calypso. so hermes bound on his feet his fair golden sandals, that wax not old, and bear him, alike over wet sea and dry land, as swift as the wind. along the crests of the waves he flew, like the cormorant that chases fishes through the sea deeps, with his plumage wet in the sea brine. he reached the island, and went up to the cave of calypso, wherein dwelt the nymph of the braided tresses, and he found her within. and on the hearth there was a great fire burning, and from afar, through the isle, was smelt the fragrance of cleft cedar blazing, and of sandal wood. and the nymph within was singing with a sweet voice as she fared to and fro before the loom, and wove with a shuttle of gold. all round about the cave there was a wood blossoming, alder and poplar and sweet smelling cypress. therein roosted birds long of wing--owls and falcons and chattering sea-crows, which have their business in the waters. and lo! there, about the hollow cave, trailed a gadding garden vine, all rich with clusters. and fountains, four set orderly, were running with clear water hard by one another, turned each to his own course. around soft meadows bloomed of violets and parsley; yea, even a deathless god who came thither might wonder at the sight and be glad at heart. there the messenger, the slayer of argos, stood and wondered. now when he had gazed at all with wonder, he went into the wide cave; nor did calypso, that fair goddess, fail to know him when she saw him face to face; for the gods use not to be strange one to another, not though one have his habitation far away. but he found not ulysses, the great-hearted, within the cave, who sat weeping on the shore even as aforetime, straining his soul with tears and groans and griefs, and as he wept he looked wistfully over the unharvested deep. and calypso, that fair goddess, questioned hermes, when she had made him sit on a bright shining star: 'wherefore, i pray thee, hermes of the golden wand, hast thou come hither, worshipful and welcome, whereas as of old thou wert not wont to visit me? tell me all thy thought; my heart is set on fulfilling it, if fulfil it i may, and if it hath been fulfilled in the counsel of fate. but now follow me further, that i may set before thee the entertainment of strangers.' therewith the goddess spread a table with ambrosia and set it by him, and mixed the ruddy nectar. so the messenger, the slayer of argos, did eat and drink. now after he had supped and comforted his soul with food, at the last he answered, and spake to her on this wise: 'thou makest question of me on my coming, a goddess of a god, and i will tell thee this my saying truly, at thy command. 'twas zeus that bade me come hither, by no will of mine; nay, who of his free will would speed over such a wondrous space of sea whereby is no city of mortals that do sacrifice to the gods. he saith that thou hast with thee a man most wretched beyond his fellows, beyond those men that round the city of priam for nine years fought, and in the tenth year sacked the city and departed homeward. yet on the way they sinned against athênê, and she raised upon them an evil blast and long waves of the sea. then all the rest of his good company was lost, but it came to pass that the wind bare and the wave brought him hither. and now zeus biddeth thee send him hence with what speed thou mayest, for it is not ordained that he die away from his friends, but rather it is his fate to look on them even yet, and to come to his high-roofed home and his own country.' [illustration: calypso takes pity on ulysses.] so spake he, and calypso, that fair goddess, shuddered and spake unto him: 'hard are ye gods and jealous exceeding, who ever grudge goddesses openly to mate with men. him i saved as he went all alone bestriding the keel of a bark, for that zeus had crushed and cleft his swift ship with a white bolt in the midst of the wine-dark deep. there all the rest of his good company was lost, but it came to pass that the wind bare and the wave brought him hither. and him have i loved and cherished, and i said that i would make him to know not death and age for ever. but i will give him no despatch, not i, for i have no ships by me with oars, nor company to bear him on his way over the broad back of the sea. yet will i be forward to put this in his mind, and will hide nought, that all unharmed he may come to his own country.' then the messenger, the slayer of argos, answered her: 'yea, speed him now upon his path and have regard unto the wrath of zeus, lest haply he be angered and bear hard on thee hereafter.' therewith the great slayer of argos departed, but the lady nymph went on her way to the great-hearted ulysses, when she had heard the message of zeus. and there she found him sitting on the shore, and his eyes were never dry of tears, and his sweet life was ebbing away as he mourned for his return. in the daytime he would sit on the rocks and on the beach, straining his soul with tears, and groans, and griefs, and through his tears he would look wistfully over the unharvested deep. so, standing near him, that fair goddess spake to him: 'hapless man, sorrow no more i pray thee in this isle, nor let thy good life waste away, for even now will i send thee hence with all my heart. nay, arise and cut long beams, and fashion a wide raft with the axe, and lay deckings high thereupon, that it may bear thee over the misty deep. and i will place therein bread and water, and red wine to thy heart's desire, to keep hunger far away. and i will put raiment upon thee, and send a fair gale, that so thou mayest come all unharmed to thine own country, if indeed it be the good pleasure of the gods who hold wide heaven, who are stronger than i am both to will and to do.' then ulysses was glad and sad: glad that the gods took thought for him, and sad to think of crossing alone the wide unsailed seas. calypso said to him: 'so it is indeed thy wish to get thee home to thine own dear country even in this hour? good fortune go with thee even so! yet didst thou know in thine heart what thou art ordained to suffer, or ever thou reach thine own country, here, even here, thou wouldst abide with me and keep this house, and wouldst never taste of death, though thou longest to see thy wife, for whom thou hast ever a desire day by day. not, in sooth, that i avow me to be less noble than she in form or fashion, for it is in no wise meet that mortal women should match them with immortals in shape and comeliness.' and ulysses of many counsels answered, and spake unto her: 'be not wroth with me, goddess and queen. myself i know it well, how wise penelope is meaner to look upon than thou in comeliness and stature. but she is mortal, and thou knowest not age nor death. yet, even so, i wish and long day by day to fare homeward and see the day of my returning. yea, and if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so i will endure, with a heart within me patient of affliction. for already have i suffered full much, and much have i toiled in perils of waves and war; let this be added to the tale of those.' next day calypso brought to ulysses carpenters' tools, and he felled trees, and made a great raft, and a mast, and sails out of canvas. in five days he had finished his raft and launched it, and calypso placed in it skins full of wine and water, and flour and many pleasant things to eat, and so they kissed for that last time and took farewell, he going alone on the wide sea, and she turning lonely to her own home. he might have lived for ever with the beautiful fairy, but he chose to live and die, if he could, with his wife penelope. vi how ulysses was wrecked, yet reached phaeacia as long as the fair wind blew ulysses sat and steered his raft, never seeing land or any ship of men. he kept his eye at night on the great bear, holding it always on his left hand, as calypso taught him. seventeen days he sailed, and on the eighteenth day he saw the shadowy mountain peaks of an island called phaeacia. but now the sea god saw him, and remembered how ulysses had blinded his son the cyclops. in anger he raised a terrible storm: great clouds covered the sky, and all the winds met. ulysses wished that he had died when the trojans gathered round him as he defended the dead body of achilles. for, had he died then, he would have been burned and buried by his friends, but if he were now drowned his ghost would always wander alone on the fringes of the land of the dead, like the ghost of elpenor. as he thought thus, the winds broke the mast of his raft, and the sail and yardarm fell into the sea, and the waves dragged him deep down. at last he rose to the surface and swam after his raft, and climbed on to it, and sat there, while the winds tossed the raft about like a feather. the sea goddess, ino, saw him and pitied him, and rose from the water as a seagull rises after it has dived. she spoke to him, and threw her bright veil to him, saying, 'wind this round your breast, and throw off your clothes. leap from the raft and swim, and, when you reach land, cast the veil back into the sea, and turn away your head.' ulysses caught the veil, and wound it about his breast, but he determined not to leave the raft while the timbers held together. even as he thought thus, the timbers were driven asunder by the waves, and he seized a plank, and sat astride it as a man rides a horse. then the winds fell, all but the north wind, which drifted ulysses on for two days and nights. on the third day all was calm, and the land was very near, and ulysses began to swim towards it, through a terrible surf, which crashed and foamed on sheer rocks, where all his bones would be broken. thrice he clasped a rock, and thrice the back wash of the wave dragged him out to sea. then he swam outside of the breakers, along the line of land, looking for a safe place, and at last he came to the mouth of the river. here all was smooth, with a shelving beach, and his feet touched bottom. he staggered out of the water and swooned away as soon as he was on dry land. when he came to himself he unbound the veil of ino, and cast it into the sea, and fell back, quite spent, among the reeds of the river, naked and starving. he crept between two thick olive trees that grew close together and made a shelter against the wind, and he covered himself all over thickly with fallen dry leaves, till he grew warm again and fell into a deep sleep. while ulysses slept, alone and naked in an unknown land, a dream came to beautiful nausicaa, the daughter of the king of that country, which is called phaeacia. the dream was in the shape of a girl who was a friend of nausicaa, and it said: 'nausicaa, how has your mother such a careless daughter? there are many beautiful garments in the house that need to be washed, against your wedding day, when, as is the custom, you must give mantles and tunics to the guests. let us go a washing to the river to-morrow, taking a car to carry the raiment.' when nausicaa wakened next day she remembered the dream, and went to her father, and asked him to lend her a car to carry the clothes. she said nothing about her marriage day, for though many young princes were in love with her, she was in love with none of them. still, the clothes must be washed, and her father lent her a waggon with a high frame, and mules to drive. the clothes were piled in the car, and food was packed in a basket, every sort of dainty thing, and nausicaa took the reins and drove slowly while many girls followed her, her friends of her own age. they came to a deep clear pool, that overflowed into shallow paved runs of water, and there they washed the clothes, and trod them down in the runlets. next they laid them out to dry in the sun and wind on the pebbles, and then they took their meal of cakes and other good things. when they had eaten they threw down their veils and began to play at ball, at a game like rounders. nausicaa threw the ball at a girl who was running, but missed her, and the ball fell into the deep swift river. all the girls screamed and laughed, and the noise they made wakened ulysses where he lay in the little wood. 'where am i?' he said to himself; 'is this a country of fierce and savage men? a sound of girls at play rings round me. can they be fairies of the hill tops and the rivers, and the water meadows?' as he had no clothes, and the voices seemed to be voices of women, ulysses broke a great leafy bough which hid all his body, but his feet were bare, his face was wild with weariness, and cold, and hunger, and his hair and beard were matted and rough with the salt water. the girls, when they saw such a face peering over the leaves of the bough, screamed, and ran this way and that along the beach. but nausicaa, as became the daughter of the king, stood erect and unafraid, and as ulysses dared not go near and kneel to her, he spoke from a distance and said: 'i pray thee, o queen, whether thou art a goddess or a mortal! if indeed thou art a goddess of them that keep the wide heaven, to artemis, then, the daughter of great zeus, i mainly liken thee for beauty and stature and shapeliness. but if thou art one of the daughters of men who dwell on earth, thrice blessed are thy father and thy lady mother, and thrice blessed thy brethren. surely their souls ever glow with gladness for thy sake each time they see thee entering the dance, so fair a flower of maidens. but he is of heart the most blessed beyond all other who shall prevail with gifts of wooing, and lead thee to his home. never have mine eyes beheld such an one among mortals, neither man nor woman; great awe comes upon me as i look on thee. yet in delos once i saw as goodly a thing: a young sapling of a palm tree springing by the altar of apollo. for thither, too, i went, and much people with me, on that path where my sore troubles were to be. yea! and when i looked thereupon, long time i marvelled in spirit--for never grew there yet so goodly a shoot from ground--even in such wise as i wonder at thee, lady, and am astonished and do greatly fear to touch thy knees, though grievous sorrow is upon me. [illustration: how ulysses met nausicaa.] 'yesterday, on the twentieth day, i escaped from the wine-dark deep, but all that time continually the wave bare me, and the vehement winds drave from the isle ogygia. and now some god has cast me on this shore that here too, methinks, some evil may betide me; for i think not that trouble will cease; the gods ere that time will yet bring many a thing to pass. but, queen, have pity on me, for, after many trials and sore, to thee first of all am i come, and of the other folk, who hold this city and land, i know no man. nay, show me the town; give me an old garment to cast about me, if thou hadst, when thou camest here, any wrap for the linen. and may the gods grant thee all thy heart's desire: a husband and a home, and a mind at one with his may they give--a good gift, for there is nothing mightier and nobler than when man and wife are of one heart and mind in a house, a grief to their foes, and to their friends great joy, but their own hearts know it best.' then nausicaa of the white arms, answered him, and said: 'stranger, as thou seemest no evil man nor foolish--and it is olympian zeus himself that giveth weal to men, to the good and to the evil, to each one as he will, and this thy lot doubtless is of him, and so thou must in anywise endure it--now, since thou hast come to our city and our land, thou shalt not lack raiment nor aught else that is the due of a hapless suppliant when he has met them who can befriend him. and i will show thee the town, and name the name of the people. the phaeacians hold this city and land, and i am the daughter of alcinous, great of heart, on whom all the might and force of the phaeacians depend.' thus she spake, and called to her maidens of the fair tresses: 'halt, my maidens, whither flee ye at the sight of a man? ye surely do not take him for an enemy? that mortal breathes not, and never will be born, who shall come with war to the land of the phaeacians, for they are very dear to the gods. far apart we live in the wash of the waves, the outermost of men, and no other mortals are conversant with us. nay, but this man is some helpless one come hither in his wanderings, whom now we must kindly entreat, for all strangers and beggars are from zeus, and a little gift is dear. so, my maidens, give the stranger meat and drink, and bathe him in the river, where there is a shelter from the winds.' so she spake, but they halted and called each to the other, and they brought ulysses to the sheltered place, and made him sit down, as nausiaca bade them, the daughter of alcinous, high of heart. beside him they laid a mantle and a doublet for raiment, and gave him soft olive oil in the golden cruse, and bade him wash in the streams of the river. then goodly ulysses spake among the maidens, saying: 'i pray you stand thus apart while i myself wash the brine from my shoulders, and anoint me with olive oil, for truly oil is long a stranger to my skin. but in your sight i will not bathe, for i am ashamed to make me naked in the company of fair-tressed maidens.' then they went apart and told all to their lady. but with the river water the goodly ulysses washed from his skin the salt scurf that covered his back and broad shoulders, and from his head he wiped the crusted brine of the barren sea. but when he had washed his whole body, and anointed him with olive oil, and had clad himself in the raiment that the unwedded maiden gave him, then athênê, the daughter of zeus, made him greater and more mighty to behold, and from his head caused deep curling locks to flow, like the hyacinth flower. and, as when some skilful man overlays gold upon silver--one that hephaestus and pallas athênê have taught all manner of craft, and full of grace is his handiwork--even so did athênê shed grace about his head and shoulders. then to the shore of the sea went ulysses apart, and sat down, glowing in beauty and grace, and the princess marvelled at him, and spake among her fair-tressed maidens, saying: 'listen, my white-armed maidens, and i will say somewhat. not without the will of all the gods who hold olympus has this man come among the godlike phaeacians. erewhile he seemed to me uncomely, but now he is like the gods that keep the wide heaven. would that such an one might be called my husband, dwelling here, and that it might please him here to abide! but come, my maidens, give the stranger meat and drink.' thus she spake, and they gave ready ear and hearkened, and set beside ulysses meat and drink, and the steadfast goodly ulysses did eat and drink eagerly, for it was long since he had tasted food. now nausicaa of the white arms had another thought. she folded the raiment and stored it in the goodly wain, and yoked the mules, strong of hoof, and herself climbed into the car. then she called on ulysses, and spake and hailed him: 'up now, stranger, and rouse thee to go to the city, that i may convey thee to the house of my wise father, where, i promise thee, thou shalt get knowledge of all the noblest of the phaeacians. but do thou even as i tell thee, and thou seemest a discreet man enough. so long as we are passing along the fields and farms of men, do thou fare quickly with the maidens behind the mules and the chariot, and i will lead the way. but when we set foot within the city, whereby goes a high wall with towers, and there is a fair haven on either side of the town, and narrow is the entrance, and curved ships are drawn up on either hand of the mole, thou shalt find a fair grove of athênê, a poplar grove, near the road, and a spring wells forth therein, and a meadow lies all around. there is my father's land, and his fruitful close, within the sound of a man's shout from the city. sit thee down there and wait until such time as we may have come into the city, and reached the house of my father. but when thou deemest that we are got to the palace, then go up to the city of the phaeacians, and ask for the house of my father, alcinous, high of heart. it is easily known, and a young child could be thy guide, for nowise like it are builded the houses of the phaeacians, so goodly is the palace of the hero alcinous. but when thou art within the shadow of the halls and the court, pass quickly through the great chamber till thou comest to my mother, who sits at the hearth in the light of the fire, weaving yarn of sea-purple stain, a wonder to behold. her chair is leaned against a pillar, and her maidens sit behind her. and there my father's throne leans close to hers, wherein he sits and drinks his wine, like an immortal. pass thou by him, and cast thy hands about my mother's knees that thou mayest see quickly and with joy the day of thy returning, even if thou art from a very far country. if but her heart be kindly disposed towards thee, then is there hope that thou shalt see thy friends, and come to thy well-builded house, and to thine own country.' she spake and smote the mules with the shining whip, and quickly they left behind them the streams of the river; and well they trotted and well they paced, and she took heed to drive in such wise that the maidens and ulysses might follow on foot, and cunningly she plied the lash. then the sun set, and they came to the famous grove, the sacred place of athênê; so there the goodly ulysses sat him down. then straightway he prayed to the daughter of mighty zeus: 'listen to me, child of zeus, lord of the aegis, unwearied maiden; hear me even now, since before thou heardest not when i was smitten on the sea, when the renowned earth-shaker smote me. grant me to come to the phaeacians as one dear and worthy of pity.' so he spake in prayer, and pallas athênê heard him; but she did not yet appear to him face to face, for she had regard unto her father's brother, who furiously raged against the god-like ulysses till he should come to his own country. while nausicaa and her maidens went home, ulysses waited near the temple till they should have arrived, and then he rose and walked to the city, wondering at the harbour, full of ships, and at the strength of the walls. the goddess athênê met him, disguised as a mortal girl, and told him again how the name of the king was alcinous, and his wife's name was arete: she was wise and kind, and had great power in the city. the goddess caused ulysses to pass unseen among the people till he reached the palace, which shone with bronze facings to the walls, while within the hall were golden hounds and golden statues of young men holding torches burning to give light to those who sat at supper. the gardens were very beautiful, full of fruit trees, and watered by streams that flowed from two fountains. ulysses stood and wondered at the beauty of the gardens, and then walked, unseen, through the hall, and knelt at the feet of queen arete, and implored her to send him in a ship to his own country. a table was brought to him, and food and wine were set before him, and alcinous, as his guests were going home, spoke out and said that the stranger was to be entertained, whoever he might be, and sent safely on his way. the guests departed, and arete, looking at ulysses, saw that the clothes he wore were possessions of her house, and asked him who he was, and how he got the raiment? then he told her how he had been shipwrecked, and how nausicaa had given him food, and garments out of those which she had been washing. then arete said that nausicaa should have brought ulysses straight to her house; but ulysses answered: 'chide not, i pray you, the blameless damsel,' and explained that he himself was shy, and afraid that nausicaa's parents might not like to see her coming with an unknown stranger. king alcinous answered that he was not jealous and suspicious. to a stranger so noble as ulysses he would very gladly see his daughter married, and would give him a house and plenty of everything. but if the stranger desired to go to his own country, then a ship should be made ready for him. thus courteous was alcinous, for he readily saw that ulysses, who had not yet told his name, was of noble birth, strong and wise. then all went to bed, and ulysses had a soft bed and a warm, with blankets of purple. next day alcinous sent two-and-fifty young men to prepare a ship, and they moored her in readiness out in the shore water; but the chiefs dined with alcinous, and the minstrel sang about the trojan war, and so stirred the heart of ulysses, that he held his mantle before his face and wept. when alcinous saw that, he proposed that they should go and amuse themselves with sports in the open air; races, wrestling, and boxing. the son of alcinous asked ulysses if he would care to take part in the games, but ulysses answered that he was too heavy at heart. to this a young man, euryalus, said that ulysses was probably a captain of a merchant ship, a tradesman, not a sportsman. at this ulysses was ill pleased, and replied that while he was young and happy, he was well skilled in all sports, but now he was heavy and weak with war and wandering. still, he would show what he could do. then he seized a heavy weight, much heavier than any that the phaeacians used in putting the stone. he whirled it up, and hurled it far--far beyond the furthest mark that the phaeacians had reached when putting a lighter weight. then he challenged any man to run a race with him or box with him, or shoot at a mark with him. only his speed in running did he doubt, for his limbs were stiffened by the sea. perhaps alcinous saw that it would go ill with any man who matched himself against the stranger, so he sent for the harper, who sang a merry song, and then he made the young men dance and play ball, and bade the elder men go and bring rich presents of gold and garments for the wanderer. alcinous himself gave a beautiful coffer and chest, and a great golden cup, and arete tied up all the gifts in the coffer, while the damsels took ulysses to the bath, and bathed him and anointed him with oil. as he left the bath he met nausicaa, standing at the entrance of the hall. she bade him good-bye, rather sadly, saying: 'farewell, and do not soon forget me in your own country, for to me you owe the ransom of your life.' 'may god grant to me to see my own country, lady,' he answered, 'for there i will think of you with worship, as i think of the blessed gods, all my days, for to you, lady, i owe my very life.' these were the last words they spoke to each other, for nausicaa did not sit at meat in the hall with the great company of men. when they had taken supper, the blind harper sang again a song about the deeds of ulysses at troy, and again ulysses wept, so that alcinous asked him: 'hast thou lost a dear friend or a kinsman in the great war?' then ulysses spoke out: 'i am ulysses, laertes' son, of whom all men have heard tell.' while they sat amazed, he began, and told them the whole story of his adventures, from the day when he left troy till he arrived at calypso's island; he had already told them how he was shipwrecked on his way thence to phaeacia. all that wonderful story he told to their pleasure, and euryalus made amends for his rude words at the games, and gave ulysses a beautiful sword of bronze, with an ivory hilt set with studs of gold. many other gifts were given to him, and were carried and stored on board the ship which had been made ready, and then ulysses spoke good-bye to the queen, saying: 'be happy, oh queen, till old age and death come to you, as they come to all. be joyful in your house with your children and your people, and alcinous the king.' then he departed, and lay down on sheets and cloaks in the raised deck of the ship, and soundly he slept while the fifty oars divided the waters of the sea, and drove the ship to ithaca. vii how ulysses came to his own country, and for safety disguised himself as an old beggar man when ulysses awoke, he found himself alone, wrapped in the linen sheet and the bright coverlet, and he knew not where he was. the phaeacians had carried him from the ship as he slept, and put him on shore, and placed all the rich gifts that had been given him under a tree, and then had sailed away. there was a morning mist that hid the land, and ulysses did not know the haven of his own island, ithaca, and the rock whence sprang a fountain of the water fairies that men call naiads. he thought that the phaeacians had set him in a strange country, so he counted all his goods, and then walked up and down sadly by the seashore. here he met a young man, delicately clad, like a king's son, with a double mantle, such as kings wear, folded round his shoulders, and a spear in his hand. 'tell me pray,' said ulysses, 'what land is this, and what men dwell here?' the young man said: 'truly, stranger, you know little, or you come from far away. this isle is ithaca, and the name of it is known even in troyland.' ulysses was glad, indeed, to learn that he was at home at last; but how the young men who had grown up since he went away would treat him, all alone as he was, he could not tell. so he did not let out that he was ulysses the king, but said that he was a cretan. the stranger would wonder why a cretan had come alone to ithaca, with great riches, and yet did not know that he was there. so he pretended that, in crete, a son of idomeneus had tried to rob him of all the spoil he took at troy, and that he had killed this prince, and packed his wealth and fled on board a ship of the phoenicians, who promised to land him at pylos. but the wind had borne them out of their way, and they had all landed and slept on shore, here; but the phoenicians had left him asleep and gone off in the dawn. on this the young man laughed, and suddenly appeared as the great goddess, pallas athênê. 'how clever you are,' she said; 'yet you did not know me, who helped you in troyland. but much trouble lies before you, and you must not let man or woman know who you really are, your enemies are so many and powerful.' 'you never helped me in my dangers on the sea,' said ulysses, 'and now do you make mock of me, or is this really mine own country?' 'i had no mind,' said the goddess, 'to quarrel with my brother the sea god, who had a feud against you for the blinding of his son, the cyclops. but come, you shall see this is really ithaca,' and she scattered the white mist, and ulysses saw and knew the pleasant cave of the naiads, and the forests on the side of the mountain called neriton. so he knelt down and kissed the dear earth of his own country, and prayed to the naiads of the cave. then the goddess helped him to hide all his gold, and bronze, and other presents in a secret place in the cavern; and she taught him how, being lonely as he was, he might destroy the proud wooers of his wife, who would certainly desire to take his life. the goddess began by disguising ulysses, so that his skin seemed wrinkled, and his hair thin, and his eyes dull, and she gave him dirty old wraps for clothes, and over all a great bald skin of a stag, like that which he wore when he stole into troy disguised as a beggar. she gave him a staff, too, and a wallet to hold scraps of broken food. there was not a man or a woman that knew ulysses in this disguise. next, the goddess bade him go across the island to his own swineherd, who remained faithful to him, and to stay there among the swine till she brought home telemachus, who was visiting helen and menelaus in lacedaemon. she fled away to lacedaemon, and ulysses climbed the hills that lay between the cavern and the farm where the swineherd lived. when ulysses reached the farmhouse, the swineherd, eumaeus, was sitting alone in front of his door, making himself a pair of brogues out of the skin of an ox. he was a very honest man, and, though he was a slave, he was the son of a prince in his own country. when he was a little child some phoenicians came in their ship to his father's house and made friends with his nurse, who was a phoenician woman. one of them, who made love to her, asked her who she was, and she said that her father was a rich man in sidon, but that pirates had carried her away and sold her to her master. the phoenicians promised to bring her back to sidon, and she fled to their ship, carrying with her the child whom she nursed, little eumaeus; she also stole three cups of gold. the woman died at sea, and the pirates sold the boy to laertes, the father of ulysses, who treated him kindly. eumaeus was fond of the family which he served, and he hated the proud wooers for their insolence. when ulysses came near his house the four great dogs rushed out and barked at him; they would have bitten, too, but eumaeus ran up and threw stones at them, and no farm dog can face a shower of stones. he took ulysses into his house, gave him food and wine, and told him all about the greed and pride of the wooers. ulysses said that the master of eumaeus would certainly come home, and told a long story about himself. he was a cretan, he said, and had fought at troy, and later had been shipwrecked, but reached a country called thesprotia, where he learned that ulysses was alive, and was soon to leave thesprotia and return to ithaca. eumaeus did not believe this tale, and supposed that the beggar man only meant to say what he would like to hear. however, he gave ulysses a good dinner of his own pork, and ulysses amused him and his fellow slaves with stories about the siege of troy, till it was bedtime. in the meantime athênê had gone to lacedaemon to the house of menelaus, where telemachus was lying awake. she told him that penelope, his mother, meant to marry one of the wooers, and advised him to sail home at once, avoiding the strait between ithaca and another isle, where his enemies were lying in wait to kill him. when he reached ithaca he must send his oarsmen to the town, but himself walk alone across the island to see the swineherd. in the morning telemachus and his friend, pisistratus, said good-bye to menelaus and helen, who wished to make him presents, and so went to their treasure house. now when they came to the place where the treasures were stored, then atrides took a double cup, and bade his son, megapenthes, to bear a mixing-bowl of silver. and helen stood by the coffers, wherein were her robes of curious needlework which she herself had wrought. so helen, the fair lady, lifted one and brought it out--the widest and most beautifully embroidered of all--and it shone like a star, and lay far beneath the rest. then they went back through the house till they came to telemachus; and menelaus, of the fair hair, spake to him, saying: 'telemachus, may zeus the thunderer, and the lord of hera, in very truth bring about thy return according to the desire of thy heart. and of the gifts, such as are treasures stored in my house, i will give thee the goodliest and greatest of price. i will give thee a mixing-bowl beautifully wrought; it is all of silver, and the lips thereof are finished with gold, the work of hephaestus; and the hero phaedimus, the king of the sidonians, gave it to me when his house sheltered me, on my coming thither. this cup i would give to thee.' therewith the hero atrides set the double cup in his hands. and the strong megapenthes bare the shining silver bowl and set it before him. and helen came up, beautiful helen, with the robe in her hands, and spake and hailed him: 'lo! i, too, give thee this gift, dear child, a memorial of the hands of helen, against the day of thy desire, even of thy bridal, for thy bride to wear it. but, meanwhile, let it lie by thy dear mother in her chamber. and may joy go with thee to thy well-builded house and thine own country.' just when telemachus was leaving her palace door, an eagle stooped from the sky and flew away with a great white goose that was feeding on the grass, and the farm servants rushed out shouting, but the eagle passed away to the right hand, across the horses of pisistratus. then helen explained the meaning of this omen. 'hear me, and i will prophesy as the immortals put it into my heart, and as i deem it will be accomplished. even as yonder eagle came down from the hill, the place of his birth and kin, and snatched away the goose that was fostered in the house, even so shall ulysses return home after much trial and long wanderings and take vengeance; yea! or even now is he at home and sowing the seeds of evil for all the wooers.' we are told no more about helen of the fair hands, except that she and menelaus never died, but were carried by the gods to the beautiful elysian plain, a happy place where war and trouble never came, nor old age, nor death. after that she was worshipped in her own country as if she had been a goddess, kind, gentle, and beautiful. telemachus thanked helen for prophesying good luck, and he drove to the city of nestor, on the sea, but was afraid to go near the old king, who would have kept him and entertained him, while he must sail at once for ithaca. he went to his own ship in the harbour, and, while his crew made ready to sail, there came a man running hard, and in great fear of the avenger of blood. this was a second-sighted man, called theoclymenus, and he implored telemachus to take him to ithaca, for he had slain a man in his own country, who had killed one of his brothers, and now the brothers and cousins of that man were pursuing him to take his life. telemachus made him welcome, and so sailed north to ithaca, wondering whether he should be able to slip past the wooers, who were lying in wait to kill him. happily the ship of telemachus passed them unseen in the night, and arrived at ithaca. he sent his crew to the town, and was just starting to walk across the island to the swineherd's house, when the second-sighted man asked what _he_ should do. telemachus told piraeus, one of his friends, to take the man home and be kind to him, which he gladly promised to do, and then he set off to seek the swineherd. the swineherd, with ulysses, had just lit a fire to cook breakfast, when they saw the farm dogs frolicking round a young man who was walking towards the house. the dogs welcomed him, for he was no stranger, but telemachus. up leaped the swineherd in delight, and the bowl in which he was mixing wine and water fell from his hands. he had been unhappy for fear the wooers who lay in wait for telemachus should kill him, and he ran and embraced the young man as gladly as a father welcomes a son who has long been in a far country. telemachus, too, was anxious to hear whether his mother had married one of the wooers, and glad to know that she still bore her troubles patiently. when telemachus stepped into the swineherd's house ulysses arose from his seat, but telemachus bade the old beggar man sit down again, and a pile of brushwood with a fleece thrown over it was brought for himself. they breakfasted on what was ready, cold pork, wheaten bread, and wine in cups of ivy wood, and eumaeus told telemachus that the old beggar gave himself out as a wanderer from crete. telemachus answered that he could not take strangers into his mother's house, for he was unable to protect them against the violence of the wooers, but he would give the wanderer clothes and shoes and a sword, and he might stay at the farm. he sent the swineherd to tell his mother, penelope, that he had returned in safety, and eumaeus started on his journey to the town. at this moment the farm dogs, which had been taking their share of the breakfast, began to whine, and bristle up, and slunk with their tails between their legs to the inmost corner of the room. telemachus could not think why they were afraid, or of what, but ulysses saw the goddess athênê, who appeared to him alone, and the dogs knew that something strange and terrible was coming to the door. ulysses went out, and athênê bade him tell telemachus who he really was, now that they were alone, and she touched ulysses with her golden wand, and made him appear like himself, and his clothes like a king's raiment. telemachus, who neither saw nor heard athênê, wondered greatly, and thought the beggar man must be some god, wandering in disguise. but ulysses said, 'no god am i, but thine own father,' and they embraced each other and wept for joy. at last ulysses told telemachus how he had come home in a ship of the phaeacians, and how his treasure was hidden in the cave of the naiads, and asked him how many the wooers were, and how they might drive them from the house. telemachus replied that the wooers were one hundred and eight, and that medon, a servant of his own, took part with them; there was also the minstrel of the house, whom they compelled to sing at their feasts. they were all strong young men, each with his sword at his side, but they had with them no shields, helmets, and breastplates. ulysses said that, with the help of the goddess, he hoped to get the better of them, many as they were. telemachus must go to the house, and ulysses would come next day, in the disguise of an old beggar. however ill the wooers might use him, telemachus must take no notice, beyond saying that they ought to behave better. ulysses, when he saw a good chance, would give telemachus a sign to take away the shields, helmets, and weapons that hung on the walls of the great hall, and to hide them in a secret place. if the wooers missed them, he must say--first, that the smoke of the fire was spoiling them; and, again, that they were better out of the reach of the wooers, in case they quarrelled over their wine. telemachus must keep two swords, two spears, and two shields for himself and ulysses to use, if they saw a chance, and he must let neither man nor woman know that the old beggar man was his father. while they were talking, one of the crew of telemachus and the swineherd went to penelope and told her how her son had landed. on hearing this the wooers held a council as to how they should behave to him: antinous was for killing him, but amphinomus and eurymachus were for waiting, and seeing what would happen. before eumaeus came back from his errand to penelope, athênê changed ulysses into the dirty old beggar again. viii ulysses comes disguised as a beggar to his own palace next morning telemachus went home, and comforted his mother, and told her how he had been with nestor and menelaus, and seen her cousin, helen of the fair hands, but this did not seem to interest penelope, who thought that her beautiful cousin was the cause of all her misfortunes. then theoclymenus, the second-sighted man whom telemachus brought from pylos, prophesied to penelope that ulysses was now in ithaca, taking thought how he might kill the wooers, who were then practising spear-throwing at a mark, while some of them were killing swine and a cow for breakfast. meanwhile ulysses, in disguise, and the swineherd were coming near the town, and there they met the goatherd, melanthius, who was a friend of the wooers, and an insolent and violent slave. he insulted the old beggar, and advised him not to come near the house of ulysses, and kicked him off the road. then ulysses was tempted to slay him with his hands, but he controlled himself lest he should be discovered, and he and eumaeus walked slowly to the palace. as they lingered outside the court, lo! a hound raised up his head and pricked his ears, even where he lay: argos, the hound of ulysses, of the hardy heart, which of old himself had bred. now in time past the young men used to lead the hound against wild goats and deer and hares; but, as then, he lay despised (his master being afar) in the deep dung of mules and kine, whereof an ample bed was spread before the doors till the slaves of ulysses should carry it away to dung therewith his wide demesne. there lay the dog argos, full of vermin. yet even now, when he was aware of ulysses standing by, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but nearer to his master he had not now the strength to draw. but ulysses looked aside and wiped away a tear that he easily hid from eumaeus, and straightway he asked him, saying: 'eumaeus, verily this is a great marvel: this hound lying here in the dung. truly he is goodly of growth, but i know not certainly if he have speed with this beauty, or if he be comely only, like men's trencher dogs that their lords keep for the pleasure of the eye.' then answered the swineherd eumaeus: 'in very truth this is the dog of a man that has died in a far land. if he were what once he was in limb and in the feats of the chase, when ulysses left him to go to troy, soon wouldst thou marvel at the sight of his swiftness and his strength. there was no beast that could flee from him in the deep places of the wood when he was in pursuit; for even on a track he was the keenest hound. but now he is holden in an evil case, and his lord hath perished far from his own country, and the careless women take no charge of him.' therewith he passed within the fair-lying house, and went straight to the hall, to the company of the proud wooers. but upon argos came death even in the hour that he beheld ulysses again, in the twentieth year. thus the good dog knew ulysses, though penelope did not know him when she saw him, and tears came into ulysses' eyes as he stood above the body of the hound that loved him well. eumaeus went into the house, but ulysses sat down where it was the custom for beggars to sit, on the wooden threshold outside the door of the hall. telemachus saw him, from his high seat under the pillars on each side of the fire, in the middle of the room, and bade eumaeus carry a loaf and a piece of pork to the beggar, who laid them in his wallet between his feet, and ate. then he thought he would try if there were one courteous man among the wooers, and he entered the hall and began to beg among them. some gave him crusts and bones, but antinous caught up a footstool and struck him hard on the shoulder. 'may death come upon antinous before his wedding day!' said ulysses, and even the other wooers rebuked him for striking a beggar. penelope heard of this, and told eumaeus to bring the beggar to her; she thought he might have news of her husband. but ulysses made eumaeus say that he had been struck once in the hall, and would not come to her till after sunset, when the wooers left the house. then eumaeus went to his own farmhouse, after telling telemachus that he would come next day, driving swine for the wooers to eat. ulysses was the new beggar in ithaca: he soon found that he had a rival, an old familiar beggar, named irus. this man came up to the palace, and was angry when he saw a newcomer sitting in the doorway, 'get up,' he said, 'i ought to drag you away by the foot: begone before we quarrel!' 'there is room enough for both of us,' said ulysses, 'do not anger me.' irus challenged him to fight, and the wooers thought this good sport, and they made a ring, and promised that the winner should be beggar-in-chief, and have the post to himself. ulysses asked the wooers to give him fair play, and not to interfere, and then he stripped his shoulders, and kilted up his rags, showing strong arms and legs. as for irus he began to tremble, but antinous forced him to fight, and the two put up their hands. irus struck at the shoulder of ulysses, who hit him with his right fist beneath the ear, and he fell, the blood gushing from his mouth, and his heels drumming in the ground, and ulysses dragged him from the doorway and propped him against the wall of the court, while the wooers laughed. then ulysses spoke gravely to amphinomus, telling him that it would be wise in him to go home, for that if ulysses came back it might not be so easy to escape his hands. after sunset ulysses spoke so fiercely to the maidens of penelope, who insulted him, that they ran to their own rooms, but eurymachus threw a footstool at him. he slipped out of the way, and the stool hit the cupbearer and knocked him down, and all was disorder in the hall. the wooers themselves were weary of the noise and disorder, and went home to the houses in the town where they slept. then telemachus and ulysses, being left alone, hid the shields and helmets and spears that hung on the walls of the hall in an armoury within the house, and when this was done telemachus went to sleep in his own chamber, in the courtyard, and ulysses waited till penelope should come into the hall. ulysses sat in the dusky hall, where the wood in the braziers that gave light had burned low, and waited to see the face of his wife, for whom he had left beautiful calypso. the maidens of penelope came trooping, laughing, and cleared away the food and the cups, and put faggots in the braziers. they were all giddy girls, in love with the handsome wooers, and one of them, melantho, bade ulysses go away, and sleep at the blacksmith's forge, lest he should be beaten with a torch. penelope heard melantho, whom she had herself brought up, and she rebuked her, and ordered a chair to be brought for ulysses. when he was seated, she asked him who he was, and he praised her beauty, for she was still very fair, but did not answer her question. she insisted that he should tell her who he was, and he said that he was a cretan prince, the younger brother of idomeneus, and that he did not go to fight in troyland. in crete he stayed, and met ulysses, who stopped there on his way to troy, and he entertained ulysses for a fortnight. penelope wept when she heard that the stranger had seen her husband, but, as false stories were often told to her by strangers who came to ithaca, she asked how ulysses was dressed, and what manner of men were with him. the beggar said that ulysses wore a double mantle of purple, clasped with a gold brooch fastened by two safety pins (for these were used at that time), and on the face of the brooch was a figure of a hound holding a struggling fawn in his forepaws. (many such brooches have been found in the graves in greece). beneath his mantle ulysses wore a shining smock, smooth and glittering like the skin of an onion. probably it was made of silk: women greatly admired it. with him was a squire named eurybates, a brown, round-shouldered man. on hearing all this penelope wept again and said that she herself had given ulysses the brooch and the garments. she now knew that the beggar had really met ulysses, and he went on to tell her that, in his wanderings, he had heard how ulysses was still alive, though he had lost all his company, and that he had gone to dodona in the west of greece to ask for advice from the oak tree of zeus, the whispering oak tree, as to how he should come home, openly or secretly. certainly, he said, ulysses would return that year. penelope was still unable to believe in such good news, but she bade eurycleia, the old nurse, wash the feet of the beggar in warm water, so a foot bath was brought. ulysses turned his face away from the firelight, for the nurse said that he was very like her master. as she washed his legs she noticed the long scar of the wound made by the boar, when he hunted with his cousins, long ago, before he was married. the nurse knew him now, and spoke to him in a whisper, calling him by his name. but he caught her throat with his hand, and asked why she would cause his death, for the wooers would slay him if they knew who he was. eurycleia called him her child, and promised that she would be silent, and then she went to fetch more hot water, for she had let his foot fall into the bath and upset it when she found the scar. when she had washed him, penelope told the beggar that she could no longer refuse to marry one of the wooers. ulysses had left a great bow in the house, the old bow of king eurytus, that few could bend, and he had left twelve iron axes, made with a round opening in the blade of each. axes of this shape have been found at lacedaemon, where helen lived, so we know what the axes of ulysses were like. when he was at home he used to set twelve of them in a straight line, and shoot an arrow through the twelve holes in the blades. penelope therefore intended, next day, to bring the bow and the axes to the wooers, and to marry any one of them who could string the bow, and shoot an arrow through the twelve axes. 'i think,' said the beggar, 'that ulysses will be here before any of the wooers have bent his bow.' then penelope went to her upper chamber, and ulysses slept in an outer gallery of the house on piled-up sheep skins. there ulysses lay, thinking how he might destroy all the wooers, and the goddess athênê came and comforted him, and, in the morning, he rose and made his prayer to zeus, asking for signs of his favour. there came, first a peal of thunder, and then the voice of a woman, weak and old, who was grinding corn to make bread for the wooers. all the other women of the mill had done their work and were asleep, but she was feeble and the round upper stone of the quern, that she rolled on the corn above the under stone, was too heavy for her. she prayed, and said, 'father zeus, king of gods and men, loudly hast thou thundered. grant to me my prayer, unhappy as i am. may this be the last day of the feasting of the wooers in the hall of ulysses: they have loosened my knees with cruel labour in grinding barley for them: may they now sup their last!' hearing this prayer ulysses was glad, for he thought it a lucky sign. soon the servants were at work, and eumaeus came with swine, and was as courteous to the beggar as melanthius, who brought some goats, was insolent. the cowherd, called philoetius, also arrived; he hated the wooers, and spoke friendly to the beggar. last appeared the wooers, and went in to their meal, while telemachus bade the beggar sit on a seat just within the hall, and told the servants to give him as good a share of the food as any of them received. one wooer, ctesippus, said: 'his fair share this beggar man has had, as is right, but i will give him a present over and above it!' then he picked up the foot of an ox, and threw it with all his might at ulysses, who merely moved aside, and the ox foot struck the wall. telemachus rebuked him, and the wooers began to laugh wildly and to weep, they knew not why, but theoclymenus, the second-sighted man, knew that they were all fey men, that is, doomed to die, for such men are gay without reason. 'unhappy that you are,' cried theoclymenus, 'what is coming upon you? i see shrouds covering you about your knees and about your faces, and tears are on your cheeks, and the walls and the pillars of the roof are dripping blood, and in the porch and the court are your fetches, shadows of yourselves, hurrying hellward, and the sun is darkened.' on this all the wooers laughed, and advised him to go out of doors, where he would see that the sun was shining. 'my eyes and ears serve me well,' said the second-sighted man, 'but out i will go, seeking no more of your company, for death is coming on every man of you.' then he arose and went to the house of piraeus, the friend of telemachus. the wooers laughed all the louder, as fey men do, and told telemachus that he was unlucky in his guests: one a beggar, the other a madman. but telemachus kept watching his father while the wooers were cooking a meal that they did not live to enjoy. through the crowd of them came penelope, holding in her hand the great bow of eurytus, and a quiver full of arrows, while her maidens followed, carrying the chest in which lay the twelve iron axes. she stood up, stately and scornful, among the wooers, and told them that, as marry she must, she would take the man who could string the bow and shoot the arrow through the axes. telemachus said that he would make the first trial, and that, if he succeeded, he would not allow any man of the wooers to take his mother away with him from her own house. then thrice he tried to string the bow, and the fourth time he would have strung it, but ulysses made a sign to him, and he put it down. 'i am too weak,' he said, 'let a stronger man achieve this adventure.' so they tried each in turn, beginning with the man who sat next the great mixing-bowl of wine, and so each rising in his turn. first their prophet tried, leiodes the seer, who sat next the bowl, but his white hands were too weak, and he prophesied, saying that the bow would be the death of all of them. then antinous bade the goatherd light a fire, and bring grease to heat the bow, and make it more supple. they warmed and greased the bow, and one after another tried to bend it. eumaeus and the cowherd went out into the court, and ulysses followed them. 'whose side would you two take,' he asked, 'if ulysses came home? would you fight for him or for the wooers?' 'for ulysses!' they both cried, 'and would that he was come indeed!' 'he is come, and i am he!' said ulysses. then he promised to give them lands of their own if he was victorious, and he showed them the scar on his thigh that the boar dealt with his white tusk, long ago. the two men kissed him and shed tears of joy, and ulysses said that he would go back first into the hall, and that they were to follow him. he would ask to be allowed to try to bend the bow, and eumaeus, whatever the wooers said, must place it in his hands, and then see that the women were locked up in their own separate hall. philoetius was to fasten the door leading from the courtyard into the road. ulysses then went back to his seat in the hall, near the door, and his servants followed. eurymachus was trying in vain to bend the bow, and antinous proposed to put off the trial till next day, and then sacrifice to the god apollo, and make fresh efforts. they began to drink, but ulysses asked to be allowed to try if he could string the bow. they told him that wine had made him impudent, and threatened to put him in a ship and send him to king echetus, an ogre, who would cut him to pieces. but penelope said that the beggar must try his strength; not that she would marry him, if he succeeded. she would only give him new clothes, a sword, and a spear, and send him wherever he wanted to go. telemachus cried out that the bow was his own; he would make a present of it to the beggar if he chose; and he bade his mother join her maidens, and work at her weaving. she was amazed to hear her son speak like the master of the house, and she went upstairs with her maidens to her own room. eumaeus was carrying the bow to ulysses, when the wooers made such an uproar that he laid it down, in fear for his life. but telemachus threatened to punish him if he did not obey his master, so he placed the bow in the hands of ulysses, and then went and told eurycleia to lock the women servants up in their own separate hall. philoetius slipped into the courtyard, and made the gates fast with a strong rope, and then came back, and watched ulysses, who was turning the bow this way and that, to see if the horns were still sound, for horns were then used in bow making. the wooers were mocking him, but suddenly he bent and strung the great bow as easily as a harper fastens a new string to his harp. he tried the string, and it twanged like the note of a swallow. he took up an arrow that lay on the table (the others were in the quiver beside him), he fitted it to the string, and from the chair where he sat he shot it through all the twelve axe heads. 'your guest has done you no dishonour, telemachus,' he said, 'but surely it is time to eat,' and he nodded. telemachus drew his sword, took a spear in his left hand, and stood up beside ulysses. ix the slaying of the wooers ulysses let all his rags fall down, and with one leap he reached the high threshold, the door being behind him, and he dropped, the arrows from the quiver at his feet. 'now,' he said, 'i will strike another mark that no man yet has stricken!' he aimed the arrow at antinous, who was drinking out of a golden cup. the arrow passed clean through the throat of antinous; he fell, the cup rang on the ground, and the wooers leaped up, looking round the walls for shields and spears, but the walls were bare. 'thou shalt die, and vultures shall devour thee,' they shouted, thinking the beggar had let the arrow fly by mischance. 'dogs!' he answered, 'ye said that never should i come home from troy; ye wasted my goods, and insulted my wife, and had no fear of the gods, but now the day of death has come upon you! fight or flee, if you may, but some shall not escape!' 'draw your blades!' cried eurymachus to the others; 'draw your blades, and hold up the tables as shields against this man's arrows. have at him, and drive him from the doorway.' he drew his own sword, and leaped on ulysses with a cry, but the swift arrow pierced his breast, and he fell and died. then amphinomus rushed towards ulysses, but telemachus sent his spear from behind through his shoulders. he could not draw forth the spear, but he ran to his father, and said, 'let me bring shields, spears, and helmets from the inner chamber, for us, and for the swineherd and cowherd.' 'go!' said ulysses, and telemachus ran through a narrow doorway, down a gallery to the secret chamber, and brought four shields, four helmets, and eight spears, and the men armed themselves, while ulysses kept shooting down the wooers. when his arrows were spent he armed himself, protected by the other three. but the goatherd, melanthius, knew a way of reaching the armoury, and he climbed up, and brought twelve helmets, spears, and shields to the wooers. [illustration: ulysses shoots the first arrow at the wooers.] ulysses thought that one of the women was showering down the weapons into the hall, but the swineherd and cowherd went to the armoury, through the doorway, as telemachus had gone, and there they caught melanthius, and bound him like a bundle, with a rope, and, throwing the rope over a rafter, dragged him up, and fastened him there, and left him swinging. then they ran back to ulysses, four men keeping the doorway against all the wooers that were not yet slain. but the goddess athênê appeared to ulysses, in the form of mentor, and gave him courage. he needed it, for the wooers, having spears, threw them in volleys, six at a time, at the four. they missed, but the spears of the four slew each his man. again the wooers threw, and dealt two or three slight wounds, but the spears of the four were winged with death. they charged, striking with spear and sword, into the crowd, who lost heart, and flew here and there, crying for mercy and falling at every blow. ulysses slew the prophet, leiodes, but phemius, the minstrel, he spared, for he had done no wrong, and medon, a slave, crept out from beneath an ox hide, where he had been lying, and asked telemachus to pity him, and ulysses sent him and the minstrel into the courtyard, where they sat trembling. all the rest of the wooers lay dead in heaps, like heaps of fish on the sea shore, when they have been netted, and drawn to land. then ulysses sent telemachus to bring eurycleia, who, when she came and saw the wooers dead, raised a scream of joy, but ulysses said 'it is an unholy thing to boast over dead men.' he bade telemachus and the servants carry the corpses into the courtyard, and he made the women wash and clean the hall, and the seats, and tables, and the pillars. when all was clean, they took melanthius and slew him, and then they washed themselves, and the maidens who were faithful to penelope came out of their rooms, with torches in their hands, for it was now night, and they kissed ulysses with tears of joy. these were not young women, for ulysses remembered all of them. meanwhile old eurycleia ran to tell penelope all the good news: up the stairs to her chamber she ran, tripping, and falling, and rising, and laughing for joy. in she came and awakened penelope, saying: 'come and see what you have long desired: ulysses in his own house, and all the wicked wooers slain by the sword.' 'surely you are mad, dear nurse,' said penelope, 'to waken me with such a wild story. never have i slept so sound since ulysses went to that ill ilios, never to be named. angry would i have been with any of the girls that wakened me with such a silly story; but you are old: go back to the women's working room.' the good nurse answered: 'indeed, i tell you no silly tale. indeed he is in the hall; he is that poor guest whom all men struck and insulted, but telemachus knew his father.' then penelope leaped up gladly, and kissed the nurse, but yet she was not sure that her husband had come, she feared that it might be some god disguised as a man, or some evil man pretending to be ulysses. 'surely ulysses has met his death far away,' she said, and though eurycleia vowed that she herself had seen the scar dealt by the boar, long ago, she would not be convinced. 'none the less,' she said, 'let us go and see my son, and the wooers lying dead, and the man who slew them.' so they went down the stairs and along a gallery on the ground floor that led into the courtyard, and so entered the door of the hall, and crossed the high stone threshold on which ulysses stood when he shot down antinous. penelope went up to the hearth and sat opposite ulysses, who was leaning against one of the four tall pillars that supported the roof; there she sat and gazed at him, still wearing his rags, and still not cleansed from the blood of battle. she did not know him, and was silent, though telemachus called her hard of belief and cold of heart. 'my child,' she said, 'i am bewildered, and can hardly speak, but if this man is ulysses, he knows things unknown to any except him and me.' then ulysses bade telemachus go to the baths and wash, and put on fresh garments, and bade the maidens bring the minstrel to play music, while they danced in the hall. in the town the friends and kinsfolk of the wooers did not know that they were dead, and when they heard the music they would not guess that anything strange had happened. it was necessary that nobody should know, for, if the kinsfolk of the dead men learned the truth, they would seek to take revenge, and might burn down the house. indeed, ulysses was still in great danger, for the law was that the brothers and cousins of slain men must slay their slayers, and the dead were many, and had many clansmen. now eurynome bathed ulysses himself, and anointed him with oil, and clad him in new raiment, so that he looked like himself again, full of strength and beauty. he sat down on his own high seat beside the fire, and said: 'lady, you are the fairest and most cruel queen alive. no other woman would harden her heart against her husband, come home through many dangers after so many years. 'nurse,' he cried to eurycleia, 'strew me a bed to lie alone, for her heart is hard as iron.' now penelope put him to a trial. 'eurycleia,' she said, 'strew a bed for him outside the bridal chamber that he built for himself, and bring the good bedstead out of that room for him.' 'how can any man bring out that bedstead?' said ulysses, 'did i not make it with my own hands, with a standing tree for the bedpost? no man could move that bed unless he first cut down the tree trunk.' then at last penelope ran to ulysses and threw her arms round his neck, kissing him, and said: 'do not be angry, for always i have feared that some strange man of cunning would come and deceive me, pretending to be my lord. but now you have told me the secret of the bed, which no mortal has ever seen or knows but you and i, and my maiden whom i brought from my own home, and who kept the doors of our chamber.' then they embraced, and it seemed as if her white arms would never quite leave their hold on his neck. ulysses told her many things, all the story of his wanderings, and how he must wander again, on land, not on the sea, till he came to the country of men who had never seen salt. 'the gods will defend you and bring you home to your rest in the end,' said penelope, and then they went to their own chamber, and eurynome went before them with lighted torches in her hands, for the gods had brought them to the haven where they would be. x the end with the coming of the golden dawn ulysses awoke, for he had still much to do. he and telemachus and the cowherd and eumaeus put on full armour, and took swords and spears, and walked to the farm where old laertes, the father of ulysses, lived among his servants and worked in his garden. ulysses sent the others into the farmhouse to bid the old housekeeper get breakfast ready, and he went alone to the vines, being sure that his father was at work among them. there the old man was, in his rough gardening clothes, with leather gloves on, and patched leather leggings, digging hard. his servants had gone to gather loose stones to make a rough stone dyke, and he was all alone. he never looked up till ulysses went to him, and asked him whose slave he was, and who owned the garden. he said that he was a stranger in ithaca, but that he had once met the king of the island, who declared that one laertes was his father. laertes was amazed at seeing a warrior all in mail come into his garden, but said that he was the father of ulysses, who had long been unheard of and unseen. 'and who are you?' he asked. 'where is your own country?' ulysses said that he came from sicily, and that he had met ulysses five years ago, and hoped that by this time he had come home. then the old man sat down and wept, and cast dust on his head, for ulysses had not arrived from sicily in five long years; certainly he must be dead. ulysses could not bear to see his father weep, and told him that he was himself, come home at last, and that he had killed all the wooers. but laertes asked him to prove that he really was ulysses, so he showed the scar on his leg, and, looking round the garden, he said: 'come, i will show you the very trees that you gave me when i was a little boy running about after you, and asking you for one thing or another, as children do. these thirteen pear trees are my very own; you gave them to me, and mine are these fifty rows of vines, and these forty fig trees.' then laertes was fainting for joy, but ulysses caught him in his arms and comforted him. but, when he came to himself, he sighed, and said: 'how shall we meet the feud of all the kin of the slain men in ithaca and the other islands?' 'be of good courage, father,' said ulysses. 'and now let us go to the farmhouse and breakfast with telemachus.' so laertes first went to the baths, and then put on fresh raiment, and ulysses wondered to see him look so straight and strong. 'would i were as strong as when i took the castle of nericus, long ago,' said the old man, 'and would that i had been in the fight against the wooers!' then all the old man's servants came in, overjoyed at the return of ulysses, and they breakfasted merrily together. by this time all the people in the town knew that the wooers had been slain, and they crowded to the house of ulysses in great sorrow, and gathered their dead and buried them, and then met in the market place. the father of antinous, eupeithes, spoke, and said that they would all be dishonoured if they did not slay ulysses before he could escape to nestor's house in pylos. it was in vain that an old prophet told them that the young men had deserved their death. the most of the men ran home and put on armour, and eupeithes led them towards the farm of laertes, all in shining mail. but the gods in heaven had a care for ulysses, and sent athênê to make peace between him and his subjects. she did not come too soon, for the avengers were drawing near the farmhouse, which had a garrison of only twelve men: ulysses, laertes, telemachus, the swineherd, the cowherd, and servants of laertes. they all armed themselves, and not choosing to defend the house, they went boldly out to meet their enemies. they encouraged each other, and laertes prayed to athênê, and then threw his spear at eupeithes. the spear passed clean through helmet and through head, and eupeithes fell with a crash, and his armour rattled as he fell. but now athênê appeared, and cried: 'hold your hands, ye men of ithaca, that no more blood may be shed, and peace may be made.' the foes of ulysses, hearing the terrible voice of the goddess, turned and fled, and ulysses uttered his war-cry, and was rushing among them, when a thunderbolt fell at his feet, and athênê bade him stop, lest he should anger zeus, the lord of thunder. gladly he obeyed, and peace was made with oaths and with sacrifice, peace in ithaca and the islands. here ends the story of ulysses, laertes' son, for we do not know anything about his adventures when he went to seek a land of men who never heard of the sea, nor eat meat savoured with salt. the fleece of gold i the children of the cloud while troy still stood fast, and before king priam was born, there was a king called athamas, who reigned in a country beside the grecian sea. athamas was a young man, and was unmarried; because none of the princesses who then lived seemed to him beautiful enough to be his wife. one day he left his palace and climbed high up into a mountain, following the course of a little river. he came to a place where a great black rock stood on one side of the river, jutting into the stream. round the rock the water flowed deep and dark. yet, through the noise of the river, the king thought he heard laughter and voices like the voices of girls. so he climbed very quietly up the back of the rock, and, looking over the edge, there he saw three beautiful maidens bathing in a pool, and splashing each other with the water. their long yellow hair covered them like cloaks and floated behind them on the pool. one of them was even more beautiful than the others, and as soon as he saw her the king fell in love with her, and said to himself, 'this is the wife for me.' as he thought this, his arm touched a stone, which slipped from the top of the rock where he lay, and went leaping, faster and faster as it fell, till it dropped with a splash into the pool below. then the three maidens heard it, and were frightened, thinking some one was near. so they rushed out of the pool to the grassy bank where their clothes lay, lovely soft clothes, white and gray, and rosy-coloured, all shining with pearl drops, and diamonds like dew. in a moment they had dressed, and then it was as if they had wings, for they rose gently from the ground, and floated softly up and up the windings of the brook. here and there among the green tops of the mountain-ash trees the king could just see the white robes shining and disappearing, and shining again, till they rose far off like a mist, and so up and up into the sky, and at last he only followed them with his eyes, as they floated like clouds among the other clouds across the blue. all day he watched them, and at sunset he saw them sink, golden and rose-coloured and purple, and go down into the dark with the setting sun. the king went home to his palace, but he was very unhappy, and nothing gave him any pleasure. all day he roamed about among the hills, and looked for the beautiful girls, but he never found them, and all night he dreamed about them, till he grew thin and pale and was like to die. now, the way with sick men then was that they made a pilgrimage to the temple of a god, and in the temple they offered sacrifices. then they hoped that the god would appear to them in a dream, or send them a true dream at least, and tell them how they might be made well again. so the king drove in his chariot a long way, to the town where this temple was. when he reached it, he found it a strange place. the priests were dressed in dogs' skins, with the heads of the dogs drawn down over their faces, and there were live dogs running all about the shrines, for they were the favourite beasts of the god, whose name was asclepius. there was an image of him, with a dog crouched at his feet, and in his hand he held a serpent, and fed it from a bowl. the king sacrificed before the god, and when night fell he was taken into the temple, and there were many beds strewn on the floor and many people lying on them, both rich and poor, hoping that the god would appear to them in a dream, and tell them how they might be healed. there the king lay, like the rest, and for long he could not close his eyes. at length he slept, and he dreamed a dream. but it was not the god of the temple that he saw in his dream; he saw a beautiful lady, she seemed to float above him in a chariot drawn by doves, and all about her was a crowd of chattering sparrows, and he knew that she was aphrodite, the queen of love. she was more beautiful than any woman in the world, and she smiled as she looked at the king, and said, 'oh, king athamas, you are sick for love! now this you must do: go home and on the first night of the new moon, climb the hills to that place where you saw the three maidens. in the dawn they will come again to the river, and bathe in the pool. then do you creep out of the wood, and steal the clothes of her you love, and she will not be able to fly away with the rest, and she will be your wife.' then she smiled again, and her doves bore her away, and the king woke, and remembered the dream, and thanked the lady in his heart, for he knew that she was a goddess, the queen of love. [illustration: king athamas steals nephele's clothes so that she cannot float away with her sisters.] then he drove home, and did all that he had been told to do. on the first night of the new moon, when she shines like a thin gold thread in the sky, he left his palace, and climbed up through the hills, and hid in the wood by the edge of the pool. when the dawn began to shine silvery, he heard voices, and saw the three girls come floating through the trees, and alight on the river bank, and undress, and run into the water. there they bathed, and splashed each other with the water, laughing in their play. then he stole to the grassy bank, and seized the clothes of the most beautiful of the three; and they heard him move, and rushed out to their clothes. two of them were clad in a moment, and floated away up the glen, but the third crouched sobbing and weeping under the thick cloak of her yellow hair. then she prayed the king to give her back her soft gray and rose-coloured raiment, but he would not till she had promised to be his wife. and he told her how long he had loved her, and how the goddess had sent him to be her husband, and at last she promised, and took his hand, and in her shining robes went down the hill with him to the palace. but he felt as if he walked on the air, and she scarcely seemed to touch the ground with her feet. she told him that her name was nephele, which meant 'a cloud,' in their language, and that she was one of the cloud fairies who bring the rain, and live on the hilltops, and in the high lakes, and water springs, and in the sky. so they were married, and lived very happily, and had two children, a boy called phrixus, and a daughter named helle. the two children had a beautiful pet, a ram with a fleece all of gold, which was given them by the young god called hermes, a beautiful god, with wings on his shoon,--for these were the very shoon of swiftness, that he lent afterwards to the boy, perseus, who slew the gorgon, and took her head. this ram the children used to play with, and they would ride on his back, and roll about with him on the flowery meadows. they would all have been happy, but for one thing. when there were clouds in the sky, and when there was rain, then their mother, nephele, was always with them; but when the summer days were hot and cloudless, then she went away, they did not know where. the long dry days made her grow pale and thin, and, at last, she would vanish altogether, and never come again, till the sky grew soft and gray with rain. king athamas grew weary of this, for often his wife would be long away. besides there was a very beautiful girl called ino, a dark girl, who had come in a ship of phoenician merchantmen, and had stayed in the city of the king when her friends sailed from greece. the king saw her, and often she would be at the palace, playing with the children when their mother had disappeared with the clouds, her sisters. this ino was a witch, and one day she put a drug into the king's wine, and when he had drunk it, he quite forgot nephele, his wife, and fell in love with ino. at last he married her, and they had two children, a boy and a girl, and ino wore the crown, and was queen, and gave orders that nephele should never be allowed to enter the palace any more. so phrixus and helle never saw their mother, and they were dressed in ragged old skins of deer, and were ill fed, and were set to do hard work in the house, while the children of ino wore gold crowns in their hair, and were dressed in fine raiment, and had the best of everything. one day when phrixus and helle were in the field, herding the sheep (for now they were treated like peasant children, and had to work for their bread), they met an old woman, all wrinkled, and poorly clothed, and they took pity on her, and brought her home with them. queen ino saw her, and as she wanted a nurse for her own children, she took her in to be the nurse, and the old woman had charge of the children, and lived in the house, and she was kind to phrixus and helle. but neither of them knew that she was their own mother, nephele, who had disguised herself as an old woman and a servant, that she might be with her children. phrixus and helle grew strong and tall, and more beautiful than ino's children, so she hated them, and determined, at last, to kill them. they all slept at night in one room, but ino's children had gold crowns in their hair, and beautiful coverlets on their beds. one night, phrixus was half awake, and he heard the old nurse come, in the dark, and put something on his head, and on his sister's, and change their coverlets. but he was so drowsy that he half thought it was a dream, and he lay and fell asleep. in the dead of night, the wicked stepmother, ino, crept into the room with a dagger in her hand, and she stole up to the bed of phrixus, and felt his hair, and his coverlet. then she went softly to the bed of helle, and felt her coverlet, and her hair with the gold crown on it. so she supposed these to be her own children, and she kissed them in the dark, and went to the beds of the other two children. she felt their heads, and they had no crowns on, so she killed them, supposing that they were phrixus and helle. then she crept downstairs and went back to bed. in the morning, there lay the stepmother ino's children cold and dead, and nobody knew who had killed them. only the wicked queen knew, and she, of course, would not tell of herself, but if she hated phrixus and helle before, now she hated them a hundred times worse than ever. but the old nurse was gone; nobody ever saw her there again, and everybody but the queen thought that _she_ had killed the two children. everywhere the king sought for her, to burn her alive, but he never found her, for she had gone back to her sisters, the clouds. and the clouds were gone, too! for six long months, from winter to harvest time, the rain never fell. the country was burned up, the trees grew black and dry, there was no water in the streams, the corn turned yellow and died before it was come into the ear. the people were starving, the cattle and sheep were perishing, for there was no grass. and every day the sun rose hot and red, and went blazing through the sky without a cloud. here the wicked stepmother, ino, saw her chance. the king sent messengers to pytho, to consult the prophetess, and to find out what should be done to bring back the clouds and the rain. then ino took the messengers, before they set out on their journey, and gave them gold, and threatened also to kill them, if they did not bring the message she wished from the prophetess. now this message was that phrixus and helle must be burned as a sacrifice to the gods. so the messengers went, and came back dressed in mourning. and when they were brought before the king, at first they would tell him nothing. but he commanded them to speak, and then they told him, not the real message from the prophetess, but what ino had bidden them to say: that phrixus and helle must be offered as a sacrifice to appease the gods. the king was very sorrowful at this news, but he could not disobey the gods. so poor phrixus and helle were wreathed with flowers, as sheep used to be when they were led to be sacrificed, and they were taken to the altar, all the people following and weeping, and the golden ram went between them, as they walked to the temple. then they came within sight of the sea, which lay beneath the cliff where the temple stood, all glittering in the sun, and the happy white sea-birds flying over it. here the ram stopped, and suddenly he spoke to phrixus, for the god gave him utterance, and said: 'lay hold of my horn, and get on my back, and let helle climb up behind you, and i will carry you far away.' then phrixus took hold of the ram's horn, and helle mounted behind him, and grasped the golden fleece, and suddenly the ram rose in the air, and flew above the people's heads, far away over the sea. far away to the eastward he flew, and deep below them they saw the sea, and the islands, and the white towers and temples, and the fields, and ships. eastward always he went, toward the sun-rising, and helle grew dizzy and weary. at last a deep sleep came over her, and she let go her hold of the fleece, and fell from the ram's back, down and down, into the narrow seas, that run between europe and asia, and there she was drowned. and that strait is called helle's ford, or hellespont, to this day. but phrixus and the ram flew on up the narrow seas, and over the great sea which the greeks called the euxine and we call the black sea, till they reached a country named colchis. there the ram alighted, so tired and weary that he died, and phrixus had his beautiful golden fleece stripped off, and hung on an oak tree in a dark wood. and there it was guarded by a monstrous dragon, so that nobody dared to go near it. and phrixus married the king's daughter, and lived long, till he died also, and a king called Ã�êtes, the brother of the enchantress, circe, ruled that country. of all the things he had, the rarest was the golden fleece, and it became a proverb that nobody could take that fleece away, nor deceive the dragon who guarded it. ii the search for the fleece some years after the golden ram died in colchis, far across the sea, a certain king reigned in iolcos in greece, and his name was pelias. he was not the rightful king, for he had turned his stepbrother, king Ã�son, from the throne, and taken it for himself. now, Ã�son had a son, a boy called jason, and he sent him far away from pelias, up into the mountains. in these hills there was a great cave, and in that cave lived chiron the wise, who, the story says, was half a horse. he had the head and breast of a man, but a horse's body and legs. he was famed for knowing more about everything than anyone else in all greece. he knew about the stars, and the plants of earth, which were good for medicine and which were poisonous. he was the best archer with the bow, and the best player of the harp; he could sing songs and tell stories of old times, for he was the last of a people, half horse and half man, who had dwelt in ancient days on the hills. therefore the kings in greece sent their sons to him to be taught shooting, singing, and telling the truth, and that was all the teaching they had then, except that they learned to hunt, fish, and fight, and throw spears, and toss the hammer and the stone. there jason lived with chiron and the boys in the cave, and many of the boys became famous. there was orpheus who played the harp so sweetly that wild beasts followed his minstrelsy, and even the trees danced after him, and settled where he stopped playing. there was mopsus who could understand what the birds say to each other; and there was butes, the handsomest of men; and tiphys, the best steersman of a ship; and castor, with his brother polydeuces, the boxer. heracles, too, the strongest man in the whole world, was there; and lynceus, whom they called keen-eye, because he could see so far, and could see even the dead men in their graves under the earth. there was ephemus, so swift and light-footed that he could run upon the gray sea and never wet his feet; and there were calais and zetes, the two sons of the north wind, with golden wings upon their feet. there also was peleus, who later married thetis of the silver feet, goddess of the sea foam, and was the father of achilles. many others were there whose names it would take too long to tell. they all grew up together in the hills good friends, healthy, and brave, and strong. and they all went out to their own homes at last; but jason had no home to go to, for his uncle, pelias, had taken it, and his father was a wanderer. so at last he wearied of being alone, and he said good-bye to his teacher, and went down through the hills toward iolcos, his father's old home, where his wicked uncle pelias was reigning. as he went, he came to a great, flooded river, running red from bank to bank, rolling the round boulders along. and there on the bank was an old woman sitting. 'cannot you cross, mother?' said jason; and she said she could not, but must wait until the flood fell, for there was no bridge. 'i'll carry you across,' said jason, 'if you will let me carry you.' so she thanked him, and said it was a kind deed, for she was longing to reach the cottage where her little grandson lay sick. then he knelt down, and she climbed upon his back, and he used his spear for a staff, and stepped into the river. it was deeper than he thought, and stronger, but at last he staggered out on the farther bank, far below where he went in. and then he set the old woman down. 'bless you, my lad, for a strong man and a brave!' she said, 'and my blessing go with you to the world's end.' then he looked and she was gone he did not know where, for she was the greatest of the goddesses, hera, the wife of zeus, who had taken the shape of an old woman, to try jason, whether he was kind and strong, or rude and churlish. from this day her grace went with him, and she helped him in all dangers. then jason went down limping to the city, for he had lost one shoe in the flood. and when he reached the town he went straight up to the palace, and through the court, and into the open door, and up the hall, where the king was sitting at his table among his men. there jason stood, leaning on his spear. when the king saw him he turned white with terror. for he had been told by the prophetess of pytho that a man with only one shoe would come some day and take away his kingdom. and here was the half-shod man of whom the prophecy had spoken. but pelias still remembered to be courteous, and he bade his men lead the stranger to the baths, and there the attendants bathed him, pouring hot water over him. and they anointed his head with oil, and clothed him in new raiment, and brought him back to the hall, and set him down at a table beside the king, and gave him meat and drink. when he had eaten and was refreshed, the king said: 'now it is time to ask the stranger who he is, and who his parents are, and whence he comes to iolcos?' and jason answered, 'i am jason, son of the rightful king, Ã�son, and i am come to take back my kingdom.' the king grew pale again, but he was cunning, and he leaped up and embraced the lad, and made much of him, and caused a gold circlet to be twisted in his hair. then he said he was old, and weary of judging the people. 'and weary work it is,' he said, 'and no joy therewith shall any king have. for there is a curse on the country, that shall not be taken away till the fleece of gold is brought home, from the land of the world's end. the ghost of phrixus stands by my bedside every night, wailing and will not be comforted, till the fleece is brought home again.' when jason heard that he cried, 'i shall take the curse away, for by the splendour of lady hera's brow, i shall bring the fleece of gold from the land of the world's end before i sit on the throne of my father.' now this was the very thing that the king wished, for he thought that if once jason went after the fleece, certainly he would never come back living to iolcos. so he said that it could never be done, for the land was far away across the sea, so far that the birds could not come and go in one year, so great a sea was that and perilous. also, there was a dragon that guarded the fleece of gold, and no man could face it and live. but the idea of fighting a dragon was itself a temptation to jason, and he made a great vow by the water of styx, an oath the very gods feared to break, that certainly he would bring home that fleece to iolcos. and he sent out messengers all over greece, to all his old friends, who were with him in the centaur's cave, and bade them come and help him, for that there was a dragon to kill, and that there would be fighting. and they all came, driving in their chariots down dales and across hills: heracles, the strong man, with the bow that none other could bend; and orpheus with his harp, and castor and polydeuces, and zetes and calais of the golden wings, and tiphys, the steersman, and young hylas, still a boy, and as fair as a girl, who always went with heracles the strong. these came, and many more, and they set shipbuilders to work, and oaks were felled for beams, and ashes for oars, and spears were made, and arrows feathered, and swords sharpened. but in the prow of the ship they placed a bough of an oak tree from the forest of zeus in dodona where the trees can speak, and that bough spoke, and prophesied things to come. they called the ship 'argo,' and they launched her, and put bread, and meat, and wine on board, and hung their shields outside the bulwarks. then they said good-bye to their friends, went aboard, sat down at the oars, set sail, and so away eastward to colchis, in the land of the world's end. all day they rowed, and at night they beached the ship, as was then the custom, for they did not sail at night, and they went on shore, and took supper, and slept, and next day to the sea again. and old chiron, the man-horse, saw the swift ship from his mountain heights, and ran down to the beach; there he stood with the waves of the gray sea breaking over his feet, waving with his mighty hands, and wishing his boys a safe return. and his wife stood beside him, holding in her arms the little son of one of the ship's company, achilles, the son of peleus of the spear, and of thetis the goddess of the sea foam. so they rowed ever eastward, and ere long they came to a strange isle where dwelt men with six hands apiece, unruly giants. and these giants lay in wait for them on cliffs above the river's mouth where the ship was moored, and before the dawn they rolled down great rocks on the crew. but heracles drew his huge bow, the bow for which he slew eurytus, king of oechalia, and wherever a giant showed hand or shoulder above the cliff, he pinned him through with an arrow, till all were slain. after that they still held eastward, passing many islands, and towns of men, till they reached mysia, and the asian shore. here they landed, with bad luck. for while they were cutting reeds and grass to strew their beds on the sands, young hylas, beautiful hylas, went off with a pitcher in his hand to draw water. he came to a beautiful spring, a deep, clear, green pool, and there the water-fairies lived, whom men called nereids. there were eunis, and nycheia with her april eyes, and when they saw the beautiful hylas, they longed to have him always with them, to live in the crystal caves beneath the water, for they had never seen anyone so beautiful. as he stooped with his pitcher and dipped it into the stream, they caught him softly in their arms, and drew him down below, and no man ever saw him any more, but he dwelt with the water-fairies. but heracles the strong, who loved him like a younger brother, wandered all over the country crying '_hylas! hylas!_' and the boy's voice answered so faintly from below the stream that heracles never heard him. so he roamed alone in the forests, and the rest of the crew thought he was lost. then the sons of the north wind were angry, and bade them set sail without him, and sail they did, leaving the strong man behind. long afterward, when the fleece was won, heracles met the sons of the north wind, and slew them with his arrows. and he buried them, and set a great stone on each grave, and one of these is ever stirred, and shakes when the north wind blows. there they lie, and their golden wings are at rest. still they sped on, with a west wind blowing, and they came to a country whose king was strong, and thought himself the best boxer then living, so he came down to the ship and challenged anyone of that crew; and polydeuces, the boxer, took up the challenge. all the rest, and the people of the country, made a ring, and polydeuces and huge king amycus stepped into the midst, and put up their hands. first they moved round each other cautiously, watching for a chance, and then, as the sun shone forth in the giant's face, polydeuces leaped in and struck him between the eyes with his left hand, and, strong as he was, the giant staggered and fell. then his friends picked him up, and sponged his face with water, and all the crew of 'argo' shouted with joy. he was soon on his feet again, and rushed at polydeuces, hitting out so hard that he would have killed him if the blow had gone home. but polydeuces just moved his head a little on one side, and the blow went by, and, as the giant slipped, polydeuces planted one in his mouth and another beneath his ear, and was away before the giant could recover. there they stood, breathing heavily, and glaring at each other, till the giant made another rush, but polydeuces avoided him, and struck him several blows quickly in the eyes, and now the giant was almost blind. then polydeuces at once ended the combat by a right-hand blow on the temple. the giant fell, and lay as if he were dead. when he came to himself again, he had no heart to go on, for his knees shook, and he could hardly see. so polydeuces made him swear never to challenge strangers again as long as he lived, and then the crew of 'argo' crowned polydeuces with a wreath of poplar leaves, and they took supper, and orpheus sang to them, and they slept, and next day they came to the country of the unhappiest of kings. his name was phineus, and he was a prophet; but, when he came to meet jason and his company, he seemed more like the ghost of a beggar than a crowned king. for he was blind, and very old, and he wandered like a dream, leaning on a staff, and feeling the wall with his hand. his limbs all trembled, he was but a thing of skin and bone, and foul and filthy to see. at last he reached the doorway of the house where jason was, and sat down, with his purple cloak fallen round him, and he held up his skinny hands, and welcomed jason, for, being a prophet, he knew that now he should be delivered from his wretchedness. he lived, or rather lingered, in all this misery because he had offended the gods, and had told men what things were to happen in the future beyond what the gods desired that men should know. so they blinded him, and they sent against him hideous monsters with wings and crooked claws, called harpies, which fell upon him at his meat, and carried it away before he could put it to his mouth. sometimes they flew off with all the meat; sometimes they left a little, that he might not quite starve, and die, and be at peace, but might live in misery. yet what they left was made so foul, and of such evil savour, that even a starving man could scarcely take it within his lips. thus this king was the most miserable of all men living. he welcomed the heroes, and, above all, zetes and calais, the sons of the north wind, for they, he knew, would help him. and they all went into his wretched, naked hall, and sat down at the tables, and the servants brought meat and drink and placed it before them, the latest and last supper of the harpies. then down on the meat swooped the harpies, like lightning or wind, with clanging brazen wings, and iron claws, and the smell of a battlefield where men lie dead; down they swooped, and flew shrieking away with the food. but the two sons of the north wind drew their short swords, and rose in the air on their golden wings, and followed where the harpies fled, over many a sea and many a land, till they came to a distant isle, and there they slew the harpies with their swords. and that isle was called 'turn again,' for there the sons of the north wind turned, and it was late in the night when they came back to the hall of phineus, and to their companions. here phineus was telling jason and his company how they might win their way to colchis and the world's end, and the wood of the fleece of gold. 'first,' he said, 'you shall come in your ship to the rocks wandering, for these rocks wander like living things in the sea, and no ship has ever sailed between them. they open, like a great mouth, to let ships pass, and when she is between their lips they clash again, and crush her in their iron jaws. by this way even winged things may never pass; nay, not even the doves that bear ambrosia to father zeus, the lord of olympus, but the rocks ever catch one even of these. so, when you come near them, you must let loose a dove from the ship, and let her go before you to try the way. and if she flies safely between the rocks from one sea to the other sea, then row with all your might when the rocks open again. but if the rocks close on the bird, then return, and do not try the adventure. but, if you win safely through, then hold right on to the mouth of the river phasis, and there you shall see the towers of Ã�êtes, the king, and the grove of the fleece of gold. and then do as well as you may.' so they thanked him, and the next morning they set sail, till they came to a place where the rocks wandering wallowed in the water, and all was foam; but when the rocks leaped apart the stream ran swift, and the waves roared beneath the rocks, and the wet cliffs bellowed. then euphemus took the dove in his hands, and set her free, and she flew straight at the pass where the rocks met, and sped right through, and the rocks gnashed like gnashing teeth, but they caught only a feather from her tail. then slowly the rocks opened again, like a wild beast's mouth that opens, and tiphys, the helmsman, shouted, 'row on, hard all!' and he held the ship straight for the pass. then the oars bent like bows in the hands of men, and the good ship leaped at the stroke. three strokes they pulled, and at each the ship leaped, and now they were within the black jaws of the rocks, the water boiling round them, and so dark it was that overhead they could see the stars, but the oarsmen could not see the daylight behind them, and the steersman could not see the daylight in front. then the great tide rushed in between the rocks like a rushing river, and lifted the ship as if it were lifted by a hand, and through the strait she passed like a bird, and the rocks clashed, and only broke the carved wood of the ship's stern. and the ship reeled into the seething sea beyond, and all the men of jason bowed their heads over their oars, half dead with the fierce rowing. then they set all sail, and the ship sped merrily on, past the shores of the inner sea, past bays and towns, and river mouths, and round green hills, the tombs of men slain long ago. and, behold, on the top of one mound stood a tall man, clad in rusty armour, and with a broken sword in his hand, and on his head a helmet with a blood-red crest. thrice he waved his hand, and thrice he shouted aloud, and was no more seen, for this was the ghost of sthenelus, actæon's son, whom an arrow had slain there long since, and he had come forth from his tomb to see men of his own blood, and to greet jason and his company. so they anchored there, and slew sheep in sacrifice, and poured blood and wine on the grave of sthenelus. there orpheus left a harp, placing it in the bough of a tree, that the wind might sing in the chords, and make music to sthenelus below the earth. then they sailed on, and at evening they saw above their heads the snowy crests of mount caucasus, flushed in the sunset; and high in the air they saw, as it were, a black speck that grew greater and greater, and fluttered black wings, and then fell sheer down like a stone. then they heard a dreadful cry from a valley of the mountain, for there prometheus was fastened to the rock, and the eagles fed upon him, because he stole fire from the gods, and gave it to men. all the heroes shuddered when they heard his cry; but not long after heracles came that way, and he slew the eagle with his bow, and set prometheus free. but at nightfall they came into the wide mouth of the river phasis, that flows through the land of the world's end, and they saw the lights burning in the palace of Ã�êtes the king. so now they were come to the last stage of their journey, and there they slept, and dreamed of the fleece of gold. iii the winning of the fleece next morning the heroes awoke, and left the ship moored in the river's mouth, hidden by tall reeds, for they took down the mast, lest it should be seen. then they walked toward the city of colchis, and they passed through a strange and horrible wood. dead men, bound together with cords, were hanging from the branches, for the colchis people buried women, but hung dead men from the branches of trees. then they came to the palace, where king Ã�êtes lived, with his young son absyrtus, and his daughter chalciope, who had been the wife of phrixus, and his younger daughter, medea, who was a witch, and the priestess of brimo, a dreadful goddess. now chalciope came out and welcomed jason, for she knew the heroes were of her dear husband's country. and beautiful medea, the dark witch-girl, came forth and saw jason, and as soon as she saw him she loved him more than her father and her brother and all her father's house. for his bearing was gallant, and his armour golden, and long yellow hair fell over his shoulders, and over the leopard skin that he wore above his armour. medea turned white and then red, and cast down her eyes, but chalciope took the heroes to the baths, and gave them food, and they were brought to Ã�êtes, who asked them why they came, and they told him that they desired the fleece of gold, and he was very angry, and told them that only to a better man than himself would he give up that fleece. if any wished to prove himself worthy of it he must tame two bulls which breathed flame from their nostrils, and must plough four acres with these bulls, and next he must sow the field with the teeth of a dragon, and these teeth when sown would immediately grow up into armed men. jason said that, as it must be, he would try this adventure, but he went sadly enough back to the ship and did not notice how kindly medea was looking after him as he went. now, in the dead of night, medea could not sleep, because she was so sorry for the stranger, and she knew that she could help him by her magic. but she remembered how her father would burn her for a witch if she helped jason, and a great shame, too, came on her that she should prefer a stranger to her own people. so she arose in the dark, and stole just as she was to her sister's room, a white figure roaming like a ghost in the palace. at her sister's door she turned back in shame, saying, 'no, i will never do it,' and she went back again to her chamber, and came again, and knew not what to do; but at last she returned to her own bower, and threw herself on her bed, and wept. her sister heard her weeping, and came to her and they cried together, but softly, that no one might hear them. for chalciope was as eager to help the greeks for love of phrixus, her dead husband, as medea was for the love of jason. at last medea promised to carry to the temple of the goddess of whom she was a priestess, a drug that would tame the bulls which dwelt in the field of that temple. but still she wept and wished that she were dead, and had a mind to slay herself; yet, all the time, she was longing for the dawn, that she might go and see jason, and give him the drug, and see his face once more, if she was never to see him again. so, at dawn she bound up her hair, and bathed her face, and took the drug, which was pressed from a flower. that flower first blossomed when the eagle shed the blood of prometheus on the earth. the virtue of the juice of the flower was this, that if a man anointed himself with it, he could not that day be wounded by swords, and fire could not burn him. so she placed it in a vial beneath her girdle, and she went with other girls, her friends, to the temple of the goddess. now jason had been warned by chalciope to meet her there, and he was coming with mopsus who knew the speech of birds. but mopsus heard a crow that sat on a poplar tree speaking to another crow, saying: 'here comes a silly prophet, and sillier than a goose. he is walking with a young man to meet a maid, and does not know that, while he is there to hear, the maid will not say a word that is in her heart. go away, foolish prophet; it is not you she cares for.' then mopsus smiled, and stopped where he was; but jason went on, where medea was pretending to play with the girls, her companions. when she saw jason she felt as if she could neither go forward, nor go back, and she was very pale. but jason told her not to be afraid, and asked her to help him, but for long she could not answer him; however, at the last, she gave him the drug, and taught him how to use it. 'so shall you carry the fleece to iolcos, far away, but what is it to me where you go when you have gone from here? still remember the name of me, medea, as i shall remember you. and may there come to me some voice, or some bird bearing the message, whenever you have quite forgotten me.' but jason answered, 'lady, let the winds blow what voice they will, and what that bird will, let him bring. but no wind or bird shall ever bear the news that i have forgotten you, if you will cross the sea with me, and be my wife.' then she was glad, and yet she was afraid, at the thought of that dark voyage, with a stranger, from her father's home and her own. so they parted, jason to the ship, and medea to the palace. but in the morning jason anointed himself and his armour with the drug, and all the heroes struck at him with spears and swords, but the swords would not bite on him nor on his armour. he felt so strong and light that he leaped in the air with joy, and the sun shone on his glittering shield. now they all went up together to the field where the bulls were breathing flame. there already was Ã�êtes, with medea, and all the colchians had come to see jason die. a plough had been brought to which he was to harness the bulls. then he walked up to them, and they blew fire at him that flamed all round him, but the magic drug protected him. he took a horn of one bull in his right hand, and a horn of the other in his left, and dashed their heads together so mightily that they fell. when they rose, all trembling, he yoked them to the plough, and drove them with his spear, till all the field was ploughed in straight ridges and furrows. then he dipped his helmet in the river, and drank water, for he was weary; and next he sowed the dragon's teeth on the right and left. then you might see spear points, and sword points, and crests of helmets break up from the soil like shoots of corn, and presently the earth was shaken like sea waves, as armed men leaped out of the furrows, all furious for battle, and all rushed to slay jason. but he, as medea had told him to do, caught up a great rock, and threw it among them, and he who was struck by the rock said to his neighbour, 'you struck me; take that!' and ran his spear through that man's breast, but before he could draw it out another man had cleft his helmet with a stroke, and so it went: an hour of striking and shouting, while the sparks of fire sprang up from helmet and breastplate and shield. the furrows ran red with blood, and wounded men crawled on hands and knees to strike or stab those that were yet standing and fighting. so axes and sword and spear flashed and fell, till now all the men were down but one, taller and stronger than the rest. round him he looked, and saw only jason standing there, and he staggered toward him, bleeding, and lifting his great axe above his head. but jason only stepped aside from the blow which would have cloven him to the waist, the last blow of the men of the dragon's teeth, for he who struck fell, and there he lay and died. then jason went to the king, where he sat looking darkly on, and said, 'o king, the field is ploughed, the seed is sown, the harvest is reaped. give me now the fleece of gold, and let me be gone.' but the king said, 'enough is done. to-morrow is a new day. to-morrow shall you win the fleece.' then he looked sidewise at medea, and she knew that he suspected her, and she was afraid. Ã�êtes went and sat brooding over his wine with the captains of his people; and his mood was bitter, both for loss of the fleece, and because jason had won it not by his own prowess, but by the magic aid of medea. as for medea herself, it was the king's purpose to put her to a cruel death, and this she needed not her witchery to know, and a fire was in her eyes, and terrible sounds were ringing in her ears, and it seemed she had but two choices: to drink poison and die, or to flee with the heroes in the ship 'argo.' but at last flight seemed better than death. so she hid all her engines of witchcraft in the folds of her gown, and she kissed her bed where she would never sleep again, and the posts of the door, and she caressed the very walls with her hand in that last farewell. and she cut a long lock of her yellow hair, and left it in the room, a keepsake to her mother dear, in memory of her maiden days. 'good-bye, my mother,' she said, 'this long lock i leave thee in place of me; good-bye, a long good-bye, to me who am going on a long journey; good-bye, my sister chalciope, good-bye! dear house, good-bye!' then she stole from the house, and the bolted doors leaped open at their own accord at the swift spell medea murmured. with her bare feet she ran down the grassy paths, and the daisies looked black against the white feet of medea. so she sped to the temple of the goddess, and the moon overhead looked down on her. many a time had she darkened the moon's face with her magic song, and now the lady moon gazed white upon her, and said, 'i am not, then, the only one that wanders in the night for love, as i love endymion the sleeper, who sleeps on the crest of the latmian hill, and beholds me in his dreams. many a time hast thou darkened my face with thy songs, and made night black with thy sorceries, and now thou too art in love! so go thy way, and bid thy heart endure, for a sore fate is before thee!' but medea hastened on till she came to the high river bank, and saw the heroes, merry at their wine in the light of a blazing fire. thrice she called aloud, and they heard her, and came to her, and she said, 'save me, my friends, for all is known, and my death is sure. and i will give you the fleece of gold for the price of my life.' then jason swore that she should be his wife, and more dear to him than all the world. so she went aboard their boat, and swiftly they rowed up stream to the dark wood where the dragon who never sleeps lay guarding the fleece of gold. there she landed, and jason, and orpheus with his harp, and through the wood they went, but that old serpent saw them coming, and hissed so loud that women wakened in colchis town, and children cried to their mothers. but orpheus struck softly on his harp, and he sang a hymn to sleep, bidding him come and cast a slumber on the dragon's wakeful eyes. this was the song he sang: sleep! king of gods and men! come to my call again, swift over field and fen, mountain and deep; come, bid the waves be still; sleep, streams on height and hill; beasts, birds, and snakes, thy will conquereth, sleep! come on thy golden wings, come ere the swallow sings, lulling all living things, fly they or creep! come with thy leaden wand, come with thy kindly hand, soothing on sea or land mortals that weep. come from the cloudy west, soft over brain and breast, bidding the dragon rest, come to me, sleep! this was orpheus's song, and he sang so sweetly that the bright, small eyes of the dragon closed, and all his hard coils softened and uncurled. then jason set his foot on the dragon's neck and hewed off his head, and lifted down the golden fleece from the sacred oak tree, and it shone like a golden cloud at dawn. he waited not to wonder at it, but he and medea and orpheus hurried through the wet wood-paths to the ship, and threw it on board, cast a cloak over it, and bade the heroes sit down to the oars, half of them, but the others to take their shields and stand each beside the oarsmen, to guard them from the arrows of the colchians. then he cut the stern cables with his sword, and softly they rowed, under the bank, down the dark river to the sea. but the hissing of the dragon had already awakened the colchians, and lights were flitting by the palace windows, and Ã�êtes was driving in his chariot with all his men down to the banks of the river. then their arrows fell like hail about the ship, but they rebounded from the shields of the heroes, and the swift ship sped over the bar, and leaped as she felt the first waves of the salt sea. [illustration: how the serpent that guarded the golden fleece was slain.] and now the fleece was won. but it was weary work bringing it home to greece, and medea and jason did a deed which angered the gods. they slew her brother absyrtus, who followed after them with a fleet, and cut him limb from limb, and when Ã�êtes came with his ships, and saw the dead limbs, he stopped, and went home, for his heart was broken. the gods would not let the greeks return by the way they had come, but by strange ways where never another ship has sailed. up the ister (the danube) they rowed, through countries of savage men, till the 'argo' could go no farther, by reason of the narrowness of the stream. then they hauled her overland, where no man knows, but they launched her on the elbe at last, and out into a sea where never sail had been seen. then they were driven wandering out into ocean, and to a fairy, far-off isle where lady circe dwelt. circe was the sister of king Ã�êtes, both were children of the sun god, and medea hoped that circe would be kind to her, as she could not have heard of the slaying of absyrtus. medea and jason went up through the woods of the isle to the house of circe, and had no fear of the lions and wolves and bears that guarded the house. these knew that medea was an enchantress, and they fawned on her and jason and let them pass. but in the house they found circe clad in dark mourning raiment, and all her long black hair fell wet and dripping to her feet, for she had seen visions of terror and sin, and therefore she had purified herself in salt water of the sea. the walls of her chamber, in the night, had shone as with fire, and dripped as with blood, and a voice of wailing had broken forth, and the spirit of dead absyrtus had cried in her ears. when medea and jason entered her hall, circe bade them sit down, and called her bower maidens, fairies of woods and waters, to strew a table with a cloth of gold, and set on it food and wine. but jason and medea ran to the hearth, the sacred place of the house to which men that have done murder flee, and there they are safe, when they come in their flight to the house of a stranger. they cast ashes from the hearth on their heads, and circe knew that they had slain absyrtus. yet she was of medea's near kindred, and she respected the law of the hearth. therefore she did the rite of purification, as was the custom, cleansing blood with blood, and she burned in the fire a cake of honey, and meal, and oil, to appease the furies who revenge the deaths of kinsmen by the hands of kinsmen. when all was done, jason and medea rose from their knees, and sat down on chairs in the hall, and medea told circe all her tale, except the slaying of absyrtus. 'more and worse than you tell me you have done,' said circe, 'but you are my brother's daughter.' then she advised them of all the dangers of their way home to greece, how they must shun the sirens, and scylla and charybdis, and she sent a messenger, iris, the goddess of the rainbow, to bid thetis help them through the perils of the sea, and bring them safe to phæacia, where the phæacians would send them home. 'but you shall never be happy, nor know one good year in all your lives,' said circe, and she bade them farewell. they went by the way that ulysses went on a later day; they passed through many perils, and came to iolcos, where pelias was old, and made jason reign in his stead. but jason and medea loved each other no longer, and many stories, all different from each other, are told concerning evil deeds that they wrought, and certainly they left each other, and jason took another wife, and medea went to athens. here she lived in the palace of Ã�geus, an unhappy king who had been untrue to his own true love, and therefore the gods took from him courage and strength. but about medea at athens the story is told in the next tale, the tale of theseus, Ã�geus's son. theseus i the wedding of Ã�thra long before ulysses was born, there lived in athens a young king, strong, brave, and beautiful, named Ã�geus. athens, which later became so great and famous, was then but a little town, perched on the top of a cliff which rises out of the plain, two or three miles from the sea. no doubt the place was chosen so as to be safe against pirates, who then used to roam all about the seas, plundering merchant ships, robbing cities, and carrying away men, women, and children, to sell as slaves. the athenians had then no fleet with which to put the pirates down, and possessed not so much land as would make a large estate in england: other little free towns held the rest of the surrounding country. king Ã�geus was young, and desired to take a wife, indeed a wife had been found for him. but he wanted to be certain, if he could, that he was to have sons to succeed him: so many misfortunes happen to kings who have no children. but how was he to find out whether he should have children or not? at that time, and always in greece before it was converted to christianity, there were temples of the gods in various places, at which it was supposed that men might receive answers to their questions. these temples were called oracles, or places where oracles were given, and the most famous of them was the temple of apollo at pytho, or delphi, far to the north-west of athens. here was a deep ravine of a steep mountain, where the god apollo was said to have shot a monstrous dragon with his arrows. he then ordered that a temple should be built here, and in this temple a maiden, being inspired by the god, gave her prophecies. the people who came to consult her made the richest presents to the priests, and the temple was full of cups and bowls of gold and silver, and held more wealth in its chambers than the treasure houses of the richest kings. Ã�geus determined to go to delphi to ask his question: would he have sons to come after him? he did not tell his people where he was going; he left the kingdom to be governed by his brother pallas, and he set out secretly at night, taking no servant. he did not wear royal dress, and he drove his own chariot, carrying for his offering only a small cup of silver, for he did not wish it to be known that he was a king, and told the priests that he was a follower of peleus, king of phthia. in answer to his question, the maiden sang two lines of verse, for she always prophesied in verse. her reply was difficult to understand, as oracles often were, for the maiden seldom spoke out clearly, but in a kind of riddle that might be understood in more ways than one; so that, whatever happened, she could not be proved to have made a mistake. Ã�geus was quite puzzled by the answer he got. he did not return to athens, but went to consult the prince of troezene, named pittheus, who was thought the wisest man then living. pittheus did not know who Ã�geus was, but saw that he seemed of noble birth, tall and handsome, so he received him very kindly, and kept him in his house for some time, entertaining him with feasts, dances, and hunting parties. now pittheus had a very lovely daughter, named Ã�thra. she and Ã�geus fell in love with each other, so deeply that they desired to be married. it was the custom that the bridegroom should pay a price, a number of cattle, to the father of the bride, and Ã�geus, of course, had no cattle to give. but it was also the custom, if the lover did some very brave and useful action, to reward him with the hand of his lady, and Ã�geus had his opportunity. a fleet of pirates landed at troezene and attacked the town, but Ã�geus fought so bravely and led the men of pittheus so well, that he not only slew the pirate chief, and defeated his men, but also captured some of his ships, which were full of plunder, gold, and bronze, and iron, and slaves. with this wealth Ã�geus paid the bride price, as it was called, for Ã�thra, and they were married. pittheus thought himself a lucky man, for he had no son, and here was a son-in-law who could protect his little kingdom, and wear the crown when he himself was dead. though pittheus was believed to be very wise, in this matter he was very foolish. he never knew who Ã�geus really was, that is the king of athens, nor did poor Ã�thra know. in a short time Ã�geus wearied of beautiful Ã�thra, who continued to love him dearly. he was anxious also to return to his kingdom, for he heard that his brother pallas and his many sons were governing badly; and he feared that pallas might keep the crown for himself, so he began to speak mysteriously to Ã�thra, talking about a long and dangerous journey which he was obliged to make, for secret reasons, and from which he might never return alive. Ã�thra wept bitterly, and sometimes thought, as people did in these days, that the beautiful stranger might be no man, but a god, and that he might return to olympus, the home of the gods, and forget her; for the gods never tarried long with the mortal women who loved them. at last Ã�geus took Ã�thra to a lonely glen in the woods, where, beside a little mountain stream, lay a great moss-grown boulder that an earthquake, long ago, had shaken from the rocky cliff above. 'the time is coming,' said Ã�geus 'when you and i must part, and only the gods can tell when we shall meet again! it may be that you will bear a child, and, if he be a boy, when he has come to his strength you must lead him to this great stone, and let no man or woman be there but you two only. you must then bid him roll away the stone, and, if he has no strength to raise it, so must it be. but if he can roll it away, then let him take such things as he finds there, and let him consider them well, and do what the gods put into his heart.' thus Ã�geus spoke, and on the dawn of the third night after this day, when Ã�thra awoke from sleep, she did not find him by her side. she arose, and ran through the house, calling his name, but there came no answer, and from that time Ã�geus was never seen again in troezene, and people marvelled, thinking that he, who came whence no man knew, and was so brave and beautiful, must be one of the immortal gods. 'who but a god,' they said, 'would leave for no cause a bride, the flower of greece for beauty, young, and loving; and a kingdom to which he was not born? truly he must be apollo of the silver bow, or hermes of the golden wand.' so they spoke among each other, and honoured Ã�thra greatly, but she pined and drooped with sorrow, like a tall lily flower, that the frost has touched in a rich man's garden. ii the boyhood of theseus time went by, and Ã�thra had a baby, a son. this was her only comfort, and she thought that she saw in him a likeness to his father, whose true name she did not know. certainly he was a very beautiful baby, well formed and strong, and, as soon as he could walk he was apt to quarrel with other children of his own age, and fight with them in a harmless way. he never was an amiable child, though he was always gentle to his mother. from the first he was afraid of nothing, and when he was about four or five he used to frighten his mother by wandering from home, with his little bow and arrows, and staying by himself in the woods. however, he always found his own way back again, sometimes with a bird or a snake that he had shot, and once dragging the body of a fawn that was nearly as heavy as himself. thus his mother, from his early boyhood, had many fears for him, that he might be killed by some fierce wild boar in the woods, for he would certainly shoot at whatever beast he met; or that he might kill some other boy in a quarrel, when he would be obliged to leave the country. the other boys, however, soon learned not to quarrel with theseus (so Ã�thra had named her son), for he was quick of temper, and heavy of hand, and, as for the wild beasts, he was cool as well as eager, and seemed to have an untaught knowledge of how to deal with them. Ã�thra was therefore very proud of her son, and began to hope that when he was older he would be able to roll away the great stone in the glen. she told him nothing about it when he was little, but, in her walks with him in the woods or on the sea shore, she would ask him to try his force in lifting large stones. when he succeeded she kissed and praised him, and told him stories of the famous strong man, heracles, whose name was well known through all greece. theseus could not bear to be beaten at lifting any weight, and, if he failed, he would rise early and try again in the morning, for many men, as soon as they rise from bed, can lift weights which are too heavy for them later in the day. when theseus was seven years old, Ã�thra found for him a tutor, named connidas, who taught him the arts of netting beasts and hunting, and how to manage the dogs, and how to drive a chariot, and wield sword and shield, and to throw the spear. other things connidas taught him which were known to few men in greece, for connidas came from the great rich island of crete. he had killed a man there in a quarrel, and fled to troezene to escape the revenge of the man's brothers and cousins. in crete many people could read and write, which in greece, perhaps none could do, and connidas taught theseus this learning. when he was fifteen years old, theseus went, as was the custom of young princes, to the temple of delphi, not to ask questions, but to cut his long hair, and sacrifice it to the god, apollo. he cut the forelock of his hair, so that no enemy, in battle, might take hold of it, for theseus intended to fight at close quarters, hand to hand, in war, not to shoot arrows and throw spears from a distance. by this time he thought himself a man, and was always asking where his father was, while Ã�thra told him how her husband had left her soon after their marriage, and that she had never heard of him since, but that some day theseus might find out all about him for himself, which no other person would ever be able to do. Ã�thra did not wish to tell theseus too soon the secret of the great stone, which hid she knew not what. she saw that he would leave her and go to seek his father, if he was able to raise the stone and find out the secret, and she could not bear to lose him, now that day by day he grew more like his father, her lost lover. besides, she wanted him not to try to raise the stone till he came to his strength. but when he was in his nineteenth year, he told her that he would now go all over greece and the whole world seeking for his father. she saw that he meant what he said, and one day she led him alone to the glen where the great stone lay, and sat down with him there, now talking, and now silent as if she were listening to the pleasant song of the burn that fell from a height into a clear deep pool. really she was listening to make sure that no hunter and no lovers were near them in the wood, but she only heard the songs of the water and the birds, no voices, or cry of hounds, or fallen twig cracking under a footstep. at last, when she was quite certain that nobody was near, she whispered, and told theseus how her husband, before he disappeared, had taken her to this place, and shown her the great moss-grown boulder, and said that, when his son could lift that stone away, he would find certain tokens, and that he must then do what the gods put into his heart. theseus listened eagerly, and said, 'if my father lifted that stone, and placed under it certain tokens, i also can lift it, perhaps not yet, but some day i shall be as strong a man as my father.' then he set himself to move the stone, gradually putting out all his force, but it seemed rooted in the earth, though he tried it now on one side and now on another. at last he flung himself at his mother's feet, with his head in the grass, and lay without speaking. his breath came hard and quick, and his hands were bleeding. Ã�thra laid her hand on his long hair, and was silent. 'i shall not lose my boy this year,' she thought. they were long in that lonely place, but at last theseus rose, and kissed his mother, and stretched his arms. 'not to-day!' he said, but his mother thought in her heart, 'not for many a day, i hope!' then they walked home to the house of pittheus, saying little, and when they had taken supper, theseus said that he would go to bed and dream of better fortune. so he arose, and went to his own chamber, which was built apart in the court of the palace, and soon Ã�thra too went to sleep, not unhappy, for her boy, she thought, would not leave her for a long time. but in the night theseus arose, and put on his shoes, and his smock, and a great double mantle. he girt on his sword of bronze, and went into the housekeeper's chamber, where he took a small skin of wine, and some food. these he placed in a wallet which he slung round his neck by a cord, and, lastly he stole out of the court, and walked to the lonely glen, and to the pool in the burn near which the great stone lay. here he folded his purple mantle of fine wool round him, and lay down to sleep in the grass, with his sword lying near his hand. when he awoke the clear blue morning light was round him, and all the birds were singing their song to the dawn. theseus arose, threw off his mantle and smock, and plunged into the cold pool of the burn, and then he drank a little of the wine, and ate of the bread and cold meat, and set himself to move the stone. at the first effort, into which he put all his strength, the stone stirred. with the second he felt it rise a little way from the ground, and then he lifted with all the might in his heart and body, and rolled the stone clean over. [illustration: theseus tries to lift the stone.] beneath it there was nothing but the fresh turned soil, but in a hollow of the foot of the rock, which now lay upper-most, there was a wrapping of purple woollen cloth, that covered something. theseus tore out the packet, unwrapped the cloth, and found within it a wrapping of white linen. this wrapping was in many folds, which he undid, and at last he found a pair of shoon, such as kings wear, adorned with gold, and also the most beautiful sword that he had ever seen. the handle was of clear rock crystal, and through the crystal you could see gold, inlaid with pictures of a lion hunt done in different shades of gold and silver. the sheath was of leather, with patterns in gold nails, and the blade was of bronze, a beautiful pattern ran down the centre to the point, the blade was straight, and double edged, supple, sharp, and strong. never had theseus seen so beautiful a sword, nor one so well balanced in his hand. he saw that this was a king's sword; and he thought that it had not been wrought in greece, for in greece was no sword-smith that could do such work. examining it very carefully he found characters engraved beneath the hilt, not letters such as the greeks used in later times, but such cretan signs as connidas had taught him to read, for many a weary hour, when he would like to have been following the deer in the forest. theseus pored over these signs till he read: icmalius me made. of Ã�geus of athens am i. now he knew the secret. his father was Ã�geus, the king of athens. theseus had heard of him and knew that he yet lived, a sad life full of trouble. for Ã�geus had no child by his athenian wife, and the fifty sons of his brother, pallas (who were called the pallantidæ) despised him, and feasted all day in his hall, recklessly and fiercely, robbing the people, and Ã�geus had no power in his own kingdom. 'methinks that my father has need of me!' said theseus to himself. then he wrapped up the sword and shoon in the linen and the cloth of wool, and walked home in the early morning to the palace of pittheus. when theseus came to the palace, he went straight to the upper chamber of his mother, where she was spinning wool with a distaff of ivory. when he laid before her the sword and the shoon, the distaff fell from her hand, and she hid her head in a fold of her robe. theseus kissed her hands and comforted her, and she dried her eyes, and praised him for his strength. 'these are the sword and the shoon of your father,' she said, 'but truly the gods have taken away his strength and courage. for all men say that Ã�geus of athens is not master in his own house; his brother's sons rule him, and with them medea, the witch woman, that once was the wife of jason.' 'the more he needs his son!' said theseus. 'mother, i must go to help him, and be the heir of his kingdom, where you shall be with me always, and rule the people of cecrops that fasten the locks of their hair with grasshoppers of gold.' 'so may it be, my child,' said Ã�thra, 'if the gods go with you to protect you. but you will sail to athens in a ship with fifty oarsmen, for the ways by land are long, and steep, and dangerous, beset by cruel giants and monstrous men.' 'nay, mother,' said theseus, 'by land must i go, for i would not be known in athens, till i see how matters fall out; and i would destroy these giants and robbers, and give peace to the people, and win glory among men. this very night i shall set forth.' he had a sore and sad parting from his mother, but under cloud of night he went on his way, girt with the sword of Ã�geus, his father, and carrying in his wallet the shoon with ornaments of gold. iii adventures of theseus theseus walked through the night, and slept for most of the next day at a shepherd's hut. the shepherd was kind to him, and bade him beware of one called the maceman, who guarded a narrow path with a sheer cliff above, and a sheer precipice below. 'no man born may deal with the maceman,' said the shepherd, 'for his great club is of iron, that cannot be broken, and his strength is as the strength of ten men, though his legs have no force to bear his body. men say that he is the son of the lame god, hephaestus, who forged his iron mace; there is not the like of it in the world.' 'shall i fear a lame man?' said theseus, 'and is it not easy, even if he be so terrible a fighter, for me to pass him in the darkness, for i walk by night?' the shepherd shook his head. 'few men have passed periphetes the maceman,' said he, 'and wiser are they who trust to swift ships than to the upland path.' 'you speak kindly, father,' said theseus, 'but i am minded to make the upland paths safe for all men.' so they parted, and theseus walked through the sunset and the dusk, always on a rising path, and the further he went the harder it was to see the way, for the path was overgrown with grass, and the shadows were deepening. night fell, and theseus hardly dared to go further, for on his left hand was a wall of rock, and on his right hand a cliff sinking sheer and steep to the sea. but now he saw a light in front of him, a red light flickering, as from a great fire, and he could not be content till he knew why that fire was lighted. so he went on, slowly and warily, till he came in full view of the fire which covered the whole of a little platform of rock; on one side the blaze shone up the wall of cliff on his left hand, on the other was the steep fall to the sea. in front of this fire was a great black bulk; theseus knew not what it might be. he walked forward till he saw that the black bulk was that of a monstrous man, who sat with his back to the fire. the man nodded his heavy head, thick with red unshorn hair, and theseus went up close to him. 'ho, sir,' he cried, 'this is my road, and on my road i must pass!' the seated man opened his eyes sleepily. 'not without my leave,' he said, 'for i keep this way, i and my club of iron.' 'get up and begone!' said theseus. 'that were hard for me to do,' said the monstrous man, 'for my legs will not bear the weight of my body, but my arms are strong enough.' 'that is to be seen!' said theseus, and he drew his sword, and leaped within the guard of the iron club that the monster, seated as he was, swung lightly to this side and that, covering the whole width of the path. the maceman swung the club at theseus, but theseus sprang aside, and in a moment, before the monster could recover his stroke, drove through his throat the sword of Ã�geus, and he fell back dead. 'he shall have his rights of fire, that his shadow may not wander outside the house of hades,' said theseus to himself, and he toppled the body of the maceman into his own great fire. then he went back some way, and wrapping himself in his mantle, he slept till the sun was high in heaven, while the fire had sunk into its embers, and theseus lightly sprang over them, carrying with him the maceman's iron club. the path now led downwards, and a burn that ran through a green forest kept him company on the way, and brought him to pleasant farms and houses of men. they marvelled to see him, a young man, carrying the club of the maceman. 'did you find him asleep?' they asked, and theseus smiled and said, 'no, i found him awake. but now he sleeps an iron sleep, from which he will never waken, and his body had due burning in his own watchfire.' then the men and women praised theseus, and wove for him a crown of leaves and flowers, and sacrificed sheep to the gods in heaven, and on the meat they dined, rejoicing that now they could go to troezene by the hill path, for they did not love ships and the sea. when they had eaten and drunk, and poured out the last cup of wine on the ground, in honour of hermes, the god of luck, the country people asked theseus where he was going? he said that he was going to walk to athens, and at this the people looked sad. 'no man may walk across the neck of land where ephyre is built,' they said, 'because above it sinis the pine-bender has his castle, and watches the way.' 'and who is sinis, and why does he bend pine trees?' asked theseus. 'he is the strongest of men, and when he catches a traveller, he binds him hand and foot, and sets him between two pine trees. then he bends them down till they meet, and fastens the traveller to the boughs of each tree, and lets them spring apart, so that the man is riven asunder.' 'two can play at that game,' said theseus, smiling, and he bade farewell to the kind country people, shouldered the iron club of periphetes, and went singing on his way. the path led him over moors, and past farm-houses, and at last rose towards the crest of the hill whence he would see the place where two seas would have met, had they not been sundered by the neck of land which is now called the isthmus of corinth. here the path was very narrow, with thick forests of pine trees on each hand, and 'here,' thought theseus to himself, 'i am likely to meet the pine-bender.' soon he knew that he was right, for he saw the ghastly remains of dead men that the pine trees bore like horrible fruit, and presently the air was darkened overhead by the waving of vultures and ravens that prey upon the dead. 'i shall fight the better in the shade,' said theseus, and he loosened the blade of the sword in its sheath, and raised the club of periphetes aloft in his hand. well it was for him that he raised the iron club, for, just as he lifted it, there flew out from the thicket something long, and slim, and black, that fluttered above his head for a moment, and then a loop at the end of it fell round the head of theseus, and was drawn tight with a sudden jerk. but the loop fell also above and round the club, which theseus held firm, pushing away the loop, and so pushed it off that it did not grip his neck. drawing with his left hand his bronze dagger, he cut through the leather lasso with one stroke, and bounded into the bushes from which it had flown. here he found a huge man, clad in the skin of a lion, with its head fitting to his own like a mask. the man lifted a club made of the trunk of a young pine tree, with a sharp-edged stone fastened into the head of it like an axe-head. but, as the monster raised his long weapon it struck on a strong branch of a tree above him, and was entangled in the boughs, so that theseus had time to thrust the head of the iron club full in his face, with all his force, and the savage fell with a crash like a falling oak among the bracken. he was one of the last of an ancient race of savage men, who dwelt in greece before the greeks, and he fought as they had fought, with weapons of wood and stone. theseus dropped with his knees on the breast of the pine-bender, and grasped his hairy throat with both his hands, not to strangle him, but to hold him sure and firm till he came to himself again. when at last the monster opened his eyes, theseus gripped his throat the harder, and spoke, 'pine-bender, for thee shall pines be bent. but i am a man and not a monster, and thou shalt die a clean death before thy body is torn in twain to be the last feast of thy vultures.' then, squeezing the throat of the wretch with his left hand, he drew the sword of Ã�geus, and drove it into the heart of sinis the pine-bender, and he gave a cry like a bull's, and his soul fled from him. then theseus bound the body of the savage with his own leather cord, and, bending down the tops of two pine trees, he did to the corpse as sinis had been wont to do to living men. lastly he cleaned the sword-blade carefully, wiping it with grass and bracken, and thrusting it to the hilt through the soft fresh ground under the trees, and so went on his way till he came to a little stream that ran towards the sea from the crest of the hill above the town of ephyre, which is now called corinth. but as he cleansed himself in the clear water, he heard a rustle in the boughs of the wood, and running with sword drawn to the place whence the sound seemed to come, he heard the whisper of a woman. then he saw a strange sight. a tall and very beautiful girl was kneeling in a thicket, in a patch of asparagus thorn, and was weeping, and praying, in a low voice, and in a childlike innocent manner, to the thorns, begging them to shelter and defend her. theseus wondered at her, and, sheathing his sword, came softly up to her, and bade her have no fear. then she threw her arms about his knees, and raised her face, all wet with tears, and bade him take pity upon her, for she had done no harm. 'who are you, maiden? you are safe with me,' said theseus. 'do you dread the pine-bender?' 'alas, sir,' answered the girl, 'i am his daughter, perigyne, and his blood is on your hands.' 'yet i do not war with women,' said theseus, 'though that has been done which was decreed by the gods. if you follow with me, you shall be kindly used, and marry, if you will, a man of a good house, being so beautiful as you are.' when she heard this, the maiden rose to her feet, and would have put her hand in his. 'not yet,' said theseus, kindly, 'till water has clean washed away that which is between thee and me. but wherefore, maiden, being in fear as you were, did you not call to the gods in heaven to keep you, but to the asparagus thorns that cannot hear or help?' 'my father, sir,' she said, 'knew no gods, but he came of the race of the asparagus thorns, and to them i cried in my need.' theseus marvelled at these words, and said, 'from this day you shall pray to zeus, the lord of thunder, and to the other gods.' then he went forth from the wood, with the maiden following, and wholly cleansed himself in the brook that ran by the way. so they passed down to the rich city of ephyre, where the king received him gladly, when he heard of the slaying of the maceman, periphetes, and of sinis the pine-bender. the queen, too, had pity on perigyne, so beautiful she was, and kept her in her own palace. afterwards perigyne married a prince, deiones, son of eurytus, king of oechalia, whom the strong man heracles slew for the sake of his bow, the very bow with which ulysses, many years afterwards, destroyed the wooers in his halls. the sons of perigyne and deiones later crossed the seas to asia, and settled in a land called caria, and they never burned or harmed the asparagus thorn to which perigyne had prayed in the thicket. greece was so lawless in these days that all the road from troezene northward to athens was beset by violent and lawless men. they loved cruelty even more than robbery, and each of them had carefully thought out his particular style of being cruel. the cities were small, and at war with each other, or at war among themselves, one family fighting against another for the crown. thus there was no chance of collecting an army to destroy the monstrous men of the roads, which it would have been easy enough for a small body of archers to have done. later theseus brought all into great order, but now, being but one man, he went seeking adventures. on the border of a small country called megara, whose people were much despised in greece, he found a chance of advancing himself, and gaining glory. he was walking in the middle of the day along a narrow path at the crest of a cliff above the sea, when he saw the flickering of a great fire in the blue air, and steam going up from a bronze caldron of water that was set on the fire. on one side of the fire was a foot-bath of glittering bronze. hard by was built a bower of green branches, very cool on that hot day, and from the door of the bower stretched a great thick hairy pair of naked legs. theseus guessed, from what he had been told, that the owner of the legs was sciron the kicker. he was a fierce outlaw who was called the kicker because he made all travellers wash his feet, and, as they were doing so, kicked them over the cliff. some say that at the foot of the cliff dwelt an enormous tortoise, which ate the dead and dying when they fell near his lair, but as tortoises do not eat flesh, generally, this may be a mistake. theseus was determined not to take any insolence from sciron, so he shouted-- 'slave, take these dirty legs of yours out of the way of a prince. 'prince!' answered sciron, 'if my legs are dirty, the gods are kind who have sent you to wash them for me.' then he got up, lazily, laughing and showing his ugly teeth, and stood in front of his bath with his heavy wooden club in his hand. he whirled it round his head insultingly, but theseus was quicker than he, and again, as when he slew the pine-bender, he did not strike, for striking is slow compared to thrusting, but like a flash he lunged forward and drove the thick end of his iron club into the breast of sciron. he staggered, and, as he reeled, theseus dealt him a blow across the thigh, and he fell. theseus seized the club which dropped from the hand of sciron, and threw it over the cliff; it seemed long before the sound came up from the rocks on which it struck. 'a deep drop into a stony way, sciron,' said theseus, 'now wash my feet! stand up, and turn your back to me, and be ready when i tell you.' sciron rose, slowly and sulkily, and stood as theseus bade him do. now theseus was not wearing light shoes or sandals, like the golden sandals of Ã�geus, which he carried in his wallet. he was wearing thick boots, with bronze nails in the soles, and the upper leathers were laced high up his legs, for the greeks wore such boots when they took long walks on mountain roads. as soon as theseus had trained sciron to stand in the proper position, he bade him stoop to undo the lacings of his boots. as sciron stooped, theseus gave him one tremendous kick, that lifted him over the edge of the cliff, and there was an end of sciron. theseus left the marches of megara, and walked singing on his way, above the sea, for his heart was light, and he was finding adventures to his heart's desire. being so young and well trained, his foot and hand, in a combat, moved as swift as lightning, and his enemies were older than he, and, though very strong, were heavy with full feeding, and slow to move. now it is speed that wins in a fight, whether between armies or single men, if strength and courage go with it. at last the road led theseus down from the heights to a great fertile plain, called the thriasian plain, not far from athens. there, near the sea, stands the famous old city of eleusis. when hades, the god of the dead, carried away beautiful persephone, the daughter of demeter, the goddess of corn and all manner of grain, to his dark palace beside the stream of ocean, it was to eleusis that demeter wandered. she was clad in mourning robes, and she sat down on a stone by the way, like a weary old woman. now the three daughters of the king who then reigned in eleusis came by, on the way to the well, to fetch water, and when they saw the old woman they set down their vessels and came round her, asking what they could do for her, who was so tired and poor. they said that they had a baby brother at home, who was the favourite of them all, and that he needed a nurse. demeter was pleased with their kindness, and they left their vessels for water beside her, and ran home to their mother. their long golden hair danced on their shoulders as they ran, and they came, out of breath, to their mother the queen, and asked her to take the old woman to be their brother's nurse. the queen was kind, too, and the old woman lived in their house, till zeus, the chief god, made the god of the dead send back persephone, to be with her mother through spring, and summer, and early autumn, but in winter she must live with her husband in the dark palace beside the river of ocean. then demeter was glad, and she caused the grain to grow abundantly for the people of eleusis, and taught them ceremonies, and a kind of play in which all the story of her sorrows and joy was acted. it was also taught that the souls of men do not die with the death of their bodies, any more than the seed of corn dies when it is buried in the dark earth, but that they live again in a world more happy and beautiful than ours. these ceremonies were called the mysteries of eleusis, and were famous in all the world. theseus might have expected to find eleusis a holy city, peaceful and quiet. but he had heard, as he travelled, that in eleusis was a strong bully, named cercyon; he was one of the rough highlanders of arcadia, who lived in the hills of the centre of southern greece, which is called peloponnesus. he is said to have taken the kingship, and driven out the descendants of the king whose daughters were kind to demeter. the strong man used to force all strangers to wrestle with him, and, when he threw them, for he had never been thrown, he broke their backs. knowing this, and being himself fond of wrestling, theseus walked straight to the door of the king's house, though the men in the town warned him, and the women looked at him with sad eyes. he found the gate of the courtyard open, with the altar of zeus the high god smoking in the middle of it, and at the threshold two servants welcomed him, and took him to the polished bath, and women washed him, and anointed him with oil, and clothed him in fresh raiment, as was the manner in kings' houses. then they led him into the hall, and he walked straight up to the high seats between the four pillars beside the hearth, in the middle of the hall. there cercyon sat, eating and drinking, surrounded by a score of his clan, great, broad, red-haired men, but he himself was the broadest and the most brawny. he welcomed theseus, and caused a table to be brought, with meat, and bread, and wine, and when theseus had put away his hunger, began to ask him who he was and whence he came. theseus told him that he had walked from troezene, and was on his way to the court of king peleus (the father of achilles), in the north, for he did not want the news of his coming to go before him to athens. 'you walked from troezene?' said cercyon. 'did you meet or hear of the man who killed the maceman and slew the pine-bender, and kicked sciron into the sea?' 'i walk fast, but news flies faster,' said theseus. 'the news came through my second-sighted man,' said cercyon, 'there he is, in the corner,' and cercyon threw the leg bone of an ox at his prophet, who just managed to leap out of the way. 'he seems to have foreseen that the bone was coming at him,' said cercyon, and all his friends laughed loud. 'he told us this morning that a stranger was coming, he who had killed the three watchers of the way. from your legs and shoulders, and the iron club that you carry, methinks you are that stranger?' theseus smiled, and nodded upwards, which the greeks did when they meant 'yes!' 'praise be to all the gods!' said cercyon. 'it is long since a good man came my way. do they practise wrestling at troezene?' 'now and then,' said theseus. 'then you will try a fall with me? there is a smooth space strewn with sand in the courtyard.' theseus answered that he had come hoping that the king would graciously honour him by trying a fall. then all the wild guests shouted, and out they all went and made a circle round the wrestling-place, while theseus and cercyon threw down their clothes and were anointed with oil over their bodies. to it they went, each straining forward and feeling for a grip, till they were locked, and then they swayed this way and that, their feet stamping the ground; and now one would yield a little, now the other, while the rough guests shouted, encouraging each of them. at last they rested and breathed, and now the men began to bet; seven oxen to three was laid on cercyon, and taken in several places. back to the wrestle they went, and theseus found this by far the hardest of his adventures, for cercyon was heavier than he, and as strong, but not so active. so theseus for long did little but resist the awful strain of the arms of cercyon, till, at last, for a moment cercyon weakened. then theseus slipped his hip under the hip of cercyon, and heaved him across and up, and threw him on the ground. he lighted in such a way that his neck broke, and there he lay dead. 'was it fairly done?' said theseus. 'it was fairly done!' cried the highlanders of arcadia; and then they raised such a wail for the dead that theseus deemed it wise to put on his clothes and walk out of the court; and, leaping into a chariot that stood empty by the gate, for the servant in the chariot feared the club of iron, he drove away at full speed. though cercyon was a cruel man and a wild, theseus was sorry for him in his heart. the groom in the chariot tried to leap out, but theseus gripped him tight. 'do not hurry, my friend,' said theseus, 'for i have need of you. i am not stealing the chariot and horses, and you shall drive them back after we reach athens.' 'but, my lord,' said the groom, 'you will never reach athens.' 'why not?' asked theseus. 'because of the man procrustes, who dwells in a strong castle among the hills on the way. he is the maimer of all mortals, and has at his command a company of archers and spearmen, pirates from the islands. he meets every traveller, and speaks to him courteously, praying him to be his guest, and if any refuses the archers leap out of ambush and seize and bind him. with them no one man can contend. he has a bed which he says is a thing magical, for it is of the same length as the tallest or the shortest man who sleeps in it, so that all are fitted. now the manner of it is this--there is an engine with ropes at the head of the bed, and a saw is fitted at the bed foot. if a man is too short, the ropes are fastened to his hands, and are strained till he is drawn to the full length of the bed. if he is too long the saw shortens him. such a monster is procrustes. 'verily, my lord, king cercyon was to-morrow to lead an army against him, and the king had a new device, as you may see, by which two great shields are slung along the side of this chariot, to ward off the arrows of the men of procrustes.' 'then you and i will wear the shields when we come near the place where procrustes meets travellers by the way, and i think that to-night his own bed will be too long for him,' said theseus. to this the groom made no answer, but his body trembled. theseus drove swiftly on till the road began to climb the lowest spur of mount parnes, and then he drew rein, and put on one of the great shields that covered all his body and legs, and he bade the groom do the like. then he drove slowly, watching the bushes and underwood beside the way. soon he saw the smoke going up from the roof of a great castle high in the woods beside the road; and on the road there was a man waiting. theseus, as he drove towards him, saw the glitter of armour in the underwood, and the setting sun shone red on a spear-point above the leaves. 'here is our man,' he said to the groom, and pulled up his horses beside the stranger. he loosened his sword in the sheath, and leaped out of the chariot, holding the reins in his left hand, and bowed courteously to the man, who was tall, weak-looking, and old, with grey hair and a clean-shaven face, the colour of ivory. he was clad like a king, in garments of dark silk, with gold bracelets, and gold rings that clasped the leather gaiters on his legs, and he smiled and smiled, and rubbed his hands, while he looked to right and left, and not at theseus. 'i am fortunate, fair sir,' said he to theseus, 'for i love to entertain strangers, with whom goes the favour and protection of zeus. surely strangers are dear to all men, and holy! you, too, are not unlucky, for the night is falling, and the ways will be dark and dangerous. you will sup and sleep with me, and to-night i can give you a bed that is well spoken of, for its nature is such that it fits all men, the short and the tall, and you are of the tallest.' 'to-night, fair sir,' quoth theseus, 'your own bed will be full long for you.' and, drawing the sword of Ã�geus, he cut sheer through the neck of procrustes at one blow, and the head of the man flew one way, and his body fell another way. then with a swing of his hand theseus turned his shield from his front to his back, and leaped into the chariot. he lashed the horses forward with a cry, while the groom also turned his own shield from front to back; and the arrows of the bowmen of procrustes rattled on the bronze shields as the chariot flew along, or struck the sides and the seat of it. one arrow grazed the flank of a horse, and the pair broke into a wild gallop, while the yells of the bowmen grew faint in the distance. at last the horses slackened in their pace as they climbed a hill, and from the crest of it theseus saw the lights in the city of aphidnæ. 'now, my friend,' he said to the groom, 'the way is clear to athens, and on your homeward road with the horses and the chariot you shall travel well guarded. by the splendour of lady athênê's brow, i will burn that raven's nest of procrustes!' so they slept that night on safe beds at the house of the sons of phytalus, who bore rule in aphidnæ. here they were kindly welcomed, and the sons of phytalus rejoiced when they heard how theseus had made safe the ways, and slain the beasts that guarded them. 'we are your men,' they said, 'we and all our people, and our spears will encircle you when you make yourself king of athens, and of all the cities in the attic land.' iv theseus finds his father next day theseus said farewell to the sons of phytalus, and drove slowly through the pleasant green woods that overhung the clear river cephisus. he halted to rest his horses in a glen, and saw a very beautiful young man walking in a meadow on the other side of the river. in his hand he bore a white flower, and the root of it was black; in the other hand he carried a golden wand, and his upper lip was just beginning to darken, he was of the age when youth is most gracious. he came towards theseus, and crossed the stream where it broke deep, and swift, and white, above a long pool, and it seemed to theseus that his golden shoon did not touch the water. 'come, speak with me apart,' the young man said; and theseus threw the reins to the groom, and went aside with the youth, watching him narrowly, for he knew not what strange dangers might beset him on the way. 'whither art thou going, unhappy one,' said the youth, 'thou that knowest not the land? behold, the sons of pallas rule in athens, fiercely and disorderly. thy father is of no force, and in the house with him is a fair witch woman from a far country. her name is medea, the daughter of Ã�êtes, the brother of circe the sorceress. she wedded the famous jason, and won for him the fleece of gold, and slew her own brother absyrtus. other evils she wrought, and now she dwells with Ã�geus, who fears and loves her greatly. take thou this herb of grace, and if medea offers you a cup of wine, drop this herb in the cup, and so you shall escape death. behold, i am hermes of the golden wand.' then he gave to theseus the flower, and passed into the wood, and theseus saw him no more; so then theseus knelt down, and prayed, and thanked the gods. the flower he placed in the breast of his garment, and, returning to his chariot, he took the reins, and drove to athens, and up the steep narrow way to the crest of the rock where the temple of athênê stood and the palace of king Ã�geus. theseus drove through to the courtyard, and left his chariot at the gate. in the court young men were throwing spears at a mark, while others sat at the house door, playing draughts, and shouting and betting. they were heavy, lumpish, red-faced young men, all rather like each other. they looked up and stared, but said nothing. theseus knew that they were his cousins, the sons of pallas, but as they said nothing to him he walked through them, iron club on shoulder, as if he did not see them, and as one tall fellow stood in his way, the tall fellow spun round from a thrust of his shoulder. at the hall door theseus stopped and shouted, and at his cry two or three servants came to him. 'look to my horses and man,' said theseus; 'i come to see your master.' and in he went, straight up to the high chairs beside the fire in the centre. the room was empty, but in a high seat sat, fallen forward and half-asleep, a man in whose grey hair was a circlet of gold and a golden grasshopper. theseus knew that it was his father, grey and still, like the fallen fire on the hearth. as the king did not look up, theseus touched his shoulder, and then knelt down, and put his arms round the knees of the king. the king aroused himself with a start. 'who? what want you?' he said, and rubbed his red, bloodshot eyes. 'a suppliant from troezene am i, who come to your knees, oh, king, and bring you gifts.' 'from troezene!' said the king sleepily, as if he were trying to remember something. 'from Ã�thra, your wife, your son brings your sword and your shoon,' said theseus; and he laid the sword and the shoon at his father's feet. the king rose to his feet with a great cry. 'you have come at last,' he cried, 'and the gods have forgiven me and heard my prayers. but gird on the sword, and hide the shoon, and speak not the name of "wife," for there is one that hears.' 'one that has heard,' said a sweet silvery voice; and from behind a pillar came a woman, dark and pale, but very beautiful, clothed in a rich eastern robe that shone and shifted from colour to colour. lightly she threw her white arms round the neck of theseus, lightly she kissed his cheeks, and a strange sweet fragrance hung about her. then, holding him apart, with her hands on his shoulders, she laughed, and half-turning to Ã�geus, who had fallen back into his chair, she said: 'my lord, did you think that you could hide anything from me?' then she fixed her great eyes on the eyes of theseus. 'we are friends?' she said, in her silvery voice. 'lady, i love you even as you love my father, king Ã�geus,' said theseus. 'even so much?' said the lady medea. 'then we must both drink to him in wine.' she glided to the great golden mixing-cup of wine that stood on a table behind Ã�geus, and with her back to theseus she ladled wine into a cup of strange coloured glass. 'pledge me and the king,' she said, bringing the cup to theseus. he took it, and from his breast he drew the flower of black root and white blossom that hermes had given him, and laid it in the wine. then the wine bubbled and hissed, and the cup burst and broke, and the wine fell on the floor, staining it as with blood. medea laughed lightly. 'now we are friends indeed, for the gods befriend you,' she said, 'and i swear by the water of styx that your friends are my friends, and your foes are my foes, always, to the end. the gods are with you; and by the great oath of the gods i swear, which cannot be broken; for i come of the kin of the gods who live for ever.' now the father of the father of medea was the sun god. theseus took both her hands. 'i also swear,' he said, 'by the splendour of zeus, that your friends shall be my friends, and that your foes shall be my foes, always, to the end.' then medea sat by the feet of Ã�geus, and drew down his head to her shoulder, while theseus took hold of his hand, and the king wept for joy. for the son he loved, and the woman whom he loved and feared, were friends, and they two were stronger than the sons of pallas. while they sat thus, one of the sons of pallas--the pallantidæ they were called--slouched into the hall to see if dinner was ready. he stared, and slouched out again, and said to his brothers: 'the old man is sitting in the embraces of the foreign woman, and of the big stranger with the iron club!' then they all came together, and growled out their threats and fears, kicking at the stones in the courtyard, and quarrelling as to what it was best for them to do. meanwhile, in the hall, the servants began to spread the tables with meat and drink, and theseus was taken to the bath, and clothed in new raiment. while theseus was at the bath medea told Ã�geus what he ought to do. so when theseus came back into the hall, where the sons of pallas were eating and drinking noisily, Ã�geus stood up, and called to theseus to sit down at his right hand. he added, in a loud voice, looking all round the hall: 'this is my son, theseus, the slayer of monsters, and his is the power in the house!' the sons of pallas grew pale with fear and anger, but not one dared to make an insolent answer. they knew that they were hated by the people of athens, except some young men of their own sort, and they did not dare to do anything against the man who had slain periphetes and sinis, and cercyon, and sciron, and, in the midst of his paid soldiers, had struck off the head of procrustes. silent all through dinner sat the sons of pallas, and, when they had eaten, they walked out silently, and went to a lonely place, where they could make their plans without being overheard. theseus went with medea into her fragrant chamber, and they spake a few words together. then medea took a silver bowl, filled it with water, and, drawing her dark silken mantle over her head, she sat gazing into the bowl. when she had gazed silently for a long time she said: 'some of them are going towards sphettus, where their father dwells, to summon his men in arms, and some are going to gargettus on the other side of the city, to lie in ambush, and cut us off when they of sphettus assail us. they will attack the palace just before the dawn. now i will go through the town, and secretly call the trusty men to arm and come to defend the palace, telling them that the son of Ã�geus, the man who cleared the ways, is with us. and do you take your chariot, and drive speedily to the sons of phytalus, and bring all their spears, chariot men and foot men, and place them in ambush around the village of gargettus, where one band of the pallantidæ will lie to-night till dawn. the rest you know.' theseus nodded and smiled. he drove at full speed to aphidnæ, where the sons of phytalus armed their men, and by midnight they lay hidden in the woods round the village of gargettus. when the stars had gone onward, and the second of the three watches of the night was nearly past, they set bands of men to guard every way from the little town, and theseus with another band rushed in, and slew the men of the sons of pallas around their fires, some of them awake, but most of them asleep. those who escaped were taken by the bands who watched the ways, and when the sky was now clear at the earliest dawn, theseus led his companions to the palace of Ã�geus, where they fell furiously upon the rear of the men from sphettus, who were besieging the palace of Ã�geus. the sphettus company had broken in the gate of the court, and were trying to burn the house, while arrows flew thick from the bows of the trusty men of athens on the palace roof. the pallantids had set no sentinels, for they thought to take theseus in the palace, and there to burn him, and win the kingdom for themselves. then silently and suddenly the friends of theseus stole into the courtyard, and, leaving some to guard the gate, they drew up in line, and charged the confused crowd of the pallantids. their spears flew thick among the enemy, and then they charged with the sword, while the crowd, in terror, ran this way and that way, being cut down at the gate, and dragged from the walls, when they tried to climb them. the daylight found the pallantidæ and their men lying dead in the courtyard, all the sort of them. then theseus with the sons of phytalus and their company marched through the town, proclaiming that the rightful prince was come, and that the robbers and oppressors were fallen, and all honest men rejoiced. they burned the dead, and buried their ashes and bones, and for the rest of that day they feasted in the hall of Ã�geus. next day theseus led his friends back to aphidnæ, and on the next day they attacked and stormed the castle of procrustes, and slew the pirates, and theseus divided all the rich plunder among the sons of phytalus and their company, but the evil bed they burned to ashes. v heralds come for tribute the days and weeks went by, and theseus reigned with his father in peace. the chief men came to athens from the little towns in the country, and begged theseus to be their lord, and they would be his men, and he would lead their people if any enemy came up against them. they would even pay tribute to be used for buying better arms, and making strong walls, and providing ships, for then the people of athens had no navy. theseus received them courteously, and promised all that they asked, for he did not know that soon he himself would be sent away as part of the tribute which the athenians paid every nine years to king minos of crete. though everything seemed to be peaceful and happy through the winter, yet theseus felt that all was not well. when he went into the houses of the town's people, where all had been merry and proud of his visits, he saw melancholy, silent mothers, and he missed the young people, lads and maidens. many of them were said to have gone to visit friends in far-away parts of greece. the elder folk, and the young people who were left, used to stand watching the sea all day, as if they expected something strange to come upon them from the sea, and Ã�geus sat sorrowful over the fire, speaking little, and he seemed to be in fear. theseus was disturbed in his mind, and he did not choose to put questions to Ã�geus or to the townsfolk. he and medea were great friends, and one day when they were alone in her chamber, where a fragrant fire of cedar wood burned, he told her what he had noticed. medea sighed, and said: 'the curse of the sons of pallas is coming upon the people of athens--such a curse and so terrible that not even you, prince theseus, can deal with it. the enemy is not one man or one monster only, but the greatest and most powerful king in the world.' 'tell me all,' said theseus, 'for though i am but one man, yet the ever-living gods protect and help me.' 'the story of the curse is long,' said medea. 'when your father Ã�geus was young, after he returned to athens from troezene, he decreed that games should be held every five years, contests in running, boxing, wrestling, foot races, and chariot races. not only the people of athens, but strangers were allowed to take part in the games, and among the strangers came androgeos, the eldest son of great minos, king of cnossos, in the isle of crete of the hundred cities, far away in the southern sea. minos is the wisest of men, and the most high god, even zeus, is his counsellor, and speaks to him face to face. he is the richest of men, and his ships are without number, so that he rules all the islands, and makes war, when he will, even against the king of egypt. the son of minos it was who came to the sports with three fair ships, and he was the strongest and swiftest of men. he won the foot race, and the prizes for boxing and wrestling, and for shooting with the bow, and throwing the spear, and hurling the heavy weight, and he easily overcame the strongest of the sons of pallas. 'then, being unjust men and dishonourable, they slew him at a feast in the hall of Ã�geus, their own guest in the king's house they slew, a thing hateful to the gods above all other evil deeds. his ships fled in the night, bearing the news to king minos, and, a year after that day, the sea was black with his countless ships. his men landed, and they were so many, all glittering in armour of bronze, that none dared to meet them in battle. king Ã�geus and all the elder men of the city went humbly to meet minos, clad in mourning, and bearing in their hands boughs of trees, wreathed with wool, to show that they came praying for mercy. "mercy ye shall have when ye have given up to me the men who slew my son," said minos. but Ã�geus could not give up the sons of pallas, for long ago they had fled in disguise, and were lurking here and there, in all the uttermost parts of greece, in the huts of peasants. such mercy, then, the athenians got as minos was pleased to give. he did not burn the city, and slay the men, and carry the women captives. but he made Ã�geus and the chief men swear that every nine years they would choose by lot seven of the strongest youths, and seven of the fairest maidens, and give them to his men, to carry away to crete. every nine years he sends a ship with dark sails, to bear away the captives, and this is the ninth year, and the day of the coming of the ship is at hand. can you resist king minos?' 'his ship we could burn, and his men we could slay,' said theseus; and his hand closed on the hilt of his sword. 'that may well be,' said medea, 'but in a year minos would come with his fleet and his army, and burn the city; and the other cities of greece, fearing him and not loving us, would give us no aid.' 'then,' said theseus, 'we must even pay the tribute for this last time; but in nine years, if i live, and the gods help me, i shall have a fleet, and minos must fight for his tribute. for in nine years athens will be queen of all the cities round about, and strong in men and ships. yet, tell me, how does minos treat the captives from athens, kindly or unkindly?' 'none has ever come back to tell the tale,' said medea, 'but the sailors of minos say that he places the captives in a strange prison called the labyrinth. it is full of dark winding ways, cut in the solid rock, and therein the captives are lost and perish of hunger, or live till they meet a thing called the minotaur. this monster has the body of a strong man, and a man's legs and arms, but his head is the head of a bull, and his teeth are the teeth of a lion, and no man may deal with him. those whom he meets he tosses, and gores, and devours. whence this evil beast came i know, but the truth of it may not be spoken. it is not lawful for king minos to slay the horror, which to him is great shame and grief; neither may he help any man to slay it. therefore, in his anger against the athenians he swore that, once in every nine years, he would give fourteen of the athenian men and maidens to the thing, and that none of them should bear sword or spear, dagger or axe, or any other weapon. yet, if one of the men, or all of them together, could slay the monster, minos made oath that athens should be free of him and his tribute.' theseus laughed and stood up. 'soon,' he said, 'shall king minos be free from the horror, and athens shall be free from the tribute, if, indeed, the gods be with me. for me need no lot be cast; gladly i will go to crete of my free will.' 'i needed not to be a prophetess to know that you would speak thus,' said medea. 'but one thing even i can do. take this phial, and bear it in your breast, and, when you face the minotaur, do as i shall tell you.' then she whispered some words to theseus, and he marked them carefully. he went forth from medea's bower; he walked to the crest of the hill upon which athens is built, and there he saw all the people gathered, weeping, and looking towards the sea. swiftly a ship with black sails was being rowed towards the shore, and her sides shone with the bronze shields of her crew, that were hung on the bulwarks. 'my friends,' cried theseus, 'i know that ship, and wherefore she comes, and with her i shall sail to crete and slay the minotaur. did i not slay sinis and sciron, cercyon and procrustes, and periphetes? let there be no drawing of lots. where are seven men and seven maidens who will come with me, and meet these cretans when they land, and sail back with them, and see this famous crete, for the love of theseus?' then there stepped forth seven young men of the best of athens, tall, and strong, and fair, the ancestors of them who smote, a thousand years afterwards, the persians at marathon and in the strait of salamis. 'we will live or die with you, prince theseus,' they said. next, one by one, came out of the throng, blushing, but with heads erect and firm steps, the seven maidens whom the seven young men loved. they, too, were tall, and beautiful, and stately, like the stone maidens called caryatides who bear up the roofs of temples. 'we will live and die with you, prince theseus, and with our lovers,' they cried; and all the people gave such a cheer that king Ã�geus heard it, and came from his palace, leaning on his staff, and medea walked beside him. 'why do you raise a glad cry, my children?' said Ã�geus. 'is not that the ship of death, and must we not cast lots for the tribute to king minos?' 'sir,' said theseus, 'we rejoice because we go as free folk, of our own will, these men and maidens and i, to take such fortune as the gods may give us, and to do as well as we may. nay, delay us not, for from this hour shall athens be free, without master or lord among cretan men.' 'but, my son, who shall defend me, who shall guide me, when i have lost thee, the light of mine eyes, and the strength of my arm?' whimpered Ã�geus. 'is the king weeping alone, while the fathers and mothers of my companions have dry eyes?' said theseus. 'the gods will be your helpers, and the lady who is my friend, and who devised the slaying of the sons of pallas. hers was the mind, if the hand was my own, that wrought their ruin. let her be your counsellor, for no other is so wise. but that ship is near the shore, and we must go.' then theseus embraced Ã�geus, and medea kissed him, and the young men and maidens kissed their fathers and mothers, and said farewell. with theseus at their head they marched down the hill, two by two; but medea sent after them chariots laden with changes of raiment, and food, and skins of wine, and all things of which they had need. they were to sail in their own hired ship, for such was the custom, and the ship was ready with her oarsmen. but theseus and the seven, by the law of minos, might carry no swords or other weapons of war. the ship had a black sail, but Ã�geus gave to the captain a sail dyed scarlet with the juice of the scarlet oak, and bade him hoist it if he was bringing back theseus safe, but, if not, to return under the black sail. the captain, and the outlook man, and the crew, and the ship came all from the isle of salamis, for as yet the athenians had no vessels fit for long voyages--only fishing-boats. as theseus and his company marched along they met the herald of king minos, bearing a sacred staff, for heralds were holy, and to slay a herald was a deadly sin. he stopped when he met theseus, and wondered at his beauty and strength. 'my lord,' said he, 'wherefore come you with the fourteen? know you to what end they are sailing?' 'that i know not, nor you, nor any man, but they and i are going to one end, such as the gods may give us,' answered theseus. 'speak with me no more, i pray you, and go no nearer athens, for there men's hearts are high to-day, and they carry swords.' the voice and the eyes of theseus daunted the herald, and he with his men turned and followed behind, humbly, as if they were captives and theseus were conqueror. vi theseus in crete after many days' sailing, now through the straits under the beautiful peaks of the mountains that crowned the islands, and now across the wide sea far from sight of land, they beheld the crest of mount ida of crete, and ran into the harbour, where a hundred ships lay at anchor, and a great crowd was gathered. theseus marvelled at the ships, so many and so strong, and at the harbour with its huge walls, while he and his company landed. a hundred of the guardsmen of minos, with large shields, and breastplates made of ribs of bronze, and helmets of bronze with horns on them, were drawn up on the pier. they surrounded the little company of athenians, and they all marched to the town of cnossos, and the palace of the king. if theseus marvelled at the harbour he wondered yet more at the town. it was so great that it seemed endless, and round it went a high wall, and at every forty yards was a square tower with small square windows high up. these towers were exactly like those which you may see among the hills and beside the burns in the border country, the south of scotland and the north of england; towers built when england and scotland were at war. but when they had passed through the gateway in the chief tower, the town seemed more wonderful than the walls, for in all things it was quite unlike the cities of greece. the street, paved with flat paving stones, wound between houses like our own, with a ground floor (in this there were no windows) and with two or three stories above, in which there were windows, with sashes, and with so many panes to each window, the panes were coloured red. each window opened on a balcony, and the balconies were crowded with ladies in gay dresses like those which are now worn. under their hats their hair fell in long plaits over their shoulders: they had very fine white blouses, short jackets, embroidered in bright coloured silk, and skirts with flounces. laughing merrily they looked down at the little troop of prisoners, chatting, and some saying they were sorry for the athenian girls. others, seeing theseus marching first, a head taller than the tallest guardsman, threw flowers that fell at his feet, and cried, 'go on, brave prince!' for they could not believe that he was one of the prisoners. the crowd in the street being great, the march was stopped under a house taller than the rest; in the balcony one lady alone was seated, the others stood round her as if they were her handmaidens. this lady was most richly dressed, young, and very beautiful and stately, and was, indeed, the king's daughter, ariadne. she looked grave and full of pity, and, as theseus happened to glance upwards, their eyes met, and remained fixed on each other. theseus, who had never thought much about girls before, grew pale, for he had never seen so beautiful a maiden: ariadne also turned pale, and then blushed and looked away, but her eyes glanced down again at theseus, and he saw it, and a strange feeling came into his heart. the guards cleared the crowd, and they all marched on till they came to the palace walls and gate, which were more beautiful even than the walls of the town. but the greatest wonder of all was the palace, standing in a wide park, and itself far greater than such towns as theseus had seen, troezene, or aphidnae, or athens. there was a multitude of roofs of various heights, endless roofs, endless windows, terraces, and gardens: no king's palace of our times is nearly so great and strong. there were fountains and flowers and sweet-smelling trees in blossom, and, when the athenians were led within the palace, they felt lost among the winding passages and halls. the walls of them were painted with pictures of flying fishes, above a clear white sea, in which fish of many kinds were swimming, with the spray and bubbles flying from their tails, as the sea flows apart from the rudder of a ship. there were pictures of bull fights, men and girls teasing the bull, and throwing somersaults over him, and one bull had just tossed a girl high in the air. ladies were painted in balconies, looking on, just such ladies as had watched theseus and his company; and young men bearing tall cool vases full of wine were painted on other walls; and others were decorated with figures of bulls and stags, in hard plaster, fashioned marvellously, and standing out from the walls 'in relief,' as it is called. other walls, again, were painted with patterns of leaves and flowers. the rooms were full of the richest furniture, chairs inlaid with ivory, gold, and silver, chests inlaid with painted porcelain in little squares, each square containing a separate bright coloured picture. there were glorious carpets, and in some passages stood rows of vases, each of them large enough to hold a man, like the pots in the story of ali baba and the forty thieves in the arabian nights. there were tablets of stone brought from egypt, with images carved of gods and kings, and strange egyptian writing, and there were cups of gold and silver--indeed, i could not tell you half the beautiful and wonderful things in the palace of minos. we know that this is true, for the things themselves, all of them, or pictures of them, have been brought to light, dug out from under ground; and, after years of digging, there is still plenty of this wonderful palace to be explored. the athenians were dazzled, and felt lost and giddy with passing through so many rooms and passages, before they were led into the great hall named the throne room, where minos was sitting in his gilded throne that is still standing. around him stood his chiefs and princes, gloriously clothed in silken robes with jewels of gold; they left a lane between their ranks, and down this lane was led theseus at the head of his little company. minos, a dark-faced man, with touches of white in his hair and long beard, sat with his elbow on his knee, and his chin in his hand, and he fixed his eyes on the eyes of theseus. theseus bowed and then stood erect, with his eyes on the eyes of minos. 'you are fifteen in number,' said minos at last, 'my law claims fourteen.' 'i came of my own will,' answered theseus, 'and of their own will came my company. no lots were cast.' 'wherefore?' asked minos. 'the people of athens have a mind to be free, o king.' 'there is a way,' said minos. 'slay the minotaur and you are free from my tribute.' 'i am minded to slay him,' said theseus, and, as he spoke, there was a stir in the throng of chiefs, and priests, and princes, and ariadne glided through them, and stood a little behind her father's throne, at one side. theseus bowed low, and again stood erect, with his eyes on the face of ariadne. 'you speak like a king's son that has not known misfortune,' said minos. 'i have known misfortune, and my name is theseus, Ã�geus' son,' said theseus. 'this is a new thing. when i saw king Ã�geus he had no son, but he had many nephews.' 'no son that he wotted of,' said theseus, 'but now he has no nephews, and one son.' 'is it so?' asked minos, 'then you have avenged me on the slayers of my own son, fair sir, for it was your sword, was it not, that delivered Ã�geus from the sons of pallas?' 'my sword and the swords of my friends, of whom seven stand before you.' 'i will learn if this be true,' said minos. 'true!' cried theseus, and his hand flew to the place where his sword-hilt should have been, but he had no sword. king minos smiled. 'you are young,' he said, 'i will learn more of these matters. lead these men and maidens to their own chambers in the palace,' he cried to his guard. 'let each have a separate chamber, and all things that are fitting for princes. to-morrow i will take counsel.' theseus was gazing at ariadne. she stood behind her father, and she put up her right hand as if to straighten her veil, but, as she raised her hand, she swiftly made the motion of lifting a cup to the lips; and then she laid on her lips the fingers of her left hand, closing them fast. theseus saw the token, and he bowed, as did all his company, to minos and to the princess, and they were led upstairs and along galleries, each to a chamber more rich and beautiful than they had seen before in their dreams. then each was taken to a bath, they were washed and clothed in new garments, and brought back to their chambers, where meat was put before them, and wine in cups of gold. at the door of each chamber were stationed two guards, but four guards were set at the door of theseus. at nightfall more food was brought, and, for theseus, much red wine, in a great vessel adorned with ropes and knobs of gold. theseus ate well, but he drank none, and, when he had finished, he opened the door of his chamber, and carried out all the wine and the cup. 'i am one,' he said, 'who drinks water, and loves not the smell of wine in his chamber.' the guards thanked him, and soon he heard them very merry over the king's best wine, next he did not hear them at all, next--he heard them snoring! theseus opened the door gently and silently: the guards lay asleep across and beside the threshold. something bright caught his eye, he looked up, a lamp was moving along the dark corridor, a lamp in the hand of a woman clad in a black robe; the light fell on her white silent feet, and on the feet of another woman who followed her. theseus softly slipped back into his chamber. the light, though shaded by the girl's hand, showed in the crevice between the door and the door-post. softly entered ariadne, followed by an old woman that had been her nurse. 'you guessed the token?' she whispered. 'in the wine was a sleepy drug.' theseus, who was kneeling to her, nodded. 'i can show you the way to flee, and i bring you a sword.' 'i thank you, lady, for the sword, and i pray you to show me the way--to the minotaur.' ariadne grew pale, and her hand flew to her heart. 'i pray you make haste. flee i will not, nor, if the king have mercy on us, will i leave crete till i have met the minotaur: for he has shed the blood of my people.' ariadne loved theseus, and knew well in her heart that he loved her. but she was brave, and she made no more ado; she beckoned to him, and stepped across the sleeping guardsmen that lay beside the threshold. theseus held up his hand, and she stopped, while he took two swords from the men of the guard. one was long, with a strong straight narrow blade tapering to a very sharp point; the other sword was short and straight, with keen cutting double edges. theseus slung them round his neck by their belts, and ariadne walked down the corridor, theseus following her, and the old nurse following him. he had taken the swords from the sleeping men lest, if ariadne gave him one, it might be found out that she had helped him, and she knew this in her heart, for neither of them spoke a word. swiftly and silently they went, through galleries and corridors that turned and wound about, till ariadne came to the door of her own chamber. here she held up her hand, and theseus stopped, till she came forth again, thrusting something into the bosom of her gown. again she led the way, down a broad staircase between great pillars, into a hall, whence she turned, and passed down a narrower stair, and then through many passages, till she came into the open air, and they crossed rough ground to a cave in a hill. in the back of the cave was a door plated with bronze which she opened with a key. here she stopped and took out of the bosom of her gown a coil of fine strong thread. 'take this,' she said, 'and enter by that door, and first of all make fast the end of the coil to a stone, and so walk through the labyrinth, and, when you would come back, the coil shall be your guide. take this key also, to open the door, and lock it from within. if you return place the key in a cleft in the wall within the outer door of the palace.' she stopped and looked at theseus with melancholy eyes, and he threw his arms about her, and they kissed and embraced as lovers do who are parting and know not if they may ever meet again. at last she sighed and said, 'the dawn is near--farewell; the gods be with you. i give you the watchword of the night, that you may pass the sentinels if you come forth alive,' and she told him the word. then she opened the door and gave him the key, and the old nurse gave him the lamp which she carried, and some food to take with him. vii the slaying of the minotaur theseus first fastened one end of his coil of string to a pointed rock, and then began to look about him. the labyrinth was dark, and he slowly walked, holding the string, down the broadest path, from which others turned off to right or left. he counted his steps, and he had taken near three thousand steps when he saw the pale sky showing in a small circle cut in the rocky roof, above his head, and he saw the fading stars. sheer walls of rock went up on either hand of him, a roof of rock was above him, but in the roof was this one open place, across which were heavy bars. soon the daylight would come. theseus set the lamp down on a rock behind a corner, and he waited, thinking, at a place where a narrow dark path turned at right angles to the left. looking carefully round he saw a heap of bones, not human bones, but skulls of oxen and sheep, hoofs of oxen, and shank bones. 'this,' he thought, 'must be the place where the food of the minotaur is let down to him from above. they have not athenian youths and maidens to give him every day! beside his feeding place i will wait.' saying this to himself, he rose and went round the corner of the dark narrow path cut in the rock to the left. he made his own breakfast, from the food that ariadne had given him, and it occurred to his mind that probably the minotaur might also be thinking of breakfast time. he sat still, and from afar away within he heard a faint sound, like the end of the echo of a roar, and he stood up, drew his long sword, and listened keenly. the sound came nearer and louder, a strange sound, not deep like the roar of a bull, but more shrill and thin. theseus laughed silently. a monster with the head and tongue of a bull, but with the chest of a man, could roar no better than that! the sounds came nearer and louder, but still with the thin sharp tone in them. theseus now took from his bosom the phial of gold that medea had given him in athens when she told him about the minotaur. he removed the stopper, and held his thumb over the mouth of the phial, and grasped his long sword with his left hand, after fastening the clue of thread to his belt. the roars of the hungry minotaur came nearer and nearer; now his feet could be heard padding along the echoing floor of the labyrinth. theseus moved to the shadowy corner of the narrow path, where it opened into the broad light passage, and he crouched there; his heart was beating quickly. on came the minotaur, up leaped theseus, and dashed the contents of the open phial in the eyes of the monster; a white dust flew out, and theseus leaped back into his hiding place. the minotaur uttered strange shrieks of pain; he rubbed his eyes with his monstrous hands; he raised his head up towards the sky, bellowing and confused; he stood tossing his head up and down; he turned round and round about, feeling with his hands for the wall. he was quite blind. theseus drew his short sword, crept up, on naked feet, behind the monster, and cut through the back sinews of his legs at the knees. down fell the minotaur, with a crash and a roar, biting at the rocky floor with his lion's teeth, and waving his hands, and clutching at the empty air. theseus waited for his chance, when the clutching hands rested, and then, thrice he drove the long sharp blade of bronze through the heart of the minotaur. the body leaped, and lay still. [illustration: how theseus slew the minotaur.] theseus kneeled down, and thanked all the gods, and promised rich sacrifices, and a new temple to pallas athênê, the guardian of athens. when he had finished his prayer, he drew the short sword, and hacked off the head of the minotaur. he sheathed both his swords, took the head in his hand, and followed the string back out of the daylit place, to the rock where he had left his lamp. with the lamp and the guidance of the string he easily found his way to the door, which he unlocked. he noticed that the thick bronze plates of the door were dinted and scarred by the points of the horns of the minotaur, trying to force his way out. he went out into the fresh early morning; all the birds were singing merrily, and merry was the heart of theseus. he locked the door, and crossed to the palace, which he entered, putting the key in the place which ariadne had shown him. she was there, with fear and joy in her eyes. 'touch me not,' said theseus, 'for i am foul with the blood of the minotaur.' she brought him to the baths on the ground floor, and swiftly fled up a secret stair. in the bathroom theseus made himself clean, and clad himself in fresh raiment which was lying ready for him. when he was clean and clad he tied a rope of byblus round the horns of the head of the minotaur, and went round the back of the palace, trailing the head behind him, till he came to a sentinel. 'i would see king minos,' he said, 'i have the password, _androgeos_!' the sentinel, pale and wondering, let him pass, and so he went through the guards, and reached the great door of the palace, and there the servants wrapped the bleeding head in cloth, that it might not stain the floors. theseus bade them lead him to king minos, who was seated on his throne, judging the four guardsmen, that had been found asleep. when theseus entered, followed by the serving men with their burden, the king never stirred on his throne, but turned his grey eyes on theseus. 'my lord,' said theseus, 'that which was to be done is done.' the servants laid their burden at the feet of king minos, and removed the top fold of the covering. the king turned to the captain of his guard. 'a week in the cells for each of these four men,' said he, and the four guards, who had expected to die by a cruel death, were led away. 'let that head and the body also be burned to ashes and thrown into the sea, far from the shore,' said minos, and his servants silently covered the head of the minotaur, and bore it from the throne room. then, at last, minos rose from his throne, and took the hand of theseus, and said, 'sir, i thank you, and i give you back your company safe and free; and i am no more in hatred with your people. let there be peace between me and them. but will you not abide with us awhile, and be our guests?' theseus was glad enough, and he and his company tarried in the palace, and were kindly treated. minos showed theseus all the splendour and greatness of his kingdom and his ships, and great armouries, full of all manner of weapons: the names and numbers of them are yet known, for they are written on tablets of clay, that were found in the storehouse of the king. later, in the twilight, theseus and ariadne would walk together in the fragrant gardens where the nightingales sang, and minos knew it, and was glad. he thought that nowhere in the world could he find such a husband for his daughter, and he deemed it wise to have the alliance of so great a king as theseus promised to be. but, loving his daughter, he kept theseus with him long, till the prince was ashamed of his delay, knowing that his father, king Ã�geus, and all the people of his country, were looking for him anxiously. therefore he told what was in his heart to minos, who sighed, and said, 'i knew what is in your heart, and i cannot say you nay. i give to you my daughter as gladly as a father may.' then they spoke of things of state, and made firm alliance between cnossos and athens while they both lived; and the wedding was done with great splendour, and, at last, theseus and ariadne and all their company went aboard, and sailed from crete. one misfortune they had: the captain of their ship died of a sickness while they were in crete, but minos gave them the best of his captains. yet by reason of storms and tempests they had a long and terrible voyage, driven out of their course into strange seas. when at length they found their bearings, a grievous sickness fell on beautiful ariadne. day by day she was weaker, till theseus, with a breaking heart, stayed the ship at an isle but two days' sail from athens. there ariadne was carried ashore, and laid in a bed in the house of the king of that island, and the physicians and the wise women did for her what they could. but she died with her hands in the hands of theseus, and his lips on her lips. in that isle she was buried, and theseus went on board his ship, and drew his cloak over his head, and so lay for two days, never moving nor speaking, and tasting neither meat nor drink. no man dared to speak to him, but when the vessel stopped in the harbour of athens, he arose, and stared about him. the shore was dark with people all dressed in mourning raiment, and the herald of the city came with the news that Ã�geus the king was dead. for the cretan captain did not know that he was to hoist the scarlet sail if theseus came home in triumph, and Ã�geus, as he watched the waters, had descried the dark sail from afar off, and, in his grief, had thrown himself down from the cliff, and was drowned. this was the end of the voyaging of theseus. * * * * * theseus wished to die, and be with ariadne, in the land of queen persephone. but he was a strong man, and he lived to be the greatest of the kings of athens, for all the other towns came in, and were his subjects, and he ruled them well. his first care was to build a great fleet in secret harbours far from towns and the ways of men, for, though he and minos were friends while they both lived, when minos died the new cretan king might oppress athens. minos died, at last, and his son picked a quarrel with theseus, who refused to give up a man that had fled to athens because the new king desired to slay him, and news came to theseus that a great navy was being made ready in crete to attack him. then he sent heralds to the king of a fierce people, called the dorians, who were moving through the countries to the north-west of greece, seizing lands, settling on them, and marching forward again in a few years. they were wild, strong, and brave, and they are said to have had swords of iron, which were better than the bronze weapons of the greeks. the heralds of theseus said to them, 'come to our king, and he will take you across the sea, and show you plunder enough. but you shall swear not to harm his kingdom.' this pleased the dorians well, and the ships of theseus brought them round to athens, where theseus joined them with many of his own men, and they did the oath. they sailed swiftly to crete, where, as they arrived in the dark, the cretan captains thought that they were part of their own navy, coming in to join them in the attack on athens; for that theseus had a navy the cretans knew not; he had built it so secretly. in the night he marched his men to cnossos, and took the garrison by surprise, and burned the palace, and plundered it. even now we can see that the palace has been partly burned, and hurriedly robbed by some sudden enemy. the dorians stayed in crete, and were there in the time of ulysses, holding part of the island, while the true cretans held the greater part of it. but theseus returned to athens, and married hippolyte, queen of the amazons. the story of their wedding festival is told in shakespeare's play, 'a midsummer night's dream.' and theseus had many new adventures, and many troubles, but he left athens rich and strong, and in no more danger from the kings of crete. though the dorians, after the time of ulysses, swept all over the rest of greece, and seized mycenæ and lacedæmon, the towns of agamemnon and menelaus, they were true to their oath to theseus, and left athens to the athenians. perseus i the prison of danae many years before the siege of troy there lived in greece two princes who were brothers and deadly enemies. each of them wished to be king both of argos (where diomede ruled in the time of the trojan war), and of tiryns. after long wars one of the brothers, proetus, took tiryns, and built the great walls of huge stones, and the palace; while the other brother, acrisius, took argos, and he married eurydice, a princess of the royal house of lacedæmon, where menelaus and helen were king and queen in later times. acrisius had one daughter, danae, who became the most beautiful woman in greece, but he had no son. this made him very unhappy, for he thought that, when he grew old, the sons of his brother proetus would attack him, and take his lands and city, if he had no son to lead his army. his best plan would have been to find some brave young prince, like theseus, and give danae to him for his wife, and their sons would be leaders of the men of argos. but acrisius preferred to go to the prophetic maiden of the temple of apollo at delphi (or pytho, as it was then called), and ask what chance he had of being the father of a son. the maiden seldom had good news to give any man; but at least this time it was easy to understand what she said. she went down into the deep cavern below the temple floor, where it was said that a strange mist or steam flowed up out of the earth, and made her fall into a strange sleep, in which she could walk and speak, but knew not what she was singing, for she sang her prophecies. at last she came back, very pale, with her laurel wreath twisted awry, and her eyes open, but seeing nothing. she sang that acrisius would never have a son; but that his daughter would bear a son, who would kill him. acrisius mounted his chariot, sad and sorry, and was driven homewards. on the way he never spoke a word, but was thinking how he might escape from the prophecy, and baffle the will of zeus, the chief of the gods. he did not know that zeus himself had looked down upon danae and fallen in love with her, nor did danae know. the only sure way to avoid the prophecy was to kill danae, and acrisius thought of doing this; but he loved her too much; and he was afraid that his people would rise against him, if he slew his daughter, the pride of their hearts. still another fear was upon acrisius, which will be explained later in the story. he could think of nothing better than to build a house all of bronze, in the court of his palace, a house sunk deep in the earth, but with part of the roof open to the sky, as was the way in all houses then; the light came in from above, and the smoke of the fire went out in the same way. this chamber acrisius built, and in it he shut up poor danae with the woman that had been her nurse. they saw nothing, hills or plains or sea, men or trees, they only saw the sun at midday, and the sky, and the free birds flitting across it. there danae lay, and was weary and sad, and she could not guess why her father thus imprisoned her. he used to visit her often and seemed kind and sorry for her, but he would never listen when she implored him to sell her for a slave into a far country, so that, at least, she might see the world in which she lived. now on a day a mysterious thing happened; the old poet pindar, who lived long after, in the time of the war between the greeks and the king of persia, says that a living stream of gold flowed down from the sky and filled the chamber of danae. some time after this danae bore a baby, a son, the strongest and most beautiful of children. she and her nurse kept it secret, and the child was brought up in an inner chamber of the house of bronze. it was difficult to prevent so lively a child from making a noise in his play, and one day, when acrisius was with danae, the boy, now three or four years old, escaped from his nurse, and ran from her room, laughing and shouting. acrisius rushed out, and saw the nurse catch the child, and throw her mantle over him. acrisius seized the boy, who stood firm on his little legs, with his head high, frowning at his grandfather, and gazing in anger out of his large blue eyes. acrisius saw that this child would be dangerous when he became a man, and in great anger he bade his guards take the nurse out, and strangle her with a rope, while danae knelt weeping at his feet. when they were alone he said to danae: 'who is the father of this child?' but she, with her boy on her arm, slipped past acrisius, and out of the open door, and up the staircase, into the open air. she ran to the altar of zeus, which was built in the court, and threw her arms round it, thinking that there no man dared to touch her. 'i cry to zeus that is throned in the highest, the lord of thunder,' she said: 'for he and no other is the father of my boy, even perseus.' the sky was bright and blue without a cloud, and danae cried in vain. there came no flash of lightning nor roll of thunder. 'is it even so?' said acrisius, 'then let zeus guard his own.' he bade his men drag danae from the altar; and lock her again in the house of bronze; while he had a great strong chest made. in that chest he had the cruelty to place danae and her boy, and he sent them out to sea in a ship, the sailors having orders to let the chest down into the waters when they were far from shore. they dared not disobey, but they put food and a skin of wine, and two skins of water in the chest, and lowered it into the sea, which was perfectly calm and still. it was their hope that some ship would come sailing by, perhaps a ship of phoenician merchant-men, who would certainly save danae and the child, if only that they might sell them for slaves. king acrisius himself was not ignorant that this might happen, and that his grandson might live to be the cause of his death. but the greeks believed that if any man killed one of his own kinsfolk, he would be pursued and driven mad by the furies called the erinyes, terrible winged women with cruel claws. these winged women drove orestes, the son of agamemnon, fleeing like a madman through the world, because he slew his own mother, clytaemnestra, to avenge his father, whom she and Ã�gisthus had slain. nothing was so much dreaded as these furies, and therefore acrisius did not dare to slay his daughter and his grandson, perseus, but only put them in the way of being drowned. he heard no more of them, and hoped that both of their bodies were rolling in the waves, or that their bones lay bleaching on some unknown shore. but he could not be certain--indeed, he soon knew better--and as long as he lived, he lived in fear that perseus had escaped, and would come and slay him, as the prophetess had said in her song. the chest floated on the still waters, and the sea birds swooped down to look at it, and passed by, with one waft of their wings. the sun set, and danae watched the stars, the bear and orion with his belt, and wrapped her boy up warm, and he slept sound, for he never knew fear, in his mother's arms. the dawn came in her golden throne, and danae saw around her the blue sharp crests of the mountains of the islands that lay scattered like water lilies on the seas of greece. if only the current would drift her to an island, she thought, and prayed in her heart to the gods of good help, pallas athênê, and hermes of the golden wand. soon she began to hope that the chest was drawing near an island. she turned her head in the opposite direction for a long while, and then looked forward again. she was much nearer the island, and could see the smoke going up from cottages among the trees. but she drifted on and drifted past the end of the isle, and on with the current, and so all day. a weary day she had, for the boy was full of play, and was like to capsize the chest. she gave him some wine and water, and presently he fell asleep, and danae watched the sea and the distant isles till night came again. it was dark, with no moon, and the darker because the chest floated into the shadow of a mountain, and the current drew it near the shore. but danae dared not hope again; men would not be abroad, she thought, in the night. as she lay thus helpless, she saw a light moving on the sea, and she cried as loud as she could cry. then the light stopped, and a man's shout came to her over the water, and the light moved swiftly towards her. it came from a brazier set on a pole in a boat, and now danae could see the bright sparks that shone in the drops from the oars, for the boat was being rowed towards her, as fast as two strong men could pull. being weak from the heat of the sun that had beaten on her for two days, and tired out with hopes and fears, danae fainted, and knew nothing till she felt cold water on her face. then she opened her eyes, and saw kind eyes looking at her own, and the brown face of a bearded man, in the light of the blaze that fishermen carry in their boats at night, for the fish come to wonder at it, and the fishermen spear them. there were many dead fish in the boat, into which danae and the child had been lifted, and a man with a fish spear in his hand was stooping over her. then danae knew that she and her boy were saved, and she lay, unable to speak, till the oarsmen had pulled their boat to a little pier of stone. there the man with the fish spear lifted her up lightly and softly set her on her feet on land, and a boatman handed to him the boy, who was awake, and was crying for food. 'you are safe, lady!' said the man with the spear, 'and i have taken fairer fish than ever swam the sea. i am called dictys; my brother, polydectes, is king of this island, and my wife is waiting for me at home, where she will make you welcome, and the boy thrice welcome, for the gods have taken our only son.' he asked no questions of danae; it was reckoned ill manners to put questions to strangers and guests, but he lighted two torches at the fire in the boat, and bade his two men walk in front, to show the way, while he supported danae, and carried the child on his shoulder. they had not far to go, for dictys, who loved fishing of all things, had his house near the shore. soon they saw the light shining up from the opening in the roof of the hall; and the wife of dictys came running out, crying: 'good sport?' when she heard their voices and footsteps. 'rare sport,' shouted dictys cheerily, and he led in danae, and gave the child into the arms of his wife. then they were taken to the warm baths, and dressed in fresh raiment. food was set before them, and presently danae and perseus slept on soft beds, with coverlets of scarlet wool. dictys and his wife never asked danae any questions about how and why she came floating on the sea through the night. news was carried quickly enough from the mainland to the islands by fishers in their boats and merchant men, and pedlars. dictys heard how the king of argos had launched his daughter and her son on the sea, hoping that both would be drowned. all the people knew in the island, which was called seriphos, and they hated the cruelty of acrisius, and many believed that perseus was the son of zeus. if the news from argos reached seriphos, we may guess that the news from seriphos reached argos, and that acrisius heard how a woman as beautiful as a goddess, with a boy of the race of the gods, had drifted to the shore of the little isle. acrisius knew, and fear grew about his heart, fear that was sharper as the years went on, while perseus was coming to his manhood. acrisius often thought of ways by which he might have his grandson slain; but none of them seemed safe. by the time when perseus was fifteen, acrisius dared not go out of doors, except among the spears of his armed guards, and he was so eaten up by fear that it would have been happier for him if he had never been born. ii the vow of perseus it was fortunate for perseus that dictys treated him and taught him like his own son, and checked him if he was fierce and quarrelsome, as so strong a boy was apt to be. he was trained in all the exercises of young men, the use of spear and sword, shield and bow; and in running, leaping, hunting, rowing, and the art of sailing a boat. there were no books in seriphos, nobody could read or write; but perseus was told the stories of old times, and of old warriors who slew monsters by sea and land. most of the monsters had been killed, as perseus was sorry to hear, for he desired to try his own luck with them when he came to be a man. but the most terrible of all, the gorgons, who were hated by men and gods, lived still, in an island near the land of the dead; but the way to that island was unknown. these gorgons were two sisters, and a third woman; the two were hideous to look on, with hair and wings and claws of bronze, and with teeth like the white tusks of swine. swinish they were, ugly and loathsome, feeding fearfully on the bodies of unburied men. but the third gorgon was beautiful save for the living serpents that coiled in her hair. she alone of the three gorgons was mortal, and could be slain, but who could slay her? so terrible were her eyes that men who had gone up against her were changed into pillars of stone. this was one of the stories that perseus heard when he was a boy; and there was a proverb that this or that hard task was 'as difficult to do as to slay the gorgon.' perseus, then, ever since he was a little boy, was wondering how he could slay the gorgon and become as famous as the strong man heracles, or the good knight bellerophon, who slew the chimaera. perseus was always thinking of such famous men as these, and especially loved the story of bellerophon, which is this: in the city of ephyre, now called corinth, was a king named glaucus, who had a son, bellerophon. he was brought up far from home, in argos, by king proetus (the great-uncle of perseus), who was his foster-father, and loved him well. proetus was an old man, but his wife, anteia, was young and beautiful, and bellerophon also was beautiful and young, and, by little and little, anteia fell in love with him, and could not be happy without him, but no such love was in bellerophon's heart for her, who was his foster-mother. at last anteia, forgetting all shame, told bellerophon that she loved him, and hated her husband; and she asked him to fly with her to the seashore, where she had a ship lying ready, and they two would sail to some island far away, and be happy together. bellerophon knew not what to say; he could not wrong king proetus, his foster-father. he stood speechless, his face was red with shame, but the face of anteia grew white with rage. 'dastard!' she said, 'thou shalt not live long in argos to boast of my love and your own virtue!' she ran from him, straight to king proetus, and flung herself at his feet. 'what shall be done, oh king,' she cried, 'to the man who speaks words of love dishonourable to the queen of argos?' 'by the splendour of zeus,' cried proetus, 'if he were my own foster-son he shall die!' 'thou hast named him!' said anteia, and she ran to her own upper chamber, and locked the door, and flung herself on the bed, weeping for rage as if her heart would break. proetus followed her, but she would not unlock her door, only he heard her bitter weeping, and he went apart, alone, and took thought how he should be revenged on bellerophon. he had no desire to slay him openly, for then the king of ephyre would make war against him. he could not bring him to trial before the judges, for there was no witness against him except anteia; and he did not desire to make his subjects talk about the queen, for it was the glory of a woman, in those days, not to be spoken of in the conversation of men. therefore proetus, for a day or two, seemed to favour bellerophon more kindly than ever. next he called him into his chamber, alone, and said that it was well for young men to see the world, to cross the sea and visit foreign cities, and win renown. the eyes of bellerophon brightened at these words, not only because he desired to travel, but because he was miserable in argos, where he saw every day the angry eyes of anteia. then proetus said that the king of lycia, in asia far across the sea, was his father-in-law, and his great friend. to him he would send bellerophon, and proetus gave him a folded tablet, in which he had written many deadly signs. bellerophon took the folded tablet, not looking, of course, at what was written in it, and away he sailed to lycia. the king of that country received him well, and on the tenth day after his arrival asked him if he brought any token from king proetus. bellerophon gave him the tablet, which he opened and read. the writing said that bellerophon must die. now at that time lycia was haunted by a monster of no human birth; her front was the front of a lion, in the middle of her body she was a goat, she tapered away to a strong swift serpent, and she breathed flame from her nostrils. the king of lycia, wishing to get rid of bellerophon, had but to name this curse to his guest, who vowed that he would meet her if he might find her. so he was led to the cavern where she dwelt, and there he watched for her all night till the day dawned. he was cunning as well as brave, and men asked him why he took with him no weapon but his sword, and two spears with heavy heads, not of bronze, but of soft lead. bellerophon told his companions that he had his own way of fighting, and bade them go home, and leave him alone, while his charioteer stood by the horses and chariot in a hollow way, out of sight. bellerophon himself watched, lying on his face, hidden behind a rock in the mouth of the cavern. the moment that the rising sun touched with a red ray the dark mouth of the cave, forth came the chimaera, and, setting her fore paws on the rock, looked over the valley. the moment that she opened her mouth, breathing flame, bellerophon plunged his leaden spears deep down her throat, and sprang aside. on came the chimaera, her serpent tail lashing the stones, but bellerophon ever kept on the further side of a great tall rock. the chimaera ceased to pursue him, she rolled on the earth, uttering screams of pain, for the lead was melting in the fire that was within her, and at last the molten lead burned through her, and she died. bellerophon hacked off her head, and several feet of her tail, stowed them in his chariot, and drove back to the palace of the king of lycia, while the people followed him with songs of praise. the king set him three other terrible tasks, but he achieved each of the adventures gloriously, and the king gave him his daughter to be his bride, and half of all the honours of his kingdom. this is the story of bellerophon (there were other ways of telling it), and perseus was determined to do as great deeds as he. but perseus was still a boy, and he did not know, and no man could tell him, the way to the island of the gorgons. when perseus was about sixteen years old, the king of seriphos, polydectes, saw danae, fell in love with her, and wanted to take her into his palace, but he did not want perseus. he was a bad and cruel man, but perseus was so much beloved by the people that he dared not kill him openly. he therefore made friends with the lad, and watched him carefully to see how he could take advantage of him. the king saw that he was of a rash, daring and haughty spirit, though dictys had taught him to keep himself well in hand, and that he was eager to win glory. the king fell on this plan: he gave a great feast on his birthday, and invited all the chief men and the richest on the island; perseus, too, he asked to the banquet. as the custom was, all the guests brought gifts, the best that they had, cattle, women-slaves, golden cups, wedges of gold, great vessels of bronze, and other splendid things, and the king met the guests at the door of his hall, and thanked them graciously. last came perseus: he had no gift to give, for he had nothing of his own. the others began to sneer at him, saying, 'here is a birthday guest without a birthday gift!' 'how should no man's son have a present fit for a king.' 'this lad is lazy, tied to his mother; he should long ago have taken service with the captain of a merchant ship.' 'he might at least watch the town's cows on the town's fields,' said another. thus they insulted perseus, and the king, watching him with a cruel smile, saw his face grow red, and his blue eyes blaze, as he turned from one to another of the mockers, who pointed their fingers at him and jeered. at last perseus spoke: 'ye farmers and fishers, ye ship-captains and slave dealers of a little isle, i shall bring to your master such a present as none of you dare to seek. farewell. ye shall see me once again and no more. i go to slay the gorgon, and bring such a gift as no king possesses--the head of the gorgon.' they laughed and hooted, but perseus turned away, his hand on his sword hilt, and left them to their festival, while the king rejoiced in his heart. perseus dared not see his mother again, but he spoke to dictys, saying that he knew himself now to be of an age when he must seek his fortune in other lands; and he bade dictys guard his mother from wrong, as well as he might. dictys promised that he would find a way of protecting danae, and he gave perseus three weighed wedges of gold (which were called 'talents,' and served as money), and lent him a ship, to take him to the mainland of greece, there to seek his fortune. in the dawn perseus secretly sailed away, landed at malea, and thence walked and wandered everywhere, seeking to learn the way to the island of the gorgons. he was poorly clad, and he slept at night by the fires of smithies, where beggars and wanderers lay: listening to the stories they told, and asking old people, when he met them, if they knew any one who knew the way to the island of the gorgons. they all shook their heads. 'yet i should be near knowing,' said one old man, 'if that isle be close to the land of the dead, for i am on its borders. yet i know nothing. perchance the dead may know; or the maid that prophesies at pytho, or the selloi, the priests with unwashen feet, who sleep on the ground below the sacred oaks of zeus in the grove of dodona far away.' perseus could learn no more than this, and he wandered on and on. he went to the cave that leads down to the land of the dead, where the ghosts answer questions in their thin voices, like the twittering of bats. but the ghosts could not tell him what he desired to know. he went to pytho, where the maid, in her song, bade him seek the land of men who eat acorns instead of the yellow grain of demeter, the goddess of harvest. thence he wandered to epirus, and to the selloi who dwell in the oak forest of zeus, and live on the flour ground from acorns. one of them lay on the ground in the wood, with his head covered up in his mantle, and listened to what the wind says, when it whispers to the forest leaves. the leaves said, 'we bid the young man be of good hope, for the gods are with him.' this answer did not tell perseus where the isle of the gorgons lay, but the words put hope in his heart, weary and footsore as he was. he ate of the bread made of the acorns, and of the flesh of the swine that the selloi gave him, and he went alone, and, far in the forest, he laid his head down on the broad mossy root of an old oak tree. he did not sleep, but watched the stars through the boughs, and he heard the cries of the night-wandering beasts in the woodland. 'if the gods be with me, i shall yet do well,' he said, and, as he spoke, he saw a white clear light moving through the darkness. that clear white light shone from a golden lamp in the hand of a tall and beautiful woman, clad in armour, and wearing, hung by a belt from her neck, a great shield of polished bronze. with her there came a young man, with winged shoon of gold on his feet, and belted with a strange short curved sword: in his hand was a golden wand, with wings on it, and with golden serpents twisted round it. perseus knew that these beautiful folk were the goddess athênê, and hermes, who brings all fortunate things. he fell upon his face before them, but athênê spoke in a sweet grave voice, saying, 'arise, perseus, and speak to us face to face, for we are of your kindred, we also are children of zeus, the father of gods and men.' then perseus arose and looked straight into their eyes. 'we have watched you long, perseus, to learn whether you have the heart of a hero, that can achieve great adventures; or whether you are an idle dreaming boy. we have seen that your heart is steadfast, and that you have sought through hunger, and long travel to know the way wherein you must find death or win glory. that way is not to be found without the help of the gods. first you must seek the three grey women, who dwell beyond the land that lies at the back of the north wind. they will tell you the road to the three nymphs of the west, who live in an island of the sea that never knew a sail; for it is beyond the pillars that heracles set up when he wearied in his journey to the well of the world's end, and turned again. you must go to these nymphs, where never foot of man has trod, and they will show you the measure of the way to the isle of the gorgons. if you see the faces of the gorgons, you will be turned to stone. yet you have vowed to bring the head of the youngest of the three, she who was not born a gorgon but became one of them by reason of her own wickedness. if you slay her, you must not see even her dead head, but wrap it round in this goat-skin which hangs beside my shield; see not the head yourself, and let none see it but your enemies.' 'this is a great adventure,' said perseus, 'to slay a woman whom i may not look upon, lest i be changed into stone.' 'i give you my polished shield,' said athênê. 'let it never grow dim, if you would live and see the sunlight.' she took off her shield from her neck, with the goat-skin cover of the shield, and hung them round the neck of perseus. he knelt and thanked her for her grace, and, looking up through a clear space between the forest boughs, he said, 'i see the bear, the stars of the north that are the guide of sailors. i shall walk towards them even now, by your will, for my heart burns to find the three grey women, and learn the way.' hermes smiled, and said, 'an old man and white-bearded would you be, ere you measured out that way on foot! here, take my winged sandals, and bind them about your feet. they know all the paths of the air, and they will bring you to the three grey women. belt yourself, too, with my sword, for this sword needs no second stroke, but will cleave through that you set it to smite.' so perseus bound on the shoes of swiftness, and the sword of sharpness, the name of it was herpê; and when he rose from binding on the shoon, he was alone. the gods had departed. he drew the sword, and cut at an oak tree trunk, and the blade went clean through it, while the tree fell with a crash like thunder. then perseus rose through the clear space in the wood, and flew under the stars, towards the constellation of the bear. north of greece he flew, above the thracian mountains, and the danube (which was then called the ister) lay beneath him like a long thread of silver. the air grew cold as he crossed lands then unknown to the greeks, lands where wild men dwelt, clad in the skins of beasts, and using axe-heads and spear-heads made of sharpened stones. he passed to the land at the back of the north wind, a sunny warm land, where the people sacrifice wild asses to the god apollo. beyond this he came to a burning desert of sand, but far away he saw trees that love the water, poplars and willows, and thither he flew. he came to a lake among the trees, and round and round the lake were flying three huge grey swans, with the heads of women, and their long grey hair flowed down below their bodies, and floated on the wind. they sang to each other as they flew, in a voice like the cry of the swan. they had but one eye among them, and but one tooth, which they passed to each other in turn, for they had arms and hands under their wings. perseus dropped down in his flight, and watched them. when one was passing the eye to the other, none of them could see him, so he waited for his chance and took it, and seized the eye. 'where is our eye? have _you_ got it?' said the grey woman from whose hand perseus took it. 'i have it not.' 'i have it not!' cried each of the others, and they all wailed like swans. 'i have it,' said perseus, and hearing his voice they all flew to the sound of it but he easily kept out of their way. 'the eye will i keep,' said perseus, 'till you tell me what none knows but you, the way to the isle of the gorgons.' 'we know it not,' cried the poor grey women. 'none knows it but the nymphs of the isle of the west: give us our eye!' 'then tell me the way to the nymphs of the isle of the west,' said perseus. 'turn your back, and hold your course past the isle of albion, with the white cliffs, and so keep with the land on your left hand, and the unsailed sea on your right hand, till you mark the pillars of heracles on your left, then take your course west by south, and a curse on you! give us our eye!' perseus gave them their eye, and she who took it flew at him, but he laughed, and rose high above them and flew as he was told. over many and many a league of sea and land he went, till he turned to his right from the pillars of heracles (at gibraltar), and sailed along, west by south, through warm air, over the lonely endless atlantic waters. at last he saw a great blue mountain, with snow feathering its crests, in a far-off island, and on that island he alighted. it was a country of beautiful flowers, and pine forests high on the hill, but below the pines all was like a garden, and in that garden was a tree bearing apples of gold, and round the tree were dancing three fair maidens, clothed in green, and white, and red. 'these must be the nymphs of the isle of the west,' said perseus, and he floated down into the garden, and drew near them. as soon as they saw him they left off dancing, and catching each other by the hands they ran to perseus laughing, and crying, 'hermes, our playfellow hermes has come!' the arms of all of them went round perseus at once, with much laughing and kissing. 'why have you brought a great shield, hermes?' they cried, 'here there is no unfriendly god or man to fight against you.' perseus saw that they had mistaken him for the god whose sword and winged shoon he wore, but he did not dislike the mistake of the merry maidens. 'i am not hermes,' he said, 'but a mortal man, to whom the god has graciously lent his sword and shoon, and the shield was lent to me by pallas athênê. my name is perseus.' the girls leaped back from him, blushing and looking shy. the eldest girl answered, 'we are the daughters of hesperus, the god of the evening star. i am Ã�glê, this is my sister erytheia, and this is hesperia. we are the keepers of this island, which is the garden of the gods, and they often visit us; our cousins, dionysus, the young god of wine and mirth, and hermes of the golden wand come often; and bright apollo, and his sister artemis the huntress. but a mortal man we have never seen, and wherefore have the gods sent you hither?' 'the two gods sent me, maidens, to ask you the way to the isle of the gorgons, that i may slay medusa of the snaky hair, whom gods and men detest.' 'alas!' answered the nymphs, 'how shall you slay her, even if we knew the way to that island, which we know not?' perseus sighed: he had gone so far, and endured so much, and had come to the nymphs of the isle of the west, and even they could not tell how to reach the gorgons' island. [illustration: perseus in the garden of the hesperides.] 'do not fear,' said the girl, 'for if we know not the way we know one that knows it: atlas is his name--the giant of the mountain. he dwells on the highest peak of the snow-crested hill, and it is he who holds up the heavens, and keeps heaven and earth asunder. he looks over all the world, and over the wide western sea: him we must ask to answer your question. take off your shield, which is so heavy, and sit down with us among the flowers, and let us think how you may slay the gorgon.' perseus gladly unslung his heavy shield, and sat down among the white and purple wind flowers. Ã�glê, too, sat down; but young erytheia held the shield upright, while beautiful hesperia admired herself, laughing, in the polished surface. perseus smiled as he watched them, and a plan came into his mind. in all his wanderings he had been trying hard to think how, if he found the gorgon, he might cut off her head, without seeing the face which turned men into stone. now his puzzle was ended. he could hold up the shield above the gorgon, and see the reflection of her face, as in a mirror, just as now he saw the fair reflected face of hesperia. he turned to Ã�glê, who sat silently beside him: 'maiden,' he said, 'i have found out the secret that has perplexed me long, how i may strike at the gorgon without seeing her face that turns men to stone. i will hang above her in the air, and see her face reflected in the mirror of the shield, and so know where to strike.' the two other girls had left the shield on the grass, and they clapped their hands when perseus said this, but Ã�glê still looked grave. 'it is much that you should have found this cunning plan; but the gorgons will see you, and two of them are deathless and cannot be slain, even with the sword herpé. these gorgons have wings almost as swift as the winged shoon of hermes, and they have claws of bronze that cannot be broken.' hesperia clapped her hands. 'yet i know a way,' she said, 'so that this friend of ours may approach the gorgons, yet not be seen by them. you must be told,' she said, turning to perseus, 'that we three sisters were of the company of the fairy queen, persephone, daughter of demeter, the goddess of the harvest. we were gathering flowers with her, in the plain of enna, in a spring morning, when there sprang up a new flower, fragrant and beautiful, the white narcissus. no sooner had persephone plucked that flower than the earth opened beside her, and up came the chariot and horses of hades, the king of the dead, who caught persephone into his chariot, and bore her down with him to the house of hades. we wept and were in great fear, but zeus granted to persephone to return to earth with the first snowdrop, and remain with her mother, demeter, till the last rose had faded. now i was the favourite of persephone, and she carried me with her to see her husband, who is kind to me for her sake, and can refuse me nothing, and he has what will serve your turn. to him i will go, for often i go to see my playmate, when it is winter in your world: it is always summer in our isle. to him i will go, and return again, when i will so work that you may be seen of none, neither by god, or man, or monster. meanwhile my sisters will take care of you, and to-morrow they will lead you to the mountain top, to speak with the giant.' 'it is well spoken,' said tall, grave Ã�glê, and she led perseus to their house, and gave him food and wine, and at night he slept full of hope, in a chamber in the courtyard. next morning, early, perseus and Ã�glê and erytheia floated up to the crest of the mountain, for hesperia had departed in the night, to visit queen persephone. perseus took a hand of each of the nymphs, and they had no weary climbing; they all soared up together, so great was the power of the winged shoon of hermes. they found the good giant atlas, kneeling on a black rock above the snow, holding up the vault of heaven with either hand. when Ã�glê had spoken to him, he bade his girls go apart, and said to perseus, 'yonder, far away to the west, you see an island with a mountain that rises to a flat top, like a table. there dwell the gorgons.' perseus thanked him eagerly, but atlas sighed and said, 'mine is a weary life. here have i knelt and done my task, since the giants fought against the gods, and were defeated. then, for my punishment, i was set here by zeus to keep sky and earth asunder. but he told me that after hundreds of years i should have rest, and be changed to a stone. now i see that the day of rest appointed is come, for you shall show me the head of the gorgon when you have slain her, and my body shall be stone, but my spirit shall be with the ever living gods.' perseus pitied atlas; he bowed to the will of zeus, and to the prayer of the giant, and gave his promise. then he floated to Ã�glê and erytheia, and they all three floated down again to the garden of the golden apples. here as they walked on the soft grass, and watched the wind toss the white and red and purple bells of the wind flowers, they heard a low laughter close to them, the laughter of hesperia, but her they saw not. 'where are you, hesperia, where are you hiding?' cried Ã�glê, wondering, for the wide lawn was open, without bush or tree where the girl might be lurking. 'find me if you can,' cried the voice of hesperia, close beside them, and handfuls of flowers were lightly tossed to them, yet they saw none who threw them. 'this place is surely enchanted,' thought perseus, and the voice of hesperia answered: 'come follow, follow me. i will run before you to the house, and show you my secret.' then they all saw the flowers bending, and the grass waving, as if a light-footed girl were running through it, and they followed to the house the path in the trodden grass. at the door, hesperia met them: 'you could not see me,' she said, 'nor will the gorgons see perseus. look, on that table lies the helmet of hades, which mortal men call the cap of darkness. while i wore it you could not see me, nay, a deathless god cannot see the wearer of that helmet.' she took up a dark cap of hard leather, that lay on a table in the hall, and raised it to her head, and when she had put it on, she was invisible. she took it off, and placed it on the brows of perseus. 'we cannot see you, perseus,' cried all the girls. 'look at yourself in your shining shield: can you see yourself?' perseus turned to the shield, which he had hung on a golden nail in the wall. he saw only the polished bronze, and the faces of the girls who were looking over his shoulder. he took off the helmet of hades and gave a great sigh. 'kind are the gods,' he said. 'methinks that i shall indeed keep my vow, and bring to polydectes the gorgon's head.' they were merry that night, and perseus told them his story, how he was the son of zeus, and the girls called him 'cousin perseus.' 'we love you very much, and we could make you immortal, without old age and death,' said hesperia. 'you might live with us here for ever--it is lonely, sometimes, for three maidens in the garden of the gods. but you must keep your vow, and punish your enemies, and cherish your mother, and do not forget your cousins three, when you have married the lady of your heart's desire, and are king of argos.' the tears stood in the eyes of perseus. 'cousins dear,' he said, 'never shall i forget you, not even in the house of hades. you will come thither now and again, hesperia? but i love no woman.' 'i think you will not long be without a lady and a love, perseus,' said erytheia; 'but the night is late, and to-morrow you have much to do.' so they parted, and next morning they bade perseus be of good hope. he burnished and polished the shield, and covered it with the goat's skin, he put on the shoes of swiftness, and belted himself with the sword of sharpness, and placed on his head the cap of darkness. then he soared high in the air, till he saw the gorgons' isle, and the table-shaped mountain, a speck in the western sea. the way was long, but the shoes were swift, and, far aloft, in the heat of the noon-day, perseus looked down on the top of the table-mountain. there he could dimly see three bulks of strange shapeless shape, with monstrous limbs that never stirred, and he knew that the gorgons were sleeping their midday sleep. then he held the shield so that the shapes were reflected in its polished face, and very slowly he floated down, and down, till he was within striking distance. there they lay, two of them uglier than sin, breathing loud in their sleep like drunken men. but the face of her who lay between the others was as quiet as the face of a sleeping child; and as beautiful as the face of the goddess of love, with long dark eyelashes veiling the eyes, and red lips half open. nothing stirred but the serpents in the hair of beautiful medusa; they were never still, but coiled and twisted, and perseus loathed them as he watched them in the mirror. they coiled and uncoiled, and left bare her ivory neck, and then perseus drew the sword herpê, and struck once. in the mirror he saw the fallen head, and he seized it by the hair, and wrapped it in the goat-skin, and put the goat-skin in his wallet. then he towered high in the air, and, looking down, he saw the two sister gorgons turning in their sleep; they woke, and saw their sister dead. they seemed to speak to each other; they looked this way and that, into the bright empty air, for perseus in the cap of darkness they could not see. they rose on their mighty wings, hunting low, and high, and with casts behind their island and in front of it, but perseus was flying faster than ever he flew before, stooping and rising to hide his scent. he dived into the deep sea, and flew under water as long as he could hold his breath, and then rose and fled swiftly forward. the gorgons were puzzled by each double he had made, and, at the place where he dived they lost the scent, and from far away perseus heard their loud yelps, but soon these faded in the distance. he often looked over his shoulder as he flew straight towards the far-off blue hill of the giant atlas, but the sky was empty behind him, and the gorgons he never saw again. the mountain turned from blue to clear grey and red and gold, with pencilled rifts and glens, and soon perseus stood beside the giant atlas. 'you are welcome and blessed,' said the giant. 'show me the head that i may be at rest.' then perseus took the bundle from the wallet, and carefully unbound the goat-skin, and held up the head, looking away from it, and the giant was a great grey stone. down sailed perseus, and stood in the garden of the gods, and laid the cap of darkness on the grass. the three nymphs who were sitting there, weaving garlands of flowers, leaped up, and came round him, and kissed him, and crowned him with the flowery chaplets. that night he rested with them, and in the morning they kissed and said farewell. 'do not forget us,' said Ã�glê, 'nor be too sorry for our loneliness. to-day hermes has been with us, and to-morrow he comes again with dionysus, the god of the vine, and all his merry company. hermes left a message for you, that you are to fly eastward, and south, to the place where your wings shall guide you, and there, he said, you shall find your happiness. when that is won, you shall turn north and west, to your own country. we say, all three of us, that our love is with you always, and we shall hear of your gladness, for hermes will tell us; then we too shall be glad. farewell!' so the three maidens embraced him with kind faces and smiling eyes, and perseus, too, smiled as well as he might, but in his eastward way he often looked back, and was sad when he could no longer see the kindly hill above the garden of the gods. iii perseus and andromeda perseus flew where the wings bore him, over great mountains, and over a wilderness of sand. below his feet the wind woke the sand storms, and beneath him he saw nothing but a soft floor of yellow grey, and when that cleared he saw islands of green trees round some well in the waste, and long trains of camels, and brown men riding swift horses, at which he wondered; for the greeks in his time drove in chariots, and did not ride. the red sun behind him fell, and all the land was purple, but, in a moment, as it seemed, the stars rushed out, and he sped along in the starlight till the sky was grey again, and rosy, and full of fiery colours, green and gold and ruby and amethyst. then the sun rose, and perseus looked down on a green land, through which was flowing north a great river, and he guessed that it was the river Ã�gyptus, which we now call the nile. beneath him was a town, with many white houses in groves of palm trees, and with great temples of the gods, built of red stone. the shoes of swiftness stopped above the wide market-place, and there perseus hung poised, till he saw a multitude of men pour out of the door of a temple. at their head walked the king, who was like a greek, and he led a maiden as white as snow wreathed with flowers and circlets of wool, like the oxen in greece, when men sacrifice them to the gods. behind the king and the maid came a throng of brown men, first priests and magicians and players on harps, and women shaking metal rattles that made a wild mournful noise, while the multitude lamented. slowly, while perseus watched, they passed down to the shore of the great river, so wide a river as perseus had never seen. they went to a steep red rock, like a wall, above the river; at its foot was a flat shelf of rock--the water just washed over it. here they stopped, and the king kissed and embraced the white maiden. they bound her by chains of bronze to rings of bronze in the rock; they sang a strange hymn; and then marched back to the town, throwing their mantles over their heads. there the maiden stood, or rather hung forward supported by the chains. perseus floated down, and, the nearer he came, the more beautiful seemed the white maid, with her soft dark hair falling to her white feet. softly he floated down, till his feet were on the ledge of rock. she did not hear him coming, and when he gently touched her she gave a cry, and turned on him her large dark eyes, wild and dry, without a tear. 'is it a god?' she said, clasping her hands. 'no god, but a mortal man am i, perseus the slayer of the gorgon. what do you here? what cruel men have bound you?' 'i am andromeda, the daughter of cepheus, king of a strange people. the lot fell on me, of all the maidens in the city, to be offered to the monster fish that walks on feet, who is their god. once a year they give to him a maiden.' perseus thereon drew the sword herpê, and cut the chains of bronze that bound the girl as if they had been ropes of flax, and she fell at his feet, covering her eyes with her hands. then perseus saw the long reeds on the further shore of the river waving and stirring and crashing, and from them came a monstrous fish walking on feet, and slid into the water. his long sharp black head showed above the stream as he swam, and the water behind him showed like the water in the wake of a ship. 'be still and hide your eyes!' whispered perseus to the maiden. he took the goat-skin from his wallet, and held up the gorgon's head, with the back of it turned towards him, and he waited till the long black head was lifted from the river's edge, and the forefeet of that fish were on the wet ledge of rock. then he held the head before the eyes of the monster, and from the head downward it slowly stiffened. the head and forefeet and shoulders were of stone before the tail had ceased to lash the water. then the tail stiffened into a long jagged sharp stone, and perseus, wrapping up the head in the goat-skin, placed it in his wallet. he turned his back to andromeda, while he did this lest by mischance her eyes should open and see the head of the gorgon. but her eyes were closed, and perseus found that she had fainted, from fear of the monster, and from the great heat of the sun. perseus put the palms of his hands together like a cup, and stooping to the stream he brought water, and threw it over the face and neck of andromeda, wondering at her beauty. her eyes opened at last, and she tried to rise to her feet, but she dropped on her knees, and clung with her fingers to the rock. seeing her so faint and weak perseus raised her in his arms, with her beautiful head pillowed on his shoulder, where she fell asleep like a tired child. then he rose in the air and floated over the sheer wall of red stone above the river, and flew slowly towards the town. there were no sentinels at the gate; the long street was empty, for all the people were in their houses, praying and weeping. but a little girl stole out of a house near the gate. she was too young to understand why her father and mother and elder brothers were so sad, and would not take any notice of her. she thought she would go out and play in the street, and when she looked up from her play, she saw perseus bearing the king's daughter in his arms. the child stared, and then ran into her house, crying aloud, for she could hardly speak, and pulled so hard at her mother's gown that her mother rose and followed her to the house door. the mother gave a joyful cry, her husband and her children ran forth, and they, too, shouted aloud for pleasure. their cries reached the ears of people in other houses, and presently all the folk, as glad as they had been sorrowful, were following perseus to the palace of the king. perseus walked through the empty court, and stood at the door of the hall, where the servants came to him, both men and women, and with tears of joy the women bore andromeda to the chamber of her mother, queen cassiopeia. [illustration: the rescue of andromeda.] who can tell how happy were the king and queen, and how gladly they welcomed perseus! they made a feast for him, and they sent oxen and sheep to all the people, and wine, that all might rejoice and make merry. andromeda, too, came, pale but smiling, into the hall, and sat down beside her mother's high seat, listening while perseus told the whole story of his adventures. now perseus could scarcely keep his eyes from andromeda's face while he spoke, and she stole glances at him. when their eyes met, the colour came into her face again, which glowed like ivory that a carian woman has lightly tinged with rose colour, making an ornament for some rich king. perseus remembered the message of hermes, which Ã�glê had given him, that if he flew to the east and south he would find his happiness. he knew that he had found it, if this maiden would be his wife, and he ended his tale by repeating the message of hermes. 'the gods speak only truth,' he said, 'and to have made you all happy is the greatest happiness to perseus of argos.' yet he hoped in his heart to see a yet happier day, when the rites of marriage should be done between andromeda and him, and the young men and maidens should sing the wedding song before their door. andromeda was of one mind with him, and, as perseus must needs go home, her parents believed that she could not live without him who had saved her from such a cruel death. so with heavy hearts they made the marriage feast, and with many tears andromeda and her father and mother said farewell. perseus and his bride sailed down the great river Ã�gyptus in the king's own boat; and at every town they were received with feasts, and songs, and dances. they saw all the wonderful things of egypt, palaces and pyramids and temples and tombs of kings, and at last they found a ship of the cretans in the mouth of the nile. this they hired, for they carried with them great riches, gold, and myrrh, and ivory, gifts of the princes of egypt. iv how perseus avenged danae with a steady south wind behind them they sailed to seriphos, and landed, and brought their wealth ashore, and went to the house of dictys. they found him lonely and sorrowful, for his wife had died, and his brother, king polydectes, had taken danae, and set her to grind corn in his house, among his slave women. when perseus heard that word, he asked, 'where is king polydectes?' 'it is his birthday, and he holds his feast among the princes,' said dictys. 'then bring me,' said perseus, 'the worst of old clothes that any servant of your house can borrow from a beggar man, if there be a beggar man in the town.' such a man there was--he came limping through the door of the courtyard, and up to the threshold of the house, where he sat whining, and asking for alms. they gave him food and wine, and perseus cried, 'new clothes for old, father, i will give you, and new shoes for old.' the beggar could not believe his ears, but he was taken to the baths, and washed, and new clothes were given to him, while perseus clad himself in the beggar's rags, and dictys took charge of the winged shoon of hermes and the sword herpê, and the burnished shield of athênê. then perseus cast dust and wood ashes on his hair, till it looked foul and grey, and placed the goat-skin covering and the gorgon's head in his wallet, and with the beggar's staff in his hand he limped to the palace of polydectes. on the threshold he sat down, like a beggar, and polydectes saw him and cried to his servants, 'bring in that man; is it not the day of my feast? surely all are welcome.' perseus was led in, looking humbly at the ground, and was brought before the king. 'what news, thou beggar man?' said the king. 'such news as was to be looked for,' whined perseus. 'behold, i am he who brought no present to the king's feast, seven long years agone, and now i come back, tired and hungry, to ask his grace.' 'by the splendour of zeus,' cried polydectes, 'it is none but the beggar brat who bragged that he would fetch me such a treasure as lies in no king's chamber! the beggar brat is a beggar man; how time and travel have tamed him! ho, one of you, run and fetch his mother who is grinding at the mill, that she may welcome her son.' a servant ran from the hall, and the chiefs of seriphos mocked at perseus. 'this is he who called us farmers and dealers in slaves. verily he would not fetch the price of an old cow in the slave market.' then they threw at him crusts of bread, and bones of swine, but he stood silent. then danae was led in, clad in vile raiment, but looking like a queen, and the king cried, 'go forward, woman: look at that beggar man; dost thou know thy son?' she walked on, her head high, and perseus whispered, 'mother, stand thou beside me, and speak no word!' 'my mother knows me not, or despises me,' said perseus, 'yet, poor as i am, i do not come empty-handed. in my wallet is a gift, brought from very far away, for my lord the king.' he swung his wallet round in front of him; he took off the covering of goat-skin, and he held the gorgon's head on high, by the hair, facing the king and the chiefs. in one moment they were all grey stones, all along the hall, and the chairs whereon they sat crashed under the weight of them, and they rolled on the hard clay floor. perseus wrapped the head in the goat-skin, and shut it in the wallet carefully, and cried, 'mother, look round, and see thy son and thine own revenge.' then danae knew her son, by the sound of his voice, if not by her eyesight, and she wept for joy. so they two went to the house of dictys, and perseus was cleansed, and clad in rich raiment, and danae, too, was apparelled like a free woman, and embraced andromeda with great joy. perseus made the good dictys king of seriphos; and he placed the winged shoes in the temple of hermes, with the sword herpê, and the gorgon's head, in its goat-skin cover; but the polished shield he laid on the altar in the temple of athênê. then he bade all who served in the temples come forth, both young and old, and he locked the doors, and he and dictys watched all night, with the armed cretans, the crew of his ship, that none might enter. next day perseus alone went into the temple of athênê. it was as it had been, but the gorgon's head and the polished shield were gone, and the winged shoon and the sword herpê had vanished from the temple of hermes. with danae and andromeda perseus sailed to greece, where he learned that the sons of king proetus had driven king acrisius out of argos, and that he had fled to phthia in the north, where the ancestor of the great achilles was king. thither perseus went, to see his grandfather, and he found the young men holding games and sports in front of the palace. perseus thought that his grandfather might love him better if he showed his strength in the games, which were open to strangers, so he entered and won the race, and the prize for leaping, and then came the throwing of the disc of bronze. perseus threw a great cast, far beyond the rest, but the disc swerved, and fell among the crowd. then perseus was afraid, and ran like the wind to the place where the disc fell. there lay an old man, smitten sorely by the disc, and men said that he had killed king acrisius. thus the word of the prophetess and the will of fate were fulfilled. perseus went weeping to the king of phthia, and told him all the truth, and the king, who knew, as all greece knew, how acrisius had tried to drown his daughter and her child, believed the tale, and said that perseus was guiltless. he and danae and andromeda dwelt for a year in phthia, with the king, and then perseus with an army of pelasgians and myrmidons, marched south to argos, and took the city, and drove out his cousins, the sons of proetus. there in argos perseus, with his mother and beautiful andromeda, dwelt long and happily, and he left the kingdom to his son when he died. * * * * * _the story of ulysses is taken mainly from the iliad, the odyssey, and the_ post homerica _of quintus smyrnæus. as we have no detailed account of the stealing of the palladium by ulysses, use has been made of helen's tale about his entry into troy in the disguise of a beaten beggar. the chief source of 'the fleece of gold' is tradition, with the argonautica of apollonius rhodius; the fight between polydeuces and the giant is best reported by theocritus. no epic or tragedy concerning the early fortunes of theseus and the history of perseus has reached us: summaries in plutarch and apollodorus provide the outlines of the legends. the descriptions of costume, arms, and mode of life are derived from homer and from the 'mycenæan' relics discovered in the last thirty years by dr. schliemann, mr. a. j. evans, and many other explorers. 'the fleece of gold,' first published in an american magazine, has also appeared in america in a little volume (henry altemus & co.). it is here reprinted by permission of messrs. altemus, with some changes and corrections._ * * * * * transcriber's note: minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. some illustrations have been moved to avoid splitting paragraphs and make smoother reading. there are inconsistencies in the use of ligatures in some of the names. these inconsistencies have been left as in the original text. images generously made available by internet archive (http://www.archive.org) note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the lovely original illustrations and decorations in color. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/ / -h.zip) images of the original pages are available through internet archive. see http://www.archive.org/details/wonderbookforgir hawt a wonder book for girls & boys [illustration] by nathaniel hawthorne with designs by walter crane boston: houghton mifflin company [illustration: bellerophon on pegasvs] copyright, , by nathaniel hawthorne copyright, , by rose hawthorne lathrop copyright, and , by houghton, mifflin & co. all rights reserved preface [illustration] the author has long been of opinion that many of the classical myths were capable of being rendered into very capital reading for children. in the little volume here offered to the public, he has worked up half a dozen of them, with this end in view. a great freedom of treatment was necessary to his plan; but it will be observed by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his intellectual furnace, that they are marvellously independent of all temporary modes and circumstances. they remain essentially the same, after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else. he does not, therefore, plead guilty to a sacrilege, in having sometimes shaped anew, as his fancy dictated, the forms that have been hallowed by an antiquity of two or three thousand years. no epoch of time can claim a copyright in these immortal fables. they seem never to have been made; and certainly, so long as man exists, they can never perish; but, by their indestructibility itself, they are legitimate subjects for every age to clothe with its own garniture of manners and sentiment, and to imbue with its own morality. in the present version they may have lost much of their classical aspect (or, at all events, the author has not been careful to preserve it), and have perhaps assumed a gothic or romantic guise. in performing this pleasant task,--for it has been really a task fit for hot weather, and one of the most agreeable, of a literary kind, which he ever undertook,--the author has not always thought it necessary to write downward, in order to meet the comprehension of children. he has generally suffered the theme to soar, whenever such was its tendency, and when he himself was buoyant enough to follow without an effort. children possess an unestimated sensibility to whatever is deep or high, in imagination or feeling, so long as it is simple likewise. it is only the artificial and the complex that bewilder them. lenox, _july , _. [illustration] contents [illustration] page the gorgon's head. tanglewood porch.--introductory to the gorgon's head the gorgon's head tanglewood porch.--after the story the golden touch. shadow brook.--introductory to the golden touch the golden touch shadow brook.--after the story the paradise of children. tanglewood play-room.--introductory to the paradise of children the paradise of children tanglewood play-room.--after the story the three golden apples. tanglewood fireside.--introductory to the three golden apples the three golden apples tanglewood fireside.--after the story the miraculous pitcher. the hill-side.--introductory to the miraculous pitcher the miraculous pitcher the hill-side.--after the story the chimÆra. bald-summit.--introductory to the chimæra the chimÆra bald-summit.--after the story list of designs [illustration] half-title i frontispiece--bellerophon on pegasus. title iii preface v tailpiece vi contents vii list of designs ix tailpiece x headpiece--tanglewood porch the gorgon's head--headpiece perseus and the graiæ perseus armed by the nymphs perseus and the gorgons perseus showing the gorgon's head tailpiece headpiece--tanglewood porch, after the story tailpiece headpiece--shadow brook the golden touch--headpiece the stranger appearing to midas midas' daughter turned to gold midas with the pitcher tailpiece headpiece--shadow brook, after the story tailpiece headpiece--tanglewood play-room tailpiece the paradise of children--headpiece pandora wonders at the box pandora desires to open the box pandora opens the box tailpiece headpiece--tanglewood play-room, after the story headpiece--tanglewood fireside tailpiece the three golden apples--headpiece hercules and the nymphs hercules and the old man of the sea hercules and atlas tailpiece headpiece--tanglewood fireside, after the story tailpiece headpiece--the hill-side tailpiece the miraculous pitcher--headpiece philemon and baucis the strangers in the village the strangers entertained tailpiece headpiece--the hill-side, after the story tailpiece headpiece--bald summit tailpiece the chimÆra--headpiece bellerophon at the fountain bellerophon slays the chimæra tailpiece headpiece--bald summit, after the story tailpiece [illustration] the gorgon's head [illustration] tanglewood porch introductory to the gorgon's head beneath the porch of the country-seat called tanglewood, one fine autumnal morning, was assembled a merry party of little folks, with a tall youth in the midst of them. they had planned a nutting expedition, and were impatiently waiting for the mists to roll up the hill-slopes, and for the sun to pour the warmth of the indian summer over the fields and pastures, and into the nooks of the many-colored woods. there was a prospect of as fine a day as ever gladdened the aspect of this beautiful and comfortable world. as yet, however, the morning mist filled up the whole length and breadth of the valley, above which, on a gently sloping eminence, the mansion stood. this body of white vapor extended to within less than a hundred yards of the house. it completely hid everything beyond that distance, except a few ruddy or yellow tree-tops, which here and there emerged, and were glorified by the early sunshine, as was likewise the broad surface of the mist. four or five miles off to the southward rose the summit of monument mountain, and seemed to be floating on a cloud. some fifteen miles farther away, in the same direction, appeared the loftier dome of taconic, looking blue and indistinct, and hardly so substantial as the vapory sea that almost rolled over it. the nearer hills, which bordered the valley, were half submerged, and were specked with little cloud-wreaths all the way to their tops. on the whole, there was so much cloud, and so little solid earth, that it had the effect of a vision. the children above-mentioned, being as full of life as they could hold, kept overflowing from the porch of tanglewood, and scampering along the gravel-walk, or rushing across the dewy herbage of the lawn. i can hardly tell how many of these small people there were; not less than nine or ten, however, nor more than a dozen, of all sorts, sizes, and ages, whether girls or boys. they were brothers, sisters, and cousins, together with a few of their young acquaintances, who had been invited by mr. and mrs. pringle to spend some of this delightful weather with their own children at tanglewood. i am afraid to tell you their names, or even to give them any names which other children have ever been called by; because, to my certain knowledge, authors sometimes get themselves into great trouble by accidentally giving the names of real persons to the characters in their books. for this reason i mean to call them primrose, periwinkle, sweet fern, dandelion, blue eye, clover, huckleberry, cowslip, squash-blossom, milkweed, plantain, and buttercup; although, to be sure, such titles might better suit a group of fairies than a company of earthly children. it is not to be supposed that these little folks were to be permitted by their careful fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, or grandparents, to stray abroad into the woods and fields, without the guardianship of some particularly grave and elderly person. oh, no, indeed! in the first sentence of my book, you will recollect that i spoke of a tall youth, standing in the midst of the children. his name--(and i shall let you know his real name, because he considers it a great honor to have told the stories that are here to be printed)--his name was eustace bright. he was a student at williams college, and had reached, i think, at this period, the venerable age of eighteen years; so that he felt quite like a grandfather towards periwinkle, dandelion, huckleberry, squash-blossom, milkweed, and the rest, who were only half or a third as venerable as he. a trouble in his eyesight (such as many students think it necessary to have, nowadays, in order to prove their diligence at their books) had kept him from college a week or two after the beginning of the term. but, for my part, i have seldom met with a pair of eyes that looked as if they could see farther or better than those of eustace bright. this learned student was slender, and rather pale, as all yankee students are; but yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his shoes. by the by, being much addicted to wading through streamlets and across meadows, he had put on cowhide boots for the expedition. he wore a linen blouse, a cloth cap, and a pair of green spectacles, which he had assumed, probably, less for the preservation of his eyes than for the dignity that they imparted to his countenance. in either case, however, he might as well have let them alone; for huckleberry, a mischievous little elf, crept behind eustace as he sat on the steps of the porch, snatched the spectacles from his nose, and clapped them on her own; and as the student forgot to take them back, they fell off into the grass, and lay there till the next spring. now, eustace bright, you must know, had won great fame among the children, as a narrator of wonderful stories; and though he sometimes pretended to be annoyed, when they teased him for more, and more, and always for more, yet i really doubt whether he liked anything quite so well as to tell them. you might have seen his eyes twinkle, therefore, when clover, sweet fern, cowslip, buttercup, and most of their playmates, besought him to relate one of his stories, while they were waiting for the mist to clear up. "yes, cousin eustace," said primrose, who was a bright girl of twelve, with laughing eyes, and a nose that turned up a little, "the morning is certainly the best time for the stories with which you so often tire out our patience. we shall be in less danger of hurting your feelings, by falling asleep at the most interesting points,--as little cowslip and i did last night!" "naughty primrose," cried cowslip, a child of six years old; "i did not fall asleep, and i only shut my eyes, so as to see a picture of what cousin eustace was telling about. his stories are good to hear at night, because we can dream about them asleep; and good in the morning, too, because then we can dream about them awake. so i hope he will tell us one this very minute." "thank you, my little cowslip," said eustace; "certainly you shall have the best story i can think of, if it were only for defending me so well from that naughty primrose. but, children, i have already told you so many fairy tales, that i doubt whether there is a single one which you have not heard at least twice over. i am afraid you will fall asleep in reality, if i repeat any of them again." "no, no, no!" cried blue eye, periwinkle, plantain, and half a dozen others. "we like a story all the better for having heard it two or three times before." and it is a truth, as regards children, that a story seems often to deepen its mark in their interest, not merely by two or three, but by numberless repetitions. but eustace bright, in the exuberance of his resources, scorned to avail himself of an advantage which an older story-teller would have been glad to grasp at. "it would be a great pity," said he, "if a man of my learning (to say nothing of original fancy) could not find a new story every day, year in and year out, for children such as you. i will tell you one of the nursery tales that were made for the amusement of our great old grandmother, the earth, when she was a child in frock and pinafore. there are a hundred such; and it is a wonder to me that they have not long ago been put into picture-books for little girls and boys. but, instead of that, old gray-bearded grandsires pore over them in musty volumes of greek, and puzzle themselves with trying to find out when, and how, and for what they were made." "well, well, well, well, cousin eustace!" cried all the children at once; "talk no more about your stories, but begin." "sit down, then, every soul of you," said eustace bright, "and be all as still as so many mice. at the slightest interruption, whether from great, naughty primrose, little dandelion, or any other, i shall bite the story short off between my teeth, and swallow the untold part. but, in the first place, do any of you know what a gorgon is?" "i do," said primrose. "then hold your tongue!" rejoined eustace, who had rather she would have known nothing about the matter. "hold all your tongues, and i shall tell you a sweet pretty story of a gorgon's head." and so he did, as you may begin to read on the next page. working up his sophomorical erudition with a good deal of tact, and incurring great obligations to professor anthon, he, nevertheless, disregarded all classical authorities, whenever the vagrant audacity of his imagination impelled him to do so. the gorgon's head [illustration] perseus was the son of danaë, who was the daughter of a king. and when perseus was a very little boy, some wicked people put his mother and himself into a chest, and set them afloat upon the sea. the wind blew freshly, and drove the chest away from the shore, and the uneasy billows tossed it up and down; while danaë clasped her child closely to her bosom, and dreaded that some big wave would dash its foamy crest over them both. the chest sailed on, however, and neither sank nor was upset; until, when night was coming, it floated so near an island that it got entangled in a fisherman's nets, and was drawn out high and dry upon the sand. the island was called seriphus, and it was reigned over by king polydectes, who happened to be the fisherman's brother. this fisherman, i am glad to tell you, was an exceedingly humane and upright man. he showed great kindness to danaë and her little boy; and continued to befriend them, until perseus had grown to be a handsome youth, very strong and active, and skillful in the use of arms. long before this time, king polydectes had seen the two strangers--the mother and her child--who had come to his dominions in a floating chest. as he was not good and kind, like his brother the fisherman, but extremely wicked, he resolved to send perseus on a dangerous enterprise, in which he would probably be killed, and then to do some great mischief to danaë herself. so this bad-hearted king spent a long while in considering what was the most dangerous thing that a young man could possibly undertake to perform. at last, having hit upon an enterprise that promised to turn out as fatally as he desired, he sent for the youthful perseus. the young man came to the palace, and found the king sitting upon his throne. "perseus," said king polydectes, smiling craftily upon him, "you are grown up a fine young man. you and your good mother have received a great deal of kindness from myself, as well as from my worthy brother the fisherman, and i suppose you would not be sorry to repay some of it." "please your majesty," answered perseus, "i would willingly risk my life to do so." "well, then," continued the king, still with a cunning smile on his lips, "i have a little adventure to propose to you; and, as you are a brave and enterprising youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of distinguishing yourself. you must know, my good perseus, i think of getting married to the beautiful princess hippodamia; and it is customary, on these occasions, to make the bride a present of some far-fetched and elegant curiosity. i have been a little perplexed, i must honestly confess, where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her exquisite taste. but, this morning, i flatter myself, i have thought of precisely the article." "and can i assist your majesty in obtaining it?" cried perseus, eagerly. "you can, if you are as brave a youth as i believe you to be," replied king polydectes, with the utmost graciousness of manner. "the bridal gift which i have set my heart on presenting to the beautiful hippodamia is the head of the gorgon medusa with the snaky locks; and i depend on you, my dear perseus, to bring it to me. so, as i am anxious to settle affairs with the princess, the sooner you go in quest of the gorgon, the better i shall be pleased." "i will set out to-morrow morning," answered perseus. "pray do so, my gallant youth," rejoined the king. "and, perseus, in cutting off the gorgon's head, be careful to make a clean stroke, so as not to injure its appearance. you must bring it home in the very best condition, in order to suit the exquisite taste of the beautiful princess hippodamia." perseus left the palace, but was scarcely out of hearing before polydectes burst into a laugh; being greatly amused, wicked king that he was, to find how readily the young man fell into the snare. the news quickly spread abroad that perseus had undertaken to cut off the head of medusa with the snaky locks. everybody was rejoiced; for most of the inhabitants of the island were as wicked as the king himself, and would have liked nothing better than to see some enormous mischief happen to danaë and her son. the only good man in this unfortunate island of seriphus appears to have been the fisherman. as perseus walked along, therefore, the people pointed after him, and made mouths, and winked to one another, and ridiculed him as loudly as they dared. "ho, ho!" cried they; "medusa's snakes will sting him soundly!" now, there were three gorgons alive at that period; and they were the most strange and terrible monsters that had ever been since the world was made, or that have been seen in after days, or that are likely to be seen in all time to come. i hardly know what sort of creature or hobgoblin to call them. they were three sisters, and seem to have borne some distant resemblance to women, but were really a very frightful and mischievous species of dragon. it is, indeed, difficult to imagine what hideous beings these three sisters were. why, instead of locks of hair, if you can believe me, they had each of them a hundred enormous snakes growing on their heads, all alive, twisting, wriggling, curling, and thrusting out their venomous tongues, with forked stings at the end! the teeth of the gorgons were terribly long tusks; their hands were made of brass; and their bodies were all over scales, which, if not iron, were something as hard and impenetrable. they had wings, too, and exceedingly splendid ones, i can assure you; for every feather in them was pure, bright, glittering, burnished gold, and they looked very dazzlingly, no doubt, when the gorgons were flying about in the sunshine. but when people happened to catch a glimpse of their glittering brightness, aloft in the air, they seldom stopped to gaze, but ran and hid themselves as speedily as they could. you will think, perhaps, that they were afraid of being stung by the serpents that served the gorgons instead of hair,--or of having their heads bitten off by their ugly tusks,--or of being torn all to pieces by their brazen claws. well, to be sure, these were some of the dangers, but by no means the greatest, nor the most difficult to avoid. for the worst thing about these abominable gorgons was, that, if once a poor mortal fixed his eyes full upon one of their faces, he was certain, that very instant, to be changed from warm flesh and blood into cold and lifeless stone! thus, as you will easily perceive, it was a very dangerous adventure that the wicked king polydectes had contrived for this innocent young man. perseus himself, when he had thought over the matter, could not help seeing that he had very little chance of coming safely through it, and that he was far more likely to become a stone image than to bring back the head of medusa with the snaky locks. for, not to speak of other difficulties, there was one which it would have puzzled an older man than perseus to get over. not only must he fight with and slay this golden-winged, iron-scaled, long-tusked, brazen-clawed, snaky-haired monster, but he must do it with his eyes shut, or, at least, without so much as a glance at the enemy with whom he was contending. else, while his arm was lifted to strike, he would stiffen into stone, and stand with that uplifted arm for centuries, until time, and the wind and weather, should crumble him quite away. this would be a very sad thing to befall a young man who wanted to perform a great many brave deeds, and to enjoy a great deal of happiness, in this bright and beautiful world. so disconsolate did these thoughts make him, that perseus could not bear to tell his mother what he had undertaken to do. he therefore took his shield, girded on his sword, and crossed over from the island to the mainland, where he sat down in a solitary place, and hardly refrained from shedding tears. but, while he was in this sorrowful mood, he heard a voice close beside him. "perseus," said the voice, "why are you sad?" he lifted his head from his hands, in which he had hidden it, and, behold! all alone as perseus had supposed himself to be, there was a stranger in the solitary place. it was a brisk, intelligent, and remarkably shrewd-looking young man, with a cloak over his shoulders, an odd sort of cap on his head, a strangely twisted staff in his hand, and a short and very crooked sword hanging by his side. he was exceedingly light and active in his figure, like a person much accustomed to gymnastic exercises, and well able to leap or run. above all, the stranger had such a cheerful, knowing, and helpful aspect (though it was certainly a little mischievous, into the bargain), that perseus could not help feeling his spirits grow livelier as he gazed at him. besides, being really a courageous youth, he felt greatly ashamed that anybody should have found him with tears in his eyes, like a timid little schoolboy, when, after all, there might be no occasion for despair. so perseus wiped his eyes, and answered the stranger pretty briskly, putting on as brave a look as he could. "i am not so very sad," said he, "only thoughtful about an adventure that i have undertaken." "oho!" answered the stranger. "well, tell me all about it, and possibly i may be of service to you. i have helped a good many young men through adventures that looked difficult enough beforehand. perhaps you may have heard of me. i have more names than one; but the name of quicksilver suits me as well as any other. tell me what the trouble is, and we will talk the matter over, and see what can be done." the stranger's words and manner put perseus into quite a different mood from his former one. he resolved to tell quicksilver all his difficulties, since he could not easily be worse off than he already was, and, very possibly, his new friend might give him some advice that would turn out well in the end. so he let the stranger know, in few words, precisely what the case was,--how that king polydectes wanted the head of medusa with the snaky locks as a bridal gift for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and how that he had undertaken to get it for him, but was afraid of being turned into stone. "and that would be a great pity," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile. "you would make a very handsome marble statue, it is true, and it would be a considerable number of centuries before you crumbled away; but, on the whole, one would rather be a young man for a few years than a stone image for a great many." "oh, far rather!" exclaimed perseus, with the tears again standing in his eyes. "and, besides, what would my dear mother do, if her beloved son were turned into a stone?" "well, well, let us hope that the affair will not turn out so very badly," replied quicksilver, in an encouraging tone. "i am the very person to help you, if anybody can. my sister and myself will do our utmost to bring you safe through the adventure, ugly as it now looks." "your sister?" repeated perseus. "yes, my sister," said the stranger. "she is very wise, i promise you; and as for myself, i generally have all my wits about me, such as they are. if you show yourself bold and cautious, and follow our advice, you need not fear being a stone image yet awhile. but, first of all, you must polish your shield, till you can see your face in it as distinctly as in a mirror." this seemed to perseus rather an odd beginning of the adventure; for he thought it of far more consequence that the shield should be strong enough to defend him from the gorgon's brazen claws, than that it should be bright enough to show him the reflection of his face. however, concluding that quicksilver knew better than himself, he immediately set to work, and scrubbed the shield with so much diligence and good-will, that it very quickly shone like the moon at harvest-time. quicksilver looked at it with a smile, and nodded his approbation. then, taking off his own short and crooked sword, he girded it about perseus, instead of the one which he had before worn. "no sword but mine will answer your purpose," observed he; "the blade has a most excellent temper, and will cut through iron and brass as easily as through the slenderest twig. and now we will set out. the next thing is to find the three gray women, who will tell us where to find the nymphs." "the three gray women!" cried perseus, to whom this seemed only a new difficulty in the path of his adventure; "pray who may the three gray women be? i never heard of them before." "they are three very strange old ladies," said quicksilver, laughing. "they have but one eye among them, and only one tooth. moreover, you must find them out by starlight, or in the dusk of the evening; for they never show themselves by the light either of the sun or moon." "but," said perseus, "why should i waste my time with these three gray women? would it not be better to set out at once in search of the terrible gorgons?" "no, no," answered his friend. "there are other things to be done, before you can find your way to the gorgons. there is nothing for it but to hunt up these old ladies; and when we meet with them, you may be sure that the gorgons are not a great way off. come, let us be stirring!" perseus, by this time, felt so much confidence in his companion's sagacity, that he made no more objections, and professed himself ready to begin the adventure immediately. they accordingly set out, and walked at a pretty brisk pace; so brisk, indeed, that perseus found it rather difficult to keep up with his nimble friend quicksilver. to say the truth, he had a singular idea that quicksilver was furnished with a pair of winged shoes, which, of course, helped him along marvelously. and then, too, when perseus looked sideways at him, out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to see wings on the side of his head; although if he turned a full gaze, there were no such things to be perceived, but only an odd kind of cap. but, at all events, the twisted staff was evidently a great convenience to quicksilver, and enabled him to proceed so fast, that perseus, though a remarkably active young man, began to be out of breath. "here!" cried quicksilver, at last,--for he knew well enough, rogue that he was, how hard perseus found it to keep pace with him,--"take you the staff, for you need it a great deal more than i. are there no better walkers than yourself in the island of seriphus?" "i could walk pretty well," said perseus, glancing slyly at his companion's feet, "if i had only a pair of winged shoes." "we must see about getting you a pair," answered quicksilver. but the staff helped perseus along so bravely that he no longer felt the slightest weariness. in fact, the stick seemed to be alive in his hand, and to lend some of its life to perseus. he and quicksilver now walked onward at their ease, talking very sociably together; and quicksilver told so many pleasant stories about his former adventures, and how well his wits had served him on various occasions, that perseus began to think him a very wonderful person. he evidently knew the world; and nobody is so charming to a young man as a friend who has that kind of knowledge. perseus listened the more eagerly, in the hope of brightening his own wits by what he heard. at last, he happened to recollect that quicksilver had spoken of a sister, who was to lend her assistance in the adventure which they were now bound upon. "where is she?" he inquired. "shall we not meet her soon?" "all at the proper time," said his companion. "but this sister of mine, you must understand, is quite a different sort of character from myself. she is very grave and prudent, seldom smiles, never laughs, and makes it a rule not to utter a word unless she has something particularly profound to say. neither will she listen to any but the wisest conversation." "dear me!" ejaculated perseus; "i shall be afraid to say a syllable." "she is a very accomplished person, i assure you," continued quicksilver, "and has all the arts and sciences at her fingers' ends. in short, she is so immoderately wise that many people call her wisdom personified. but, to tell you the truth, she has hardly vivacity enough for my taste; and i think you would scarcely find her so pleasant a traveling companion as myself. she has her good points, nevertheless; and you will find the benefit of them, in your encounter with the gorgons." by this time it had grown quite dusk. they were now come to a very wild and desert place, overgrown with shaggy bushes, and so silent and solitary that nobody seemed ever to have dwelt or journeyed there. all was waste and desolate, in the gray twilight, which grew every moment more obscure. perseus looked about him, rather disconsolately, and asked quicksilver whether they had a great deal farther to go. "hist! hist!" whispered his companion. "make no noise! this is just the time and place to meet the three gray women. be careful that they do not see you before you see them; for, though they have but a single eye among the three, it is as sharp-sighted as half a dozen common eyes." "but what must i do," asked perseus, "when we meet them?" quicksilver explained to perseus how the three gray women managed with their one eye. they were in the habit, it seems, of changing it from one to another, as if it had been a pair of spectacles, or--which would have suited them better--a quizzing-glass. when one of the three had kept the eye a certain time, she took it out of the socket and passed it to one of her sisters, whose turn it might happen to be, and who immediately clapped it into her own head, and enjoyed a peep at the visible world. thus it will easily be understood that only one of the three gray women could see, while the other two were in utter darkness; and, moreover, at the instant when the eye was passing from hand to hand, neither of the poor old ladies was able to see a wink. i have heard of a great many strange things, in my day, and have witnessed not a few; but none, it seems to me, that can compare with the oddity of these three gray women, all peeping through a single eye. so thought perseus, likewise, and was so astonished that he almost fancied his companion was joking with him, and that there were no such old women in the world. "you will soon find whether i tell the truth or no," observed quicksilver. "hark! hush! hist! hist! there they come, now!" perseus looked earnestly through the dusk of the evening, and there, sure enough, at no great distance off, he descried the three gray women. the light being so faint, he could not well make out what sort of figures they were; only he discovered that they had long gray hair; and, as they came nearer, he saw that two of them had but the empty socket of an eye, in the middle of their foreheads. but, in the middle of the third sister's forehead, there was a very large, bright, and piercing eye, which sparkled like a great diamond in a ring; and so penetrating did it seem to be, that perseus could not help thinking it must possess the gift of seeing in the darkest midnight just as perfectly as at noonday. the sight of three persons' eyes was melted and collected into that single one. thus the three old dames got along about as comfortably, upon the whole, as if they could all see at once. she who chanced to have the eye in her forehead led the other two by the hands, peeping sharply about her, all the while; insomuch that perseus dreaded lest she should see right through the thick clump of bushes behind which he and quicksilver had hidden themselves. my stars! it was positively terrible to be within reach of so very sharp an eye! but, before they reached the clump of bushes, one of the three gray women spoke. "sister! sister scarecrow!" cried she, "you have had the eye long enough. it is my turn now!" "let me keep it a moment longer, sister nightmare," answered scarecrow. "i thought i had a glimpse of something behind that thick bush." "well, and what of that?" retorted nightmare, peevishly. "can't i see into a thick bush as easily as yourself? the eye is mine as well as yours; and i know the use of it as well as you, or may be a little better. i insist upon taking a peep immediately!" but here the third sister, whose name was shakejoint, began to complain, and said that it was her turn to have the eye, and that scarecrow and nightmare wanted to keep it all to themselves. to end the dispute, old dame scarecrow took the eye out of her forehead, and held it forth in her hand. "take it, one of you," cried she, "and quit this foolish quarreling. for my part, i shall be glad of a little thick darkness. take it quickly, however, or i must clap it into my own head again!" accordingly, both nightmare and shakejoint put out their hands, groping eagerly to snatch the eye out of the hand of scarecrow. but, being both alike blind, they could not easily find where scarecrow's hand was; and scarecrow, being now just as much in the dark as shakejoint and nightmare, could not at once meet either of their hands, in order to put the eye into it. thus (as you will see, with half an eye, my wise little auditors), these good old dames had fallen into a strange perplexity. for, though the eye shone and glistened like a star, as scarecrow held it out, yet the gray women caught not the least glimpse of its light, and were all three in utter darkness, from too impatient a desire to see. quicksilver was so much tickled at beholding shakejoint and nightmare both groping for the eye, and each finding fault with scarecrow and one another, that he could scarcely help laughing aloud. "now is your time!" he whispered to perseus. "quick, quick! before they can clap the eye into either of their heads. rush out upon the old ladies, and snatch it from scarecrow's hand!" in an instant, while the three gray women were still scolding each other, perseus leaped from behind the clump of bushes, and made himself master of the prize. the marvelous eye, as he held it in his hand, shone very brightly, and seemed to look up into his face with a knowing air, and an expression as if it would have winked, had it been provided with a pair of eyelids for that purpose. but the gray women knew nothing of what had happened; and, each supposing that one of her sisters was in possession of the eye, they began their quarrel anew. at last, as perseus did not wish to put these respectable dames to greater inconvenience than was really necessary, he thought it right to explain the matter. "my good ladies," said he, "pray do not be angry with one another. if anybody is in fault, it is myself; for i have the honor to hold your very brilliant and excellent eye in my own hand!" "you! you have our eye! and who are you?" screamed the three gray women, all in a breath; for they were terribly frightened, of course, at hearing a strange voice, and discovering that their eyesight had got into the hands of they could not guess whom. "oh, what shall we do, sisters? what shall we do? we are all in the dark! give us our eye! give us our one, precious, solitary eye! you have two of your own! give us our eye!" [illustration: persevs & the graiÆ] "tell them," whispered quicksilver to perseus, "that they shall have back the eye as soon as they direct you where to find the nymphs who have the flying slippers, the magic wallet, and the helmet of darkness." "my dear, good, admirable old ladies," said perseus, addressing the gray women, "there is no occasion for putting yourselves into such a fright. i am by no means a bad young man. you shall have back your eye, safe and sound, and as bright as ever, the moment you tell me where to find the nymphs." "the nymphs! goodness me! sisters, what nymphs does he mean?" screamed scarecrow. "there are a great many nymphs, people say; some that go a-hunting in the woods, and some that live inside of trees, and some that have a comfortable home in fountains of water. we know nothing at all about them. we are three unfortunate old souls, that go wandering about in the dusk, and never had but one eye amongst us, and that one you have stolen away. oh, give it back, good stranger!--whoever you are, give it back!" all this while the three gray women were groping with their outstretched hands, and trying their utmost to get hold of perseus. but he took good care to keep out of their reach. "my respectable dames," said he,--for his mother had taught him always to use the greatest civility,--"i hold your eye fast in my hand, and shall keep it safely for you, until you please to tell me where to find these nymphs. the nymphs, i mean, who keep the enchanted wallet, the flying slippers, and the--what is it?--the helmet of invisibility." "mercy on us, sisters! what is the young man talking about?" exclaimed scarecrow, nightmare, and shakejoint, one to another, with great appearance of astonishment. "a pair of flying slippers, quoth he! his heels would quickly fly higher than his head, if he were silly enough to put them on. and a helmet of invisibility! how could a helmet make him invisible, unless it were big enough for him to hide under it? and an enchanted wallet! what sort of a contrivance may that be, i wonder? no, no, good stranger! we can tell you nothing of these marvelous things. you have two eyes of your own, and we have but a single one amongst us three. you can find out such wonders better than three blind old creatures, like us." perseus, hearing them talk in this way, began really to think that the gray women knew nothing of the matter; and, as it grieved him to have put them to so much trouble, he was just on the point of restoring their eye and asking pardon for his rudeness in snatching it away. but quicksilver caught his hand. "don't let them make a fool of you!" said he. "these three gray women are the only persons in the world that can tell you where to find the nymphs; and, unless you get that information, you will never succeed in cutting off the head of medusa with the snaky locks. keep fast hold of the eye, and all will go well." as it turned out, quicksilver was in the right. there are but few things that people prize so much as they do their eyesight; and the gray women valued their single eye as highly as if it had been half a dozen, which was the number they ought to have had. finding that there was no other way of recovering it, they at last told perseus what he wanted to know. no sooner had they done so, than he immediately, and with the utmost respect, clapped the eye into the vacant socket in one of their foreheads, thanked them for their kindness, and bade them farewell. before the young man was out of hearing, however, they had got into a new dispute, because he happened to have given the eye to scarecrow, who had already taken her turn of it when their trouble with perseus commenced. it is greatly to be feared that the three gray women were very much in the habit of disturbing their mutual harmony by bickerings of this sort; which was the more pity, as they could not conveniently do without one another, and were evidently intended to be inseparable companions. as a general rule, i would advise all people, whether sisters or brothers, old or young, who chance to have but one eye amongst them, to cultivate forbearance, and not all insist upon peeping through it at once. quicksilver and perseus, in the mean time, were making the best of their way in quest of the nymphs. the old dames had given them such particular directions, that they were not long in finding them out. they proved to be very different persons from nightmare, shakejoint, and scarecrow; for, instead of being old, they were young and beautiful; and instead of one eye amongst the sisterhood, each nymph had two exceedingly bright eyes of her own, with which she looked very kindly at perseus. they seemed to be acquainted with quicksilver; and, when he told them the adventure which perseus had undertaken, they made no difficulty about giving him the valuable articles that were in their custody. in the first place, they brought out what appeared to be a small purse, made of deerskin and curiously embroidered, and bade him be sure and keep it safe. this was the magic wallet. the nymphs next produced a pair of shoes, or slippers, or sandals, with a nice little pair of wings at the heel of each. "put them on, perseus," said quicksilver. "you will find yourself as light-heeled as you can desire for the remainder of our journey." so perseus proceeded to put one of the slippers on, while he laid the other on the ground by his side. unexpectedly, however, this other slipper spread its wings, fluttered up off the ground, and would probably have flown away, if quicksilver had not made a leap, and luckily caught it in the air. "be more careful," said he, as he gave it back to perseus. "it would frighten the birds, up aloft, if they should see a flying slipper amongst them." [illustration: persevs armed by the nymphs] when perseus had got on both of these wonderful slippers, he was altogether too buoyant to tread on earth. making a step or two, lo and behold! upward he popped into the air, high above the heads of quicksilver and the nymphs, and found it very difficult to clamber down again. winged slippers, and all such high-flying contrivances, are seldom quite easy to manage until one grows a little accustomed to them. quicksilver laughed at his companion's involuntary activity, and told him that he must not be in so desperate a hurry, but must wait for the invisible helmet. the good-natured nymphs had the helmet, with its dark tuft of waving plumes, all in readiness to put upon his head. and now there happened about as wonderful an incident as anything that i have yet told you. the instant before the helmet was put on, there stood perseus, a beautiful young man, with golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, the crooked sword by his side, and the brightly polished shield upon his arm,--a figure that seemed all made up of courage, sprightliness, and glorious light. but when the helmet had descended over his white brow, there was no longer any perseus to be seen! nothing but empty air! even the helmet, that covered him with its invisibility, had vanished! "where are you, perseus?" asked quicksilver. "why, here, to be sure!" answered perseus, very quietly, although his voice seemed to come out of the transparent atmosphere. "just where i was a moment ago. don't you see me?" "no, indeed!" answered his friend. "you are hidden under the helmet. but, if i cannot see you, neither can the gorgons. follow me, therefore, and we will try your dexterity in using the winged slippers." with these words, quicksilver's cap spread its wings, as if his head were about to fly away from his shoulders; but his whole figure rose lightly into the air, and perseus followed. by the time they had ascended a few hundred feet, the young man began to feel what a delightful thing it was to leave the dull earth so far beneath him, and to be able to flit about like a bird. it was now deep night. perseus looked upward, and saw the round, bright, silvery moon, and thought that he should desire nothing better than to soar up thither, and spend his life there. then he looked downward again, and saw the earth, with its seas and lakes, and the silver courses of its rivers, and its snowy mountain-peaks, and the breadth of its fields, and the dark cluster of its woods, and its cities of white marble; and, with the moonshine sleeping over the whole scene, it was as beautiful as the moon or any star could be. and, among other objects, he saw the island of seriphus, where his dear mother was. sometimes he and quicksilver approached a cloud that, at a distance, looked as if it were made of fleecy silver; although, when they plunged into it, they found themselves chilled and moistened with gray mist. so swift was their flight, however, that, in an instant, they emerged from the cloud into the moonlight again. once, a high-soaring eagle flew right against the invisible perseus. the bravest sights were the meteors, that gleamed suddenly out, as if a bonfire had been kindled in the sky, and made the moonshine pale for as much as a hundred miles around them. as the two companions flew onward, perseus fancied that he could hear the rustle of a garment close by his side; and it was on the side opposite to the one where he beheld quicksilver, yet only quicksilver was visible. "whose garment is this," inquired perseus, "that keeps rustling close beside me in the breeze?" "oh, it is my sister's!" answered quicksilver. "she is coming along with us, as i told you she would. we could do nothing without the help of my sister. you have no idea how wise she is. she has such eyes, too! why, she can see you, at this moment, just as distinctly as if you were not invisible; and i'll venture to say, she will be the first to discover the gorgons." by this time, in their swift voyage through the air, they had come within sight of the great ocean, and were soon flying over it. far beneath them, the waves tossed themselves tumultuously in mid-sea, or rolled a white surf-line upon the long beaches, or foamed against the rocky cliffs, with a roar that was thunderous, in the lower world; although it became a gentle murmur, like the voice of a baby half asleep, before it reached the ears of perseus. just then a voice spoke in the air close by him. it seemed to be a woman's voice, and was melodious, though not exactly what might be called sweet, but grave and mild. "perseus," said the voice, "there are the gorgons." "where?" exclaimed perseus. "i cannot see them." "on the shore of that island beneath you," replied the voice. "a pebble, dropped from your hand, would strike in the midst of them." "i told you she would be the first to discover them," said quicksilver to perseus. "and there they are!" straight downward, two or three thousand feet below him, perseus perceived a small island, with the sea breaking into white foam all around its rocky shore, except on one side, where there was a beach of snowy sand. he descended towards it, and, looking earnestly at a cluster or heap of brightness, at the foot of a precipice of black rocks, behold, there were the terrible gorgons! they lay fast asleep, soothed by the thunder of the sea; for it required a tumult that would have deafened everybody else to lull such fierce creatures into slumber. the moonlight glistened on their steely scales, and on their golden wings, which drooped idly over the sand. their brazen claws, horrible to look at, were thrust out, and clutched the wave-beaten fragments of rock, while the sleeping gorgons dreamed of tearing some poor mortal all to pieces. the snakes that served them instead of hair seemed likewise to be asleep; although, now and then, one would writhe, and lift its head, and thrust out its forked tongue, emitting a drowsy hiss, and then let itself subside among its sister snakes. the gorgons were more like an awful, gigantic kind of insect,--immense, golden-winged beetles, or dragon-flies, or things of that sort,--at once ugly and beautiful,--than like anything else; only that they were a thousand and a million times as big. and, with all this, there was something partly human about them, too. luckily for perseus, their faces were completely hidden from him by the posture in which they lay; for, had he but looked one instant at them, he would have fallen heavily out of the air, an image of senseless stone. "now," whispered quicksilver, as he hovered by the side of perseus,--"now is your time to do the deed! be quick; for, if one of the gorgons should awake, you are too late!" "which shall i strike at?" asked perseus, drawing his sword and descending a little lower. "they all three look alike. all three have snaky locks. which of the three is medusa?" it must be understood that medusa was the only one of these dragon-monsters whose head perseus could possibly cut off. as for the other two, let him have the sharpest sword that ever was forged, and he might have hacked away by the hour together, without doing them the least harm. "be cautious," said the calm voice which had before spoken to him. "one of the gorgons is stirring in her sleep, and is just about to turn over. that is medusa. do not look at her! the sight would turn you to stone! look at the reflection of her face and figure in the bright mirror of your shield." perseus now understood quicksilver's motive for so earnestly exhorting him to polish his shield. in its surface he could safely look at the reflection of the gorgon's face. and there it was,--that terrible countenance,--mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror. the snakes, whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting themselves over the forehead. it was the fiercest and most horrible face that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and savage kind of beauty in it. the eyes were closed, and the gorgon was still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream. she gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws. the snakes, too, seemed to feel medusa's dream, and to be made more restless by it. they twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their eyes. "now, now!" whispered quicksilver, who was growing impatient. "make a dash at the monster!" "but be calm," said the grave, melodious voice at the young man's side. "look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not miss your first stroke." [illustration: persevs & the gorgons] perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on medusa's face, as reflected in his shield. the nearer he came, the more terrible did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow. at last, when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, perseus uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon the gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and medusa unclosed her eyes. but she awoke too late. the sword was sharp; the stroke fell like a lightning-flash; and the head of the wicked medusa tumbled from her body! "admirably done!" cried quicksilver. "make haste, and clap the head into your magic wallet." to the astonishment of perseus, the small embroidered wallet, which he had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a purse, grew all at once large enough to contain medusa's head. as quick as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it, and thrust it in. "your task is done," said the calm voice. "now fly; for the other gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for medusa's death." it was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for perseus had not done the deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the snakes, and the thump of medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten sand, awoke the other two monsters. there they sat, for an instant, sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with venomous malice against they knew not what. but when the gorgons saw the scaly carcass of medusa, headless, and her golden wings all ruffled, and half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear what yells and screeches they set up. and then the snakes! they sent forth a hundred-fold hiss, with one consent, and medusa's snakes answered them out of the magic wallet. no sooner were the gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and flapping their huge wings so wildly that some of the golden feathers were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore. and there, perhaps, those very feathers lie scattered, till this day. up rose the gorgons, as i tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to stone. had perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again! but he took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet of invisibility, the gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him; nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring upward a perpendicular mile or so. at that height, when the screams of those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a straight course for the island of seriphus, in order to carry medusa's head to king polydectes. i have no time to tell you of several marvelous things that befell perseus, on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea-monster, just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing him the head of the gorgon. if you doubt this latter story, you may make a voyage to africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which is still known by the ancient giant's name. finally, our brave perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to see his dear mother. but, during his absence, the wicked king had treated danaë so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape, and had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were extremely kind to her. these praiseworthy priests, and the kind-hearted fisherman, who had first shown hospitality to danaë and little perseus when he found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only persons on the island who cared about doing right. all the rest of the people, as well as king polydectes himself, were remarkably ill-behaved, and deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen. not finding his mother at home, perseus went straight to the palace, and was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. polydectes was by no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own evil mind, that the gorgons would have torn the poor young man to pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way. however, seeing him safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked perseus how he had succeeded. "have you performed your promise?" inquired he. "have you brought me the head of medusa with the snaky locks? if not, young man, it will cost you dear; for i must have a bridal present for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much." "yes, please your majesty," answered perseus, in a quiet way, as if it were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform. "i have brought you the gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!" "indeed! pray let me see it," quoth king polydectes. "it must be a very curious spectacle, if all that travelers tell about it be true!" "your majesty is in the right," replied perseus. "it is really an object that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it. and, if your majesty think fit, i would suggest that a holiday be proclaimed, and that all your majesty's subjects be summoned to behold this wonderful curiosity. few of them, i imagine, have seen a gorgon's head before, and perhaps never may again!" the king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and very fond of sight-seeing, as idle persons usually are. so he took the young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all directions, to blow the trumpet at the street-corners, and in the market-places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to court. thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been glad if perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the gorgons. if there were any better people in the island (as i really hope there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such), they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of their little children. most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed one another, in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which perseus showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand. [illustration: persevs showing the gorgon's head] on a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty king polydectes, amid his evil counselors, and with his flattering courtiers in a semicircle round about him. monarch, counselors, courtiers, and subjects, all gazed eagerly towards perseus. "show us the head! show us the head!" shouted the people; and there was a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear perseus to pieces, unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show. "show us the head of medusa with the snaky locks!" a feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful perseus. "o king polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, i am very loath to show you the gorgon's head!" "ah, the villain and coward!" yelled the people, more fiercely than before. "he is making game of us! he has no gorgon's head! show us the head, if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!" the evil counselors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the courtiers murmured, with one consent, that perseus had shown disrespect to their royal lord and master; and the great king polydectes himself waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of authority, on his peril, to produce the head. "show me the gorgon's head, or i will cut off your own!" and perseus sighed. "this instant," repeated polydectes, "or you die!" "behold it, then!" cried perseus, in a voice like the blast of a trumpet. and, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before the wicked king polydectes, his evil counselors, and all his fierce subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and his people. they were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of that moment! at the first glimpse of the terrible head of medusa, they whitened into marble! and perseus thrust the head back into his wallet, and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of the wicked king polydectes. [illustration] tanglewood porch [illustration] after the story "was not that a very fine story?" asked eustace. "oh, yes, yes!" cried cowslip, clapping her hands. "and those funny old women, with only one eye amongst them! i never heard of anything so strange." "as to their one tooth, which they shifted about," observed primrose, "there was nothing so very wonderful in that. i suppose it was a false tooth. but think of your turning mercury into quicksilver, and talking about his sister! you are too ridiculous!" "and was she not his sister?" asked eustace bright. "if i had thought of it sooner, i would have described her as a maiden lady, who kept a pet owl!" "well, at any rate," said primrose, "your story seems to have driven away the mist." and, indeed, while the tale was going forward, the vapors had been quite exhaled from the landscape. a scene was now disclosed which the spectators might almost fancy as having been created since they had last looked in the direction where it lay. about half a mile distant, in the lap of the valley, now appeared a beautiful lake, which reflected a perfect image of its own wooded banks, and of the summits of the more distant hills. it gleamed in glassy tranquillity, without the trace of a winged breeze on any part of its bosom. beyond its farther shore was monument mountain, in a recumbent position, stretching almost across the valley. eustace bright compared it to a huge, headless sphinx, wrapped in a persian shawl; and, indeed, so rich and diversified was the autumnal foliage of its woods, that the simile of the shawl was by no means too high-colored for the reality. in the lower ground, between tanglewood and the lake, the clumps of trees and borders of woodland were chiefly golden-leaved or dusky brown, as having suffered more from frost than the foliage on the hill-sides. over all this scene there was a genial sunshine, intermingled with a slight haze, which made it unspeakably soft and tender. oh, what a day of indian summer was it going to be! the children snatched their baskets, and set forth, with hop, skip, and jump, and all sorts of frisks and gambols; while cousin eustace proved his fitness to preside over the party, by outdoing all their antics, and performing several new capers, which none of them could ever hope to imitate. behind went a good old dog, whose name was ben. he was one of the most respectable and kind-hearted of quadrupeds, and probably felt it to be his duty not to trust the children away from their parents without some better guardian than this feather-brained eustace bright. [illustration] the golden touch [illustration] shadow brook introductory to the golden touch at noon, our juvenile party assembled in a dell, through the depths of which ran a little brook. the dell was narrow, and its steep sides, from the margin of the stream upward, were thickly set with trees, chiefly walnuts and chestnuts, among which grew a few oaks and maples. in the summer time, the shade of so many clustering branches, meeting and intermingling across the rivulet, was deep enough to produce a noontide twilight. hence came the name of shadow brook. but now, ever since autumn had crept into this secluded place, all the dark verdure was changed to gold, so that it really kindled up the dell, instead of shading it. the bright yellow leaves, even had it been a cloudy day, would have seemed to keep the sunlight among them; and enough of them had fallen to strew all the bed and margin of the brook with sunlight, too. thus the shady nook, where summer had cooled herself, was now the sunniest spot anywhere to be found. the little brook ran along over its pathway of gold, here pausing to form a pool, in which minnows were darting to and fro; and then it hurried onward at a swifter pace, as if in haste to reach the lake; and, forgetting to look whither it went, it tumbled over the root of a tree, which stretched quite across its current. you would have laughed to hear how noisily it babbled about this accident. and even after it had run onward, the brook still kept talking to itself, as if it were in a maze. it was wonder-smitten, i suppose, at finding its dark dell so illuminated, and at hearing the prattle and merriment of so many children. so it stole away as quickly as it could, and hid itself in the lake. in the dell of shadow brook, eustace bright and his little friends had eaten their dinner. they had brought plenty of good things from tanglewood, in their baskets, and had spread them out on the stumps of trees and on mossy trunks, and had feasted merrily, and made a very nice dinner indeed. after it was over, nobody felt like stirring. "we will rest ourselves here," said several of the children, "while cousin eustace tells us another of his pretty stories." cousin eustace had a good right to be tired, as well as the children, for he had performed great feats on that memorable forenoon. dandelion, clover, cowslip, and buttercup were almost persuaded that he had winged slippers, like those which the nymphs gave perseus; so often had the student shown himself at the tiptop of a nut-tree, when only a moment before he had been standing on the ground. and then, what showers of walnuts had he sent rattling down upon their heads, for their busy little hands to gather into the baskets! in short, he had been as active as a squirrel or a monkey, and now, flinging himself down on the yellow leaves, seemed inclined to take a little rest. but children have no mercy nor consideration for anybody's weariness; and if you had but a single breath left, they would ask you to spend it in telling them a story. "cousin eustace," said cowslip, "that was a very nice story of the gorgon's head. do you think you could tell us another as good?" "yes, child," said eustace, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes, as if preparing for a nap. "i can tell you a dozen, as good or better, if i choose." "o primrose and periwinkle, do you hear what he says?" cried cowslip, dancing with delight. "cousin eustace is going to tell us a dozen better stories than that about the gorgon's head!" "i did not promise you even one, you foolish little cowslip!" said eustace, half pettishly. "however, i suppose you must have it. this is the consequence of having earned a reputation! i wish i were a great deal duller than i am, or that i had never shown half the bright qualities with which nature has endowed me; and then i might have my nap out, in peace and comfort!" but cousin eustace, as i think i have hinted before, was as fond of telling his stories as the children of hearing them. his mind was in a free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and scarcely required any external impulse to set it at work. how different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the trained diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy by long habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the day's comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away! this remark, however, is not meant for the children to hear. without further solicitation, eustace bright proceeded to tell the following really splendid story. it had come into his mind as he lay looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch of autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what resembled the purest gold. and this change, which we have all of us witnessed, is as wonderful as anything that eustace told about in the story of midas. the golden touch [illustration] once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name i either never knew, or have entirely forgotten. so, because i love odd names for little girls, i choose to call her marygold. this king midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. he valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. if he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. but the more midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. he thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made. thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. if ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. when little marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "poh, poh, child! if these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!" and yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, king midas had shown a great taste for flowers. he had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. these roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant, as when midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume. but now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. and though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another. at length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser), midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. he made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. it was here that he kept his wealth. to this dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. he valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. and then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, "o midas, rich king midas, what a happy man art thou!" but it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. it seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him. midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so happy as he might be. the very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own. now, i need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the old, old times, when king midas was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own day and country. and, on the other hand, a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. on the whole, i regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, i must go on with my story. midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! it was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face. whether it was that the imagination of king midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden radiance in it. certainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire. as midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. it is no matter about telling you who he was. in those days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half playfully and half seriously. midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. the stranger's aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. it was far more probable that he came to do midas a favor. and what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure? the stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to midas. "you are a wealthy man, friend midas!" he observed. "i doubt whether any other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room." "i have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered midas, in a discontented tone. "but, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together. if one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!" "what!" exclaimed the stranger. "then you are not satisfied?" midas shook his head. "and pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "merely for the curiosity of the thing, i should be glad to know." [illustration: the stranger appearing to midas] midas paused and meditated. he felt a presentiment that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask. so he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to imagine them big enough. at last, a bright idea occurred to king midas. it seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much. raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face. "well, midas," observed his visitor, "i see that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. tell me your wish." "it is only this," replied midas. "i am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after i have done my best. i wish everything that i touch to be changed to gold!" the stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--lie strewn in the glow of light. "the golden touch!" exclaimed he. "you certainly deserve credit, friend midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. but are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?" "how could it fail?" said midas. "and will you never regret the possession of it?" "what could induce me?" asked midas. "i ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy." "be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell. "to-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the golden touch." the figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and midas involuntarily closed his eyes. on opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up. whether midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. at any rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when king midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were within reach. he was anxious to prove whether the golden touch had really come, according to the stranger's promise. so he laid his finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance as before. indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of him. and what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes, midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch! all this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of brightness along the edge of the sky, where midas could not see it. he lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. it seemed to midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed. looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! the golden touch had come to him with the first sunbeam! midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. he seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. he pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,--a mass of gold. he took up a book from the table. at his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible. he hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. he drew out his handkerchief, which little marygold had hemmed for him. that was likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread! somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please king midas. he would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand. but it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. midas now took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. in those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could midas have had any? to his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them. but this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystal turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. it struck midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles. "it is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very philosophically. "we cannot expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. the golden touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very eyesight. my own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little marygold will soon be old enough to read to me." wise king midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. he therefore went downstairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his descent. he lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquillity, did these roses seem to be. but midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. so he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. by the time this good work was completed, king midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace. what was usually a king's breakfast in the days of midas, i really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. to the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee, for king midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter marygold. at all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king; and, whether he had it or not, king midas could not have had a better. little marygold had not yet made her appearance. her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. to do midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. it was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly. this circumstance surprised him, because marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. when midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little marygold into better spirits, by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter's bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold. meanwhile, marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break. "how now, my little lady!" cried midas. "pray what is the matter with you, this bright morning?" marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which midas had so recently transmuted. "beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "and what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?" "ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! as soon as i was dressed i ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because i know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. but, oh dear, dear me! what do you think has happened? such a misfortune! all the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! they are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! what can have been the matter with them?" "poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. "sit down and eat your bread and milk! you will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day." "i don't care for such roses as this!" cried marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. "it has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!" the child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her china bowl. perhaps this was all the better; for marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal. midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. he thought to himself, that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. the cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots. amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump! "ha!" exclaimed midas, rather aghast. "what is the matter, father?" asked little marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes. "nothing, child, nothing!" said midas. "eat your milk, before it gets quite cold." he took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. to his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook-trout into a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. no; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. a very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only king midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one. "i don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how i am to get any breakfast." he took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of indian meal. to say the truth, if it had really been a hot indian cake, midas would have prized it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. the egg, indeed, might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the habit of laying; but king midas was the only goose that had anything to do with the matter. "well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction. "such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!" hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, king midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. but the golden touch was too nimble for him. he found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright. "father, dear father!" cried little marygold, who was a very affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? have you burnt your mouth?" "ah, dear child," groaned midas, dolefully, "i don't know what is to become of your poor father!" and, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in all your lives? here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing. the poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than king midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold. and what was to be done? already, at breakfast, midas was excessively hungry. would he be less so by dinner time? and how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! how many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare? these reflections so troubled wise king midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. but this was only a passing thought. so fascinated was midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the golden touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. just imagine what a price for one meal's victuals! it would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee! "it would be quite too dear," thought midas. nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. our pretty marygold could endure it no longer. she sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him. then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. he bent down and kissed her. he felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the golden touch. "my precious, precious marygold!" cried he. but marygold made no answer. alas, what had he done? how fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed! the moment the lips of midas touched marygold's forehead, a change had taken place. her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing on her cheeks. her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father's encircling arms. oh, terrible misfortune! the victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue! [illustration: midas' davghter tvrned to gold] yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face. it was the prettiest and most woeful sight that ever mortal saw. all the features and tokens of marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. but the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter. it had been a favorite phrase of midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. and now the phrase had become literally true. and now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky! it would be too sad a story, if i were to tell you how midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at marygold, nor yet to look away from her. except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. but, stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. this, however, could not be. so midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child's face. while he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door. midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the golden touch. the stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of midas. "well, friend midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with the golden touch?" midas shook his head. "i am very miserable," said he. "very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "and how happens that? have i not faithfully kept my promise with you? have you not everything that your heart desired?" "gold is not everything," answered midas. "and i have lost all that my heart really cared for." "ah! so you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the stranger. "let us see, then. which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,--the gift of the golden touch, or one cup of clear cold water?" "o blessed water!" exclaimed midas. "it will never moisten my parched throat again!" "the golden touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?" "a piece of bread," answered midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!" "the golden touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?" "oh, my child, my dear child!" cried poor midas, wringing his hands. "i would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!" "you are wiser than you were, king midas!" said the stranger, looking seriously at him. "your own heart, i perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. were it so, your case would indeed be desperate. but you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this golden touch?" "it is hateful to me!" replied midas. a fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold. midas shuddered. "go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. if you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned." king midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished. you will easily believe that midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hastening to the river-side. as he scampered along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. on reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes. "poof! poof! poof!" snorted king midas, as his head emerged out of the water. "well; this is really a refreshing bath, and i think it must have quite washed away the golden touch. and now for filling my pitcher!" [illustration: midas with the pitcher] as he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. he was conscious, also, of a change within himself. a cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom. no doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now softened back again into flesh. perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight. the curse of the golden touch had, therefore, really been removed from him. king midas hastened back to the palace; and, i suppose, the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. but that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. the first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little marygold. no sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek! and how she began to sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her! "pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "see how you have wet my nice frock, which i put on only this morning!" for marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor king midas. her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown. for this purpose, he led little marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom. there were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to put king midas in mind of the golden touch. one was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss. this change of hue was really an improvement, and made marygold's hair richer than in her babyhood. when king midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot marygold's children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvelous story, pretty much as i have now told it to you. and then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother. "and to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth king midas, diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning, i have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!" [illustration] shadow brook after the story [illustration] "well, children," inquired eustace, who was very fond of eliciting a definite opinion from his auditors, "did you ever, in all your lives, listen to a better story than this of 'the golden touch'?" "why, as to the story of king midas," said saucy primrose, "it was a famous one thousands of years before mr. eustace bright came into the world, and will continue to be so long after he quits it. but some people have what we may call 'the leaden touch,' and make everything dull and heavy that they lay their fingers upon." "you are a smart child, primrose, to be not yet in your teens," said eustace, taken rather aback by the piquancy of her criticism. "but you well know, in your naughty little heart, that i have burnished the old gold of midas all over anew, and have made it shine as it never shone before. and then that figure of marygold! do you perceive no nice workmanship in that? and how finely i have brought out and deepened the moral! what say you, sweet fern, dandelion, clover, periwinkle? would any of you, after hearing this story, be so foolish as to desire the faculty of changing things to gold?" "i should like," said periwinkle, a girl of ten, "to have the power of turning everything to gold with my right forefinger; but, with my left forefinger, i should want the power of changing it back again, if the first change did not please me. and i know what i would do, this very afternoon!" "pray tell me," said eustace. "why," answered periwinkle, "i would touch every one of these golden leaves on the trees with my left forefinger, and make them all green again; so that we might have the summer back at once, with no ugly winter in the mean time." "o periwinkle!" cried eustace bright, "there you are wrong, and would do a great deal of mischief. were i midas, i would make nothing else but just such golden days as these over and over again, all the year throughout. my best thoughts always come a little too late. why did not i tell you how old king midas came to america, and changed the dusky autumn, such as it is in other countries, into the burnished beauty which it here puts on? he gilded the leaves of the great volume of nature." "cousin eustace," said sweet fern, a good little boy, who was always making particular inquiries about the precise height of giants and the littleness of fairies, "how big was marygold, and how much did she weigh after she was turned to gold?" "she was about as tall as you are," replied eustace, "and, as gold is very heavy, she weighed at least two thousand pounds, and might have been coined into thirty or forty thousand gold dollars. i wish primrose were worth half as much. come, little people, let us clamber out of the dell, and look about us." they did so. the sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over the surrounding hill-sides, like golden wine out of a bowl. it was such a day that you could not help saying of it, "there never was such a day before!" although yesterday was just such a day, and to-morrow will be just such another. ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle! it is a remarkable peculiarity of these october days, that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier. we cannot, therefore, call the days long; but they appear, somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning. "come, children, come!" cried eustace bright. "more nuts, more nuts, more nuts! fill all your baskets; and, at christmas time, i will crack them for you, and tell you beautiful stories!" so away they went; all of them in excellent spirits, except little dandelion, who, i am sorry to tell you, had been sitting on a chestnut-bur, and was stuck as full as a pincushion of its prickles. dear me, how uncomfortably he must have felt! [illustration] the paradise of children [illustration] tanglewood play-room. introductory to the paradise of children the golden days of october passed away, as so many other octobers have, and brown november likewise, and the greater part of chill december, too. at last came merry christmas, and eustace bright along with it, making it all the merrier by his presence. and, the day after his arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm. up to this time, the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage. the grass had kept itself green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes, and along the lee of the stone fences. it was but a week or two ago, and since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a dandelion in bloom, on the margin of shadow brook, where it glides out of the dell. but no more green grass and dandelions now. this was such a snow-storm! twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows of tanglewood and the dome of taconic, had it been possible to see so far among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere. it seemed as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls of snow at one another, in their enormous sport. so thick were the fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley, were hidden by them the greater part of the time. sometimes, it is true, the little prisoners of tanglewood could discern a dim outline of monument mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape. but these were merely peeps through the tempest. nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snow-storm. they had already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just fancied the berkshire mountains to be doing. and now they had come back to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room, and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small. the biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides rag-babies; and blocks enough to build bunker hill monument, and nine-pins, and balls, and humming-tops, and battledores, and grace-sticks, and skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property than i could tell of in a printed page. but the children liked the snow-storm better than them all. it suggested so many brisk enjoyments for to-morrow, and all the remainder of the winter. the sleigh-ride; the slides down hill into the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped out; the snow-fortresses that were to be built; and the snowballing to be carried on! so the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their heads. "why, we shall be blocked up till spring!" cried they, with the hugest delight. "what a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered up! the little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves." "you silly children, what do you want of more snow?" asked eustace, who, tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into the play-room. "it has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the only skating that i could hope for through the winter. we shall see nothing more of the lake till april; and this was to have been my first day upon it! don't you pity me, primrose?" "oh, to be sure!" answered primrose, laughing. "but, for your comfort, we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us under the porch, and down in the hollow, by shadow brook. perhaps i shall like them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while there were nuts to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy." hereupon, periwinkle, clover, sweet fern, and as many others of the little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at tanglewood, gathered about eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story. the student yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the small people, skipped three times back and forth over the top of a chair, in order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion. "well, well, children," said he, after these preliminaries, "since you insist, and primrose has set her heart upon it, i will see what can be done for you. and, that you may know what happy days there were before snow-storms came into fashion, i will tell you a story of the oldest of all old times, when the world was as new as sweet fern's bran-new humming-top. there was then but one season in the year, and that was the delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was childhood." "i never heard of that before," said primrose. "of course, you never did," answered eustace. "it shall be a story of what nobody but myself ever dreamed of,--a paradise of children,--and how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as primrose here, it all came to nothing." so eustace bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping over, took cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was pandora, and about her playfellow epimetheus. you may read it, word for word, in the pages that come next. [illustration] the paradise of children [illustration] 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, nor 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 carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong day. what was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked. oh, what a good time was that to be alive in! the truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth. 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 in the world 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 very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, "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 your telling me what is inside of it." [illustration: pandora wonders at the box] "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, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box. "at least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here." "it was just 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 he 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 went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society than his little playfellow's. 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 till 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 positively a very handsome article of furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be placed. 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 most 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, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the beauty out of all the rest. nevertheless, on looking more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, 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 centre of the lid. there was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, 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, i had almost forgotten to say, 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 skillfullest 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 would 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." it might have been better for pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject. but children led so easy a life, before any troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure. they could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while mother earth was in her babyhood. when life is all sport, toil is the real play. there was absolutely nothing to do. a little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, i suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little pandora's day's work was over. and then, for the rest of the day, there was the box! after all, i am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in its way. it supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! when she was in good-humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little foot. and many a kick did the box--(but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick did it receive. but, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our active-minded little pandora would not have known half so well how to spend her time as she now did. [illustration: pandora desires to open the box] for it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. what could it be, indeed? just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your christmas or new year's gifts. do you think that you should be less curious than pandora? if you were left alone with the box, might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid? but you would not do it. oh, fie! no, no! only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! i know not whether pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it. but pandora was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little girls, here around me, would have felt. and, possibly, a little more so; but of that i am not quite so certain. on this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at last, she approached the box. she was more than half determined to open it, if she could. ah, naughty pandora! first, however, she tried to lift it. it was heavy; quite 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. there was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. 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. for you must recollect that, at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be happy. the world had not yet learned to be otherwise. not a single soul or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts. 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. and here i must mention that 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,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, i was going to say, as an elephant,--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. [illustration: pandora opens the box] "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, or those insects which we call dor-bugs, and pinching-dogs, 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 that they did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes 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. of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea what it meant. 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 little 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 will you stay with us," asked epimetheus, "forever 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 come 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 little 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. [illustration] tanglewood play-room [illustration] after the story "primrose," asked eustace, pinching her ear, "how do you like my little pandora? don't you think her the exact picture of yourself? but you would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box." "then i should have been well punished for my naughtiness," retorted primrose, smartly; "for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was lifted, would have been mr. eustace bright, in the shape of a trouble." "cousin eustace," said sweet fern, "did the box hold all the trouble that has ever come into the world?" "every mite of it!" answered eustace. "this very snow-storm, which has spoiled my skating, was packed up there." "and how big was the box?" asked sweet fern. "why, perhaps three feet long," said eustace, "two feet wide, and two feet and a half high." "ah," said the child, "you are making fun of me, cousin eustace! i know there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as that. as for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so it could not have been in the box." "hear the child!" cried primrose, with an air of superiority. "how little he knows about the troubles of this world! poor fellow! he will be wiser when he has seen as much of life as i have." so saying, she began to skip the rope. meantime, the day was drawing towards its close. out of doors the scene certainly looked dreary. there was a gray drift, far and wide, through the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered or gone out for a good many hours past. had there been only one child at the window of tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would perhaps have made him sad. but half a dozen children together, though they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old winter and all his storms to put them out of spirits. eustace bright, moreover, on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the next stormy day besides. the three golden apples [illustration] tanglewood fireside introductory to the golden apples the snow-storm lasted another day; but what became of it afterwards, i cannot possibly imagine. at any rate, it entirely cleared away during the night; and when the sun arose the next morning, it shone brightly down on as bleak a tract of hill-country here in berkshire, as could be seen anywhere in the world. the frost-work had so covered the window-panes that it was hardly possible to get a glimpse at the scenery outside. but, while waiting for breakfast, the small populace of tanglewood had scratched peep-holes with their finger-nails, and saw with vast delight that--unless it were one or two bare patches on a precipitous hill-side, or the gray effect of the snow, intermingled with the black pine forest--all nature was as white as a sheet. how exceedingly pleasant! and, to make it all the better, it was cold enough to nip one's nose short off! if people have but life enough in them to bear it, there is nothing that so raises the spirits, and makes the blood ripple and dance so nimbly, like a brook down the slope of a hill, as a bright, hard frost. no sooner was breakfast over, than the whole party, well muffled in furs and woolens, floundered forth into the midst of the snow. well, what a day of frosty sport was this! they slid down hill into the valley, a hundred times, nobody knows how far; and, to make it all the merrier, upsetting their sledges, and tumbling head over heels, quite as often as they came safely to the bottom. and, once, eustace bright took periwinkle, sweet fern, and squash-blossom, on the sledge with him, by way of insuring a safe passage; and down they went, full speed. but, behold, halfway down, the sledge hit against a hidden stump, and flung all four of its passengers into a heap; and, on gathering themselves up, there was no little squash-blossom to be found! why, what could have become of the child? and while they were wondering and staring about, up started squash-blossom out of a snow-bank, with the reddest face you ever saw, and looking as if a large scarlet flower had suddenly sprouted up in midwinter. then there was a great laugh. when they had grown tired of sliding down hill, eustace set the children to digging a cave in the biggest snow-drift that they could find. unluckily, just as it was completed, and the party had squeezed themselves into the hollow, down came the roof upon their heads, and buried every soul of them alive! the next moment, up popped all their little heads out of the ruins, and the tall student's head in the midst of them, looking hoary and venerable with the snow-dust that had got amongst his brown curls. and then, to punish cousin eustace for advising them to dig such a tumble-down cavern, the children attacked him in a body, and so bepelted him with snowballs that he was fain to take to his heels. so he ran away, and went into the woods, and thence to the margin of shadow brook, where he could hear the streamlet grumbling along, under great overhanging banks of snow and ice, which would scarcely let it see the light of day. there were adamantine icicles glittering around all its little cascades. thence he strolled to the shore of the lake, and beheld a white, untrodden plain before him, stretching from his own feet to the foot of monument mountain. and, it being now almost sunset, eustace thought that he had never beheld anything so fresh and beautiful as the scene. he was glad that the children were not with him; for their lively spirits and tumble-about activity would quite have chased away his higher and graver mood, so that he would merely have been merry (as he had already been, the whole day long), and would not have known the loveliness of the winter sunset among the hills. when the sun was fairly down, our friend eustace went home to eat his supper. after the meal was over, he betook himself to the study with a purpose, i rather imagine, to write an ode, or two or three sonnets, or verses of some kind or other, in praise of the purple and golden clouds which he had seen around the setting sun. but, before he had hammered out the very first rhyme, the door opened, and primrose and periwinkle made their appearance. "go away, children! i can't be troubled with you now!" cried the student, looking over his shoulder, with the pen between his fingers. "what in the world do you want here? i thought you were all in bed!" "hear him, periwinkle, trying to talk like a grown man!" said primrose. "and he seems to forget that i am now thirteen years old, and may sit up almost as late as i please. but, cousin eustace, you must put off your airs, and come with us to the drawing-room. the children have talked so much about your stories, that my father wishes to hear one of them, in order to judge whether they are likely to do any mischief." "poh, poh, primrose!" exclaimed the student, rather vexed. "i don't believe i can tell one of my stories in the presence of grown people. besides, your father is a classical scholar; not that i am much afraid of his scholarship, neither, for i doubt not it is as rusty as an old case-knife by this time. but then he will be sure to quarrel with the admirable nonsense that i put into these stories, out of my own head, and which makes the great charm of the matter for children, like yourself. no man of fifty, who has read the classical myths in his youth, can possibly understand my merit as a reinventor and improver of them." "all this may be very true," said primrose, "but come you must! my father will not open his book, nor will mamma open the piano, till you have given us some of your nonsense, as you very correctly call it. so be a good boy, and come along." whatever he might pretend, the student was rather glad than otherwise, on second thoughts, to catch at the opportunity of proving to mr. pringle what an excellent faculty he had in modernizing the myths of ancient times. until twenty years of age, a young man may, indeed, be rather bashful about showing his poetry and his prose; but, for all that, he is pretty apt to think that these very productions would place him at the tiptop of literature, if once they could be known. accordingly, without much more resistance, eustace suffered primrose and periwinkle to drag him into the drawing-room. it was a large, handsome apartment, with a semi-circular window at one end, in the recess of which stood a marble copy of greenough's angel and child. on one side of the fireplace there were many shelves of books, gravely but richly bound. the white light of the astral-lamp, and the red glow of the bright coal-fire, made the room brilliant and cheerful; and before the fire, in a deep arm-chair, sat mr. pringle, looking just fit to be seated in such a chair, and in such a room. he was a tall and quite a handsome gentleman, with a bald brow; and was always so nicely dressed, that even eustace bright never liked to enter his presence without at least pausing at the threshold to settle his shirt-collar. but now, as primrose had hold of one of his hands, and periwinkle of the other, he was forced to make his appearance with a rough-and-tumble sort of look, as if he had been rolling all day in a snow-bank. and so he had. mr. pringle turned towards the student benignly enough, but in a way that made him feel how uncombed and unbrushed he was, and how uncombed and unbrushed, likewise, were his mind and thoughts. "eustace," said mr. pringle, with a smile, "i find that you are producing a great sensation among the little public of tanglewood, by the exercise of your gifts of narrative. primrose here, as the little folks choose to call her, and the rest of the children, have been so loud in praise of your stories, that mrs. pringle and myself are really curious to hear a specimen. it would be so much the more gratifying to myself, as the stories appear to be an attempt to render the fables of classical antiquity into the idiom of modern fancy and feeling. at least, so i judge from a few of the incidents which have come to me at second hand." "you are not exactly the auditor that i should have chosen, sir," observed the student, "for fantasies of this nature." "possibly not," replied mr. pringle. "i suspect, however, that a young author's most useful critic is precisely the one whom he would be least apt to choose. pray oblige me, therefore." "sympathy, methinks, should have some little share in the critic's qualifications," murmured eustace bright. "however, sir, if you will find patience, i will find stories. but be kind enough to remember that i am addressing myself to the imagination and sympathies of the children, not to your own." accordingly, the student snatched hold of the first theme which presented itself. it was suggested by a plate of apples that he happened to spy on the mantel-piece. [illustration] the three golden apples [illustration] 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, a great many people 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. in my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a solid golden apple. had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed that would be another matter. there might then have been some sense in trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon. but, as i have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young persons, 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 wrapt 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 very big a club. so he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women 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 young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. and there seemed to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter fragrance, while they played with them, than even when they had been growing on their native stems. 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, adventurous traveler, 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 them 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 young women 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!" [illustration: hercvles & the nymphs] 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 a giant's 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. while he lay there, two immense serpents came gliding over the floor, and opened their hideous jaws to devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had griped one of the fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death. when he was but a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. the next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and exceedingly sharp teeth in every one. "but the dragon of the hesperides, you know," observed one of the damsels, "has a hundred heads!" "nevertheless," replied the stranger, "i would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra. for, as fast as i cut off a head, two others grew in its place; and, besides, there was one of the heads that could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long after it was cut off. so i was forced to bury it under a stone, where it is doubtless alive to this very day. but the hydra's body, and its eight other heads, will never do any further mischief." the damsels, judging that the story was likely to last a good while, had been preparing a repast of bread and grapes, that the stranger might refresh himself in the intervals of his talk. they took pleasure in helping him to this simple food; and, now and then, one of them would put a sweet grape between her rosy lips, lest it should make him bashful to eat alone. the traveler proceeded to tell how he had chased a very swift stag, for a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at last caught it by the antlers, and carried it home alive. and he had fought with a very odd race of people, half horses and half men, and had put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly figures might never be seen any more. besides all this, he took to himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable. "do you call that a wonderful exploit?" asked one of the young maidens, with a smile. "any clown in the country has done as much!" "had it been an ordinary stable," replied the stranger, "i should not have mentioned it. but this was so gigantic a task that it would have taken me all my life to perform it, if i had not luckily thought of turning the channel of a river through the stable-door. that did the business in a very short time!" seeing how earnestly his fair auditors listened, he next told them how he had shot some monstrous birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and let him go again, and had tamed a number of very wild horses, and had conquered hippolyta, the warlike queen of the amazons. he mentioned, likewise, that he had taken off hippolyta's enchanted girdle, and had given it to the daughter of his cousin, the king. "was it the girdle of venus," inquired the prettiest of the damsels, "which makes women beautiful?" "no," answered the stranger. "it had formerly been the sword-belt of mars; and it can only make the wearer valiant and courageous." "an old sword-belt!" cried the damsel, tossing her head. "then i should not care about having it!" "you are right," said the stranger. going on with his wonderful narrative, he informed the maidens that as strange an adventure as ever happened was when he fought with geryon, the six-legged man. this was a very odd and frightful sort of figure, as you may well believe. any person, looking at his tracks in the sand or snow, would suppose that three sociable companions had been walking along together. on hearing his footsteps at a little distance, it was no more than reasonable to judge that several people must be coming. but it was only the strange man geryon clattering onward, with his six legs! six legs, and one gigantic body! certainly, he must have been a very queer monster to look at; and, my stars, what a waste of shoe-leather! 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 or difficult 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 with this old man of the sea. he is a sea-faring 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,--for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, the lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and the songs and dances wherewith they had done him honor,--and he thanked them, 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. sometimes he swung his club aloft, and splintered a mighty oak with a downright blow. his mind was so full of the giants and monsters with whom it was the business of his life to fight, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or a monster. and so eager was hercules to achieve what he had undertaken, that he almost regretted to have spent so much time with the damsels, wasting idle breath upon the story of his adventures. but thus it always is with persons who are destined to perform great things. what they have already done seems less than nothing. what they have taken in hand to do seems worth toil, danger, and life itself. persons who happened to be passing through the forest must have been affrighted to see him smite the trees with his great club. with but a single blow, the trunk was riven as by the stroke of lightning, and the broad boughs came rustling and crashing down. 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 sea-weed than of an ordinary beard. have you never seen a stick of timber, that has been long 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-tost spar! but hercules, the instant he set 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 selfsame 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?" [illustration: hercvles & the old man of the sea] as you may easily 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 into the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to devour him outright; so that it was really a very terrible spectacle! but hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain. you must understand that the old man of the sea, though he generally looked so much like the wave-beaten figure-head of a vessel, had the power of assuming any shape he pleased. when he found himself so roughly seized by hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such surprise and terror, by these magical transformations, that the hero would be glad to let him go. if hercules had relaxed his grasp, the old one would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea, whence he would not soon have given himself the trouble of coming up, in order to answer any impertinent questions. ninety-nine people out of a hundred, i suppose, would have been frightened out of their wits by the very first of his ugly shapes, and would have taken to their heels at once. for, one of the hardest things in this world is, to see the difference between real dangers and imaginary ones. 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 sea-weed at his chin. "pray, what do you want with me?" cried the old one, as soon as he could take breath; for it is 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. the old one was an inhabitant of the sea, you must recollect, and roamed about everywhere, like other sea-faring people. of course, 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!" thanking the old man of the sea, and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey. he met with a great many strange adventures, which would be well worth your hearing, if i had leisure to narrate them as minutely as they deserve. it was in this journey, if i mistake not, that he encountered a prodigious giant, who was so wonderfully contrived by nature, that every time he touched the earth he became ten times as strong as ever he had been before. his name was antæus. you may see, plainly enough, that it was a very difficult business to fight with such a fellow; for, as often as he got a knock-down blow, up he started again, stronger, fiercer, and abler to use his weapons, than if his enemy had let him alone. thus, the harder hercules pounded the giant with his club, the further he seemed from winning the victory. i have sometimes argued with such people, but never fought with one. the only way in which hercules found it possible to finish the battle, was by lifting antæus off his feet into the air, and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing him, until, finally, the strength was quite squeezed out of his enormous body. when this affair was finished, hercules continued his travels, and went to the land of egypt, where he was taken prisoner, and would have been put to death, if he had not slain the king of the country, and made his escape. passing through the deserts of africa, and going as fast as he could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean. and here, unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his journey must needs be at an end. 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, with a pleasant and ringing sound, against the circumference 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, in consequence, immediately resounded and reverberated through its golden or brazen 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? no; you will never guess it, not if you were to try fifty thousand times! it positively appears to me that this was the most marvelous spectacle that had ever been seen by hercules, in the whole course of his wonderful travels and adventures. it was a greater marvel than the hydra with nine heads, which kept growing twice as fast as they were cut off; greater than the six-legged man-monster; greater than antæus; greater than anything that was ever beheld by anybody, before or since the days of hercules, or than anything that remains to be beheld, by travelers in all time to come. 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! this does really seem almost too much to believe. [illustration: hercvles and atlas] 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. it was a countenance terrible from its enormity of size, but disconsolate and weary, even as you may see the faces of many people, nowadays, who are compelled to sustain burdens above their strength. what the sky was to the giant, such are the cares of earth to those who let themselves be weighed down by them. and whenever men undertake what is beyond the just measure of their abilities, they encounter precisely such a doom as had befallen this poor giant. poor fellow! he had evidently stood there a long while. an ancient forest had been growing and decaying around 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 for 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 were 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. thus, by talking out of season, the foolish giant expended an incalculable quantity of breath, to no purpose; for the thunder spoke quite as intelligibly as he. 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 rain-drops! 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 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 one, 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 burdensome, 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 midleg 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!" o my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aerial above our heads! and there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make hercules uncomfortable! he began to be afraid that the giant would never come back. he gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the foot of a mountain, than to stand on its dizzy summit, and bear up the firmament with his might and main. for, of course, as you will easily understand, hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well as a weight on his head and shoulders. why, if he did not stand perfectly still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be put ajar! or, after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be loosened from their places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the people's heads! and how ashamed would the hero be, if, owing to his unsteadiness beneath its weight, the sky should crack, and show a great fissure quite across it! 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 forever?" "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 towards 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! [illustration] tanglewood fireside [illustration] after the story "cousin eustace," demanded sweet fern, who had been sitting at the story-teller's feet, with his mouth wide open, "exactly how tall was this giant?" "o sweet fern, sweet fern!" cried the student. "do you think that i was there, to measure him with a yard-stick? well, if you must know to a hair's-breadth, i suppose he might be from three to fifteen miles straight upward, and that he might have seated himself on taconic, and had monument mountain for a footstool." "dear me!" ejaculated the good little boy, with a contented sort of a grunt, "that was a giant, sure enough! and how long was his little finger?" "as long as from tanglewood to the lake," said eustace. "sure enough, that was a giant!" repeated sweet fern, in an ecstasy at the precision of these measurements. "and how broad, i wonder, were the shoulders of hercules?" "that is what i have never been able to find out," answered the student. "but i think they must have been a great deal broader than mine, or than your father's, or than almost any shoulders which one sees nowadays." "i wish," whispered sweet fern, with his mouth close to the student's ear, "that you would tell me how big were some of the oak-trees that grew between the giant's toes." "they were bigger," said eustace, "than the great chestnut-tree which stands beyond captain smith's house." "eustace," remarked mr. pringle, after some deliberation, "i find it impossible to express such an opinion of this story as will be likely to gratify, in the smallest degree, your pride of authorship. pray let me advise you never more to meddle with a classical myth. your imagination is altogether gothic, and will inevitably gothicize everything that you touch. the effect is like bedaubing a marble statue with paint. this giant, now! how can you have ventured to thrust his huge, disproportioned mass among the seemly outlines of grecian fable, the tendency of which is to reduce even the extravagant within limits, by its pervading elegance?" "i described the giant as he appeared to me," replied the student, rather piqued. "and, sir, if you would only bring your mind into such a relation with these fables as is necessary in order to remodel them, you would see at once that an old greek had no more exclusive right to them than a modern yankee has. they are the common property of the world, and of all time. the ancient poets remodeled them at pleasure, and held them plastic in their hands; and why should they not be plastic in my hands as well?" mr. pringle could not forbear a smile. "and besides," continued eustace, "the moment you put any warmth of heart, any passion or affection, any human or divine morality, into a classic mould, you make it quite another thing from what it was before. my own opinion is, that the greeks, by taking possession of these legends (which were the immemorial birthright of mankind), and putting them into shapes of indestructible beauty, indeed, but cold and heartless, have done all subsequent ages an incalculable injury." "which you, doubtless, were born to remedy," said mr. pringle, laughing outright. "well, well, go on; but take my advice, and never put any of your travesties on paper. and, as your next effort, what if you should try your hand on some one of the legends of apollo?" "ah, sir, you propose it as an impossibility," observed the student, after a moment's meditation; "and, to be sure, at first thought, the idea of a gothic apollo strikes one rather ludicrously. but i will turn over your suggestion in my mind, and do not quite despair of success." during the above discussion, the children (who understood not a word of it) had grown very sleepy, and were now sent off to bed. their drowsy babble was heard, ascending the staircase, while a northwest wind roared loudly among the tree-tops of tanglewood, and played an anthem around the house. eustace bright went back to the study, and again endeavored to hammer out some verses, but fell asleep between two of the rhymes. [illustration] the miraculous pitcher [illustration] the hill-side introductory to the miraculous pitcher and when, and where, do you think we find the children next? no longer in the winter-time, but in the merry month of may. no longer in tanglewood play-room, or at tanglewood fireside, but more than halfway up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better pleased to have us call it. they had set out from home with the mighty purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tiptop of its bald head. to be sure, it was not quite so high as chimborazo or mont blanc, and was even a good deal lower than old graylock. but, at any rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks or a million of mole-hills; and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might be reckoned a very respectable mountain. and was cousin eustace with the party? of that you may be certain; else how could the book go on a step farther? he was now in the middle of the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip, you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it. setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered cousin eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted with him. he was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he had always been. this expedition up the mountain was entirely of his contrivance. all the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged the elder children with his cheerful voice; and when dandelion, cowslip, and squash-blossom grew weary, he had lugged them along, alternately, on his back. in this manner, they had passed through the orchards and pastures on the lower part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends thence towards its bare summit. the month of may, thus far, had been more amiable than it often is, and this was as sweet and genial a day as the heart of man or child could wish. in their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had the touch of midas on them. that sociablest of flowers, the little houstonia, was very abundant. it is a flower that never lives alone, but which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling with a great many friends and relatives around it. sometimes you see a family of them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all keeping one another in cheerful heart and life. within the verge of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude themselves too anxiously from the sun. there were wild geraniums, too, and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry. the trailing arbutus was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under the last year's withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird hides its little young ones. it knew, i suppose, how beautiful and sweet-scented they were. so cunning was their concealment, that the children sometimes smelt the delicate richness of their perfume before they knew whence it proceeded. amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold, here and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary periwigs of dandelions that had already gone to seed. they had done with summer before the summer came. within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn now! well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about the spring-time and wild flowers. there is something, we hope, more interesting to be talked about. if you look at the group of children, you may see them all gathered around eustace bright, who, sitting on the stump of a tree, seems to be just beginning a story. the fact is, the younger part of the troop have found out that it takes rather too many of their short strides to measure the long ascent of the hill. cousin eustace, therefore, has decided to leave sweet fern, cowslip, squash-blossom, and dandelion, at this point, midway up, until the return of the rest of the party from the summit. and because they complain a little, and do not quite like to stay behind, he gives them some apples out of his pocket, and proposes to tell them a very pretty story. hereupon they brighten up, and change their grieved looks into the broadest kind of smiles. as for the story, i was there to hear it, hidden behind a bush, and shall tell it over to you in the pages that come next. [illustration] the miraculous pitcher [illustration] one evening, in times long ago, old philemon and his old wife baucis sat at their cottage-door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. they had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. so they talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. but the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for baucis and philemon to hear each other speak. "ah, wife," cried philemon, "i fear some poor traveler is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!" [illustration: philemon & bavcis] "well-a-day!" answered old baucis, "i do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. and only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!" "those children will never come to any good," said philemon, shaking his white head. "to tell you the truth, wife, i should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village unless they mend their manners. but, as for you and me, so long as providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that may come along and need it." "that's right, husband!" said baucis. "so we will!" these old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living. old philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage. their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. but they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler who might pause before their door. they felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves. their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth. this valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake. there, fishes had glided to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. but, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. the valley had been dry land so long, that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first. never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. the very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures. but, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which heaven had smiled so beneficently. they were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. they would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to providence. you will hardly believe what i am going to tell you. these naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels and pelting him with stones. they kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away. this was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again. what made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. they would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. if the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. this would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince. so now you can understand why old philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the farther extremity of the village street. there was a confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley. "i never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man. "nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife. they sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot. close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. a little farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. his companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children, or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate. [illustration: the strangers in the village] both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. and this, i am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely. "come, wife," said philemon to baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people. no doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill." "go you and meet them," answered baucis, "while i make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper. a comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits." accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. philemon, on his part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,-- "welcome, strangers! welcome!" "thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "this is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village. pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?" "ah!" observed old philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "providence put me here, i hope, among other reasons, in order that i may make you what amends i can for the inhospitality of my neighbors." "well said, old father!" cried the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. those children (the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. but i took him across the muzzle with my staff; and i think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off." philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. he was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. one thing, certainly, seemed queer. the traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort. "i used to be light-footed, in my youth," said philemon to the traveler. "but i always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall." "there is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the stranger; "and i happen to have an excellent one, as you see." this staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that philemon had ever beheld. it was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed that old philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting. "a curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "a staff with wings! it would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!" by this time, philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door. "friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. my good wife baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper. we are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard." the younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so. and here happened something rather marvelous, though trifling enough, too. the staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. there it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. but, in my private opinion, old philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks again. before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him. "was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice, "a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?" "not in my day, friend," answered philemon; "and yet i am an old man, as you see. there were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. my father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as i know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old philemon shall be gone and forgotten!" "that is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice. he shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their dwellings again!" the traveler looked so stern that philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air. but, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. not that philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. this idea appeared the more probable, because, when philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime. while baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very sociably with philemon. the younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day. "pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what may i call your name?" "why, i am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler. "so, if you call me quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well." "quicksilver? quicksilver?" repeated philemon, looking in the traveler's face, to see if he were making fun of him. "it is a very odd name! and your companion there? has he as strange a one?" "you must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. "no other voice is loud enough." this remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage. but, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. when the stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart. this is always the feeling that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it. but philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose. he talked, however, quite garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot. his wife baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still contented. he told what excellent butter and cheese baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden. he said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together. as the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand. "you are a good old man," said he to philemon, "and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. it is fit that your wish be granted." and it seemed to philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky. baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests. "had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper. but i took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten. ah me! i never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door." "all will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied the elder stranger, kindly. "an honest, hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia." "a welcome you shall have," cried baucis, "and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides." "why, mother baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed quicksilver, laughing, "an absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely i will play my part at it! i think i never felt hungrier in my life." "mercy on us!" whispered baucis to her husband. "if the young man has such a terrible appetite, i am afraid there will not be half enough supper!" they all went into the cottage. and now, my little auditors, shall i tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide? it is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story. quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. well; when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the door-steps! tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside quicksilver's chair. old philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no notice was given to what the staff had been about. as baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry travelers. in the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other. there was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. a moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher. alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. poor baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper. and, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. why, at their very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught. "a little more milk, kind mother baucis, if you please," said quicksilver. "the day has been hot, and i am very much athirst." "now, my dear people," answered baucis, in great confusion, "i am so sorry and ashamed! but the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. o husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?" "why, it appears to me," cried quicksilver, starting up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." so saying, and to the vast astonishment of baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher, that was supposed to be almost empty. the good woman could scarcely believe her eyes. she had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table. "but i am old," thought baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. i suppose i must have made a mistake. at all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over." "what excellent milk!" observed quicksilver, after quaffing the contents of the second bowl. "excuse me, my kind hostess, but i must really ask you for a little more." now baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. of course, there could not possibly be any left. however, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth. what was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! the two snakes that were twisted about quicksilver's staff (but neither baucis nor philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk. and then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! it seemed as if philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. i only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at supper-time! "and now a slice of your brown loaf, mother baucis," said quicksilver, "and a little of that honey!" [illustration: the strangers entertained] baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. yet, what other loaf could it possibly be? but, oh the honey! i may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. the wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in philemon's garden. never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. the perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it. although good mother baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way, in all that had been going on. so, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper. "did you ever hear the like?" asked she. "no, i never did," answered philemon, with a smile. "and i rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. if i had poured out the milk, i should have seen through the business at once. there happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,--that is all." "ah, husband," said baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon people." "well, well," replied philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. they certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and i am heartily glad to see them making so comfortable a supper." each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. it was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall. "very admirable grapes these!" observed quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?" "from my own vine," answered philemon. "you may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. but wife and i never thought the grapes very fine ones." "i never tasted better," said the guest. "another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and i shall then have supped better than a prince." this time, old philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which baucis had whispered to him. he knew that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. on taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. all at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. it was lucky that philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand. "who are ye, wonder-working strangers?" cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been. "your guests, my good philemon, and your friends," replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. "give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy wayfarer!" the supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. the old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped. but the elder traveler had inspired them with such reverence, that they dared not ask him any questions. and when philemon drew quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his staff. "there is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth quicksilver; "and if you can make it out, i'll thank you to let me know. i can't tell what to make of my staff. it is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. if i had any faith in such nonsense, i should say the stick was bewitched!" he said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. the magic staff went hopping at his heels, as quicksilver quitted the room. when left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. they had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which i wish had been as soft as their own hearts. the old man and his wife were stirring betimes in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer, until baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. the guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. they, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked philemon and baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take. so they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends. it was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean. and as for quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. they sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it. but then, again, quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long. "ah me! well-a-day!" exclaimed philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. "if our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone." "it is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good old baucis, vehemently. "and i mean to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they are!" "i fear," remarked quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none of them at home." the elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither baucis nor philemon dared to speak a word. they gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky. "when men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep that they sounded like those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!" "and, by the by, my dear old people," cried quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same village that you talk about? on which side of us does it lie? methinks i do not see it hereabouts." philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. but what was their astonishment! there was no longer any appearance of a village! even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. in its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. for an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. then, a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore. the lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there. but, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. the village had been there yesterday, and now was gone! "alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor neighbors?" "they exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. "there was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man. they retained no image of the better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!" "and as for those foolish people," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. there needed but little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence. so, kind mother baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!" "ah," cried baucis, shuddering, "i would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!" "no," added philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!" "as for you, good philemon," continued the elder traveler,--"and you, kind baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on olympus. you have done well, my dear old friends. wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted." philemon and baucis looked at one another, and then,--i know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts. "let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die! for we have always loved one another!" "be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "now, look towards your cottage!" they did so. but what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble residence had so lately stood! "there is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both. "exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening." the old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor quicksilver was there. so philemon and baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. the milk-pitcher, i must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat. but, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk! thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. at length, however, there came a summer morning when philemon and baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. the guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose. but, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before. yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. one was an oak, and the other a linden-tree. their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own. while the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir. and then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking. "i am old philemon!" murmured the oak. "i am old baucis!" murmured the linden-tree. but, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once,--"philemon! baucis! baucis! philemon!"--as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. it was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, philemon as an oak, and baucis as a linden-tree. and oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them. whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:-- "welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!" and some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old baucis and old philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher. and i wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now! [illustration] the hill-side [illustration] after the story "how much did the pitcher hold?" asked sweet fern. "it did not hold quite a quart," answered the student; "but you might keep pouring milk out of it, till you should fill a hogshead, if you pleased. the truth is, it would run on forever, and not be dry even at midsummer,--which is more than can be said of yonder rill, that goes babbling down the hill-side." "and what has become of the pitcher now?" inquired the little boy. "it was broken, i am sorry to say, about twenty-five thousand years ago," replied cousin eustace. "the people mended it as well as they could, but, though it would hold milk pretty well, it was never afterwards known to fill itself of its own accord. so, you see, it was no better than any other cracked earthen pitcher." "what a pity!" cried all the children at once. the respectable dog ben had accompanied the party, as did likewise a half-grown newfoundland puppy, who went by the name of bruin, because he was just as black as a bear. ben, being elderly, and of very circumspect habits, was respectfully requested, by cousin eustace, to stay behind with the four little children, in order to keep them out of mischief. as for black bruin, who was himself nothing but a child, the student thought it best to take him along, lest, in his rude play with the other children, he should trip them up, and send them rolling and tumbling down the hill. advising cowslip, sweet fern, dandelion, and squash-blossom to sit pretty still, in the spot where he left them, the student, with primrose and the elder children, began to ascend, and were soon out of sight among the trees. [illustration] the chimÆra [illustration] bald summit introductory to the chimÆra upward, along the steep and wooded hill-side, went eustace bright and his companions. the trees were not yet in full leaf, but had budded forth sufficiently to throw an airy shadow, while the sunshine filled them with green light. there were moss-grown rocks, half hidden among the old, brown, fallen leaves; there were rotten tree-trunks, lying at full length where they had long ago fallen; there were decayed boughs, that had been shaken down by the wintry gales, and were scattered everywhere about. but still, though these things looked so aged, the aspect of the wood was that of the newest life; for, whichever way you turned your eyes, something fresh and green was springing forth, so as to be ready for the summer. at last, the young people reached the upper verge of the wood, and found themselves almost at the summit of the hill. it was not a peak, nor a great round ball, but a pretty wide plain, or table-land, with a house and barn upon it, at some distance. that house was the home of a solitary family; and oftentimes the clouds, whence fell the rain, and whence the snow-storm drifted down into the valley, hung lower than this bleak and lonely dwelling-place. on the highest point of the hill was a heap of stones, in the centre of which was stuck a long pole, with a little flag fluttering at the end of it. eustace led the children thither, and bade them look around, and see how large a tract of our beautiful world they could take in at a glance. and their eyes grew wider as they looked. monument mountain, to the southward, was still in the centre of the scene, but seemed to have sunk and subsided, so that it was now but an undistinguished member of a large family of hills. beyond it, the taconic range looked higher and bulkier than before. our pretty lake was seen, with all its little bays and inlets; and not that alone, but two or three new lakes were opening their blue eyes to the sun. several white villages, each with its steeple, were scattered about in the distance. there were so many farm-houses, with their acres of woodland, pasture, mowing-fields, and tillage, that the children could hardly make room in their minds to receive all these different objects. there, too, was tanglewood, which they had hitherto thought such an important apex of the world. it now occupied so small a space, that they gazed far beyond it, and on either side, and searched a good while with all their eyes, before discovering whereabout it stood. white, fleecy clouds were hanging in the air, and threw the dark spots of their shadow here and there over the landscape. but, by and by, the sunshine was where the shadow had been, and the shadow was somewhere else. far to the westward was a range of blue mountains, which eustace bright told the children were the catskills. among those misty hills, he said, was a spot where some old dutchmen were playing an everlasting game of nine-pins, and where an idle fellow, whose name was rip van winkle, had fallen asleep, and slept twenty years at a stretch. the children eagerly besought eustace to tell them all about this wonderful affair. but the student replied that the story had been told once already, and better than it ever could be told again; and that nobody would have a right to alter a word of it, until it should have grown as old as "the gorgon's head," and "the three golden apples," and the rest of those miraculous legends. "at least," said periwinkle, "while we rest ourselves here, and are looking about us, you can tell us another of your own stories." "yes, cousin eustace," cried primrose, "i advise you to tell us a story here. take some lofty subject or other, and see if your imagination will not come up to it. perhaps the mountain air may make you poetical, for once. and no matter how strange and wonderful the story may be, now that we are up among the clouds, we can believe anything." "can you believe," asked eustace, "that there was once a winged horse?" "yes," said saucy primrose; "but i am afraid you will never be able to catch him." "for that matter, primrose," rejoined the student, "i might possibly catch pegasus, and get upon his back, too, as well as a dozen other fellows that i know of. at any rate, here is a story about him; and, of all places in the world, it ought certainly to be told upon a mountain-top." so, sitting on the pile of stones, while the children clustered themselves at its base, eustace fixed his eyes on a white cloud that was sailing by, and began as follows. [illustration] the chimÆra [illustration] once, in the old, old times (for all the strange things which i tell you about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out of a hill-side, in the marvelous land of greece. and, for aught i know, after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very selfsame spot. at any rate, there was the pleasant fountain, welling freshly forth and sparkling adown the hill-side, in the golden sunset, when a handsome young man named bellerophon drew near its margin. in his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a golden bit. seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little boy, near the fountain, and likewise a maiden, who was dipping up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh himself with a draught. "this is very delicious water," he said to the maiden as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it. "will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?" "yes; it is called the fountain of pirene," answered the maiden; and then she added, "my grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress diana, she melted all away into tears. and so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!" "i should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom! and this, then, is pirene? i thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name. i have come from a far-away country to find this very spot." a middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand. "the water-courses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the fountain of pirene. but, pray, have you lost a horse? i see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is with that double row of bright stones upon it. if the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him." "i have lost no horse," said bellerophon, with a smile. "but i happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere. do you know whether the winged horse pegasus still haunts the fountain of pirene, as he used to do in your forefathers' days?" but then the country fellow laughed. some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of mount helicon. he was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds. there was nothing else like him in the world. he had no mate; he never had been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life. oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again. it was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it, for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side. or, in a sullen rain-storm, when there was a gray pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him. in another instant, it is true, both pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together. but any one that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterwards, and as much longer as the storm lasted. in the summer-time, and in the beautifullest of weather, pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind. oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the fountain of pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin. sometimes, too (but pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be sweetest. to the fountain of pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful, and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful pegasus. but, of late years, he had been very seldom seen. indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence. the country fellow to whom bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons. and that was the reason why he laughed. "pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up,--"pegasus, indeed! a winged horse, truly! why, friend, are you in your senses? of what use would wings be to a horse? could he drag the plow so well, think you? to be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes, or whisking up him above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill? no, no! i don't believe in pegasus. there never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl made!" "i have some reason to think otherwise," said bellerophon, quietly. and then he turned to an old, gray man, who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward, and one hand at his ear, because, for the last twenty years, he had been getting rather deaf. "and what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he. "in your younger days, i should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed!" "ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!" said the aged man. "when i was a lad, if i remember rightly, i used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else. but, nowadays, i hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. if i ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, i doubt whether i ever did see him. one day, to be sure, when i was quite a youth, i remember seeing some hoof-tramps round about the brink of the fountain. pegasus might have made those hoof-marks; and so might some other horse." [illustration: bellerophon at the fovntain] "and have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked bellerophon of the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on. "you certainly could see pegasus, if anybody can, for your eyes are very bright." "once i thought i saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a blush. "it was either pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way up in the air. and one other time, as i was coming to the fountain with my pitcher, i heard a neigh. oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! my very heart leaped with delight at the sound. but it startled me, nevertheless; so that i ran home without filling my pitcher." "that was truly a pity!" said bellerophon. and he turned to the child, whom i mentioned at the beginning of the story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open. "well, my little fellow," cried bellerophon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "i suppose you have often seen the winged horse." "that i have," answered the child, very readily. "i saw him yesterday, and many times before." "you are a fine little man!" said bellerophon, drawing the child closer to him. "come, tell me all about it." "why," replied the child, "i often come here to sail little boats in the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. and sometimes, when i look down into the water, i see the image of the winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there. i wish he would come down, and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon! but, if i so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight." and bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in cart-horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful things of his youth. therefore, he haunted about the fountain of pirene for a great many days afterwards. he kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky, or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvelous reality. he held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in his hand. the rustic people, who dwelt in the neighborhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. they told him that an able-bodied young man, like himself, ought to have better business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. they offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when bellerophon declined the purchase, they tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle. even the country boys thought him so very foolish, that they used to have a great deal of sport about him, and were rude enough not to care a fig, although bellerophon saw and heard it. one little urchin, for example, would play pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of flying; while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent bellerophon's ornamental bridle. but the gentle child, who had seen the picture of pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than all the naughty boys could torment him. the dear little fellow, in his play-hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down into the fountain and up towards the sky, with so innocent a faith, that bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged. now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that bellerophon had undertaken to catch the winged horse. and we shall find no better opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for pegasus to appear. if i were to relate the whole of bellerophon's previous adventures, they might easily grow into a very long story. it will be quite enough to say, that, in a certain country of asia, a terrible monster, called a chimæra, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be talked about between now and sunset. according to the best accounts which i have been able to obtain, this chimæra was nearly, if not quite, the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. it had a tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like i do not care what; and it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's. and a hot blast of fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths! being an earthly monster, i doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make about as much speed as all the three together. oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief that this naughty creature did! with its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences and houses. it laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven of its stomach. mercy on us, little children, i hope neither you nor i will ever happen to meet a chimæra! while the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing all these horrible things, it so chanced that bellerophon came to that part of the world, on a visit to the king. the king's name was iobates, and lycia was the country which he ruled over. bellerophon was one of the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire and love him. in those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country, or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts, when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. king iobates, perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go and fight the chimæra, which everybody else was afraid of, and which, unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert lycia into a desert. bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he would either slay this dreaded chimæra, or perish in the attempt. but, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on foot. the wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. and what other horse, in all the world, was half so fleet as the marvelous horse pegasus, who had wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the earth? to be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry and nonsense. but, wonderful as it appeared, bellerophon believed that pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be able to fight the chimæra at better advantage. and this was the purpose with which he had traveled from lycia to greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand. it was an enchanted bridle. if he could only succeed in putting the golden bit into the mouth of pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and would own bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might choose to turn therein. but, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while bellerophon waited and waited for pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the fountain of pirene. he was afraid lest king iobates should imagine that he had fled from the chimæra. it pained him, too, to think how much mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. and as pegasus came thither so seldom in these latter years, and scarcely alighted there more than once in a lifetime, bellerophon feared that he might grow an old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart, before the winged horse would appear. oh, how heavily passes the time, while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to gather in the harvest of his renown! how hard a lesson it is to wait! our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this! well was it for bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of him, and was never weary of keeping him company. every morning the child gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered one. "dear bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "i think we shall see pegasus to-day!" and, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith, bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to lycia, and have done his best to slay the chimæra without the help of the winged horse. and in that case poor bellerophon would at least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have been killed and devoured. nobody should ever try to fight an earth-born chimæra, unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed. one morning the child spoke to bellerophon even more hopefully than usual. "dear, dear bellerophon," cried he, "i know not why it is, but i feel as if we should certainly see pegasus to-day!" and all that day he would not stir a step from bellerophon's side; so they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the fountain. in the afternoon, there they sat, and bellerophon had thrown his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands into bellerophon's. the latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed the fountain, and on the grapevines that clambered up among their branches. but the gentle child was gazing down into the water; he was grieved, for bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be deceived, like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of pirene, when she wept for her slain children. but, when he least thought of it, bellerophon felt the pressure of the child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless, whisper. "see there, dear bellerophon! there is an image in the water!" the young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and saw what he took to be the reflection of a bird which seemed to be flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its snowy or silvery wings. "what a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "and how very large it looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!" "it makes me tremble!" whispered the child. "i am afraid to look up into the air! it is very beautiful, and yet i dare only look at its image in the water. dear bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? it is the winged horse pegasus!" bellerophon's heart began to throb! he gazed keenly upward, but could not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse; because, just then, it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. it was but a moment, however, before the object reappeared, sinking lightly down out of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth. bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrank back with him, so that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all around the fountain. not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded lest, if pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and alight in some inaccessible mountain-top. for it was really the winged horse. after they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his thirst with the water of pirene. nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as you may have seen a dove when about to alight. downward came pegasus, in those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower, and narrower still, as he gradually approached the earth. the nigher the view of him, the more beautiful he was, and the more marvelous the sweep of his silvery wings. at last, with so light a pressure as hardly to bend the grass about the fountain, or imprint a hoof-tramp in the sand of its margin, he alighted, and, stooping his wild head, began to drink. he drew in the water, with long and pleasant sighs, and tranquil pauses of enjoyment; and then another draught, and another, and another. for, nowhere in the world, or up among the clouds, did pegasus love any water as he loved this of pirene. and when his thirst was slaked, he cropped a few of the honey-blossoms of the clover, delicately tasting them, but not caring to make a hearty meal, because the herbage, just beneath the clouds, on the lofty sides of mount helicon, suited his palate better than this ordinary grass. after thus drinking to his heart's content, and, in his dainty fashion, condescending to take a little food, the winged horse began to caper to and fro, and dance as it were, out of mere idleness and sport. there never was a more playful creature made than this very pegasus. so there he frisked, in a way that it delights me to think about, fluttering his great wings as lightly as ever did a linnet, and running little races, half on earth and half in air, and which i know not whether to call a flight or a gallop. when a creature is perfectly able to fly, he sometimes chooses to run, just for the pastime of the thing; and so did pegasus, although it cost him some little trouble to keep his hoofs so near the ground. bellerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's hand, peeped forth from the shrubbery, and thought that never was any sight so beautiful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild and spirited as those of pegasus. it seemed a sin to think of bridling him and riding on his back. once or twice, pegasus stopped, and snuffed the air, pricking up his ears, tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly suspected some mischief or other. seeing nothing, however, and hearing no sound, he soon began his antics again. at length--not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious--pegasus folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf. but, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air. it was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long. the more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed. bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the speed of an arrow-flight, into the farthest blue of the sky. finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore legs, in order to rise from the ground; and bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped astride of his back. yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse! but what a bound did pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins! a bound, indeed! before he had time to draw a breath, bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger. upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold misty bosom of a cloud, at which, only a little while before, bellerophon had been gazing, and fancying it a very pleasant spot. then again, out of the heart of the cloud, pegasus shot down like a thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong against a rock. then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse. i cannot tell you half that he did. he skimmed straight forward, and sideways, and backward. he reared himself erect, with his fore legs on a wreath of mist, and his hind legs on nothing at all. he flung out his heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward. at about two miles' height above the earth, he turned a somerset, so that bellerophon's heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up. he twisted his head about, and, looking bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him. he fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and, floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived, in memory of pegasus and bellerophon. but the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. no sooner was this done, than pegasus became as manageable as if he had taken food, all his life, out of bellerophon's hand. to speak what i really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow suddenly so tame. and pegasus seemed to feel it so, likewise. he looked round to bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the fire that so recently flashed from them. but when bellerophon patted his head, and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another look came into the eyes of pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master. thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and solitary creatures. if you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to win their love. while pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake bellerophon off his back, he had flown a very long distance; and they had come within sight of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. bellerophon had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be helicon, on the summit of which was the winged horse's abode. thither (after looking gently into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) pegasus now flew, and, alighting, waited patiently until bellerophon should please to dismount. the young man, accordingly, leaped from his steed's back, but still held him fast by the bridle. meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by the gentleness of his aspect, and by the thought of the free life which pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a prisoner, if he really desired his liberty. obeying this generous impulse he slipped the enchanted bridle off the head of pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth. "leave me, pegasus!" said he. "either leave me, or love me." in an instant, the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring straight upward from the summit of mount helicon. being long after sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country round about. but pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun. ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and, at last, could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky. and bellerophon was afraid that he should never behold him more. but, while he was lamenting his own folly, the bright speck reappeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, pegasus had come back! after this trial there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his escape. he and bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one another. that night they lay down and slept together, with bellerophon's arm about the neck of pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness. and they awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good morning, each in his own language. in this manner, bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days, and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. they went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the earth looked hardly bigger than--the moon. they visited distant countries, and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of the sky. a thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet pegasus to pass over. bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region. but he could not forget the horrible chimæra, which he had promised king iobates to slay. so, at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of horsemanship in the air, and could manage pegasus with the least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure. at daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him. pegasus immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion. during the whole of this little flight, he uttered a loud, brisk, and melodious neigh, and finally came down at bellerophon's side, as lightly as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig. "well done, dear pegasus! well done, my sky-skimmer!" cried bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck. "and now, my fleet and beautiful friend, we must break our fast. to-day we are to fight the terrible chimæra." as soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling water from a spring called hippocrene, pegasus held out his head, of his own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle. then, with a great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to be gone; while bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle. when everything was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom, when going a long distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see whither he was directing his course. he then turned the head of pegasus towards the east, and set out for lycia. in their flight they overtook an eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. hastening onward at this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty mountains of lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys. if bellerophon had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the hideous chimæra had taken up its abode. being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves. hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge, bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of lycia, and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. at first there appeared to be nothing remarkable. it was a wild, savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills. in the more level part of the country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here and there, the carcasses of dead cattle, strewn about the pastures where they had been feeding. "the chimæra must have done this mischief," thought bellerophon. "but where can the monster be?" as i have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the precipitous heights of the mountains. nothing at all; unless, indeed, it were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be the mouth of a cavern, and clambered sullenly into the atmosphere. before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke-wreaths mingled themselves into one. the cavern was almost directly beneath the winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet. the smoke, as it crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling scent, which caused pegasus to snort and bellerophon to sneeze. so disagreeable was it to the marvelous steed (who was accustomed to breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a mile out of the range of this offensive vapor. but, on looking behind him, bellerophon saw something that induced him first to draw the bridle, and then to turn pegasus about. he made a sign, which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom of the valley. in front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it. and what else did bellerophon behold there? there seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up within the cavern. their bodies lay so close together, that bellerophon could not distinguish them apart; but, judging by their heads, one of these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the third an ugly goat. the lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes. but--and this was the most wonderful part of the matter--the three spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads! so strange was the spectacle, that, though bellerophon had been all along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that here was the terrible three-headed chimæra. he had found out the chimæra's cavern. the snake, the lion, and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster! the wicked, hateful thing! slumbering as two thirds of it were, it still held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb,--or possibly (but i hate to think so) it was a dear little boy,--which its three mouths had been gnawing, before two of them fell asleep! all at once, bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the chimæra. pegasus seemed to know it, at the same instant, and sent forth a neigh, that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. at this sound the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes of flame. before bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight towards him, with its immense claws extended, and its snaky tail twisting itself venomously behind. if pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he and his rider would have been overthrown by the chimæra's headlong rush, and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. but the winged horse was not to be caught so. in the twinkling of an eye he was up aloft, halfway to the clouds, snorting with anger. he shuddered, too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this poisonous thing with three heads. the chimæra, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand absolutely on the tip-end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely in the air, and its three heads spluttering fire at pegasus and his rider. my stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed! bellerophon, meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword. "now, my beloved pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly back to thy solitary mountain-peak without thy friend bellerophon. for either the chimæra dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!" pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly against his rider's cheek. it was his way of telling him that, though he had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave bellerophon behind. "i thank you, pegasus," answered bellerophon. "now, then, let us make a dash at the monster!" uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and pegasus darted down aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right towards the chimæra's three-fold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it could into the air. as he came within arm's-length, bellerophon made a cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could see whether the blow had been successful. pegasus continued his course, but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the chimæra as before. bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and seemed quite dead. but, to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before. "never mind, my brave pegasus!" cried bellerophon. "with another stroke like that, we will stop either its hissing or its roaring." and again he shook the bridle. dashing aslantwise, as before, the winged horse made another arrow-flight towards the chimæra, and bellerophon aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he shot by. but this time, neither he nor pegasus escaped so well as at first. with one of its claws, the chimæra had given the young man a deep scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the flying steed with the other. on his part, bellerophon had mortally wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of thick black smoke. the snake's head, however (which was the only one now left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. it belched forth shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so harsh, and so ear-piercing, that king iobates heard them, fifty miles off, and trembled till the throne shook under him. [illustration: bellerophon slays the chimÆra] "well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the chimæra is certainly coming to devour me!" meanwhile pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily, while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. how unlike the lurid fire of the chimæra! the aerial steed's spirit was all aroused, and so was that of bellerophon. "dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that ought never to have tasted pain. "the execrable chimæra shall pay for this mischief with his last head!" then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided pegasus, not aslantwise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. so rapid was the onset, that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash before bellerophon was at close gripes with his enemy. the chimæra, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. it so flounced about, half on earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element it rested upon. it opened its snake-jaws to such an abominable width, that pegasus might almost, i was going to say, have flown right down its throat, wings outspread, rider and all! at their approach it shot out a tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped bellerophon and his steed in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of pegasus, scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot. but this was nothing to what followed. when the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the distance of a hundred yards, the chimæra gave a spring, and flung its huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcass right upon poor pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail into a knot! up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the mountain-peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid earth. but still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne upward, along with the creature of light and air. bellerophon, meanwhile, turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the chimæra's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield. over the upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster. but the chimæra was so mad and wild with pain, that it did not guard itself so well as might else have been the case. perhaps, after all, the best way to fight a chimæra is by getting as close to it as you can. in its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy, the creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this, bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart. immediately the snaky tail untied its knot. the monster let go its hold of pegasus, and fell from that vast height, downward; while the fire within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to consume the dead carcass. thus it fell out of the sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet. but, at early sunrise, some cottagers were going to their day's labor, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes. in the middle of a field, there was a heap of whitened bones, a great deal higher than a haystack. nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful chimæra! and when bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes. "back now, my beloved steed!" said he. "back to the fountain of pirene!" pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and reached the fountain in a very short time. and there he found the old man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and the pretty maiden filling her pitcher. "i remember now," quoth the old man, "i saw this winged horse once before, when i was quite a lad. but he was ten times handsomer in those days." "i own a cart-horse, worth three of him!" said the country fellow. "if this pony were mine, the first thing i should do would be to clip his wings!" but the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be afraid at the wrong time. so she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble down, and broke it. "where is the gentle child," asked bellerophon, "who used to keep me company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into the fountain?" "here am i, dear bellerophon!" said the child, softly. for the little boy had spent day after day, on the margin of pirene, waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived bellerophon descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had shrunk back into the shrubbery. he was a delicate and tender child, and dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears gushing from his eyes. "thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of bellerophon, who still sat on the back of pegasus. "i knew thou wouldst." "yes, dear child!" replied bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse. "but if thy faith had not helped me, i should never have waited for pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have conquered the terrible chimæra. thou, my beloved little friend, hast done it all. and now let us give pegasus his liberty." so he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvelous steed. "be free, forevermore, my pegasus!" cried he, with a shade of sadness in his tone. "be as free as thou art fleet!" but pegasus rested his head on bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be persuaded to take flight. "well then," said bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be with me, as long as thou wilt; and we will go together, forthwith, and tell king iobates that the chimæra is destroyed." then bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him again, and departed. but, in after years, that child took higher flights upon the aerial steed than ever did bellerophon, and achieved more honorable deeds than his friend's victory over the chimæra. for, gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet! [illustration] bald summit [illustration] after the story eustace bright told the legend of bellerophon with as much fervor and animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged horse. at the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested. all their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of primrose. in her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel. child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth. "i forgive you, now, primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of myself and my stories. one tear pays for a great deal of laughter." "well, mr. bright," answered primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your ideas, to get your head above the clouds. i advise you never to tell another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a mountain." "or from the back of pegasus," replied eustace, laughing. "don't you think that i succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?" "it was so like one of your madcap pranks!" cried primrose, clapping her hands. "i think i see you now on his back, two miles high, and with your head downward! it is well that you have not really an opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our sober davy, or old hundred." "for my part, i wish i had pegasus here, at this moment," said the student. "i would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country, within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my brother-authors. dr. dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of taconic. in stockbridge, yonder, is mr. james, conspicuous to all the world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. longfellow, i believe, is not yet at the ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh at the sight of him. but, here in lenox, i should find our most truthful novelist, who has made the scenery and life of berkshire all her own. on the hither side of pittsfield sits herman melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'white whale,' while the gigantic shape of graylock looms upon him from his study-window. another bound of my flying steed would bring me to the door of holmes, whom i mention last, because pegasus would certainly unseat me, the next minute, and claim the poet as his rider." "have we not an author for our next neighbor?" asked primrose. "that silent man, who lives in the old red house, near tanglewood avenue, and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the woods or at the lake. i think i have heard of his having written a poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some other kind of a book." "hush, primrose, hush!" exclaimed eustace, in a thrilling whisper, and putting his finger on his lip. "not a word about that man, even on a hill-top! if our babble were to reach his ears, and happen not to please him, he has but to fling a quire or two of paper into the stove, and you, primrose, and i, and periwinkle, sweet fern, squash-blossom, blue eye, huckleberry, clover, cowslip, plantain, milkweed, dandelion, and buttercup,--yes, and wise mr. pringle, with his unfavorable criticisms on my legends, and poor mrs. pringle, too,--would all turn to smoke, and go whisking up the funnel! our neighbor in the red house is a harmless sort of person enough, for aught i know, as concerns the rest of the world; but something whispers to me that he has a terrible power over ourselves, extending to nothing short of annihilation." "and would tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?" asked periwinkle, quite appalled at the threatened destruction. "and what would become of ben and bruin?" "tanglewood would remain," replied the student, "looking just as it does now, but occupied by an entirely different family. and ben and bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the good times which they and we have had together!" "what nonsense you are talking!" exclaimed primrose. with idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year's growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student's cap, in order to place it on his brow. "nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories," observed saucy primrose, "so take this from me." "do not be too sure," answered eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, "that i shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. i mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. mr. j.t. fields (with whom i became acquainted when he was in berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance. he will get them illustrated, i hope, by billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of ticknor & co. in about five months from this moment, i make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of the age!" "poor boy!" said primrose, half aside. "what a disappointment awaits him!" descending a little lower, bruin began to bark, and was answered by the graver bow-wow of the respectable ben. they soon saw the good old dog, keeping careful watch over dandelion, sweet fern, cowslip, and squash-blossom. these little people, quite recovered from their fatigue, had set about gathering checkerberries, and now came clambering to meet their playfellows. thus reunited, the whole party went down through luther butler's orchard, and made the best of their way home to tanglewood. [illustration] a wonder book and tanglewood tales for girls and boys by nathaniel hawthorne with pictures by maxfield parrish new york duffield & company mcmx copyright, , by duffield & company the university press, cambridge, u. s. a. [illustration: jason and the talking oak (from the original in the collection of austin m. purves, esqu're philadelphia)] preface the author has long been of opinion that many of the classical myths were capable of being rendered into very capital reading for children. in the little volume here offered to the public, he has worked up half a dozen of them, with this end in view. a great freedom of treatment was necessary to his plan; but it will be observed by every one who attempts to render these legends malleable in his intellectual furnace, that they are marvellously independent of all temporary modes and circumstances. they remain essentially the same, after changes that would affect the identity of almost anything else. he does not, therefore, plead guilty to a sacrilege, in having sometimes shaped anew, as his fancy dictated, the forms that have been hallowed by an antiquity of two or three thousand years. no epoch of time can claim a copyright in these immortal fables. they seem never to have been made; and certainly, so long as man exists, they can never perish; but, by their indestructibility itself, they are legitimate subjects for every age to clothe with its own garniture of manners and sentiment, and to imbue with its own morality. in the present version they may have lost much of their classical aspect (or, at all events, the author has not been careful to preserve it), and have, perhaps, assumed a gothic or romantic guise. in performing this pleasant task,--for it has been really a task fit for hot weather, and one of the most agreeable, of a literary kind, which he ever undertook,--the author has not always thought it necessary to write downward, in order to meet the comprehension of children. he has generally suffered the theme to soar, whenever such was its tendency, and when he himself was buoyant enough to follow without an effort. children possess an unestimated sensibility to whatever is deep or high, in imagination or feeling, so long as it is simple, likewise. it is only the artificial and the complex that bewilder them. lenox, _july , _. contents a wonder book for girls and boys the gorgon's head the golden touch the paradise of children the three golden apples the miraculous pitcher the chimæra tanglewood tales the wayside--_introductory_ the minotaur the pygmies the dragon's teeth circe's palace the pomegranate seeds the golden fleece illustrations jason and the talking oak pandora atlas bellerophon by the fountain of pirene the fountain of pirene cadmus sowing the dragon's teeth circe's palace proserpina jason and his teacher the argonauts in quest of the golden fleece a wonder book the gorgon's head tanglewood porch _introductory to "the gorgon's head"_ beneath the porch of the country-seat called tanglewood, one fine autumnal morning, was assembled a merry party of little folks, with a tall youth in the midst of them. they had planned a nutting expedition, and were impatiently waiting for the mists to roll up the hill-slopes, and for the sun to pour the warmth of the indian summer over the fields and pastures, and into the nooks of the many-colored woods. there was a prospect of as fine a day as ever gladdened the aspect of this beautiful and comfortable world. as yet, however, the morning mist filled up the whole length and breadth of the valley, above which, on a gently sloping eminence, the mansion stood. this body of white vapor extended to within less than a hundred yards of the house. it completely hid everything beyond that distance, except a few ruddy or yellow tree-tops, which here and there emerged, and were glorified by the early sunshine, as was likewise the broad surface of the mist. four or five miles off to the southward rose the summit of monument mountain, and seemed to be floating on a cloud. some fifteen miles farther away, in the same direction, appeared the loftier dome of taconic, looking blue and indistinct, and hardly so substantial as the vapory sea that almost rolled over it. the nearer hills, which bordered the valley, were half submerged, and were specked with little cloud-wreaths all the way to their tops. on the whole, there was so much cloud, and so little solid earth, that it had the effect of a vision. the children above-mentioned, being as full of life as they could hold, kept overflowing from the porch of tanglewood, and scampering along the gravel-walk, or rushing across the dewy herbage of the lawn. i can hardly tell how many of these small people there were; not less than nine or ten, however, nor more than a dozen, of all sorts, sizes, and ages, whether girls or boys. they were brothers, sisters, and cousins, together with a few of their young acquaintances, who had been invited by mr. and mrs. pringle to spend some of this delightful weather with their own children, at tanglewood. i am afraid to tell you their names, or even to give them any names which other children have ever been called by; because, to my certain knowledge, authors sometimes get themselves into great trouble by accidentally giving the names of real persons to the characters in their books. for this reason i mean to call them primrose, periwinkle, sweet fern, dandelion, blue eye, clover, huckleberry, cowslip, squash-blossom, milkweed, plantain, and buttercup; although, to be sure, such titles might better suit a group of fairies than a company of earthly children. it is not to be supposed that these little folks were to be permitted by their careful fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, or grandparents, to stray abroad into the woods and fields, without the guardianship of some particularly grave and elderly person. oh no, indeed! in the first sentence of my book, you will recollect that i spoke of a tall youth, standing in the midst of the children. his name--(and i shall let you know his real name, because he considers it a great honor to have told the stories that are here to be printed)--his name was eustace bright. he was a student at williams college, and had reached, i think, at this period, the venerable age of eighteen years; so that he felt quite like a grandfather towards periwinkle, dandelion, huckleberry, squash-blossom, milkweed, and the rest, who were only half or a third as venerable as he. a trouble in his eyesight (such as many students think it necessary to have, nowadays, in order to prove their diligence at their books) had kept him from college a week or two after the beginning of the term. but, for my part, i have seldom met with a pair of eyes that looked as if they could see farther or better than those of eustace bright. this learned student was slender, and rather pale, as all yankee students are; but yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his shoes. by the by, being much addicted to wading through streamlets and across meadows, he had put on cowhide boots for the expedition. he wore a linen blouse, a cloth cap, and a pair of green spectacles, which he had assumed, probably, less for the preservation of his eyes than for the dignity that they imparted to his countenance. in either case, however, he might as well have let them alone; for huckleberry, a mischievous little elf, crept behind eustace as he sat on the steps of the porch, snatched the spectacles from his nose, and clapped them on her own; and as the student forgot to take them back, they fell off into the grass, and lay there till the next spring. now, eustace bright, you must know, had won great fame among the children, as a narrator of wonderful stories; and though he sometimes pretended to be annoyed, when they teased him for more, and more, and always for more, yet i really doubt whether he liked anything quite so well as to tell them. you might have seen his eyes twinkle, therefore, when clover, sweet fern, cowslip, buttercup, and most of their playmates, besought him to relate one of his stories, while they were waiting for the mist to clear up. "yes, cousin eustace," said primrose, who was a bright girl of twelve, with laughing eyes, and a nose that turned up a little, "the morning is certainly the best time for the stories with which you so often tire out our patience. we shall be in less danger of hurting your feelings, by falling asleep at the most interesting points,--as little cowslip and i did last night!" "naughty primrose," cried cowslip, a child of six years old; "i did not fall asleep, and i only shut my eyes, so as to see a picture of what cousin eustace was telling about. his stories are good to hear at night, because we can dream about them asleep; and good in the morning, too, because then we can dream about them awake. so i hope he will tell us one this very minute." "thank you, my little cowslip," said eustace; "certainly you shall have the best story i can think of, if it were only for defending me so well from that naughty primrose. but, children, i have already told you so many fairy tales, that i doubt whether there is a single one which you have not heard at least twice over. i am afraid you will fall asleep in reality, if i repeat any of them again." "no, no, no!" cried blue eye, periwinkle, plantain, and half a dozen others. "we like a story all the better for having heard it two or three times before." and it is a truth, as regards children, that a story seems often to deepen its mark in their interest, not merely by two or three, but by numberless repetitions. but eustace bright, in the exuberance of his resources, scorned to avail himself of an advantage which an older story-teller would have been glad to grasp at. "it would be a great pity," said he, "if a man of my learning (to say nothing of original fancy) could not find a new story every day, year in and year out, for children such as you. i will tell you one of the nursery tales that were made for the amusement of our great old grandmother, the earth, when she was a child in frock and pinafore. there are a hundred such; and it is a wonder to me that they have not long ago been put into picture-books for little girls and boys. but, instead of that, old gray-bearded grandsires pore over them in musty volumes of greek, and puzzle themselves with trying to find out when, and how, and for what they were made." "well, well, well, well, cousin eustace!" cried all the children at once; "talk no more about your stories, but begin." "sit down, then, every soul of you," said eustace bright, "and be all as still as so many mice. at the slightest interruption, whether from great, naughty primrose, little dandelion, or any other, i shall bite the story short off between my teeth, and swallow the untold part. but, in the first place, do any of you know what a gorgon is?" "i do," said primrose. "then hold your tongue!" rejoined eustace, who had rather she would have known nothing about the matter. "hold all your tongues, and i shall tell you a sweet pretty story of a gorgon's head." and so he did, as you may begin to read on the next page. working up his sophomorical erudition with a good deal of tact, and incurring great obligations to professor anthon, he, nevertheless, disregarded all classical authorities, whenever the vagrant audacity of his imagination impelled him to do so. the gorgon's head perseus was the son of danaë, who was the daughter of a king. and when perseus was a very little boy, some wicked people put his mother and himself into a chest, and set them afloat upon the sea. the wind blew freshly, and drove the chest away from the shore, and the uneasy billows tossed it up and down; while danaë clasped her child closely to her bosom, and dreaded that some big wave would dash its foamy crest over them both. the chest sailed on, however, and neither sank nor was upset; until, when night was coming, it floated so near an island that it got entangled in a fisherman's nets, and was drawn out high and dry upon the sand. the island was called seriphus, and it was reigned over by king polydectes, who happened to be the fisherman's brother. this fisherman, i am glad to tell you, was an exceedingly humane and upright man. he showed great kindness to danaë and her little boy; and continued to befriend them, until perseus had grown to be a handsome youth, very strong and active, and skilful in the use of arms. long before this time, king polydectes had seen the two strangers--the mother and her child--who had come to his dominions in a floating chest. as he was not good and kind, like his brother the fisherman, but extremely wicked, he resolved to send perseus on a dangerous enterprise, in which he would probably be killed, and then to do some great mischief to danaë herself. so this bad-hearted king spent a long while in considering what was the most dangerous thing that a young man could possibly undertake to perform. at last, having hit upon an enterprise that promised to turn out as fatally as he desired, he sent for the youthful perseus. the young man came to the palace, and found the king sitting upon his throne. "perseus," said king polydectes, smiling craftily upon him, "you are grown up a fine young man. you and your good mother have received a great deal of kindness from myself, as well as from my worthy brother the fisherman, and i suppose you would not be sorry to repay some of it." "please your majesty," answered perseus, "i would willingly risk my life to do so." "well, then," continued the king, still with a cunning smile on his lips, "i have a little adventure to propose to you; and, as you are a brave and enterprising youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of distinguishing yourself. you must know, my good perseus, i think of getting married to the beautiful princess hippodamia; and it is customary, on these occasions, to make the bride a present of some far-fetched and elegant curiosity. i have been a little perplexed, i must honestly confess, where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her exquisite taste. but, this morning, i flatter myself, i have thought of precisely the article." "and can i assist your majesty in obtaining it?" cried perseus, eagerly. "you can, if you are as brave a youth as i believe you to be," replied king polydectes, with the utmost graciousness of manner. "the bridal gift which i have set my heart on presenting to the beautiful hippodamia is the head of the gorgon medusa with the snaky locks; and i depend on you, my dear perseus, to bring it to me. so, as i am anxious to settle affairs with the princess, the sooner you go in quest of the gorgon, the better i shall be pleased." "i will set out to-morrow morning," answered perseus. "pray do so, my gallant youth," rejoined the king. "and, perseus, in cutting off the gorgon's head, be careful to make a clean stroke, so as not to injure its appearance. you must bring it home in the very best condition, in order to suit the exquisite taste of the beautiful princess hippodamia." perseus left the palace, but was scarcely out of hearing before polydectes burst into a laugh; being greatly amused, wicked king that he was, to find how readily the young man fell into the snare. the news quickly spread abroad that perseus had undertaken to cut off the head of medusa with the snaky locks. everybody was rejoiced; for most of the inhabitants of the island were as wicked as the king himself, and would have liked nothing better than to see some enormous mischief happen to danaë and her son. the only good man in this unfortunate island of seriphus appears to have been the fisherman. as perseus walked along, therefore, the people pointed after him, and made mouths, and winked to one another, and ridiculed him as loudly as they dared. "ho, ho!" cried they; "medusa's snakes will sting him soundly!" now, there were three gorgons alive at that period; and they were the most strange and terrible monsters that had ever been since the world was made, or that have been seen in after days, or that are likely to be seen in all time to come. i hardly know what sort of creature or hobgoblin to call them. they were three sisters, and seem to have borne some distant resemblance to women, but were really a very frightful and mischievous species of dragon. it is, indeed, difficult to imagine what hideous beings these three sisters were. why, instead of locks of hair, if you can believe me, they had each of them a hundred enormous snakes growing on their heads, all alive, twisting, wriggling, curling, and thrusting out their venomous tongues, with forked stings at the end! the teeth of the gorgons were terribly long tusks; their hands were made of brass; and their bodies were all over scales, which, if not iron, were something as hard and impenetrable. they had wings, too, and exceedingly splendid ones, i can assure you; for every feather in them was pure, bright, glittering, burnished gold, and they looked very dazzlingly, no doubt, when the gorgons were flying about in the sunshine. but when people happened to catch a glimpse of their glittering brightness, aloft in the air, they seldom stopped to gaze, but ran and hid themselves as speedily as they could. you will think, perhaps, that they were afraid of being stung by the serpents that served the gorgons instead of hair,--or of having their heads bitten off by their ugly tusks,--or of being torn all to pieces by their brazen claws. well, to be sure, these were some of the dangers, but by no means the greatest, nor the most difficult to avoid. for the worst thing about these abominable gorgons was, that, if once a poor mortal fixed his eyes full upon one of their faces, he was certain, that very instant, to be changed from warm flesh and blood into cold and lifeless stone! thus, as you will easily perceive, it was a very dangerous adventure that the wicked king polydectes had contrived for this innocent young man. perseus himself, when he had thought over the matter, could not help seeing that he had very little chance of coming safely through it, and that he was far more likely to become a stone image than to bring back the head of medusa with the snaky locks. for, not to speak of other difficulties, there was one which it would have puzzled an older man than perseus to get over. not only must he fight with and slay this golden-winged, iron-scaled, long-tusked, brazen-clawed, snaky-haired monster, but he must do it with his eyes shut, or, at least, without so much as a glance at the enemy with whom he was contending. else, while his arm was lifted to strike, he would stiffen into stone, and stand with that uplifted arm for centuries, until time, and the wind and weather, should crumble him quite away. this would be a very sad thing to befall a young man who wanted to perform a great many brave deeds, and to enjoy a great deal of happiness, in this bright and beautiful world. so disconsolate did these thoughts make him, that perseus could not bear to tell his mother what he had undertaken to do. he therefore took his shield, girded on his sword, and crossed over from the island to the mainland, where he sat down in a solitary place, and hardly refrained from shedding tears. but, while he was in this sorrowful mood, he heard a voice close beside him. "perseus," said the voice, "why are you sad?" he lifted his head from his hands, in which he had hidden it, and behold! all alone as perseus had supposed himself to be, there was a stranger in the solitary place. it was a brisk, intelligent, and remarkably shrewd-looking young man, with a cloak over his shoulders, an odd sort of cap on his head, a strangely twisted staff in his hand, and a short and very crooked sword hanging by his side. he was exceedingly light and active in his figure, like a person much accustomed to gymnastic exercises, and well able to leap or run. above all, the stranger had such a cheerful, knowing, and helpful aspect (though it was certainly a little mischievous, into the bargain), that perseus could not help feeling his spirits grow livelier as he gazed at him. besides, being really a courageous youth, he felt greatly ashamed that anybody should have found him with tears in his eyes, like a timid little school-boy, when, after all, there might be no occasion for despair. so perseus wiped his eyes, and answered the stranger pretty briskly, putting on as brave a look as he could. "i am not so very sad," said he, "only thoughtful about an adventure that i have undertaken." "oho!" answered the stranger. "well, tell me all about it, and possibly i may be of service to you. i have helped a good many young men through adventures that looked difficult enough beforehand. perhaps you may have heard of me. i have more names than one; but the name of quicksilver suits me as well as any other. tell me what the trouble is, and we will talk the matter over, and see what can be done." the stranger's words and manner put perseus into quite a different mood from his former one. he resolved to tell quicksilver all his difficulties, since he could not easily be worse off than he already was, and, very possibly, his new friend might give him some advice that would turn out well in the end. so he let the stranger know, in few words, precisely what the case was,--how that king polydectes wanted the head of medusa with the snaky locks as a bridal gift for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and how that he had undertaken to get it for him, but was afraid of being turned into stone. "and that would be a great pity," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile. "you would make a very handsome marble statue, it is true, and it would be a considerable number of centuries before you crumbled away; but, on the whole, one would rather be a young man for a few years, than a stone image for a great many." "oh, far rather!" exclaimed perseus, with the tears again standing in his eyes. "and, besides, what would my dear mother do, if her beloved son were turned into a stone?" "well, well, let us hope that the affair will not turn out so very badly," replied quicksilver, in an encouraging tone. "i am the very person to help you, if anybody can. my sister and myself will do our utmost to bring you safe through the adventure, ugly as it now looks." "your sister?" repeated perseus. "yes, my sister," said the stranger. "she is very wise, i promise you; and as for myself, i generally have all my wits about me, such as they are. if you show yourself bold and cautious, and follow our advice, you need not fear being a stone image yet awhile. but, first of all, you must polish your shield, till you can see your face in it as distinctly as in a mirror." this seemed to perseus rather an odd beginning of the adventure; for he thought it of far more consequence that the shield should be strong enough to defend him from the gorgon's brazen claws, than that it should be bright enough to show him the reflection of his face. however, concluding that quicksilver knew better than himself, he immediately set to work, and scrubbed the shield with so much diligence and good-will, that it very quickly shone like the moon at harvest-time. quicksilver looked at it with a smile, and nodded his approbation. then, taking off his own short and crooked sword, he girded it about perseus, instead of the one which he had before worn. "no sword but mine will answer your purpose," observed he; "the blade has a most excellent temper, and will cut through iron and brass as easily as through the slenderest twig. and now we will set out. the next thing is to find the three gray women, who will tell us where to find the nymphs." "the three gray women!" cried perseus, to whom this seemed only a new difficulty in the path of his adventure; "pray who may the three gray women be? i never heard of them before." "they are three very strange old ladies," said quicksilver, laughing. "they have but one eye among them, and only one tooth. moreover, you must find them out by starlight, or in the dusk of the evening; for they never show themselves by the light either of the sun or moon." "but," said perseus, "why should i waste my time with these three gray women? would it not be better to set out at once in search of the terrible gorgons?" "no, no," answered his friend. "there are other things to be done, before you can find your way to the gorgons. there is nothing for it but to hunt up these old ladies; and when we meet with them, you may be sure that the gorgons are not a great way off. come, let us be stirring!" perseus, by this time, felt so much confidence in his companion's sagacity, that he made no more objections, and professed himself ready to begin the adventure immediately. they accordingly set out, and walked at a pretty brisk pace; so brisk, indeed, that perseus found it rather difficult to keep up with his nimble friend quicksilver. to say the truth, he had a singular idea that quicksilver was furnished with a pair of winged shoes, which, of course, helped him along marvellously. and then, too, when perseus looked sideways at him, out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to see wings on the side of his head; although, if he turned a full gaze, there were no such things to be perceived, but only an odd kind of cap. but, at all events, the twisted staff was evidently a great convenience to quicksilver, and enabled him to proceed so fast, that perseus, though a remarkably active young man, began to be out of breath. "here!" cried quicksilver, at last,--for he knew well enough, rogue that he was, how hard perseus found it to keep pace with him,--"take you the staff, for you need it a great deal more than i. are there no better walkers than yourself in the island of seriphus?" "i could walk pretty well," said perseus, glancing slyly at his companion's feet, "if i had only a pair of winged shoes." "we must see about getting you a pair," answered quicksilver. but the staff helped perseus along so bravely, that he no longer felt the slightest weariness. in fact, the stick seemed to be alive in his hand, and to lend some of its life to perseus. he and quicksilver now walked onward at their ease, talking very sociably together; and quicksilver told so many pleasant stories about his former adventures, and how well his wits had served him on various occasions, that perseus began to think him a very wonderful person. he evidently knew the world; and nobody is so charming to a young man as a friend who has that kind of knowledge. perseus listened the more eagerly, in the hope of brightening his own wits by what he heard. at last, he happened to recollect that quicksilver had spoken of a sister, who was to lend her assistance in the adventure which they were now bound upon. "where is she?" he inquired. "shall we not meet her soon?" "all at the proper time," said his companion. "but this sister of mine, you must understand, is quite a different sort of character from myself. she is very grave and prudent, seldom smiles, never laughs, and makes it a rule not to utter a word unless she has something particularly profound to say. neither will she listen to any but the wisest conversation." "dear me!" ejaculated perseus; "i shall be afraid to say a syllable." "she is a very accomplished person, i assure you," continued quicksilver, "and has all the arts and sciences at her fingers' ends. in short, she is so immoderately wise, that many people call her wisdom personified. but, to tell you the truth, she has hardly vivacity enough for my taste; and i think you would scarcely find her so pleasant a travelling companion as myself. she has her good points, nevertheless; and you will find the benefit of them, in your encounter with the gorgons." by this time it had grown quite dusk. they were now come to a very wild and desert place, overgrown with shaggy bushes, and so silent and solitary that nobody seemed ever to have dwelt or journeyed there. all was waste and desolate, in the gray twilight, which grew every moment more obscure. perseus looked about him, rather disconsolately, and asked quicksilver whether they had a great deal farther to go. "hist! hist!" whispered his companion. "make no noise! this is just the time and place to meet the three gray women. be careful that they do not see you before you see them; for, though they have but a single eye among the three, it is as sharp-sighted as half a dozen common eyes." "but what must i do," asked perseus, "when we meet them?" quicksilver explained to perseus how the three gray women managed with their one eye. they were in the habit, it seems, of changing it from one to another, as if it had been a pair of spectacles, or--which would have suited them better--a quizzing-glass. when one of the three had kept the eye a certain time, she took it out of the socket and passed it to one of her sisters, whose turn it might happen to be, and who immediately clapped it into her own head, and enjoyed a peep at the visible world. thus it will easily be understood that only one of the three gray women could see, while the other two were in utter darkness; and, moreover, at the instant when the eye was passing from hand to hand, neither of the poor old ladies was able to see a wink. i have heard of a great many strange things, in my day, and have witnessed not a few; but none, it seems to me, that can compare with the oddity of these three gray women, all peeping through a single eye. so thought perseus, likewise, and was so astonished that he almost fancied his companion was joking with him, and that there were no such old women in the world. "you will soon find whether i tell the truth or no," observed quicksilver. "hark! hush! hist! hist! there they come, now!" perseus looked earnestly through the dusk of the evening, and there, sure enough, at no great distance off, he descried the three gray women. the light being so faint, he could not well make out what sort of figures they were; only he discovered that they had long gray hair; and, as they came nearer, he saw that two of them had but the empty socket of an eye, in the middle of their foreheads. but, in the middle of the third sister's forehead, there was a very large, bright, and piercing eye, which sparkled like a great diamond in a ring; and so penetrating did it seem to be, that perseus could not help thinking it must possess the gift of seeing in the darkest midnight just as perfectly as at noonday. the sight of three persons' eyes was melted and collected into that single one. thus the three old dames got along about as comfortably, upon the whole, as if they could all see at once. she who chanced to have the eye in her forehead led the other two by the hands, peeping sharply about her, all the while; insomuch that perseus dreaded lest she should see right through the thick clump of bushes behind which he and quicksilver had hidden themselves. my stars! it was positively terrible to be within reach of so very sharp an eye! but, before they reached the clump of bushes, one of the three gray women spoke. "sister! sister scarecrow!" cried she, "you have had the eye long enough. it is my turn now!" "let me keep it a moment longer, sister nightmare," answered scarecrow. "i thought i had a glimpse of something behind that thick bush." "well, and what of that?" retorted nightmare, peevishly. "can't i see into a thick bush as easily as yourself? the eye is mine as well as yours; and i know the use of it as well as you, or may be a little better. i insist upon taking a peep immediately!" but here the third sister, whose name was shakejoint, began to complain, and said that it was her turn to have the eye, and that scarecrow and nightmare wanted to keep it all to themselves. to end the dispute, old dame scarecrow took the eye out of her forehead, and held it forth in her hand. "take it, one of you," cried she, "and quit this foolish quarrelling. for my part, i shall be glad of a little thick darkness. take it quickly, however, or i must clap it into my own head again!" accordingly, both nightmare and shakejoint put out their hands, groping eagerly to snatch the eye out of the hand of scarecrow. but, being both alike blind, they could not easily find where scarecrow's hand was; and scarecrow, being now just as much in the dark as shakejoint and nightmare, could not at once meet either of their hands, in order to put the eye into it. thus (as you will see, with half an eye, my wise little auditors), these good old dames had fallen into a strange perplexity. for, though the eye shone and glistened like a star, as scarecrow held it out, yet the gray women caught not the least glimpse of its light, and were all three in utter darkness, from too impatient a desire to see. quicksilver was so much tickled at beholding shakejoint and nightmare both groping for the eye, and each finding fault with scarecrow and one another, that he could scarcely help laughing aloud. "now is your time!" he whispered to perseus. "quick, quick! before they can clap the eye into either of their heads. rush out upon the old ladies, and snatch it from scarecrow's hand!" in an instant, while the three gray women were still scolding each other, perseus leaped from behind the clump of bushes, and made himself master of the prize. the marvellous eye, as he held it in his hand, shone very brightly, and seemed to look up into his face with a knowing air, and an expression as if it would have winked, had it been provided with a pair of eyelids for that purpose. but the gray women knew nothing of what had happened; and, each supposing that one of her sisters was in possession of the eye, they began their quarrel anew. at last, as perseus did not wish to put these respectable dames to greater inconvenience than was really necessary, he thought it right to explain the matter. "my good ladies," said he, "pray do not be angry with one another. if anybody is in fault, it is myself; for i have the honor to hold your very brilliant and excellent eye in my own hand!" "you! you have our eye! and who are you?" screamed the three gray women, all in a breath; for they were terribly frightened, of course, at hearing a strange voice, and discovering that their eyesight had got into the hands of they could not guess whom. "oh, what shall we do, sisters? what shall we do? we are all in the dark! give us our eye! give us our one, precious, solitary eye! you have two of your own! give us our eye!" "tell them," whispered quicksilver to perseus, "that they shall have back the eye as soon as they direct you where to find the nymphs who have the flying slippers, the magic wallet, and the helmet of darkness." "my dear, good, admirable old ladies," said perseus, addressing the gray women, "there is no occasion for putting yourselves into such a fright. i am by no means a bad young man. you shall have back your eye, safe and sound, and as bright as ever, the moment you tell me where to find the nymphs." "the nymphs! goodness me! sisters, what nymphs does he mean?" screamed scarecrow. "there are a great many nymphs, people say; some that go a hunting in the woods, and some that live inside of trees, and some that have a comfortable home in fountains of water. we know nothing at all about them. we are three unfortunate old souls, that go wandering about in the dusk, and never had but one eye amongst us, and that one you have stolen away. oh, give it back, good stranger!--whoever you are, give it back!" all this while the three gray women were groping with their outstretched hands, and trying their utmost to get hold of perseus. but he took good care to keep out of their reach. "my respectable dames," said he,--for his mother had taught him always to use the greatest civility,--"i hold your eye fast in my hand, and shall keep it safely for you, until you please to tell me where to find these nymphs. the nymphs, i mean, who keep the enchanted wallet, the flying slippers, and the what is it?--the helmet of invisibility." "mercy on us, sisters! what is the young man talking about?" exclaimed scarecrow, nightmare, and shakejoint, one to another, with great appearance of astonishment. "a pair of flying slippers, quoth he! his heels would quickly fly higher than his head, if he were silly enough to put them on. and a helmet of invisibility! how could a helmet make him invisible, unless it were big enough for him to hide under it? and an enchanted wallet! what sort of a contrivance may that be, i wonder? no, no, good stranger! we can tell you nothing of these marvellous things. you have two eyes of your own, and we have but a single one amongst us three. you can find out such wonders better than three blind old creatures, like us." perseus, hearing them talk in this way, began really to think that the gray women knew nothing of the matter; and, as it grieved him to have put them to so much trouble, he was just on the point of restoring their eye and asking pardon for his rudeness in snatching it away. but quicksilver caught his hand. "don't let them make a fool of you!" said he. "these three gray women are the only persons in the world that can tell you where to find the nymphs; and, unless you get that information, you will never succeed in cutting off the head of medusa with the snaky locks. keep fast hold of the eye, and all will go well." as it turned out, quicksilver was in the right. there are but few things that people prize so much as they do their eyesight; and the gray women valued their single eye as highly as if it had been half a dozen, which was the number they ought to have had. finding that there was no other way of recovering it, they at last told perseus what he wanted to know. no sooner had they done so, than he immediately, and with the utmost respect, clapped the eye into the vacant socket in one of their foreheads, thanked them for their kindness, and bade them farewell. before the young man was out of hearing, however, they had got into a new dispute, because he happened to have given the eye to scarecrow, who had already taken her turn of it when their trouble with perseus commenced. it is greatly to be feared that the three gray women were very much in the habit of disturbing their mutual harmony by bickerings of this sort; which was the more pity, as they could not conveniently do without one another, and were evidently intended to be inseparable companions. as a general rule, i would advise all people, whether sisters or brothers, old or young, who chance to have but one eye amongst them, to cultivate forbearance, and not all insist upon peeping through it at once. quicksilver and perseus, in the mean time, were making the best of their way in quest of the nymphs. the old dames had given them such particular directions, that they were not long in finding them out. they proved to be very different persons from nightmare, shakejoint, and scarecrow; for, instead of being old, they were young and beautiful; and instead of one eye amongst the sisterhood, each nymph had two exceedingly bright eyes of her own, with which she looked very kindly at perseus. they seemed to be acquainted with quicksilver; and, when he told them the adventure which perseus had undertaken, they made no difficulty about giving him the valuable articles that were in their custody. in the first place, they brought out what appeared to be a small purse, made of deer skin, and curiously embroidered, and bade him be sure and keep it safe. this was the magic wallet. the nymphs next produced a pair of shoes, or slippers, or sandals, with a nice little pair of wings at the heel of each. "put them on, perseus," said quicksilver. "you will find yourself as light-heeled as you can desire for the remainder of our journey." so perseus proceeded to put one of the slippers on, while he laid the other on the ground by his side. unexpectedly, however, this other slipper spread its wings, fluttered up off the ground, and would probably have flown away, if quicksilver had not made a leap, and luckily caught it in the air. "be more careful," said he, as he gave it back to perseus. "it would frighten the birds, up aloft, if they should see a flying slipper amongst them." when perseus had got on both of these wonderful slippers, he was altogether too buoyant to tread on earth. making a step or two, lo and behold! upward he popped into the air, high above the heads of quicksilver and the nymphs, and found it very difficult to clamber down again. winged slippers, and all such high-flying contrivances, are seldom quite easy to manage until one grows a little accustomed to them. quicksilver laughed at his companion's involuntary activity, and told him that he must not be in so desperate a hurry, but must wait for the invisible helmet. the good-natured nymphs had the helmet, with its dark tuft of waving plumes, all in readiness to put upon his head. and now there happened about as wonderful an incident as anything that i have yet told you. the instant before the helmet was put on, there stood perseus, a beautiful young man, with golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, the crooked sword by his side, and the brightly polished shield upon his arm,--a figure that seemed all made up of courage, sprightliness, and glorious light. but when the helmet had descended over his white brow, there was no longer any perseus to be seen! nothing but empty air! even the helmet, that covered him with its invisibility, had vanished! "where are you, perseus?" asked quicksilver. "why, here, to be sure!" answered perseus, very quietly, although his voice seemed to come out of the transparent atmosphere. "just where i was a moment ago. don't you see me?" "no, indeed!" answered his friend. "you are hidden under the helmet. but, if i cannot see you, neither can the gorgons. follow me, therefore, and we will try your dexterity in using the winged slippers." with these words, quicksilver's cap spread its wings, as if his head were about to fly away from his shoulders; but his whole figure rose lightly into the air, and perseus followed. by the time they had ascended a few hundred feet, the young man began to feel what a delightful thing it was to leave the dull earth so far beneath him, and to be able to flit about like a bird. it was now deep night. perseus looked upward, and saw the round, bright, silvery moon, and thought that he should desire nothing better than to soar up thither, and spend his life there. then he looked downward again, and saw the earth, with its seas and lakes, and the silver courses of its rivers, and its snowy mountain-peaks, and the breadth of its fields, and the dark cluster of its woods, and its cities of white marble; and, with the moonshine sleeping over the whole scene, it was as beautiful as the moon or any star could be. and, among other objects, he saw the island of seriphus, where his dear mother was. sometimes he and quicksilver approached a cloud, that, at a distance, looked as if it were made of fleecy silver; although, when they plunged into it, they found themselves chilled and moistened with gray mist. so swift was their flight, however, that, in an instant, they emerged from the cloud into the moonlight again. once, a high-soaring eagle flew right against the invisible perseus. the bravest sights were the meteors, that gleamed suddenly out, as if a bonfire had been kindled in the sky, and made the moonshine pale for as much as a hundred miles around them. as the two companions flew onward, perseus fancied that he could hear the rustle of a garment close by his side; and it was on the side opposite to the one where he beheld quicksilver, yet only quicksilver was visible. "whose garment is this," inquired perseus, "that keeps rustling close beside me in the breeze?" "oh, it is my sister's!" answered quicksilver. "she is coming along with us, as i told you she would. we could do nothing without the help of my sister. you have no idea how wise she is. she has such eyes, too! why, she can see you, at this moment, just as distinctly as if you were not invisible; and i'll venture to say, she will be the first to discover the gorgons." by this time, in their swift voyage through the air, they had come within sight of the great ocean, and were soon flying over it. far beneath them, the waves tossed themselves tumultuously in mid-sea, or rolled a white surf-line upon the long beaches, or foamed against the rocky cliffs, with a roar that was thunderous, in the lower world; although it became a gentle murmur, like the voice of a baby half asleep, before it reached the ears of perseus. just then a voice spoke in the air close by him. it seemed to be a woman's voice, and was melodious, though not exactly what might be called sweet, but grave and mild. "perseus," said the voice, "there are the gorgons." "where?" exclaimed perseus. "i cannot see them." "on the shore of that island beneath you," replied the voice. "a pebble, dropped from your hand, would strike in the midst of them." "i told you she would be the first to discover them," said quicksilver to perseus. "and there they are!" straight downward, two or three thousand feet below him, perseus perceived a small island, with the sea breaking into white foam all around its rocky shore, except on one side, where there was a beach of snowy sand. he descended towards it, and, looking earnestly at a cluster or heap of brightness, at the foot of a precipice of black rocks, behold, there were the terrible gorgons! they lay fast asleep, soothed by the thunder of the sea; for it required a tumult that would have deafened everybody else to lull such fierce creatures into slumber. the moonlight glistened on their steely scales, and on their golden wings, which drooped idly over the sand. their brazen claws, horrible to look at, were thrust out, and clutched the wave-beaten fragments of rock, while the sleeping gorgons dreamed of tearing some poor mortal all to pieces. the snakes that served them instead of hair seemed likewise to be asleep; although, now and then, one would writhe, and lift its head, and thrust out its forked tongue, emitting a drowsy hiss, and then let itself subside among its sister snakes. the gorgons were more like an awful, gigantic kind of insect,--immense, golden-winged beetles, or dragon-flies, or things of that sort,--at once ugly and beautiful,--than like anything else; only that they were a thousand and a million times as big. and, with all this, there was something partly human about them, too. luckily for perseus, their faces were completely hidden from him by the posture in which they lay; for, had he but looked one instant at them, he would have fallen heavily out of the air, an image of senseless stone. "now," whispered quicksilver, as he hovered by the side of perseus,--"now is your time to do the deed! be quick; or, if one of the gorgons should awake, you are too late!" "which shall i strike at?" asked perseus, drawing his sword and descending a little lower. "they all three look alike. all three have snaky locks. which of the three is medusa?" it must be understood that medusa was the only one of these dragon-monsters whose head perseus could possibly cut off. as for the other two, let him have the sharpest sword that ever was forged, and he might have hacked away by the hour together, without doing them the least harm. "be cautious," said the calm voice which had before spoken to him. "one of the gorgons is stirring in her sleep, and is just about to turn over. that is medusa. do not look at her! the sight would turn you to stone! look at the reflection of her face and figure in the bright mirror of your shield." perseus now understood quicksilver's motive for so earnestly exhorting him to polish his shield. in its surface he could safely look at the reflection of the gorgon's face. and there it was,--that terrible countenance,--mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror. the snakes, whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting themselves over the forehead. it was the fiercest and most horrible face that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and savage kind of beauty in it. the eyes were closed, and the gorgon was still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream. she gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws. the snakes, too, seemed to feel medusa's dream, and to be made more restless by it. they twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their eyes. "now, now!" whispered quicksilver, who was growing impatient. "make a dash at the monster!" "but be calm," said the grave, melodious voice, at the young man's side. "look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not miss your first stroke." perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on medusa's face, as reflected in his shield. the nearer he came, the more terrible did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow. at last, when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, perseus uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon the gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and medusa unclosed her eyes. but she awoke too late. the sword was sharp; the stroke fell like a lightning-flash; and the head of the wicked medusa tumbled from her body! "admirably done!" cried quicksilver. "make haste, and clap the head into your magic wallet." to the astonishment of perseus, the small, embroidered wallet, which he had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a purse, grew all at once large enough to contain medusa's head. as quick as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it, and thrust it in. "your task is done," said the calm voice. "now fly; for the other gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for medusa's death." it was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for perseus had not done the deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the snakes, and the thump of medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten sand, awoke the other two monsters. there they sat, for an instant, sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with venomous malice against they knew not what. but when the gorgons saw the scaly carcass of medusa, headless, and her golden wings all ruffled, and half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear what yells and screeches they set up. and then the snakes! they sent forth a hundred-fold hiss, with one consent, and medusa's snakes answered them out of the magic wallet. no sooner were the gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and flapping their huge wings so wildly, that some of the golden feathers were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore. and there, perhaps, those very feathers lie scattered, till this day. up rose the gorgons, as i tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to stone. had perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again! but he took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet of invisibility, the gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him; nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring upward a perpendicular mile or so. at that height, when the screams of those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a straight course for the island of seriphus, in order to carry medusa's head to king polydectes. i have no time to tell you of several marvellous things that befell perseus, on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea-monster, just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing him the head of the gorgon. if you doubt this latter story, you may make a voyage to africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which is still known by the ancient giant's name. finally, our brave perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to see his dear mother. but, during his absence, the wicked king had treated danaë so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape, and had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were extremely kind to her. these praise-worthy priests, and the kind-hearted fisherman, who had first shown hospitality to danaë and little perseus when he found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only persons on the island who cared about doing right. all the rest of the people, as well as king polydectes himself, were remarkably ill-behaved, and deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen. not finding his mother at home, perseus went straight to the palace, and was immediately ushered into the presence of the king. polydectes was by no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own evil mind, that the gorgons would have torn the poor young man to pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way. however, seeing him safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked perseus how he had succeeded. "have you performed your promise?" inquired he. "have you brought me the head of medusa with the snaky locks? if not, young man, it will cost you dear; for i must have a bridal present for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much." "yes, please your majesty," answered perseus, in a quiet way, as if it were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform. "i have brought you the gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!" "indeed! pray let me see it," quoth king polydectes. "it must be a very curious spectacle, if all that travellers tell about it be true!" "your majesty is in the right," replied perseus. "it is really an object that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it. and, if your majesty think fit, i would suggest that a holiday be proclaimed, and that all your majesty's subjects be summoned to behold this wonderful curiosity. few of them, i imagine, have seen a gorgon's head before, and perhaps never may again!" the king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and very fond of sight-seeing, as idle persons usually are. so he took the young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all directions, to blow the trumpet at the street-corners, and in the market-places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to court. thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been glad if perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the gorgons. if there were any better people in the island (as i really hope there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such), they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of their little children. most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed one another, in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which perseus showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand. on a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty king polydectes, amid his evil counsellors, and with his flattering courtiers in a semicircle round about him. monarch, counsellors, courtiers, and subjects, all gazed eagerly towards perseus. "show us the head! show us the head!" shouted the people; and there was a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear perseus to pieces, unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show. "show us the head of medusa with the snaky locks!" a feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful perseus. "o king polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, i am very loath to show you the gorgon's head!" "ah, the villain and coward!" yelled the people, more fiercely than before. "he is making game of us! he has no gorgon's head! show us the head, if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!" the evil counsellors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the courtiers murmured, with one consent, that perseus had shown disrespect to their royal lord and master; and the great king polydectes himself waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of authority, on his peril, to produce the head. "show me the gorgon's head, or i will cut off your own!" and perseus sighed. "this instant," repeated polydectes, "or you die!" "behold it, then!" cried perseus, in a voice like the blast of a trumpet. and, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before the wicked king polydectes, his evil counsellors, and all his fierce subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and his people. they were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of that moment! at the first glimpse of the terrible head of medusa, they whitened into marble! and perseus thrust the head back into his wallet, and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of the wicked king polydectes. tanglewood porch _after the story_ "was not that a very fine story?" asked eustace. "oh yes, yes!" cried cowslip, clapping her hands. "and those funny old women, with only one eye amongst them! i never heard of anything so strange." "as to their one tooth, which they shifted about," observed primrose, "there was nothing so very wonderful in that. i suppose it was a false tooth. but think of your turning mercury into quicksilver, and talking about his sister! you are too ridiculous!" "and was she not his sister?" asked eustace bright. "if i had thought of it sooner, i would have described her as a maiden lady, who kept a pet owl!" "well, at any rate," said primrose, "your story seems to have driven away the mist." and, indeed, while the tale was going forward, the vapors had been quite exhaled from the landscape. a scene was now disclosed which the spectators might almost fancy as having been created since they had last looked in the direction where it lay. about half a mile distant, in the lap of the valley, now appeared a beautiful lake, which reflected a perfect image of its own wooded banks, and of the summits of the more distant hills. it gleamed in glassy tranquillity, without the trace of a winged breeze on any part of its bosom. beyond its farther shore was monument mountain, in a recumbent position, stretching almost across the valley. eustace bright compared it to a huge, headless sphinx, wrapped in a persian shawl; and, indeed, so rich and diversified was the autumnal foliage of its woods, that the simile of the shawl was by no means too high-colored for the reality. in the lower ground, between tanglewood and the lake, the clumps of trees and borders of woodland were chiefly golden-leaved or dusky brown, as having suffered more from frost than the foliage on the hill-sides. over all this scene there was a genial sunshine, intermingled with a slight haze, which made it unspeakably soft and tender. oh, what a day of indian summer was it going to be! the children snatched their baskets, and set forth, with hop, skip, and jump, and all sorts of frisks and gambols; while cousin eustace proved his fitness to preside over the party, by outdoing all their antics, and performing several new capers, which none of them could ever hope to imitate. behind went a good old dog, whose name was ben. he was one of the most respectable and kind-hearted of quadrupeds, and probably felt it to be his duty not to trust the children away from their parents without some better guardian than this feather-brained eustace bright. the golden touch shadow brook _introductory to "the golden touch"_ at noon, our juvenile party assembled in a dell, through the depths of which ran a little brook. the dell was narrow, and its steep sides, from the margin of the stream upward, were thickly set with trees, chiefly walnuts and chestnuts, among which grew a few oaks and maples. in the summer time, the shade of so many clustering branches, meeting and intermingling across the rivulet, was deep enough to produce a noontide twilight. hence came the name of shadow brook. but now, ever since autumn had crept into this secluded place, all the dark verdure was changed to gold, so that it really kindled up the dell, instead of shading it. the bright yellow leaves, even had it been a cloudy day, would have seemed to keep the sunlight among them; and enough of them had fallen to strew all the bed and margin of the brook with sunlight, too. thus the shady nook, where summer had cooled herself, was now the sunniest spot anywhere to be found. the little brook ran along over its pathway of gold, here pausing to form a pool, in which minnows were darting to and fro; and then it hurried onward at a swifter pace, as if in haste to reach the lake; and, forgetting to look whither it went, it tumbled over the root of a tree, which stretched quite across its current. you would have laughed to hear how noisily it babbled about this accident. and even after it had run onward, the brook still kept talking to itself, as if it were in a maze. it was wonder-smitten, i suppose, at finding its dark dell so illuminated, and at hearing the prattle and merriment of so many children. so it stole away as quickly as it could, and hid itself in the lake. in the dell of shadow brook, eustace bright and his little friends had eaten their dinner. they had brought plenty of good things from tanglewood, in their baskets, and had spread them out on the stumps of trees, and on mossy trunks, and had feasted merrily, and made a very nice dinner indeed. after it was over, nobody felt like stirring. "we will rest ourselves here," said several of the children, "while cousin eustace tells us another of his pretty stories." cousin eustace had a good right to be tired, as well as the children, for he had performed great feats on that memorable forenoon. dandelion, clover, cowslip, and buttercup were almost most persuaded that he had winged slippers, like those which the nymphs gave perseus; so often had the student shown himself at the tip-top of a nut-tree, when only a moment before he had been standing on the ground. and then, what showers of walnuts had he sent rattling down upon their heads, for their busy little hands to gather into the baskets! in short, he had been as active as a squirrel or a monkey, and now, flinging himself down on the yellow leaves, seemed inclined to take a little rest. but children have no mercy nor consideration for anybody's weariness; and if you had but a single breath left, they would ask you to spend it in telling them a story. "cousin eustace," said cowslip, "that was a very nice story of the gorgon's head. do you think you could tell us another as good?" "yes, child," said eustace, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes, as if preparing for a nap. "i can tell you a dozen, as good or better, if i choose." "o primrose and periwinkle, do you hear what he says?" cried cowslip, dancing with delight. "cousin eustace is going to tell us a dozen better stories than that about the gorgon's head!" "i did not promise you even one, you foolish little cowslip!" said eustace, half pettishly. "however, i suppose you must have it. this is the consequence of having earned a reputation! i wish i were a great deal duller than i am, or that i had never shown half the bright qualities with which nature has endowed me; and then i might have my nap out, in peace and comfort!" but cousin eustace, as i think i have hinted before, was as fond of telling his stories as the children of hearing them. his mind was in a free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and scarcely required any external impulse to set it at work. how different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the trained diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy by long habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the day's comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away! this remark, however, is not meant for the children to hear. without further solicitation, eustace bright proceeded to tell the following really splendid story. it had come into his mind as he lay looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch of autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what resembled the purest gold. and this change, which we have all of us witnessed, is as wonderful as anything that eustace told about in the story of midas. the golden touch once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name i either never knew, or have entirely forgotten. so, because i love odd names for little girls, i choose to call her marygold. this king midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world. he valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal. if he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool. but the more midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth. he thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made. thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose. if ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. when little marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "poh, poh, child! if these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!" and yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, king midas had shown a great taste for flowers. he had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt. these roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant, as when midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume. but now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. and though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another. at length, as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser, midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold. he made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. it was here that he kept his wealth. to this dismal hole--for it was little better than a dungeon--midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. he valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help. and then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, "o midas, rich king midas, what a happy man art thou!" but it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup. it seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him. midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so happy as he might be. the very tip-top of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own. now, i need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the old, old times, when king midas was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own day and country. and, on the other hand, a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have stared their eyes out. on the whole, i regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, i must go on with my story. midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! it was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face. whether it was that the imagination of king midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden radiance in it. certainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before. even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire. as midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. it is no matter about telling you who he was. in those days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half playfully and half seriously. midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. the stranger's aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. it was far more probable that he came to do midas a favor. and what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure? the stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to midas. "you are a wealthy man, friend midas!" he observed. "i doubt whether any other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room." "i have done pretty well,--pretty well," answered midas, in a discontented tone. "but, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together. if one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!" "what!" exclaimed the stranger. "then you are not satisfied?" midas shook his head. "and pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "merely for the curiosity of the thing, i should be glad to know." midas paused and meditated. he felt a presentiment that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes. now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible, thing it might come into his head to ask. so he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to imagine them big enough. at last, a bright idea occurred to king midas. it seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much. raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face. "well, midas," observed his visitor, "i see that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you. tell me your wish." "it is only this," replied midas. "i am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after i have done my best. i wish everything that i touch to be changed to gold!" the stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--lie strewn in the glow of light. "the golden touch!" exclaimed he. "you certainly deserve credit, friend midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. but are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?" "how could it fail?" said midas. "and will you never regret the possession of it?" "what could induce me?" asked midas. "i ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy." "be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell. "to-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the golden touch." the figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and midas involuntarily closed his eyes. on opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up. whether midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say. asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. at any rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when king midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were within reach. he was anxious to prove whether the golden touch had really come, according to the stranger's promise. so he laid his finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance as before. indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of him. and what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes, midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch! all this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of brightness along the edge of the sky, where midas could not see it. he lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head. it seemed to midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed. looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold! the golden touch had come to him with the first sunbeam! midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. he seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. he pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand,--a mass of gold. he took up a book from the table. at his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible. he hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight. he drew out his handkerchief, which little marygold had hemmed for him. that was likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread! somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please king midas. he would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand. but it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. midas now took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. in those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could midas have had any? to his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them. but this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold. it struck midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles. "it is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very philosophically. "we cannot expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience. the golden touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very eyesight. my own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little marygold will soon be old enough to read to me." wise king midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. he therefore went down stairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his descent. he lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden. here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze. their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquillity, did these roses seem to be. but midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. so he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. by the time this good work was completed, king midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace. what was usually a king's breakfast in the days of midas, i really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. to the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee, for king midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter marygold. at all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king; and, whether he had it or not, king midas could not have had a better. little marygold had not yet made her appearance. her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. to do midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. it was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly. this circumstance surprised him, because marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. when midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little marygold into better spirits, by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter's bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold. meanwhile, marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break. "how now, my little lady!" cried midas. "pray what is the matter with you, this bright morning?" marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which midas had so recently transmuted. "beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "and what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?" "ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew! as soon as i was dressed i ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because i know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter. but, oh dear, dear me! what do you think has happened? such a misfortune! all the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! they are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance! what can have been the matter with them?" "poh, my dear little girl,--pray don't cry about it!" said midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her. "sit down and eat your bread and milk! you will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day." "i don't care for such roses as this!" cried marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. "it has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!" the child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her china bowl. perhaps this was all the better; for marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal. midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. he thought to himself, that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. the cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots. amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump! "ha!" exclaimed midas, rather aghast. "what is the matter, father?" asked little marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes. "nothing, child, nothing!" said midas. "eat your milk, before it gets quite cold." he took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. to his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook-trout into a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. no; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. a very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only king midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one. "i don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how i am to get any breakfast!" he took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of indian meal. to say the truth, if it had really been a hot indian cake, midas would have prized it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. the egg, indeed, might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the habit of laying; but king midas was the only goose that had had anything to do with the matter. "well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction. "such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!" hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, king midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry. but the golden touch was too nimble for him. he found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright. "father, dear father!" cried little marygold, who was a very affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? have you burnt your mouth?" "ah, dear child," groaned midas, dolefully, "i don't know what is to become of your poor father!" and, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in all your lives? here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing. the poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than king midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold. and what was to be done? already, at breakfast, midas was excessively hungry. would he be less so by dinner-time? and how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him! how many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare? these reflections so troubled wise king midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable. but this was only a passing thought. so fascinated was midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the golden touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. just imagine what a price for one meal's victuals! it would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee! "it would be quite too dear," thought midas. nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too. our pretty marygold could endure it no longer. she sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him. then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees. he bent down and kissed her. he felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the golden touch. "my precious, precious marygold!" cried he. but marygold made no answer. alas, what had he done? how fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed! the moment the lips of midas touched marygold's forehead, a change had taken place. her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing on her cheeks. her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father's encircling arms. oh, terrible misfortune! the victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue! yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face. it was the prettiest and most woful sight that ever mortal saw. all the features and tokens of marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. but, the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter. it had been a favorite phrase of midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. and now the phrase had become literally true. and now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky! it would be too sad a story, if i were to tell you how midas, in the fulness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at marygold, nor yet to look away from her. except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. but, stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again. this, however, could not be. so midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child's face. while he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door. midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the golden touch. the stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of midas. "well, friend midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with the golden touch?" midas shook his head. "i am very miserable," said he. "very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "and how happens that? have i not faithfully kept my promise with you? have you not everything that your heart desired?" "gold is not everything," answered midas. "and i have lost all that my heart really cared for." "ah! so you have made a discovery, since yesterday?" observed the stranger. "let us see, then. which of these two things do you think is really worth the most,--the gift of the golden touch, or one cup of clear cold water?" "o blessed water!" exclaimed midas. "it will never moisten my parched throat again!" "the golden touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?" "a piece of bread," answered midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!" "the golden touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?" "oh my child, my dear child!" cried poor midas, wringing his hands. "i would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!" "you are wiser than you were, king midas!" said the stranger, looking seriously at him. "your own heart, i perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. were it so, your case would indeed be desperate. but you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this golden touch?" "it is hateful to me!" replied midas. a fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold. midas shuddered. "go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance. if you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned." king midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished. you will easily believe that midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hastening to the river-side. as he scampered along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvellous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. on reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes. "poof! poof! poof!" snorted king midas, as his head emerged out of the water. "well; this is really a refreshing bath, and i think it must have quite washed away the golden touch. and now for filling my pitcher!" as he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it. he was conscious, also, of a change within himself. a cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom. no doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now softened back again into flesh. perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight. the curse of the golden touch had, therefore, really been removed from him. king midas hastened back to the palace; and, i suppose, the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. but that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. the first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little marygold. no sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek! and how she began to sneeze and sputter!--and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her! "pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "see how you have wet my nice frock, which i put on only this morning!" for marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor king midas. her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown. for this purpose, he led little marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom. there were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to put king midas in mind of the golden touch. one was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss. this change of hue was really an improvement, and made marygold's hair richer than in her babyhood. when king midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot marygold's children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvellous story, pretty much as i have now told it to you. and then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother. "and to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth king midas, diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning, i have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!" shadow brook _after the story_ "well, children," inquired eustace, who was very fond of eliciting a definite opinion from his auditors, "did you ever, in all your lives, listen to a better story than this of 'the golden touch'?" "why, as to the story of king midas," said saucy primrose, "it was a famous one thousands of years before mr. eustace bright came into the world, and will continue to be so as long after he quits it. but some people have what we may call 'the leaden touch,' and make everything dull and heavy that they lay their fingers upon." "you are a smart child, primrose, to be not yet in your teens," said eustace, taken rather aback by the piquancy of her criticism. "but you well know, in your naughty little heart, that i have burnished the old gold of midas all over anew, and have made it shine as it never shone before. and then that figure of marygold! do you perceive no nice workmanship in that? and how finely i have brought out and deepened the moral! what say you, sweet fern, dandelion, clover, periwinkle? would any of you, after hearing this story, be so foolish as to desire the faculty of changing things to gold?" "i should like," said periwinkle, a girl of ten, "to have the power of turning everything to gold with my right forefinger; but, with my left forefinger, i should want the power of changing it back again, if the first change did not please me. and i know what i would do, this very afternoon!" "pray tell me," said eustace. "why," answered periwinkle, "i would touch every one of these golden leaves on the trees with my left forefinger, and make them all green again; so that we might have the summer back at once, with no ugly winter in the mean time." "o periwinkle!" cried eustace bright, "there you are wrong, and would do a great deal of mischief. were i midas, i would make nothing else but just such golden days as these over and over again, all the year throughout. my best thoughts always come a little too late. why did not i tell you how old king midas came to america, and changed the dusky autumn, such as it is in other countries, into the burnished beauty which it here puts on? he gilded the leaves of the great volume of nature." "cousin eustace," said sweet fern, a good little boy, who was always making particular inquiries about the precise height of giants and the littleness of fairies, "how big was marygold, and how much did she weigh after she was turned to gold?" "she was about as tall as you are," replied eustace, "and, as gold is very heavy, she weighed at least two thousand pounds, and might have been coined into thirty or forty thousand gold dollars. i wish primrose were worth half as much. come, little people, let us clamber out of the dell, and look about us." they did so. the sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over the surrounding hill-sides, like golden wine out of a bowl. it was such a day that you could not help saying of it, "there never was such a day before!" although yesterday was just such a day, and to-morrow will be just such another. ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle! it is a remarkable peculiarity of these october days, that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier. we cannot, therefore, call the days long; but they appear, somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning. "come, children, come!" cried eustace bright. "more nuts, more nuts, more nuts! fill all your baskets; and, at christmas time, i will crack them for you, and tell you beautiful stories!" so away they went; all of them in excellent spirits, except little dandelion, who, i am sorry to tell you, had been sitting on a chestnut-bur, and was stuck as full as a pincushion of its prickles. dear me, how uncomfortably he must have felt! the paradise of children tanglewood play-room _introductory to "the paradise of children"_ the golden days of october passed away, as so many other octobers have, and brown november likewise, and the greater part of chill december, too. at last came merry christmas, and eustace bright along with it, making it all the merrier by his presence. and, the day after his arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm. up to this time, the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage. the grass had kept itself green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes, and along the lee of the stone fences. it was but a week or two ago, and since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a dandelion in bloom, on the margin of shadow brook, where it glides out of the dell. but no more green grass and dandelions now. this was such a snow-storm! twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows of tanglewood and the dome of taconic, had it been possible to see so far among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere. it seemed as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls of snow at one another, in their enormous sport. so thick were the fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley, were hidden by them the greater part of the time. sometimes, it is true, the little prisoners of tanglewood could discern a dim outline of monument mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape. but these were merely peeps through the tempest. nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snow-storm. they had already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just fancied the berkshire mountains to be doing. and now they had come back to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room, and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small. the biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides rag-babies; and blocks enough to build bunker hill monument, and nine-pins, and balls, and humming tops, and battledores, and grace-sticks, and skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property than i could tell of in a printed page. but the children liked the snow-storm better than them all. it suggested so many brisk enjoyments for to-morrow, and all the remainder of the winter. the sleigh-ride; the slides down hill into the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped out; the snow-fortresses that were to be built; and the snowballing to be carried on! so the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their heads. "why, we shall be blocked up till spring!" cried they, with the hugest delight. "what a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered up! the little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves." "you silly children, what do you want of more snow?" asked eustace, who, tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into the play-room. "it has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the only skating that i could hope for through the winter. we shall see nothing more of the lake till april; and this was to have been my first day upon it! don't you pity me, primrose?" "oh, to be sure!" answered primrose, laughing. "but, for your comfort, we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us under the porch, and down in the hollow, by shadow brook. perhaps i shall like them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while there were nuts to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy." hereupon, periwinkle, clover, sweet fern, and as many others of the little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at tanglewood, gathered about eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story. the student yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the small people, skipped three times back and forth over the top of a chair, in order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion. "well, well, children," said he, after these preliminaries, "since you insist, and primrose has set her heart upon it, i will see what can be done for you. and, that you may know what happy days there were before snow-storms came into fashion, i will tell you a story of the oldest of all old times, when the world was as new as sweet fern's bran-new humming-top. there was then but one season in the year, and that was the delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was childhood." "i never heard of that before," said primrose. "of course, you never did," answered eustace. "it shall be a story of what nobody but myself ever dreamed of,--a paradise of children,--and how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as primrose here, it all came to nothing." so eustace bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping over, took cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was pandora, and about her playfellow epimetheus. you may read it, word for word, in the pages that come next. 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 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, nor 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 carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong day. what was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked. oh, what a good time was that to be alive in? the truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth. 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 in the world 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. [illustration: pandora] "well, then," said epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, "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 your 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, however, 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 he 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 went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society than his little playfellow's. 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 till 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 positively a very handsome article of furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be placed. 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 most 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, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the beauty out of all the rest. nevertheless, on looking more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, 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 centre of the lid. there was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, 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, i had almost forgotten to say, 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 would 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." it might have been better for pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject. but children led so easy a life, before any troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure. they could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while mother earth was in her babyhood. when life is all sport, toil is the real play. there was absolutely nothing to do. a little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, i suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases,--and poor little pandora's day's work was over. and then, for the rest of the day, there was the box! after all, i am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in its way. it supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen! when she was in good-humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it. or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little foot. and many a kick did the box--(but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got)--many a kick did it receive. but, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our active-minded little pandora would not have known half so well how to spend her time as she now did. for it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside. what could it be, indeed? just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your christmas or new-year's gifts. do you think that you should be less curious than pandora? if you were left alone with the box, might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid? but you would not do it. oh, fie! no, no! only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep! i know not whether pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it. but pandora was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little girls, here around me, would have felt. and, possibly, a little more so; but of that i am not quite so certain. on this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at last, she approached the box. she was more than half determined to open it, if she could. ah, naughty pandora! first, however, she tried to lift it. it was heavy; quite 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. there was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions. 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. for you must recollect that, at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be happy. the world had not yet learned to be otherwise. not a single soul or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts. 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. and here i must mention that 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,--as heavily as a grown man,--as heavily, i was going to say, as an elephant,--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, or those insects which we call dor-bugs, and pinching-dogs, 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 that they did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes 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. of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea what it meant. 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 little 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 will you stay with us," asked epimetheus, "forever 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 come 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 little 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! tanglewood play-room _after the story_ "primrose," asked eustace, pinching her ear, "how do you like my little pandora? don't you think her the exact picture of yourself? but you would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box." "then i should have been well punished for my naughtiness," retorted primrose, smartly; "for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was lifted, would have been mr. eustace bright, in the shape of a trouble." "cousin eustace," said sweet fern, "did the box hold all the trouble that has ever come into the world?" "every mite of it!" answered eustace. "this very snow-storm, which has spoiled my skating, was packed up there." "and how big was the box?" asked sweet fern. "why, perhaps three feet long," said eustace, "two feet wide, and two feet and a half high." "ah," said the child, "you are making fun of me, cousin eustace! i know there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as that. as for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so it could not have been in the box." "hear the child!" cried primrose, with an air of superiority. "how little he knows about the troubles of this world! poor fellow! he will be wiser when he has seen as much of life as i have." so saying, she began to skip the rope. meantime, the day was drawing towards its close. out of doors the scene certainly looked dreary. there was a gray drift, far and wide, through the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered or gone out for a good many hours past. had there been only one child at the window of tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would perhaps have made him sad. but half a dozen children together, though they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old winter and all his storms to put them out of spirits. eustace bright, moreover, on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the next stormy day besides. the three golden apples tanglewood fireside _introductory to "the three golden apples"_ the snow-storm lasted another day; but what became of it afterwards, i cannot possibly imagine. at any rate, it entirely cleared away during the night; and when the sun arose the next morning, it shone brightly down on as bleak a tract of hill-country, here in berkshire, as could be seen anywhere in the world. the frostwork had so covered the window-panes that it was hardly possible to get a glimpse at the scenery outside. but, while waiting for breakfast, the small populace of tanglewood had scratched peep-holes with their finger-nails, and saw with vast delight that--unless it were one or two bare patches on a precipitous hill-side, or the gray effect of the snow, intermingled with the black pine forest--all nature was as white as a sheet. how exceedingly pleasant! and, to make it all the better, it was cold enough to nip one's nose short off! if people have but life enough in them to bear it, there is nothing that so raises the spirits, and makes the blood ripple and dance so nimbly, like a brook down the slope of a hill, as a bright, hard frost. no sooner was breakfast over, than the whole party, well muffled in furs and woollens, floundered forth into the midst of the snow. well, what a day of frosty sport was this! they slid down hill into the valley, a hundred times, nobody knows how far; and, to make it all the merrier, upsetting their sledges, and tumbling head over heels, quite as often as they came safely to the bottom. and, once, eustace bright took periwinkle, sweet fern, and squash-blossom, on the sledge with him, by way of insuring a safe passage; and down they went, full speed. but, behold, half-way down, the sledge hit against a hidden stump, and flung all four of its passengers into a heap; and, on gathering themselves up, there was no little squash-blossom to be found! why, what could have become of the child? and while they were wondering and staring about, up started squash-blossom out of a snow-bank, with the reddest face you ever saw, and looking as if a large scarlet flower had suddenly sprouted up in midwinter. then there was a great laugh. when they had grown tired of sliding down hill, eustace set the children to digging a cave in the biggest snow-drift that they could find. unluckily, just as it was completed, and the party had squeezed themselves into the hollow, down came the roof upon their heads, and buried every soul of them alive! the next moment, up popped all their little heads out of the ruins, and the tall student's head in the midst of them, looking hoary and venerable with the snow-dust that had got amongst his brown curls. and then, to punish cousin eustace for advising them to dig such a tumble-down cavern, the children attacked him in a body, and so bepelted him with snowballs that he was fain to take to his heels. so he ran away, and went into the woods, and thence to the margin of shadow brook, where he could hear the streamlet grumbling along, under great overhanging banks of snow and ice, which would scarcely let it see the light of day. there were adamantine icicles glittering around all its little cascades. thence he strolled to the shore of the lake, and beheld a white, untrodden plain before him, stretching from his own feet to the foot of monument mountain. and, it being now almost sunset, eustace thought that he had never beheld anything so fresh and beautiful as the scene. he was glad that the children were not with him; for their lively spirits and tumble-about activity would quite have chased away his higher and graver mood, so that he would merely have been merry (as he had already been, the whole day long), and would not have known the loveliness of the winter sunset among the hills. when the sun was fairly down, our friend eustace went home to eat his supper. after the meal was over, he betook himself to the study, with a purpose, i rather imagine, to write an ode, or two or three sonnets, or verses of some kind or other, in praise of the purple and golden clouds which he had seen around the setting sun. but, before he had hammered out the very first rhyme, the door opened, and primrose and periwinkle made their appearance. "go away, children! i can't be troubled with you now!" cried the student, looking over his shoulder, with the pen between his fingers. "what in the world do you want here? i thought you were all in bed!" "hear him, periwinkle, trying to talk like a grown man!" said primrose. "and he seems to forget that i am now thirteen years old, and may sit up almost as late as i please. but, cousin eustace, you must put off your airs, and come with us to the drawing-room. the children have talked so much about your stories, that my father wishes to hear one of them, in order to judge whether they are likely to do any mischief." "poh, poh, primrose!" exclaimed the student, rather vexed. "i don't believe i can tell one of my stories in the presence of grown people. besides, your father is a classical scholar; not that i am much afraid of his scholarship, neither, for i doubt not it is as rusty as an old case-knife by this time. but then he will be sure to quarrel with the admirable nonsense that i put into these stories, out of my own head, and which makes the great charm of the matter for children, like yourself. no man of fifty, who has read the classical myths in his youth, can possibly understand my merit as a reinventor and improver of them." "all this may be very true," said primrose, "but come you must! my father will not open his book, nor will mamma open the piano, till you have given us some of your nonsense, as you very correctly call it. so be a good boy, and come along." whatever he might pretend, the student was rather glad than otherwise, on second thoughts, to catch at the opportunity of proving to mr. pringle what an excellent faculty he had in modernizing the myths of ancient times. until twenty years of age, a young man may, indeed, be rather bashful about showing his poetry and his prose; but, for all that, he is pretty apt to think that these very productions would place him at the tip-top of literature, if once they could be known. accordingly, without much more resistance, eustace suffered primrose and periwinkle to drag him into the drawing-room. it was a large, handsome apartment, with a semicircular window at one end, in the recess of which stood a marble copy of greenough's angel and child. on one side of the fireplace there were many shelves of books, gravely but richly bound. the white light of the astral-lamp, and the red glow of the bright coal-fire, made the room brilliant and cheerful; and before the fire, in a deep arm-chair, sat mr. pringle, looking just fit to be seated in such a chair, and in such a room. he was a tall and quite a handsome gentleman, with a bald brow; and was always so nicely dressed, that even eustace bright never liked to enter his presence without at least pausing at the threshold to settle his shirt-collar. but now, as primrose had hold of one of his hands, and periwinkle of the other, he was forced to make his appearance with a rough-and-tumble sort of look, as if he had been rolling all day in a snow-bank. and so he had. mr. pringle turned towards the student benignly enough, but in a way that made him feel how uncombed and unbrushed he was, and how uncombed and unbrushed, likewise, were his mind and thoughts. "eustace," said mr. pringle, with a smile, "i find that you are producing a great sensation among the little public of tanglewood, by the exercise of your gifts of narrative. primrose here, as the little folks choose to call her, and the rest of the children, have been so loud in praise of your stories, that mrs. pringle and myself are really curious to hear a specimen. it would be so much the more gratifying to myself, as the stories appear to be an attempt to render the fables of classical antiquity into the idiom of modern fancy and feeling. at least, so i judge from a few of the incidents which have come to me at second hand." "you are not exactly the auditor that i should have chosen, sir," observed the student, "for fantasies of this nature." "possibly not," replied mr. pringle. "i suspect, however, that a young author's most useful critic is precisely the one whom he would be least apt to choose. pray oblige me, therefore." "sympathy, methinks, should have some little share in the critic's qualifications," murmured eustace bright. "however, sir, if you will find patience, i will find stories. but be kind enough to remember that i am addressing myself to the imagination and sympathies of the children, not to your own." accordingly, the student snatched hold of the first theme which presented itself. it was suggested by a plate of apples that he happened to spy on the mantelpiece. the three golden apples 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, a great many people 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. in my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a solid golden apple. had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed that would be another matter. there might then have been some sense in trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon. but, as i have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young persons, 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 wrapt 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 very big a club. so he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women 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 young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads. and there seemed to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter fragrance, while they played with them, than even when they had been growing on their native stems. 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, adventurous traveller, what do you want there?" [illustration: atlas] "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 them 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 young women 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 traveller 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 a giant's 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. while he lay there, two immense serpents came gliding over the floor, and opened their hideous jaws to devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had griped one of the fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death. when he was but a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders. the next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and exceedingly sharp teeth in every one. "but the dragon of the hesperides, you know," observed one of the damsels, "has a hundred heads!" "nevertheless," replied the stranger, "i would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra. for, as fast as i cut off a head, two others grew in its place; and, besides, there was one of the heads that could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long after it was cut off. so i was forced to bury it under a stone, where it is doubtless alive to this very day. but the hydra's body, and its eight other heads, will never do any further mischief." the damsels, judging that the story was likely to last a good while, had been preparing a repast of bread and grapes, that the stranger might refresh himself in the intervals of his talk. they took pleasure in helping him to this simple food; and, now and then, one of them would put a sweet grape between her rosy lips, lest it should make him bashful to eat alone. the traveller proceeded to tell how he had chased a very swift stag, for a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at last caught it by the antlers, and carried it home alive. and he had fought with a very odd race of people, half horses and half men, and had put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly figures might never be seen any more. besides all this, he took to himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable. "do you call that a wonderful exploit?" asked one of the young maidens, with a smile. "any clown in the country has done as much!" "had it been an ordinary stable," replied the stranger, "i should not have mentioned it. but this was so gigantic a task that it would have taken me all my life to perform it, if i had not luckily thought of turning the channel of a river through the stable-door. that did the business in a very short time!" seeing how earnestly his fair auditors listened, he next told them how he had shot some monstrous birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and let him go again, and had tamed a number of very wild horses, and had conquered hippolyta, the warlike queen of the amazons. he mentioned, likewise, that he had taken off hippolyta's enchanted girdle, and had given it to the daughter of his cousin, the king. "was it the girdle of venus," inquired the prettiest of the damsels, "which makes women beautiful?" "no," answered the stranger. "it had formerly been the sword-belt of mars; and it can only make the wearer valiant and courageous." "an old sword-belt!" cried the damsel, tossing her head. "then i should not care about having it!" "you are right," said the stranger. going on with his wonderful narrative, he informed the maidens that as strange an adventure as ever happened was when he fought with geryon, the six-legged man. this was a very odd and frightful sort of figure, as you may well believe. any person, looking at his tracks in the sand or snow, would suppose that three sociable companions had been walking along together. on hearing his footsteps at a little distance, it was no more than reasonable to judge that several people must be coming. but it was only the strange man geryon clattering onward, with his six legs! six legs, and one gigantic body! certainly, he must have been a very queer monster to look at; and, my stars, what a waste of shoe-leather! 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 or difficult 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 with this old man of the sea. he is a sea-faring 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,--for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, the lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and the songs and dances wherewith they had done him honor,--and he thanked them, 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 travelled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and through the solitary woods. sometimes he swung his club aloft, and splintered a mighty oak with a downright blow. his mind was so full of the giants and monsters with whom it was the business of his life to fight, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or a monster. and so eager was hercules to achieve what he had undertaken, that he almost regretted to have spent so much time with the damsels, wasting idle breath upon the story of his adventures. but thus it always is with persons who are destined to perform great things. what they have already done seems less than nothing. what they have taken in hand to do seems worth toil, danger, and life itself. persons who happened to be passing through the forest must have been affrighted to see him smite the trees with his great club. with but a single blow, the trunk was riven as by the stroke of lightning, and the broad boughs came rustling and crashing down. 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 sea-weed than of an ordinary beard. have you never seen a stick of timber, that has been long 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-tost spar! but hercules, the instant he set 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 selfsame 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 easily 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 into the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to devour him outright; so that it was really a very terrible spectacle! but hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain. you must understand that the old man of the sea, though he generally looked so much like the wave-beaten figure-head of a vessel, had the power of assuming any shape he pleased. when he found himself so roughly seized by hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such surprise and terror, by these magical transformations, that the hero would be glad to let him go. if hercules had relaxed his grasp, the old one would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea, whence he would not soon have given himself the trouble of coming up, in order to answer any impertinent questions. ninety-nine people out of a hundred, i suppose, would have been frightened out of their wits by the very first of his ugly shapes, and would have taken to their heels at once. for, one of the hardest things in this world is, to see the difference between real dangers and imaginary ones. 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 sea-weed at his chin. "pray, what do you want with me?" cried the old one, as soon as he could take breath; for it is 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. the old one was an inhabitant of the sea, you must recollect, and roamed about everywhere, like other sea-faring people. of course, 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!" thanking the old man of the sea, and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey. he met with a great many strange adventures, which would be well worth your hearing, if i had leisure to narrate them as minutely as they deserve. it was in this journey, if i mistake not, that he encountered a prodigious giant, who was so wonderfully contrived by nature, that, every time he touched the earth, he became ten times as strong as ever he had been before. his name was antæus. you may see, plainly enough, that it was a very difficult business to fight with such a fellow; for, as often as he got a knock-down blow, up he started again, stronger, fiercer, and abler to use his weapons, than if his enemy had let him alone. thus, the harder hercules pounded the giant with his club, the further he seemed from winning the victory. i have sometimes argued with such people, but never fought with one. the only way in which hercules found it possible to finish the battle, was by lifting antæus off his feet into the air, and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing him, until, finally, the strength was quite squeezed out of his enormous body. when this affair was finished, hercules continued his travels, and went to the land of egypt, where he was taken prisoner, and would have been put to death, if he had not slain the king of the country, and made his escape. passing through the deserts of africa, and going as fast as he could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean. and here, unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his journey must needs be at an end. 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 marvellous 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, with a pleasant and ringing sound, against the circumference 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, in consequence, immediately resounded and reverberated through its golden or brazen 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? no; you will never guess it, not if you were to try fifty thousand times! it positively appears to me that this was the most marvellous spectacle that had ever been seen by hercules, in the whole course of his wonderful travels and adventures. it was a greater marvel than the hydra with nine heads, which kept growing twice as fast as they were cut off; greater than the six-legged man-monster; greater than antæus; greater than anything that was ever beheld by anybody, before or since the days of hercules, or than anything that remains to be beheld, by travellers in all time to come. 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! this does really seem almost too much to believe. 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. it was a countenance terrible from its enormity of size, but disconsolate and weary, even as you may see the faces of many people, nowadays, who are compelled to sustain burdens above their strength. what the sky was to the giant, such are the cares of earth to those who let themselves be weighed down by them. and whenever men undertake what is beyond the just measure of their abilities, they encounter precisely such a doom as had befallen this poor giant. poor fellow! he had evidently stood there a long while. an ancient forest had been growing and decaying around 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 for 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 were 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. thus, by talking out of season, the foolish giant expended an incalculable quantity of breath, to no purpose; for the thunder spoke quite as intelligibly as he. 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 thunderclouds. so far above the shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the rain-drops! 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 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 one, 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 burdensome, 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 midleg 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!" o my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aerial above our heads! and there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make hercules uncomfortable! he began to be afraid that the giant would never come back. he gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the foot of a mountain, than to stand on its dizzy summit, and bear up the firmament with his might and main. for, of course, as you will easily understand, hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well as a weight on his head and shoulders. why, if he did not stand perfectly still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be put ajar! or, after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be loosened from their places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the people's heads! and how ashamed would the hero be, if, owing to his unsteadiness beneath its weight, the sky should crack, and show a great fissure quite across it! 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 forever?" "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 towards 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! tanglewood fireside _after the story_ "cousin eustace," demanded sweet fern, who had been sitting at the story-teller's feet, with his mouth wide open, "exactly how tall was this giant?" "o sweet fern, sweet fern!" cried the student, "do you think i was there, to measure him with a yard-stick? well, if you must know to a hair's-breadth, i suppose he might be from three to fifteen miles straight upward, and that he might have seated himself on taconic, and had monument mountain for a footstool." "dear me!" ejaculated the good little boy, with a contented sort of a grunt, "that was a giant, sure enough! and how long was his little finger?" "as long as from tanglewood to the lake," said eustace. "sure enough, that was a giant!" repeated sweet fern, in an ecstasy at the precision of these measurements. "and how broad, i wonder, were the shoulders of hercules?" "that is what i have never been able to find out," answered the student. "but i think they must have been a great deal broader than mine, or than your father's, or than almost any shoulders which one sees nowadays." "i wish," whispered sweet fern, with his mouth close to the student's ear, "that you would tell me how big were some of the oak-trees that grew between the giant's toes." "they were bigger," said eustace, "than the great chestnut-tree which stands beyond captain smith's house." "eustace," remarked mr. pringle, after some deliberation, "i find it impossible to express such an opinion of this story as will be likely to gratify, in the smallest degree, your pride of authorship. pray let me advise you never more to meddle with a classical myth. your imagination is altogether gothic, and will inevitably gothicize everything that you touch. the effect is like bedaubing a marble statue with paint. this giant, now! how can you have ventured to thrust his huge, disproportioned mass among the seemly outlines of grecian fable, the tendency of which is to reduce even the extravagant within limits, by its pervading elegance?" "i described the giant as he appeared to me," replied the student, rather piqued. "and, sir, if you would only bring your mind into such a relation with these fables as is necessary in order to remodel them, you would see at once that an old greek had no more exclusive right to them than a modern yankee has. they are the common property of the world, and of all time. the ancient poets remodelled them at pleasure, and held them plastic in their hands; and why should they not be plastic in my hands as well?" mr. pringle could not forbear a smile. "and besides," continued eustace, "the moment you put any warmth of heart, any passion or affection, any human or divine morality, into a classic mould, you make it quite another thing from what it was before. my own opinion is, that the greeks, by taking possession of these legends (which were the immemorial birthright of mankind), and putting them into shapes of indestructible beauty, indeed, but cold and heartless, have done all subsequent ages an incalculable injury." "which you, doubtless, were born to remedy," said mr. pringle, laughing outright. "well, well, go on; but take my advice, and never put any of your travesties on paper. and, as your next effort, what if you should try your hand on some one of the legends of apollo?" "ah, sir, you propose it as an impossibility," observed the student, after a moment's meditation; "and, to be sure, at first thought, the idea of a gothic apollo strikes one rather ludicrously. but i will turn over your suggestion in my mind, and do not quite despair of success." during the above discussion, the children (who understood not a word of it) had grown very sleepy, and were now sent off to bed. their drowsy babble was heard, ascending the staircase, while a northwest-wind roared loudly among the tree-tops of tanglewood, and played an anthem around the house. eustace bright went back to the study, and again endeavored to hammer out some verses, but fell asleep between two of the rhymes. the miraculous pitcher the hill-side _introductory to "the miraculous pitcher"_ and when, and where, do you think we find the children next? no longer in the winter-time, but in the merry month of may. no longer in tanglewood play-room, or at tanglewood fireside, but more than half-way up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better pleased to have us call it. they had set out from home with the mighty purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tip-top of its bald head. to be sure, it was not quite so high as chimborazo, or mont blanc, and was even a good deal lower than old graylock. but, at any rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks, or a million of mole-hills; and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might be reckoned a very respectable mountain. and was cousin eustace with the party? of that you may be certain; else how could the book go on a step further? he was now in the middle of the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip, you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it. setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered cousin eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted with him. he was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he had always been. this expedition up the mountain was entirely of his contrivance. all the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged the elder children with his cheerful voice; and when dandelion, cowslip, and squash-blossom grew weary, he had lugged them along, alternately, on his back. in this manner, they had passed through the orchards and pastures on the lower part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends thence towards its bare summit. the month of may, thus far, had been more amiable than it often is, and this was as sweet and genial a day as the heart of man or child could wish. in their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had the touch of midas on them. that sociablest of flowers, the little houstonia, was very abundant. it is a flower that never lives alone, but which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling with a great many friends and relatives around it. sometimes you see a family of them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all keeping one another in cheerful heart and life. within the verge of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude themselves too anxiously from the sun. there were wild geraniums, too, and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry. the trailing arbutus was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under the last year's withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird hides its little young ones. it knew, i suppose, how beautiful and sweet-scented they were. so cunning was their concealment, that the children sometimes smelt the delicate richness of their perfume before they knew whence it proceeded. amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold, here and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary periwigs of dandelions that had already gone to seed. they had done with summer before the summer came. within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn now! well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about the spring-time and wild flowers. there is something, we hope, more interesting to be talked about. if you look at the group of children, you may see them all gathered around eustace bright, who, sitting on the stump of a tree, seems to be just beginning a story. the fact is, the younger part of the troop have found out that it takes rather too many of their short strides to measure the long ascent of the hill. cousin eustace, therefore, has decided to leave sweet fern, cowslip, squash-blossom, and dandelion, at this point, midway up, until the return of the rest of the party from the summit. and because they complain a little, and do not quite like to stay behind, he gives them some apples out of his pocket, and proposes to tell them a very pretty story. hereupon they brighten up, and change their grieved looks into the broadest kind of smiles. as for the story, i was there to hear it, hidden behind a bush, and shall tell it over to you in the pages that come next. the miraculous pitcher one evening, in times long ago, old philemon and his old wife baucis sat at their cottage-door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset. they had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. so they talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. but the rude shouts of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for baucis and philemon to hear each other speak. "ah, wife," cried philemon, "i fear some poor traveller is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!" "well-a-day!" answered old baucis, "i do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures. and only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!" "those children will never come to any good," said philemon, shaking his white head. "to tell you the truth, wife, i should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. but, as for you and me, so long as providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger, that may come along and need it." "that's right, husband!" said baucis. "so we will!" these old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living. old philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage. their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall. but they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveller who might pause before their door. they felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves. their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth. this valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake. there, fishes had glided to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror. but, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water. the valley had been dry land so long, that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first. never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley. the very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures. but, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which heaven had smiled so beneficently. they were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. they would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to providence. you will hardly believe what i am going to tell you. these naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. they kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveller ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth. then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away. this was a very terrible thing to poor travellers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again. what made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. they would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw. if the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper. this would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince. so now you can understand why old philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the farther extremity of the village street. there was a confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley. "i never heard the dogs so loud!" observed the good old man. "nor the children so rude!" answered his good old wife. they sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travellers approaching on foot. close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels. a little farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might. once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. his companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children, or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate. both of the travellers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging. and this, i am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely. "come, wife," said philemon to baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people. no doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill." "go you and meet them," answered baucis, "while i make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper. a comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits." accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. philemon, on his part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,-- "welcome, strangers! welcome!" "thank you!" replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble. "this is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village. pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?" "ah!" observed old philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "providence put me here, i hope, among other reasons, in order that i may make you what amends i can for the inhospitality of my neighbors." "well said, old father!" cried the traveller, laughing; "and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends. those children (the little rascals!) have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. but i took him across the muzzle with my staff; and i think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off." philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveller's look and manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. he was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears. though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby. philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. one thing, certainly, seemed queer. the traveller was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort. "i used to be light-footed, in my youth," said philemon to the traveller. "but i always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall." "there is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the stranger; "and i happen to have an excellent one, as you see." this staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that philemon had ever beheld. it was made of olivewood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top. two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skilfully executed that old philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting. "a curious piece of work, sure enough!" said he. "a staff with wings! it would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!" by this time, philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door. "friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench. my good wife baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper. we are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard." the younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so. and here happened something rather marvellous, though trifling enough, too. the staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage. there it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle. but, in my private opinion, old philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks again. before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him. "was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice, "a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?" "not in my day, friend," answered philemon; "and yet i am an old man, as you see. there were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. my father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as i know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old philemon shall be gone and forgotten!" "that is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice. he shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement. "since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their dwellings again!" the traveller looked so stern, that philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air. but, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror. nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveller must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. not that philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. this idea appeared the more probable, because, when philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime. while baucis was getting the supper, the travellers both began to talk very sociably with philemon. the younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day. "pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what may i call your name?" "why, i am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveller. "so, if you call me quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well." "quicksilver? quicksilver?" repeated philemon, looking in the traveller's face, to see if he were making fun of him. "it is a very odd name! and your companion there? has he as strange a one?" "you must ask the thunder to tell it you!" replied quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. "no other voice is loud enough." this remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage. but, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. when the stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart. this is always the feeling that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it. but philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose. he talked, however, quite garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot. his wife baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still contented. he told what excellent butter and cheese baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden. he said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together. as the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand. "you are a good old man," said he to philemon, "and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. it is fit that your wish be granted." and it seemed to philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky. baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests. "had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper. but i took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten. ah me! i never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveller knocks at our door." "all will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame," replied the elder stranger, kindly. "an honest, hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia." "a welcome you shall have," cried baucis, "and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides." "why, mother baucis, it is a feast!" exclaimed quicksilver, laughing, "an absolute feast! and you shall see how bravely i will play my part at it! i think i never felt hungrier in my life." "mercy on us!" whispered baucis to her husband. "if the young man has such a terrible appetite, i am afraid there will not be half enough supper!" they all went into the cottage. and now, my little auditors, shall i tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide? it is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story. quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage. well; when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the door steps! tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside quicksilver's chair. old philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no notice was given to what the staff had been about. as baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry travellers. in the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other. there was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests. a moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher. alas! it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances. poor baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper. and, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. why, at their very first sitting down, the travellers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught. "a little more milk, kind mother baucis, if you please," said quicksilver. "the day has been hot, and i am very much athirst." "now, my dear people," answered baucis, in great confusion, "i am so sorry and ashamed! but the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. o husband! husband! why didn't we go without our supper?" "why, it appears to me," cried quicksilver, starting up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them. here is certainly more milk in the pitcher." so saying, and to the vast astonishment of baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher, that was supposed to be almost empty. the good woman could scarcely believe her eyes. she had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table. "but i am old," thought baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful. i suppose i must have made a mistake. at all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over." "what excellent milk!" observed quicksilver, after quaffing the contents of the second bowl. "excuse me, my kind hostess, but i must really ask you for a little more." now baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. of course, there could not possibly be any left. however, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth. what was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! the two snakes that were twisted about quicksilver's staff (but neither baucis nor philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk. and then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! it seemed as if philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. i only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at supper-time! "and now a slice of your brown loaf, mother baucis," said quicksilver, "and a little of that honey!" baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven. tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking. yet, what other loaf could it possibly be? but, oh the honey! i may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds. the wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in philemon's garden. never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt. the perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it. although good mother baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way, in all that had been going on. so, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper. "did you ever hear the like?" asked she. "no, i never did," answered philemon, with a smile. "and i rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream. if i had poured out the milk, i should have seen through the business at once. there happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought,--that is all." "ah, husband," said baucis, "say what you will these are very uncommon people." "well, well," replied philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are. they certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and i am heartily glad to see them making so comfortable a supper." each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate. baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice. it was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall. "very admirable grapes these!" observed quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster. "pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?" "from my own vine," answered philemon. "you may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. but wife and i never thought the grapes very fine ones." "i never tasted better," said the guest. "another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and i shall then have supped better than a prince." this time, old philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which baucis had whispered to him. he knew that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes. on taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop. all at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. it was lucky that philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand. "who are ye, wonder-working strangers!" cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been. "your guests, my good philemon, and your friends," replied the elder traveller, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. "give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy wayfarer!" the supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose. the old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped. but the elder traveller had inspired them with such reverence, that they dared not ask him any questions. and when philemon drew quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his staff. "there is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth quicksilver; "and if you can make it out, i'll thank you to let me know. i can't tell what to make of my staff. it is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. if i had any faith in such nonsense, i should say the stick was bewitched!" he said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them. the magic staff went hopping at his heels, as quicksilver quitted the room. when left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep. they had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which i wish had been as soft as their own hearts. the old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart. philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer, until baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast. the guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on. they, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked philemon and baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take. so they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends. it was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveller, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean. and as for quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves. they sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it. but then, again, quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long. "ah me! well-a-day!" exclaimed philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door. "if our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone." "it is a sin and shame for them to behave so,--that it is!" cried good old baucis, vehemently. "and i mean to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they are!" "i fear," remarked quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none of them at home." the elder traveller's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither baucis nor philemon dared to speak a word. they gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky. "when men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveller, in tones so deep that they sounded like those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!" "and, by the by, my dear old people," cried quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same village that you talk about? on which side of us does it lie? methinks i do not see it hereabouts." philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity. but what was their astonishment! there was no longer any appearance of a village! even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. in its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world. for an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. then, a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore. the lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there. but, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. the village had been there yesterday, and now was gone! "alas!" cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor neighbors?" "they exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveller, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. "there was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man. they retained no image of the better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!" "and as for those foolish people," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes. there needed but little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence. so, kind mother baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!" "all," cried baucis, shuddering, "i would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!" "no," added philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!" "as for you, good philemon," continued the elder traveller,--"and you, kind baucis,--you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia. thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on olympus. you have done well, my dear old friends. wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted." philemon and baucis looked at one another, and then,--i know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts. "let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die! for we have always loved one another!" "be it so!" replied the stranger, with majestic kindness. "now, look towards your cottage!" they did so. but what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble residence had so lately stood! "there is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both. "exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening." the old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold! neither he nor quicksilver was there. so philemon and baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way. the milk-pitcher, i must not forget to say, retained its marvellous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full. whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat. but, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk! thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed. at length, however, there came a summer morning when philemon and baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast. the guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose. but, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before. yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole front of the edifice. one was an oak, and the other a linden-tree. their boughs--it was strange and beautiful to see--were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own. while the guests were marvelling how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir. and then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking. "i am old philemon!" murmured the oak. "i am old baucis!" murmured the linden-tree. but, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once,--"philemon! baucis! baucis! philemon!"--as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. it was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, philemon as an oak, and baucis as a linden-tree. and oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them. whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:-- "welcome, welcome, dear traveller, welcome!" and some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old baucis and old philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher. and i wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now! the hill-side _after the story_ "how much did the pitcher hold?" asked sweet fern. "it did not hold quite a quart," answered the student; "but you might keep pouring milk out of it, till you should fill a hogshead, if you pleased. the truth is, it would run on forever, and not be dry even at midsummer,--which is more than can be said of yonder rill, that goes babbling down the hill-side." "and what has become of the pitcher now?" inquired the little boy. "it was broken, i am sorry to say, about twenty-five thousand years ago," replied cousin eustace. "the people mended it as well as they could, but, though it would hold milk pretty well, it was never afterwards known to fill itself of its own accord. so, you see, it was no better than any other cracked earthen pitcher." "what a pity!" cried all the children at once. the respectable dog ben had accompanied the party, as did likewise a half-grown newfoundland puppy, who went by the name of bruin, because he was just as black as a bear. ben, being elderly, and of very circumspect habits, was respectfully requested, by cousin eustace, to stay behind with the four little children, in order to keep them out of mischief. as for black bruin, who was himself nothing but a child, the student thought it best to take him along, lest, in his rude play with the other children, he should trip them up, and send them rolling and tumbling down the hill. advising cowslip, sweet fern, dandelion, and squash-blossom to sit pretty still, in the spot where he left them, the student, with primrose and the elder children, began to ascend, and were soon out of sight among the trees. the chimÆra bald-summit _introductory to "the chimæra"_ upward, along the steep and wooded hill-side, went eustace bright and his companions. the trees were not yet in full leaf, but had budded forth sufficiently to throw an airy shadow, while the sunshine filled them with green light. there were moss-grown rocks, half hidden among the old, brown, fallen leaves; there were rotten tree-trunks, lying at full length where they had long ago fallen; there were decayed boughs, that had been shaken down by the wintry gales, and were scattered everywhere about. but still, though these things looked so aged, the aspect of the wood was that of the newest life; for, whichever way you turned your eyes, something fresh and green was springing forth, so as to be ready for the summer. at last, the young people reached the upper verge of the wood, and found themselves almost at the summit of the hill. it was not a peak, nor a great round ball, but a pretty wide plain, or table-land, with a house and barn upon it, at some distance. that house was the home of a solitary family; and often-times the clouds, whence fell the rain, and whence the snow-storm drifted down into the valley, hung lower than this bleak and lonely dwelling-place. on the highest point of the hill was a heap of stones, in the centre of which was stuck a long pole, with a little flag fluttering at the end of it. eustace led the children thither, and bade them look around, and see how large a tract of our beautiful world they could take in at a glance. and their eyes grew wider as they looked. monument mountain, to the southward, was still in the centre of the scene, but seemed to have sunk and subsided, so that it was now but an undistinguished member of a large family of hills. beyond it, the taconic range looked higher and bulkier than before. our pretty lake was seen, with all its little bays and inlets; and not that alone, but two or three new lakes were opening their blue eyes to the sun. several white villages, each with its steeple, were scattered about in the distance. there were so many farm-houses, with their acres of woodland, pasture, mowing-fields, and tillage, that the children could hardly make room in their minds to receive all these different objects. there, too, was tanglewood, which they had hitherto thought such an important apex of the world. it now occupied so small a space, that they gazed far beyond it, and on either side, and searched a good while with all their eyes, before discovering whereabout it stood. white, fleecy clouds were hanging in the air, and threw the dark spots of their shadow here and there over the landscape. but, by and by, the sunshine was where the shadow had been, and the shadow was somewhere else. far to the westward was a range of blue mountains, which eustace bright told the children were the catskills. among those misty hills, he said, was a spot where some old dutchmen were playing an everlasting game of nine-pins, and where an idle fellow, whose name was rip van winkle, had fallen asleep, and slept twenty years at a stretch. the children eagerly besought eustace to tell them all about this wonderful affair. but the student replied that the story had been told once already, and better than it ever could be told again; and that nobody would have a right to alter a word of it, until it should have grown as old as "the gorgon's head," and "the three golden apples," and the rest of those miraculous legends. "at least," said periwinkle, "while we rest ourselves here, and are looking about us, you can tell us another of your own stories." "yes, cousin eustace," cried primrose, "i advise you to tell us a story here. take some lofty subject or other, and see if your imagination will not come up to it. perhaps the mountain air may make you poetical, for once. and no matter how strange and wonderful the story may be, now that we are up among the clouds, we can believe anything." "can you believe," asked eustace, "that there was once a winged horse?" "yes," said saucy primrose; "but i am afraid you will never be able to catch him." "for that matter, primrose," rejoined the student, "i might possibly catch pegasus, and get upon his back, too, as well as a dozen other fellows that i know of. at any rate, here is a story about him; and, of all places in the world, it ought certainly to be told upon a mountain-top." so, sitting on the pile of stones, while the children clustered themselves at its base, eustace fixed his eyes on a white cloud that was sailing by, and began as follows. the chimæra once, in the old, old times (for all the strange things which i tell you about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out of a hill-side, in the marvellous land of greece. and, for aught i know, after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very selfsame spot. at any rate, there was the pleasant fountain, welling freshly forth and sparkling adown the hill-side, in the golden sunset, when a handsome young man named bellerophon drew near its margin. in his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a golden bit. seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little boy, near the fountain, and likewise a maiden, who was dipping up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh himself with a draught. "this is very delicious water," he said to the maiden as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it. "will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?" "yes; it is called the fountain of pirene," answered the maiden; and then she added, "my grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress diana, she melted all away into tears. and so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!" "i should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom! and this, then, is pirene? i thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name. i have come from a far-away country to find this very spot." a middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand. "the water-courses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the fountain of pirene. but, pray, have you lost a horse? i see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is with that double row of bright stones upon it. if the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him." "i have lost no horse," said bellerophon, with a smile. "but i happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere. do you know whether the winged horse pegasus still haunts the fountain of pirene, as he used to do in your forefathers' days?" but then the country fellow laughed. some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of mount helicon. he was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds. there was nothing else like him in the world. he had no mate; he never had been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life. oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth. whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again. it was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it, for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side. or, in a sullen rain-storm, when there was a gray pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him. in another instant, it is true, both pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together. but any one that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterwards, and as much longer as the storm lasted. in the summer-time, and in the beautifullest of weather, pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind. oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the fountain of pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin. sometimes, too (but pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be sweetest. to the fountain of pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful, and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful pegasus. but, of late years, he had been very seldom seen. indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence. the country fellow to whom bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons. and that was the reason why he laughed. "pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up,--"pegasus, indeed! a winged horse, truly! why, friend, are you in your senses? of what use would wings be to a horse? could he drag the plough so well, think you? to be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes, or whisking him up above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill? no, no! i don't believe in pegasus. there never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl made!" "i have some reason to think otherwise," said bellerophon, quietly. and then he turned to an old, gray man, who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward, and one hand at his ear, because, for the last twenty years, he had been getting rather deaf. "and what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he. "in your younger days, i should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed!" "ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!" said the aged man. "when i was a lad, if i remember rightly, i used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else. but, nowadays, i hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. if i ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, i doubt whether i ever did see him. one day, to be sure, when i was quite a youth, i remember seeing some hoof-tramps round about the brink of the fountain. pegasus might have made those hoof-marks; and so might some other horse." "and have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked bellerophon of the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on. "you certainly could see pegasus, if anybody can, for your eyes are very bright." "once i thought i saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a blush. "it was either pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way up in the air. and one other time, as i was coming to the fountain with my pitcher, i heard a neigh. oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was! my very heart leaped with delight at the sound. but it startled me, nevertheless; so that i ran home without filling my pitcher." "that was truly a pity!" said bellerophon. and he turned to the child, whom i mentioned at the beginning of the story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open. "well, my little fellow," cried bellerophon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "i suppose you have often seen the winged horse." "that i have," answered the child, very readily. "i saw him yesterday, and many times before." "you are a fine little man!" said bellerophon, drawing the child closer to him. "come, tell me all about it." "why," replied the child, "i often come here to sail little boats in the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. and sometimes, when i look down into the water, i see the image of the winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there. i wish he would come down, and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon! but, if i so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight." and bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in cart-horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful things of his youth. therefore, he haunted about the fountain of pirene for a great many days afterwards. he kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky, or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvellous reality. he held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in his hand. the rustic people, who dwelt in the neighborhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. they told him that an able-bodied young man, like himself, ought to have better business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. they offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when bellerophon declined the purchase, they tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle. even the country boys thought him so very foolish, that they used to have a great deal of sport about him, and were rude enough not to care a fig, although bellerophon saw and heard it. one little urchin, for example, would play pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of flying; while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent bellerophon's ornamental bridle. but the gentle child, who had seen the picture of pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than all the naughty boys could torment him. the dear little fellow, in his play-hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down into the fountain and up towards the sky, with so innocent a faith, that bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged. now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that bellerophon had undertaken to catch the winged horse. and we shall find no better opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for pegasus to appear. if i were to relate the whole of bellerophon's previous adventures, they might easily grow into a very long story. it will be quite enough to say, that, in a certain country of asia, a terrible monster, called a chimæra, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be talked about between now and sunset. according to the best accounts which i have been able to obtain, this chimæra was nearly, if not quite, the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. it had a tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like i do not care what; and it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's. and a hot blast of fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths! being an earthly monster, i doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make about as much speed as all the three together. [illustration: bellerophon by the fountain of pirene] oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief that this naughty creature did! with its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences and houses. it laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven of its stomach. mercy on us, little children, i hope neither you nor i will ever happen to meet a chimæra! while the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing all these horrible things, it so chanced that bellerophon came to that part of the world, on a visit to the king. the king's name was iobates, and lycia was the country which he ruled over. bellerophon was one of the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire and love him. in those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country, or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts, when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. king iobates, perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go and fight the chimæra, which everybody else was afraid of, and which, unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert lycia into a desert. bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he would either slay this dreaded chimæra, or perish in the attempt. but, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on foot. the wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. and what other horse, in all the world, was half so fleet as the marvellous horse pegasus, who had wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the earth? to be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry and nonsense. but, wonderful as it appeared, bellerophon believed that pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be able to fight the chimæra at better advantage. and this was the purpose with which he had travelled from lycia to greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand. it was an enchanted bridle. if he could only succeed in putting the golden bit into the mouth of pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and would own bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might choose to turn the rein. but, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while bellerophon waited and waited for pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the fountain of pirene. he was afraid lest king iobates should imagine that he had fled from the chimæra. it pained him, too, to think how much mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. and as pegasus came thither so seldom in these latter years, and scarcely alighted there more than once in a lifetime, bellerophon feared that he might grow an old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart, before the winged horse would appear. oh, how heavily passes the time, while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to gather in the harvest of his renown! how hard a lesson it is to wait! our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this! well was it for bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of him, and was never weary of keeping him company. every morning the child gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered one. "dear bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "i think we shall see pegasus to-day!" and, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith, bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to lycia, and have done his best to slay the chimæra without the help of the winged horse. and in that case poor bellerophon would at least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have been killed and devoured. nobody should ever try to fight an earth-born chimæra, unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed. one morning the child spoke to bellerophon even more hopefully than usual. "dear, dear bellerophon," cried he, "i know not why it is, but i feel as if we should certainly see pegasus to-day!" and all that day he would not stir a step from bellerophon's side; so they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the fountain. in the afternoon, there they sat, and bellerophon had thrown his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands into bellerophon's. the latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed the fountain, and on the grapevines that clambered up among their branches. but the gentle child was gazing down into the water; he was grieved, for bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be deceived, like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of pirene, when she wept for her slain children. but, when he least thought of it, bellerophon felt the pressure of the child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless, whisper. "see there, dear bellerophon! there is an image in the water!" the young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and saw what he took to be the reflection of a bird which seemed to be flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its snowy or silvery wings. "what a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "and how very large it looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!" "it makes me tremble!" whispered the child. "i am afraid to look up into the air! it is very beautiful, and yet i dare only look at its image in the water. dear bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? it is the winged horse pegasus!" bellerophon's heart began to throb! he gazed keenly upward, but could not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse; because, just then, it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. it was but a moment, however, before the object reappeared, sinking lightly down out of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth. bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrank back with him, so that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all around the fountain. not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded lest, if pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and alight in some inaccessible mountain-top. for it was really the winged horse. after they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his thirst with the water of pirene. nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as you may have seen a dove when about to alight. downward came pegasus, in those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower, and narrower still, as he gradually approached the earth. the nigher the view of him, the more beautiful he was, and the more marvellous the sweep of his silvery wings. at last, with so light a pressure as hardly to bend the grass about the fountain, or imprint a hoof-tramp in the sand of its margin, he alighted, and, stooping his wild head, began to drink. he drew in the water, with long and pleasant sighs, and tranquil pauses of enjoyment; and then another draught, and another, and another. for, nowhere in the world, or up among the clouds, did pegasus love any water as he loved this of pirene. and when his thirst was slaked, he cropped a few of the honey-blossoms of the clover, delicately tasting them, but not caring to make a hearty meal, because the herbage, just beneath the clouds, on the lofty sides of mount helicon, suited his palate better than this ordinary grass. after thus drinking to his heart's content, and in his dainty fashion, condescending to take a little food, the winged horse began to caper to and fro, and dance as it were, out of mere idleness and sport. there never was a more playful creature made than this very pegasus. so there he frisked, in a way that it delights me to think about, fluttering his great wings as lightly as ever did a linnet, and running little races, half on earth and half in air, and which i know not whether to call a flight or a gallop. when a creature is perfectly able to fly, he sometimes chooses to run, just for the pastime of the thing; and so did pegasus, although it cost him some little trouble to keep his hoofs so near the ground. bellerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's hand, peeped forth from the shrubbery, and thought that never was any sight so beautiful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild and spirited as those of pegasus. it seemed a sin to think of bridling him and riding on his back. once or twice, pegasus stopped, and snuffed the air, pricking up his ears, tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly suspected some mischief or other. seeing nothing, however, and hearing no sound, he soon began his antics again. at length,--not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious,--pegasus folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf. but, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air. it was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long. the more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed. bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the speed of an arrow-flight, into the farthest blue of the sky. finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore legs, in order to rise from the ground; and bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped astride of his back. yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse! but what a bound did pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins! a bound, indeed! before he had time to draw a breath, bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger. upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold misty bosom of a cloud, at which, only a little while before, bellerophon had been gazing, and fancying it a very pleasant spot. then again, out of the heart of the cloud, pegasus shot down like a thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong against a rock. then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse. i cannot tell you half that he did. he skimmed straight forward, and sideways, and backward. he reared himself erect, with his fore legs on a wreath of mist, and his hind legs on nothing at all. he flung out his heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward. at about two miles' height above the earth, he turned a somerset, so that bellerophon's heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up. he twisted his head about, and, looking bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him. he fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived, in memory of pegasus and bellerophon. but the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. no sooner was this done, than pegasus became as manageable as if he had taken food, all his life, out of bellerophon's hand. to speak what i really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow suddenly so tame. and pegasus seemed to feel it so, likewise. he looked round to bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the fire that so recently flashed from them. but when bellerophon patted his head, and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another look came into the eyes of pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master. thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and solitary creatures. if you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to win their love. while pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake bellerophon off his back, he had flown a very long distance; and they had come within sight of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. bellerophon had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be helicon, on the summit of which was the winged horse's abode. thither (after looking gently into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) pegasus now flew, and, alighting, waited patiently until bellerophon should please to dismount. the young man, accordingly, leaped from his steed's back, but still held him fast by the bridle. meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by the gentleness of his aspect, and by the thought of the free life which pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a prisoner, if he really desired his liberty. obeying this generous impulse he slipped the enchanted bridle off the head of pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth. "leave me, pegasus!" said he. "either leave me, or love me." in an instant, the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring straight upward from the summit of mount helicon. being long after sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country round about. but pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun. ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and, at last, could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky. and bellerophon was afraid that he should never behold him more. but, while he was lamenting his own folly, the bright speck reappeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, pegasus had come back! after this trial there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his escape. he and bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one another. that night they lay down and slept together, with bellerophon's arm about the neck of pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness. and they awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good morning, each in his own language. in this manner, bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days, and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. they went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the earth looked hardly bigger than--the moon. they visited distant countries, and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of the sky. a thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet pegasus to pass over. bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region. but he could not forget the horrible chimæra, which he had promised king iobates to slay. so, at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of horsemanship in the air, and could manage pegasus with the least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure. at daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him. pegasus immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion. during the whole of this little flight, he uttered a loud, brisk, and melodious neigh, and finally came down at bellerophon's side, as lightly as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig. "well done, dear pegasus! well done, my sky-skimmer!" cried bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck. "and now, my fleet and beautiful friend, we must break our fast. to-day we are to fight the terrible chimæra." as soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling water from a spring called hippocrene, pegasus held out his head, of his own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle. then, with a great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to be gone; while bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle. when everything was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom, when going a long distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see whither he was directing his course. he then turned the head of pegasus towards the east, and set out for lycia. in their flight they overtook an eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. hastening onward at this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty mountains of lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys. if bellerophon had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the hideous chimæra had taken up its abode. being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves. hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge, bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of lycia, and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. at first there appeared to be nothing remarkable. it was a wild, savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills. in the more level part of the country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here and there, the carcasses of dead cattle, strewn about the pastures where they had been feeding. "the chimæra must have done this mischief," thought bellerophon. "but where can the monster be?" as i have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the precipitous heights of the mountains. nothing at all; unless, indeed it were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be the mouth of a cavern, and clambered sullenly into the atmosphere. before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke-wreaths mingled themselves into one. the cavern was almost directly beneath the winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet. the smoke, as it crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling scent, which caused pegasus to snort and bellerophon to sneeze. so disagreeable was it to the marvellous steed (who was accustomed to breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a mile out of the range of this offensive vapor. but, on looking behind him, bellerophon saw something that induced him first to draw the bridle, and then to turn pegasus about. he made a sign, which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom of the valley. in front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it. and what else did bellerophon behold there? there seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up within the cavern. their bodies lay so close together, that bellerophon could not distinguish them apart; but, judging by their heads, one of these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the third an ugly goat. the lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes. but--and this was the most wonderful part of the matter--the three spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads! so strange was the spectacle, that, though bellerophon had been all along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that here was the terrible three-headed chimæra. he had found out the chimæra's cavern. the snake, the lion, and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster! the wicked, hateful thing! slumbering as two thirds of it were, it still held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb,--or possibly (but i hate to think so) it was a dear little boy,--which its three mouths had been gnawing, before two of them fell asleep! all at once, bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the chimæra. pegasus seemed to know it, at the same instant, and sent forth a neigh, that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. at this sound the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes of flame. before bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight towards him, with its immense claws extended, and its snaky tail twisting itself venomously behind. if pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he and his rider would have been overthrown by the chimera's headlong rush, and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. but the winged horse was not to be caught so. in the twinkling of an eye he was up aloft, half-way to the clouds, snorting with anger. he shuddered, too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this poisonous thing with three heads. the chimæra, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand absolutely on the tip-end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely in the air, and its three heads spluttering fire at pegasus and his rider. my stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed! bellerophon, meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword. "now, my beloved pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly back to thy solitary mountain-peak without thy friend bellerophon. for either the chimæra dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!" pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly against his rider's cheek. it was his way of telling him that, though he had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave bellerophon behind. "i thank you, pegasus," answered bellerophon. "now, then, let us make a dash at the monster!" uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and pegasus darted down aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right towards the chimæra's threefold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it could into the air. as he came within arm's-length, bellerophon made a cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could see whether the blow had been successful. pegasus continued his course, but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the chimæra as before. bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and seemed quite dead. but, to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before. "never mind, my brave pegasus!" cried bellerophon. "with another stroke like that, we will stop either its hissing or its roaring." and again he shook the bridle. dashing aslantwise, as before, the winged horse made another arrow-flight towards the chimæra, and bellerophon aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he shot by. but this time, neither he nor pegasus escaped so well as at first. with one of its claws, the chimæra had given the young man a deep scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the flying steed with the other. on his part, bellerophon had mortally wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of thick black smoke. the snake's head, however (which was the only one now left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. it belched forth shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so harsh, and so ear-piercing, that king iobates heard them, fifty miles off, and trembled till the throne shook under him. "well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the chimæra is certainly coming to devour me!" meanwhile pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily, while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. how unlike the lurid fire of the chimæra! the aerial steed's spirit was all aroused, and so was that of bellerophon. "dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that ought never to have tasted pain. "the execrable chimæra shall pay for this mischief with his last head!" then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided pegasus, not aslantwise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. so rapid was the onset, that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash before bellerophon was at close gripes with his enemy. the chimæra, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. it so flounced about, half on earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element it rested upon. it opened its snake-jaws to such an abominable width, that pegasus might almost, i was going to say, have flown right down its throat, wings outspread, rider and all! at their approach it shot out a tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped bellerophon and his steed in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of pegasus, scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot. but this was nothing to what followed. when the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the distance of a hundred yards, the chimæra gave a spring, and flung its huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcass right upon poor pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail into a knot! up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the mountain-peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid earth. but still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne upward, along with the creature of light and air. bellerophon, meanwhile, turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the chimæra's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield. over the upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster. but the chimæra was so mad and wild with pain, that it did not guard itself so well as might else have been the case. perhaps, after all, the best way to fight a chimæra is by getting as close to it as you can. in its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy, the creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this, bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart. immediately the snaky tail untied its knot. the monster let go its hold of pegasus, and fell from that vast height, downward; while the fire within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to consume the dead carcass. thus it fell out of the sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet. but, at early sunrise, some cottagers were going to their day's labor, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes. in the middle of a field, there was a heap of whitened bones, a great deal higher than a haystack. nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful chimæra! and when bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes. "back now, my beloved steed!" said he. "back to the fountain of pirene!" pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and reached the fountain in a very short time. and there he found the old man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and the pretty maiden filling her pitcher. "i remember now," quoth the old man, "i saw this winged horse once before, when i was quite a lad. but he was ten times handsomer in those days." "i own a cart-horse, worth three of him!" said the country fellow. "if this pony were mine, the first thing i should do would be to clip his wings!" but the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be afraid at the wrong time. so she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble down, and broke it. "where is the gentle child," asked bellerophon, "who used to keep me company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into the fountain?" "here am i, dear bellerophon!" said the child, softly. for the little boy had spent day after day, on the margin of pirene, waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived bellerophon descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had shrunk back into the shrubbery. he was a delicate and tender child, and dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears gushing from his eyes. "thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of bellerophon, who still sat on the back of pegasus. "i knew thou wouldst." "yes, dear child!" replied bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse. "but if thy faith had not helped me, i should never have waited for pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have conquered the terrible chimæra. thou, my beloved little friend, hast done it all. and now let us give pegasus his liberty." so he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvellous steed. "be free, forevermore, my pegasus!" cried he, with a shade of sadness in his tone. "be as free as thou art fleet!" but pegasus rested his head on bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be persuaded to take flight. "well then," said bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be with me, as long as thou wilt; and we will go together, forthwith, and tell king iobates that the chimæra is destroyed." then bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him again, and departed. but, in after years, that child took higher flights upon the aerial steed than ever did bellerophon, and achieved more honorable deeds than his friend's victory over the chimæra. for, gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet! bald-summit _after the story_ eustace bright told the legend of bellerophon with as much fervor and animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged horse. at the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested. all their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of primrose. in her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel. child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth. "i forgive you, now, primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of myself and my stories. one tear pays for a great deal of laughter." "well, mr. bright," answered primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your ideas, to get your head above the clouds. i advise you never to tell another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a mountain." "or from the back of pegasus," replied eustace, laughing. "don't you think that i succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?" "it was so like one of your madcap pranks!" cried primrose, clapping her hands. "i think i see you now on his back, two miles high, and with your head downward! it is well that you have not really an opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our sober davy, or old hundred." [illustration: the fountain of pirene (from the original in the collection of austin m. purves, esq're philadelphia)] "for my part, i wish i had pegasus here, at this moment," said the student. "i would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country, within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my brother authors. dr. dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of taconic. in stockbridge, yonder, is mr. james, conspicuous to all the world on his mountain-pile of history and romance. longfellow, i believe, is not yet at the ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh at the sight of him. but, here in lenox, i should find our most truthful novelist, who has made the scenery and life of berkshire all her own. on the hither side of pittsfield sits herman melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'white whale,' while the gigantic shape of graylock looms upon him from his study-window. another bound of my flying steed would bring me to the door of holmes, whom i mention last, because pegasus would certainly unseat me, the next minute, and claim the poet as his rider." "have we not an author for our next neighbor?" asked primrose. "that silent man, who lives in the old red house, near tanglewood avenue, and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the woods or at the lake. i think i have heard of his having written a poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some other kind of a book." "hush, primrose, hush!" exclaimed eustace, in a thrilling whisper, and putting his finger on his lip. "not a word about that man, even on a hill-top! if our babble were to reach his ears, and happen not to please him, he has but to fling a quire or two of paper into the stove, and you, primrose, and i, and periwinkle, sweet fern, squash-blossom, blue eye, huckleberry, clover, cowslip, plantain, milkweed, dandelion, and buttercup,--yes, and wise mr. pringle, with his unfavorable criticisms on my legends, and poor mrs. pringle, too,--would all turn to smoke, and go whisking up the funnel! our neighbor in the red house is a harmless sort of person enough, for aught i know, as concerns the rest of the world; but something whispers to me that he has a terrible power over ourselves, extending to nothing short of annihilation." "and would tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?" asked periwinkle, quite appalled at the threatened destruction. "and what would become of ben and bruin?" "tanglewood would remain," replied the student, "looking just as it does now, but occupied by an entirely different family. and ben and bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the good times which they and we have had together!" "what nonsense you are talking!" exclaimed primrose. with idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods. primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year's growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture. of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student's cap, in order to place it on his brow. "nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories," observed saucy primrose, "so take this from me." "do not be too sure," answered eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, "that i shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories. i mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press. mr. j. t. fields (with whom i became acquainted when he was in berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance. he will get them illustrated, i hope, by billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of ticknor & co. in about five months from this moment, i make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of this age!" "poor boy!" said primrose, half aside. "what a disappointment awaits him!" descending a little lower, bruin began to bark, and was answered by the graver bow-wow of the respectable ben. they soon saw the good old dog, keeping careful watch over dandelion, sweet fern, cowslip, and squash-blossom. these little people, quite recovered from their fatigue, had set about gathering checkerberries, and now came clambering to meet their playfellows. thus reunited, the whole party went down through luther butler's orchard, and made the best of their way home to tanglewood. tanglewood tales, for girls and boys, being a second wonder-book tanglewood tales 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 has 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 hill-side, 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 hill-side. 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 net-work 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 bad heaped itself over the mossy seat, and gazing through the arched window 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 themselves 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 those 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 southeastern 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 introductor, 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 titles 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 reassume 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 recreate 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 defence 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 play-room, 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 wonder book. 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 hooping-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 revisit tanglewood, and as eustace bright probably will not ask me to edit a third wonder book, 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 wayside, concord, mass. _march , ._ 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 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 sunk 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 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," 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! 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 travellers who happened to fall into his clutches. in his cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretence 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 long, 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 had reached his journey's end, theseus had done many valiant deeds 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 travelled 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 hither with fame to blow her trumpet before him, and cry to king Ægeus, "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 person to let them steal away his father's crown and sceptre, 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. 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 pretence of making them young again; but king Ægeus, 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 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 sceptre 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 aerial 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. 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 bad 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 Ægeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very lamentable matter in hand! this is the wofullest 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!" "o 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 of 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 had got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the northwest, 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 foamy 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 a 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 thunder-stroke right amid-ships, 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 around 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 had himself 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 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 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, shadow 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 centre 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 dædalus, 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 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. oh, 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 zigzag and wriggle of the path. and at last, in an open space, at the very centre 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. 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 anything 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 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. 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 Ægeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshine 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 sceptre into the sea, (useless bawbles 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. the pygmies a great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived an earth-born giant named antæus, 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 centre 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 bird's-nests, out of straw, feathers, eggshells, 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 wood-cutter 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 oh, 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 antæus 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 centre of his forehead) giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once. the pygmies loved to talk with antæus; 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 antæus! 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 antæus was the pygmy people's friend; for there was more strength in his little finger than in ten million of such bodies as theirs. 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 antæus 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, antæus loved the pygmies, and the pygmies loved antæus. 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 grandfather's 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), antæus 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 antæus 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 wellwishers, and, as we may say, his playfellows, antæus 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, antæus 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 antæus. 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 antæus gave a sudden snap with 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 antæus 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 antæus, 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 antæus, 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 antæus 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 waxwork, 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 antæus. 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 antæus 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 antæus, it is true, although a very enormous figure, in comparison with pygmies, and a vast deal bigger than the men whom 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 antæus! 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 antæus, 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 antæus. 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 antæus. by this time, the whole nation of 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, antæus! 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." 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." antæus 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 eye, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction whither his little friends were eagerly pointing. no sooner did he set eye 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 antæus, 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 antæus, 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 antæus, 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 towerlike 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 antæus, 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 antæus) 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 antæus 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, antæus had scrambled upon his feet again, and pulled his pine-tree out of the earth; and, all a-flame 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 antæus, 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 downward, kicking out his long legs and wriggling his whole vast body, like a baby when its father holds it at arm's-length toward the ceiling. but the most wonderful thing was, that, as soon as antæus 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 antæus. 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 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 antæus. 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 travelled 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 antæus, 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. "antæus 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 antæus,--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 welfare 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 antæus 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 antæus 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 counsellors remarked, the stranger's club was really very big, and had rattled like a thunderbolt against the skull of antæus. 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 antæus, 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 antæus, 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-by. 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 antæus 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 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. [illustration: cadmus sowing the dragon's teeth] "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 be 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 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-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 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. "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?" "and let me go likewise!" said their playfellow thasus, who came running to join them. thasus was the son of a sea-faring 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 travelled 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 had 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 sooner have taken them for a gypsy family than a queen and three princes and a young nobleman, who had once a palace for their 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 farm-houses 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 farmer 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 was 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, 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 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 homelike 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 centre 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 jewelled 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 travelled 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 centre 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 subject 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 traveller, 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 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 mother ever had, and faithful to the 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 hill-side, 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 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 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. 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 hill-side. 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 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 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 hill-side, 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'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 centre of it there should be a noble palace, in which cadmus might dwell, and be their king, with a throne, a crown and 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 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 pulling 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 marvellous 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 up 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 battle-field 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 in 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 toward 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 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 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, 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 twixt 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 Æolus, 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 læstrygonia, 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 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 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, as you will find it important to remember, 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. 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 centre 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. [illustration: circe's palace] 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 his 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, 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 wood-pecker, 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 its 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 drift-wood, 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 læstrygons, 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 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. 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 round 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 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. 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 potherbs 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 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 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 birdlike 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 lifelike 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 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 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 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; 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 hogpen. 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 marvellous 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 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 his 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; 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 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 centre 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 cushioned and canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties and quaffing deep draughts of wine. the work had not yet gone any further. 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 centre 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 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 dew-drops 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--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. 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. [illustration: proserpina (from the original in the collection of mrs. william b. dinsmore staatsburg, new york)] "oh 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 soon look like bunches of uprooted sea-weed 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 lustre 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 not you 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 under ground as 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 mounting 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 Ætna 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. oh, 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 up stairs 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 charriot 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!" "oh, 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 were here 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 is a very dismal one," said 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 very 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." "oh 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 has 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?" "oh 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 could 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 gambolled 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 came 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 goat's 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 travelled 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 you 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 travelled 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? oh, 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, besides 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." "oh, 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, 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 heart-strings 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 dishevelled, 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 celeus, 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 finding 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 celeus, as nurse to the little prince demophoön. 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 fire-light 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 demophoön 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 super-human 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 demophoön, 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 ploughed 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 has 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 after 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, wherever 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 do now 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. "oh, 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 to be not 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 away. "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," answered 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 shrivelled 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 proserpina, 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 Æsculapius, 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 school-room 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 school-room 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 Æson, 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. [illustration: jason and his teacher] i know not how far jason had travelled, 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 foamy 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 drift-wood 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 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 travelling 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-sandalled 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-sandalled 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 among them, and then a loud shout. "the one-sandalled 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-sandalled 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 travelled 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 destruction 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 centre 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 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 ship-builder, 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 figure-head. 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 centre 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 Æson, 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 chimæra, 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 held up 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 conjurers, 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 lookout 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 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 marvellous lips, and rose 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 may 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 very formidable, so far aloft in the air. each of these monsters was able to carry on a whole war by himself, for with one of his arms 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 allowing 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 marvellous 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. [illustration: the argonauts in quest of the golden fleece (from the original in the collection of harry payne whitney esq're, new york)] 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 centre 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 Æetes, 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 Æetes. "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 Æetes, eying jason very sternly, "what are the conditions which you must fulfil 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 Æetes, who was determined to scare jason if possible, "you must yoke them to a plough, and must plough 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 Æetes 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 plough." 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 it, 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 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 vise, 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 plough, 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 ploughing 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 plough. 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 ploughed 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 ploughed 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 bloodthirsty 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 a 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 offence 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 dragons 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 Æetes 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 Æetes. 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 ploughed; the dragon's teeth have been sown broadcast, and harrowed into the soil; the crop of armed warriors has 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 Æetes 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 the 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 Æetes, 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 centre 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 shrivelled 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. oh, how beautiful it looked, shining with a marvellous 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 of 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 hound 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! the poetical works of mr. lewis morris. i. songs of two worlds. with portrait. eleventh edition, price _s._ ii. the epic of hades. with an autotype illustration, nineteenth edition, price _s._ iii. gwen and the ode of life. with frontispiece. sixth edition, price _s._ the epic of hades. third illustrated edition. with sixteen autotype plates after the drawings by the late george r. chapman, to, cloth extra, gilt edges, price _s._ the epic of hades. the presentation edition. to, cloth extra, price _s._ _d._ songs unsung. fourth edition. fcap. vo, cloth, _s._ ** _for notices of the press, see end of this volume._ * london: kegan paul, trench & co. the poetical works of lewis morris _volume two_ the epic of hades london kegan paul, trench & co., , paternoster square [illustration: _then with wings of gold we soared, i looking in his eyes over yon dark broad river, and this dim land._ page .] the epic of hades in three books by lewis morris m.a.; honorary fellow of jesus college, oxford knight of the redeemer of greece, etc., etc. "difficile est proprie communia dicere" nineteenth edition. london kegan paul, trench & co., , paternoster square "the three excellences of poetry: simplicity of language, simplicity of subject, and simplicity of invention"-- _the welsh triads_. (_the rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._) to all who love the literature of greece this poem is dedicated by the author. contents. book i. tartarus. page tantalus phÆdra sisyphus clytÆmnestra book ii. hades. marsyas andromeda actÆon helen eurydice orpheus deianeira laocoon narcissus medusa adonis persephone endymion psyche book iii. olympus. artemis herakles aphroditÉ athenÉ herÉ apollo zeus book i. tartarus. the epic of hades. in february, when the dawn was slow, and winds lay still, i gazed upon the fields which stretched before me, lifeless, and the stream which laboured in the distance to the sea, sullen and cold. no force of fancy took my thought to bloomy june, when all the land lay deep in crested grass, and through the dew the landrail brushed, and the lush banks were set with strawberries, and the hot noise of bees lulled the bright flowers. rather i seemed to move thro' that weird land, hellenic fancy feigned, beyond the fabled river and the bark of charon; and forthwith on every side rose the thin throng of ghosts. first thro' the gloom of a dark grove i strayed--a sluggish wood, where scarce the faint fires of the setting stars, or some cold gleam of half-discovered dawn, might pierce the darkling pines. a twilight drear brooded o'er all the depths, and filled the dank and sunken hollows of the rocks with shapes of terror,--beckoning hands and noiseless feet flitting from shade to shade, wide eyes that stared with horror, and dumb mouths which seemed to cry, yet cried not. an ineffable despair hung over them and that dark world and took the gazer captive, and a mingled pang of grief and anger, grown to fierce revolt and hatred of the invisible force which holds the issue of our lives and binds us fast within the net of fate; as the fisher takes the little quivering sea-things from the sea and flings them gasping on the beach to die then spreads his net for more. and then again i knew myself and those, creatures who lie safe in the strong grasp of unchanging law, encompassed round by hands unseen, and chains which do support the feeble life that else were spent on barren space; and thus i came to look with less of horror, more of thought, and bore to see the sight of pain that yet should grow to healing, when the concrete stain of life and act were purged, and the cleansed soul, renewed by the slow wear and waste of time, soared after æons of days. they seemed alone, those prisoners, thro' all time. each soul shut fast in its own jail of woe, apart, alone, for evermore alone; no thought of kin, or kindly human glance, or fellowship of suffering or of sin, made light the load of solitary pain. ay, though they walked together, or were prisoned in one cell with the partners of their wrong, or with strange souls which the same furies tore, they knew them not, but suffered still alone; as in that shape of hell fools build on earth, where hopeless sin rots slow in solitude, nor sees the face of men, nor hears the sound of speech, nor feels the touch of human hand, but broods a ghost, hating the bare blank cell--the other self, which brought it thither--hating man and god, and all that is or has been. a great fear and pity froze my blood, who seemed to see a half-remembered form. an eastern king it was who lay in pain. he wore a crown upon his aching brow, and his white robe was jewelled with fair gems of price, the signs of pomp and honour and all luxury, which might prevent desire. but as i looked there came a hunger in the gloating eyes, a quenchless thirst upon the parching lips, and such unsatisfied strainings in the hands stretched idly forth on what i could not see, some fatal food of fancy; that i knew the undying worm of sense, which frets and gnaws the unsatisfied stained soul. seeing me, he said: "what? and art thou too damned as i? dost know this thirst as i, and see as i the cool lymph drawn from thee and mock thy lips; and parch for ever in continual thirst; and mark the fair fruit offered to thy hunger fade before thy longing eyes? i thought there was no other as i thro' all the weary lengths of time the gods have made, who pined so long and found fruition mock him. long ago, when i was young on earth, 'twas a sweet pain to ride all day in the long chase, and feel toil and the summer fire my blood and parch my lips, while in my father's halls i knew the cool bath waited, with its marble floor; and juices from the ripe fruits pressed, and chilled with snows from far-off peaks; and troops of slaves; and music and the dance; and fair young forms. and dalliance, and every joy of sense, that haunts the dreams of youth, which strength and ease corrupt, and vacant hours. ay, it was sweet for a while to plunge in these, as fair boys plunge naked in summer streams, all veil of shame laid by, only the young dear body bathed and sunk in its delight, while the firm earth, the soft green pastures gay with innocent flowers, or sober harvest fields, show like a dream; and nought is left, but the young life which floats upon the depths of death, to sink, maybe, and drown in pleasure, or rise at length grown wise and gain the abandoned shore. ah, but at last the swift desire waxed stronger and more strong, and feeding on itself, grows tyrannous; and the parched soul no longer finds delight in the cool stream of old; nay, this itself, smitten by the fire of sense as by a flame, holds not its coolness more; and fevered limbs, seeking the fresh tides of their youth, may find no more refreshment, but a cauldron fired with the fires of nether hell; and a black rage usurps the soul, and drives it on to slake its thirst with crime and blood. longing desire! unsatisfied, sick, impotent desire! oh, i have known it ages long. i knew its pain on earth ere yet my life had grown to its full stature, thro' the weary years of manhood, nay, in age itself; i knew the quenchless weary thirst, unsatisfied by all the charms of sense, by wealth and power and homage; always craving, never quenched-- the undying curse of the soul! the ministers and agents of my will drave far and wide through all the land for me, seeking to find fresh pleasures for me, who had spent my sum of pleasure, and had power, not even in thought, nor faculty to enjoy. they tore apart the sacred claustral doors of home for me, defiled the inviolate hearth for me, laid waste the flower of humble lives, in hope to heal the sickly fancies of the king, till rose a cry of pain from all the land; and i grew happier for it, since i held the power to quench desire in blood. but even thus the old pain faded not, but swift again revived; and thro' the sensual dull lengths of my seraglios i stalked, and marked the glitter of the gems, the precious webs plundered from every clime by cruel wars that strewed the sands with corpses; lovely eyes that looked no look of love, and fired no more thoughts of the flesh; rich meats, and fruits, and wines grown flat and savourless; and loathed them all, and only cared for power; content to shed rivers of innocent blood, if only thus i might appease my thirst. until i grew a monster gloating over blood and pain. ah, weary, weary days, when every sense was satisfied, and nothing left to slake the parched unhappy soul, except to watch the writhing limbs and mark the slow blood drip, drop after drop, as the life ebbed with it; in a new thrill of lust, till blood itself palled on me, and i knew the fiend i was, yet cared not--i who was, brief years ago, only a careless boy lapt round with ease, stretched by the soft and stealing tide of sense which now grew red; nor ever dreamed at all what furies lurked beneath it, but had shrunk in indolent horror from the sight of tears and misery, and felt my inmost soul sicken with the thought of blood. there comes a time when the insatiate brute within the man, weary with wallowing in the mire, leaps forth devouring, and the cloven satyr-hoof grows to the rending claw, and the lewd leer to the horrible fanged snarl, and the soul sinks and leaves the man a devil, all his sin grown savourless, and yet he longs to sin and longs in vain for ever. yet, methinks, it was not for the gods to leave me thus. i stinted not their worship, building shrines to all of them; the goddess of love i served with hecatombs, letting the fragrant fumes of incense and the costly steam ascend from victims year by year; nay, my own son pelops, my best beloved, i gave to them offering, as he must offer who would gain the great gods' grace, my dearest. i had gained through long and weary orgies that strange sense of nothingness and wasted days which blights the exhausted life, bearing upon its front counterfeit knowledge, when the bitter ash of evil, which the sick soul loathes, appears like the pure fruit of wisdom. i had grown as wizards seem, who mingle sensual rites and forms impure with murderous spells and dark enchantments; till the simple people held my very weakness wisdom, and believed that in my blood-stained palace-halls, withdrawn, i kept the inner mysteries of zeus and knew the secret of all being; who was a sick and impotent wretch, so sick, so tired, that even bloodshed palled. for my stained soul, knowing its sin, hastened to purge itself with every rite and charm which the dark lore of priestcraft offered to it. spells obscene, the blood of innocent babes, sorceries foul muttered at midnight--these could occupy my weary days; till all my people shrank to see me, and the mother clasped her child who heard the monster pass. they would not hear. they listened not--the cold ungrateful gods-- for all my supplications; nay, the more i sought them were they hidden. at the last a dark voice whispered nightly: 'thou, poor wretch, that art so sick and impotent, thyself the source of all thy misery, the great gods ask a more precious gift and excellent than alien victims which thou prizest not and givest without a pang. but shouldst thou take thy costliest and fairest offering, 'twere otherwise. the life which thou hast given thou mayst recall. go, offer at the shrine thy best belovèd pelops, and appease zeus and the averted gods, and know again the youth and joy of yore.' night after night, while all the halls were still, and the cold stars were fading into dawn, i lay awake distraught with warring thoughts, my throbbing brain filled with that dreadful voice. i had not shrunk from blood, but this, the strong son of my youth-- how should i dare this thing? and all day long i would steal from sight of him and men, and fight against the dreadful thought, until the voice seared all my burning brain, and clamoured, 'kill! zeus bids thee, and be happy.' then i rose at midnight, when the halls were still, and raised the arras, and stole soft to where my son lay sleeping. for one moment on his face and stalwart limbs i gazed, and marked the rise and fall of his young breast, and the soft plume which drooped upon his brow, and felt a thrill of yearning; but the cold voice urging me burned me like fire. three times i gazed and turned irresolute, till last it thundered at me, 'strike, fool! thou art in hell; strike, fool! and lose the burden of thy chains.' then with slow step i crept as creeps the tiger on the deer, raised high my arm, shut close my eyes, and plunged my dagger in his heart. and then, with a flash, the veil fell downward from my life and left myself to me--the daily sum of sense-- the long continual trouble of desire-- the stain of blood blotting the stain of lust-- the weary foulness of my days, which wrecked my heart and brain, and left me at the last a madman and accursèd; and i knew, far higher than the sensual slope which held the gods whom erst i worshipped, a white peak of purity, and a stern voice pealing doom-- not the mad voice of old--which pierced so deep within my life, that with the reeking blade wet with the heart's blood of my child i smote my guilty heart in twain. ah! fool, to dream that the long stain of time might fade and merge in one poor chrism of blood. they taught of yore, my priests who flattered me--nor knew at all the greater god i know, who sits afar beyond those earthly shapes, passionless, pure, and awful as the dawn--that the gods cared for costly victims, drinking in the steam of sacrifice when the choice hecatombs were offered for my wrong. ah no! there is no recompense in these, nor any charm to cleanse the stain of sin, but the long wear of suffering, when the soul which seized too much of pleasure here, grows righteous by the pain that doth redress its ill. for what is right but equipoise of nature, alternating the too much and too little? not on earth the salutary silent forces work their final victory, but year on year passes, and age on age, and leaves the debt unsatisfied, while the o'erburdened soul unloads itself in pain. therefore it is i suffer as i suffered ere swift death set me not free, no otherwise; and yet there comes a healing purpose in my pain i never knew on earth; nor ever here the once-loved evil grows, only the tale of penalties grown greater hourly dwarfs the accomplished sum of wrong. and yet desire pursues me still--sick, impotent desire, fiercer than that of earth. we are ourselves our heaven and hell, the joy, the penalty, the yearning, the fruition. earth is hell or heaven, and yet not only earth; but still, after the swift soul leaves the gates of death, the pain grows deeper and less mixed, the joy purer and less alloyed, and we are damned or blest, as we have lived." he ceased, with a wail like some complaining wind among the pines or pent among the fretful ocean caves, a sick, sad sound. then as i looked, i saw his eyes glare horribly, his dry parched lips open, his weary hands stretch idly forth as if to clutch the air--infinite pain and mockery of hope. "seest thou them now?" he said. "i thirst, i parch, i famish, yet they still elude me, fair and tempting fruit and cooling waters. now they come again. see, they are in my grasp, they are at my lips, now i shall quench me. nay, again they fly and mock me. seest thou them, or am i shut from hope for ever, hungering, thirsting still, a madman and in hell?" and as i passed in horror, his large eyes and straining hands froze all my soul with pity. then it was a woman whom i saw: a dark pale queen, with passion in her eyes, and fear and pain holding her steadfast gaze, like one who sees some dreadful deed of wrong worked out and knows himself the cause, yet now is powerless to stay the wrong he would. seeing me gaze in pity on her woe, she turned and spake with a low wailing voice-- "thou well mayst gaze with horror on me, sir, for i am lost; i have shed the innocent blood, long years ago, nay, centuries of pain. i have shed the blood of him i loved, and found for recompense but self-inflicted death and age-long woe, which purges not my sin. and yet not i it was who did it, but the gods, who took a woman's loveless heart and tortured it with love as with a fire. it was not i who slew my love, but fate. fate 'twas which brought my love and me together, fate which barred the path of blameless love, yet set love's flame to burn and smoulder in a hopeless heart, where no relief might come. the king was old, and i a girl. 'tis an old tale which runs thro' the sad ages, and 'twas mine. he had spent his sum of love long since, and i--i knew not a breath of love as yet. ah, it is strange to lose the sense of maidenhood, drink deep of life to the very dregs, and yet not know a flutter of love's wing. love takes no thought for pomp, or palace, or respect of men; nor always in the stately marriage bed, closed round by silken curtains, laid on down, nestles a rosy form; but 'mid wild flowers or desert tents, or in the hind's low cot, beneath the aspect of the unconscious stars, dwells all night and is blest. my love, my life! he was the old man's son, a fair white soul-- not like the others, whom the fire of youth burns like a flame and hurries unrestrained thro' riotous days and nights, but virginal and pure as any maid. no wandering glance he deigned for all the maidens young and fair who sought their prince's eye. but evermore, upon the high lawns wandering alone, he dwelt unwed; weaving to artemis, fairest of all olympian maids, a wreath from the unpolluted meads, where never herd drives his white flock, nor ever scythe has come, but the bee sails upon unfettered wing over the spring-like lawns, and purity waters them with soft dews;[ ] and yet he showed of all his peers most manly--heart and soul a very man, tender and true, and strong and pitiful, and in his limbs and mien fair as apollo's self. it was at first in troezen that i saw him, when he came to greet his sire. amid the crowd of youths he showed a prince indeed; yet knew i not whom 'twas i saw, nor that i held the place which was his mother's, only from the throng love, with a barbed dart aiming, pierced my heart ere yet i knew what ailed me. every glance fired me; the youthful grace, the tall straight limbs, the swelling sinewy arms, the large dark eyes tender yet full of passion, the thick locks tossed from his brow, the lip and cheek which bore the down of early manhood, seemed to feed my heart with short-lived joy. for when he stood forth from the throng and knelt before his sire, then raised his eyes to mine, i felt the curse of aphrodité burn me, as it burned my mother before me, and i dared not meet his innocent, frank young eyes. said i then young? ay, but not young as mine. for i had known the secret things of life, which age the soul in a moment, writing on its front their mark 'too early ripe;' and he was innocent, my spouse in fitted years, within whose arms i had defied the world. i turned away like some white bird that leaves the flock, which sails high in mid air above the haunts of men, feeling some little dart within her breast, not death, but like to death, and slowly sinks down to the earth alone, and bears her hurt unseen, by herbless sand and bitter pool, and pines until the end. even from that day i strove to gain his love. nay, 'twas not i, but the cruel gods who drove me. day by day we were together; for in days of old women were free, not pent in gilded jails as afterwards, but free to walk alone, for good or evil, free. i hardly took thought for my spouse, the king. for i had found my love at last: what matter if it were a guilty love? yet love is love indeed, stronger than heaven or hell. day after day i set myself to tempt him from his proud and innocent way, for i had spurned aside care for the gods or men--all but my love. what need to tell the tale? was it a sigh, a blush, a momentary glance, which brought assurance of my triumph? it is long since i have lived, i cannot tell; i know only the penalty of death and hell which followed on my sin. i knew he loved. it was not wonderful, seeing that we dwelt a boy and girl together. i was fair, and eros fired my eyes and lent my voice his own soft tremulous tones. but when our souls trembled upon the verge, and fancy feigned his arms around me as we fled alone to some free land of exile, lo! a scroll: 'dearest, it may not be; i fear the gods; we dare not do this wrong. i go from hence and see thy face no more. farewell! forget the love we may not own; go, seek for both forgiveness from the gods.' when i read the words, the cruel words, methought my heart stood still, and when the ebbing life returned i seemed to have lost all thought of love. only revenge dwelt with me still, the fiercer that i knew my long-prized hope, which came so near success, snatched from me and for ever. when i rose from my deep swoon, i bade a messenger go, seek the king for me. he came and sate beside my couch, and all the doors were closed, and all withdrawn. then with the liar's art, and hypocrite tears, and feigned reluctancy, and all the subtle wiles a woman draws from the armoury of hate, i did instil the poison to his soul. cunning devices, feigned sorrow, mention of his son, regrets, and half confessions--these, with hateful skill confused together, drove the old man's soul to frenzy; and i watched him, with a sneer, turn to a dotard thirsting for the life of his own child. but how to do the deed, yet shed no blood, nor know the people's hate, who loved the prince, i knew not. till one day the old man, looking out upon the sea, besought the dread poseidon to avenge the treachery of his son. even as we stood gazing upon the breathless blue, a cloud rose from the deep, a little fleecy cloud, which sudden grew and grew, and turned the blue to purple; and a swift wind rose and sang higher and higher, and the wine-dark sea grew ruffled, and within the circling bay the tiny ripples, stealing up the sand, plunged loud with manes of foam, until they swelled to misty surges thundering on the shore. then at the old man's elbow as i stood, a deep dark thought, sent by the powers of ill, answering, as now i know, my own black hate and not my poor dupe's anger, fired my soul and bade me speak. 'the god has heard thy prayer,' i whispered; 'see the surge which wakes and swells to fury; well i know what things shall be. it is poseidon's voice sounds in the storm and sends thy vengeance. young hippolytus loves, as thou knowest, on the yellow sand, hard by the rippled margin of the wave, to urge his flying steeds. bid him go forth-- he will obey--and see what recompense the god will send his wrong.' in the old man's eyes a watery gleam of malice played awhile-- i hated him for it--and he bade his son drive forth his chariot on the sand, and yoke his three young fiery steeds. and still the storm blew fiercer and more fierce, and the white crests plunged on the strand, and the high promontories resounded counter-stricken, and a mist of foam, blown landward, hid the sounding shore. then saw i him come forth and bid them yoke his untamed colts. i had not seen his face since that last day, but, seeing him, i felt the old love spring anew, yet mixed with hate-- a storm of warring passions. tho' i knew what end should come, yet would i speak no word that might avert it. the old man looked forth; i think he had well-nigh forgotten all the wrong he fancied and the doom he prayed, all but the father's pride in the strong son, who was so young and bold. i saw a smile upon the dotard's face, when now the steeds were harnessed and the chariot, on the sand along the circling margin of the bay, flew, swift as light. a sudden gleam of sun flashed on the silver harness as it went, burned on the brazen axles of the wheels, and on the golden fillets of the prince doubled the gold. sometimes a larger wave would dash in mist around him, and in fear the rearing coursers plunged, and then again the strong young arm constrained them, and they flashed to where the wave-worn foreland ends the bay. and then he turned his chariot, a bright speck now seen, now hidden, but always, tho' the surge broke round it, safe; emerging like a star from the white clouds of foam. and as i watched, speaking no word, and breathing scarce a breath, i saw the firm limbs strongly set apart upon the chariot, and the reins held high, and the proud head bent forward, with long locks streaming behind, as nearer and more near the swift team rushed--until, with a half joy, it seemed as if my love might yet elude the slow sure anger of the god, dull wrath swayed by a woman's lie. but on the verge, as i cast my eyes, a vast and purple wall swelled swiftly towards the land; the lesser waves sank as it came, and to its toppling crest the spume-flecked waters, from the strand drawn back, left dry the yellow shore. onward it came, hoarse, capped with breaking foam, lurid, immense, rearing its dreadful height. the chariot sped nearer and nearer. i could see my love with the light of victory in his eyes, the smile of daring on his lips: so near he came to where the marble palace-wall confined the narrow strip of beach--his brave young eyes fixed steadfast on the goal, in the pride of life, without a thought of death. i strove to cry, but terror choked my breath. then, like a bull upon the windy level of the plain lashing himself to rage, the furious wave, poising itself a moment, tossing high its wind-vexed crest, dashed downward on the strand with a stamp, with a rush, with a roar. and when i looked, the shore, the fields, the plain, were one white sea of churning, seething foam--chariot and steeds gone, and my darling on the wave's white crest tossed high, whirled down, beaten, and bruised, and flung, dying upon the marble. my great love sprang up redoubled, and cast out my hate and spurned all thought of fear; and down the stair i hurried, and upon the bleeding form i threw myself, and raised his head, and clasped his body to mine, and kissed him on the lips, and in his dying ear confessed my wrong, and saw the horror in his dying eyes and knew that i was damned. and when he breathed his last pure breath, i rose and slowly spake-- turned to a fury now by love and pain-- to the old man who knelt, while all the throng could hear my secret: 'see, thou fool, i am the murderess of thy son, and thou my dupe, thou and thy gods. see, he was innocent; i murdered him for love. i scorn ye all, thee and thy gods together, who are deceived by a woman's lying tongue! oh, doting fool, to hate thy own! and ye, false powers, which punish the innocent, and let the guilty soul escape unscathed, i hate ye all--i curse, i loathe you!' then i stooped and kissed my love, and left them in amaze; and up the stair swept slowly to my chamber, and therein, hating my life and cursing men and gods, i did myself to death. but even here, i find my punishment. oh, dreadful doom of souls like mine! to see their evil done always before their eyes, the one dread scene of horror. see, the dark wave on the verge towers horrible, and he---- oh, love, my love! safety is near! quick! quicker! urge them on! thou wilt 'scape it yet!--nay, nay, it bursts on him! i have shed the innocent blood! oh, dreadful gaze within his glazing eyes! hide them, ye gods! hide them! i cannot bear them. quick! a dagger! i will lose their glare in death. nay, die i cannot; i must endure and live--death brings not peace to the lost souls in hell." and her eyes stared, rounded with horror, and she stooped and gazed so eagerly, and pressed her fevered hands upon her trembling forehead with such pain as drives the gazer mad. then as i passed, i marked against the hardly dawning sky a toilsome figure standing, bent and strained, before a rocky mass, which with great pain and agony of labour it would thrust up a steep hill. but when upon the crest it poised a moment, then i held my breath with dread, for, lo! the poor feet seemed to clutch the hillside as in fear, and the poor hands with hopeless fingers pressed into the stone in agony, and the limbs stiffened, and a cry like some strong swimmer's, whom the mightier stream sweeps downward, and he sees his children's eyes upon the bank; broke from him; and at last, after long struggles of despair, the limbs relaxed, and as i closed my fearful eyes, seeing the inevitable doom--a crash, a horrible thunderous noise, as down the steep the shameless fragment leapt. from crag to crag it bounded ever swifter, striking fire and wrapt in smoke, as to the lowest depths of the vale it tore, and seemed to take with it the miserable form whose painful gaze i caught, as with the great rock whirled and dashed downward, and marking every crag with gore and long gray hairs, it plunged, yet living still, to the black hollow; and then a silence came more dreadful than the noise, and a low groan was all that i could hear. when to the foot of the dark steep i hurried, half in hope to find the victim dead--not recognizing the undying life of hell--i seemed to see an aged man, bruised, bleeding, with gray hairs, and eyes from which the cunning leer of greed was scarcely yet gone out. a crafty voice it was that answered me, the voice of guile part purified by pain: "there comes not death to those who live in hell, nor hardly pause of suffering longer than may serve to make the pain renewed, more piercing. long ago, i thought that i had cheated death, and now i seek him; but he comes not, nor know i if ever he will hear me. whence art thou? comest thou from earthly air, or whence? what power has brought thee hither? for i know indeed thou art not lost as i; for never here i look upon a human face, nor see the ghosts who doubtless here on every side suffer a common pain, only at times i hear the echo of a shriek far off, like some faint ghost of woe which fills the pause and interval of suffering; but from whom the voice may come, or whence, i know not, only the air teems with vague pain, which doth distract the ear when for a moment comes surcease of agony, and the sense of effort spent in vain and fruitless labour, and the pang of long-deferred defeat, which waits and takes the world-worn heart, and maddens it when all-- heaven, conscience, happiness, are staked and lost for gains which still elude it. yet 'twas sweet, a king in early youth, when pleasure is sweet, to live the fair successful years, and know the envy and respect of men. i cared for none of youth's delights: the dance, the song, allured me not; the smooth soft ways of sense tempted me not at all. i could despise the follies that i shared not, spending all the long laborious days in toilsome schemes to compass honour and wealth, and, as i grew in name and fame, finding my hoarded gains transmuted into power. the seas were white with laden argosies, and all were mine. the sheltering moles defied the wintry storms, and all were mine. the marble aqueducts, the costly bridges, all were mine. fair roads wound round and round the hills--my work. the gods alone i heeded not, nor cared at all for aught but that my eyes and ears might take, spurning invisible things, nor built i to them temple or shrine, wrapt up in life, set round with earthly blessings like a god. i rose to such excess of weal and fame and pride, my people held me god-like. i grew drunk with too great power, scoffing at men and gods, careless of both, but not averse to fling to those too weak themselves, what benefits my larger wisdom spurned. then suddenly i knew the pain of failure. summer storms sucked down my fleets even within sight of port. a grievous blight wasted the harvest-fields, mocking my hopes of gain. wars came and drained my store, and i grew needy, knowing now the hell of stronger souls, the loss of power wherein they exulted once. there comes no pain deeper than to have known delight of power, and then to lose it all. but i, i would not sit tame beneath defeat, trimming my sails to wait the breeze of fortune--fickle breath which perhaps might breathe no more--but chose instead by rash conceit and bolder enterprise to win her aid again. i had no thought of selfish gain, only to be and act as a god to those, feeding my sum of pride with acted good. but evermore defeat dogged me, and evermore my people grew to doubt me, seeing no more the wealth, the force, which once they worshipped. then the lust of power loved, not for sake of others, but itself, grew on me, and the pride which can dare all, save failure only, seized me. evil finds its ready chance. there were rich argosies upon the seas: i sank them, ship and crew, in the unbetraying ocean. wayfarers crossing the passes with rich merchandise my creatures, hid behind the crags, o'erwhelmed with rocks hurled downward. yet i spent my gains for the public weal, not otherwise; and they, the careless people, took the piteous spoils which cost the lives of many, and a man's soul, and blessed the giver. empty venal blessings, which sting more deep than curses! for awhile i was content with this, but at the last a great contempt and hatred of them took me, the base, vile churls! why should i stain my soul for such as those--dogs that would fawn and lick the hand that fed them, but, if food should fail, would turn and rend me? i would none of them; i would grow rich and happy, being indeed godlike in brain to such. so with all craft, and guile, and violence i enriched me, loading my treasuries with gold. my deep-laid schemes of gain engrossed the long laborious days, stretched far into the night. enjoy, i might not, seeing it was all to do, and life so brief that ere a man might gain the goal he would, lo! age, and with it death, and so an end! for all the tales of the indignant gods, what were they but the priests'? i had myself broken all oaths; long time deceived and ruined with every phase of fraud the pious fools whom oath-sworn justice bound; battened on blood and what was i the worse? how should the gods bear rule if i were happy? death alone was certain. therefore must i haste to heap treasure sufficient for my need, and then enjoy the gathered good. but gradually there came--not great disasters which might crush all hope, but petty checks which did decrease my store, and left my labour vain, and me unwilling to enjoy; and gradually i felt the chill approach of age, which stole higher and higher on me, till the life, as in a paralytic, left my limbs and heart, and mounted upwards to my brain, its last resort, and rested there awhile ere it should spread its wings. but even thus, tho' powerless to enjoy, the insatiate greed and thirst of power sustained me, and supplied life's spark with some scant fuel, till it seemed, year after year, as if i could not die, holding so fast to life. i grew so old that all the comrades of my youth, my prime, my age, were gone, and i was left alone with those who knew me not, bereft of all except my master passion--an old man forlorn, forgotten of the gods and death. so all the people, seeing me grow old and prosperous, held me wise, and spread abroad strange fables, growing day by day more strange-- how i deceived the very gods. they thought that i was blest, remembering not the wear of anxious thought, the growing sum of pain, the failing ear and eye, the slower limbs, whose briefer name is age: and yet i trow i was not all unhappy, though i knew it was too late to enjoy, and though my store increased not as my greed--nay, even sunk down a little, year by year. till, last of all, when now my time was come and i had grown a little tired of living, a trivial hurt laid me upon my bed; and as i mused on my long life and all its villanies, the wickedness i did, the blood i shed, the guile, the frauds of years--they came with news, one now, and now another; how my schemes were crushed, my enterprises lost, my toil and labour all in vain. day after day they brought these tidings, while i longed to rise and stay the tide of ill, and raved to know i could not. at the last the added sum of evil, like yon great rock poised awhile uncertain, gathered into one, o'erwhelmed my feeble strength, and left me ruined and lost, and showed me all i was, and all the depth and folly of my sin, and racked my brain, and sank me in despair and misery, and broke my heart and slew me. therefore 'tis i spend the long, long centuries which have come between me and my sin, in such dread tasks as that thou sawest. in the soul i sinned: in body and soul i suffer. what i bade my minions do to others, that of woe i bear myself; and in the pause of ill, as now, i know again the bitter pang of failure, which of old pierced thro' my soul and left me to despair. the pain of mind is fiercer far than any bodily ill, and both are mine--the pang of torture-pain always recurring; and, far worse, the pang of consciousness of black sins sinned in vain-- the doom of constant failure. will, fierce will! thou parent of unrest and toil and woe, measureless effort! growing day by day to force strong souls along the giddy steep that slopes to the pit of hell, where effort serves only to speed destruction! yet i know thou art not, as some hold, the primal curse which doth condemn us; since thou bearest in thee no power to satisfy thyself; but rather, the spring of act, whereby in earth and heaven both men and gods do breathe and live and are, since life is act and not to do is death-- i do not blame thee: but to work in vain is bitterest penalty: to find at last the soul all fouled with sin and stained with blood in vain; ah, this is hell indeed--the hell of lost and striving souls!" then as i passed, the halting figure bent itself again to the old task, and up the rugged steep thrust the great rock with groanings. horror chained my parting footsteps, like a nightmare dream which holds us that we flee not, with wide eyes that loathe to see, yet cannot choose but gaze till all be done. slowly, with dreadful toil and struggle and strain, and bleeding hands and knees, and more than mortal strength, against the hill he pressed, the wretched one! till with long pain he trembled on the summit, a gaunt form, with that great rock above him, poised and strained, now gaining, now receding, now in act to win the summit, now borne down again, and then the inevitable crash--the mass leaping from crag to crag. but ere it ceased in dreadful silence, and the low groan came, my limbs were loosed with one convulsive bound; i hid my face within my hands, and fled, surfeit with horror. then it was again a woman whom i saw, pitiless, stern, bearing the brand of blood--a lithe dark form, and cruel eyes which glared beneath the gems that argued her a queen, and on her side an ancient stain of gore, which did befoul her royal robe. a murderess in thought and dreadful act, who took within the toils her kingly lord, and slew him of old time after burnt troy. i had no time to speak when she shrieked thus: "it doth repent me not i would 'twere yet to do, and i would do it again a thousand times, if the shed blood might for one hour restore me to the kisses of my Ægisthus. oh, he was divine, my hero, with the godlike locks and eyes of eros' self! what boots it that they prate of wifely duty, love of spouse or child, honour or pity, when the swift fire takes a woman's heart, and burns it out, and leaps with fierce forked tongue around it, till it lies in ashes, a dead heart, nor aught remains of old affections, naught but the new flame which is unquenched desire? it did not come, my blessing, all at once, but the slow fruit of solitude and midnight loneliness, and weary waiting for the tardy news of taken troy. long years i sate alone, widowed, within my palace, while my lord was over seas, waging the accursèd war, first of the file of kings. year after year came false report, or harder, no report of the great fleet. the summers waxed and waned, the wintry surges smote the sounding shores, and yet there came no end of it. they brought now hopeless failure, now great victories; and all alike were false, all but delay and hope deferred, which cometh not, but breaks the heart which suffering wrings not. so i bore long time the solitary years, and sought to solace the dull days with motherly cares for those my lord had left me. my firstborn, iphigeneia, sailed at first with him upon that fatal voyage, but the young orestes and electra stayed with me-- not dear as she was, for the firstborn takes the mother's heart, and, with the milk it draws from the mother's virgin breast, drains all the love it bore, ay, even tho' the sire be dear; much more, then, when he is a king indeed, mighty in war and council, but too high to stoop to a woman's love. but she was gone, nor heard i tidings of her, knowing not if yet she walked the earth, nor if she bare the load of children, even as i had borne her in my opening girlhood, when i leapt from child to queen, but never loved the king. thus the slow years rolled onward, till at last there came a dreadful rumour--'she is dead, thy daughter, years ago. the cruel priests clamoured for blood; the stern cold kings stood round without a tear, and he, her sire, with them, to see a virgin bleed. they cut with knives the taper girlish throat; they watched the blood drip slowly on the sand, and the young life meek as a lamb come to the sacrifice to appease the angry gods.' and he, the king, her father, stood by too, and saw them do it, the wickedness, breathing no word of wrath, till all was done! the cowards! the dull cowards! i would some black storm, bursting suddenly, had whelmed them and their fleets, ere yet they dared to waste an innocent life! i had gone mad, i know it, but for him, my love, my dear, my fair sweet love. he came to comfort me with words of friendship, holding that my lord was bound, perhaps, to let her die--'the gods were ofttimes hard to appease--or was it indeed the priests who asked it? were there any gods? or only phantoms, creatures of the brain, born of the fears of men, the greed of priests, useful to govern women? had he been lord of the fleet, not all the soothsayers who ever frighted cowards should have brought his soul to such black depths.' i hearkening to him as 'twere my own thought grown articulate, found my grief turn to hate, and hate to love-- hate of my lord, love of the voice which spoke such dear and comfortable words. and thus, love to a storm of passion growing, swept my wounded soul and dried my tears, as dries the hot sirocco all the bitter pools of salt among the sand. i never knew true love before; i was a child, no more, when the king cast his eyes on me. what is it to have borne the weight of offspring 'neath the zone, if love be not their sire; or live long years of commerce, not of love? better a day of passion than the long unlovely years of wifely duty, when love cometh not to wake the barren days! and yet at first i hesitated long, nor would embrace the blessing that was mine. we are hedged round, we women, by such close-drawn ordinances, set round us by our tyrants, that we fear to overstep a hand's breadth the dull bounds of custom; but at last love, waking in me, burst all my chains asunder, and i lived for naught but love. my son, the young orestes, i sent far off; my girl electra only remained, too young to doubt me, and i knew at last what 'twas to live. so the swift years fleeted and found me happy, till the dark ill-omened day when rumour, thousand-tongued, whispered of taken troy; and from my dream of happiness, sudden i woke, and knew the coming retribution. we had grown too loving for concealment, and our tale of mutual love was bruited far and wide through argos. all the gossips bruited it, and were all tongue to tell it to the king when he should come. and should the cold proud lord i never loved, the murderer of my girl, come 'twixt my love and me? a swift resolve flashed through me pondering on it: love for love and blood for blood--the simple golden rule taught by the elder gods. when i had taken my fixed resolve, i grew impatient for it, counting the laggard days. oh, it was sweet to simulate the yearning of a wife long parted from her lord, and mock the fools who dogged each look and word, and but for fear had torn me from my throne--the pies, the jays, the impotent chatterers, who thought by words to stay me in the act! 'twas sweet to mock them and read distrust within their eyes, when i, knowing my purpose, bade them quick prepare all fitting honours for the king, and knew they dared not disobey--oh, 'twas enough to wing the slow-paced hours. but when at last i saw his sails upon the verge, and then the sea-worn ship, and marked his face grown old, the body a little bent, which was so straight, the thin gray hairs which were the raven locks of manhood when he went, i felt a moment i could not do the deed. but when i saw the beautiful sad woman come with him, the future in her eyes, and her sad voice proclaimed the tale of doom, two thoughts at once assailed me, bidding me despatch with a blow him and his mistress, making sure the will of fate, and my revenge. oh, it was strange to see all happen as we planned; as 'twere some drama oft rehearsed, wherein each step, each word, is so prepared, the poorest player knows his turn come to do--the solemn landing-- the ride to the palace gate--the courtesies of welcome--the mute crowds without--the bath prepared within--the precious circling folds of tissue stretched around him, shutting out the gaze, and folding helpless like a net the mighty limbs--the battle-axe laid down against the wall, and i, his wife and queen, alone with him, waiting and watching still, till the woman shrieked without. then with swift step i seized the axe, and struck him as he lay helpless, once, twice, and thrice--once for my girl, once for my love, once for the woman, and all for fate and my revenge! he gave a groan, once only, as i thought he might; and then no sound but the quick gurgling of the blood, as it flowed from him in streams, and turned the pure and limpid water of the bath to red-- i had not looked for that--it flowed and flowed, and seemed to madden me to look on it, until my love with hands bloody as mine, but with the woman's blood, rushed in, and eyes rounded with horror; and we turned to go, and left the dead alone. but happiness still mocked me, and a doubt unknown before came on me, and amid the silken shows and luxury of power i seemed to see another answer to my riddle of life than that i gave myself, and it was 'murder;' and in my people's sullen mien and eyes, 'murder;' and in the mirror, when i looked, 'murder' glared out, and terror lest my son returning, grown to manhood, should avenge his father's blood. for somehow, as 'twould seem, the gods, if gods there be, or the stern fate which doth direct our little lives, do filch our happiness--though bright with love's own ray, there comes a cloud which veils it. yet, indeed, my days were happy. i repent me not; i would wade through seas of blood to know again those fierce delights once more. but my young girl electra, grown to woman, turned from me her modest maiden eyes, nor loved to set her kiss upon my cheek, but, all distraught with secret care, hid her from all the pomps and revelries which did befit her youth, walking alone; and often at the tomb of her lost sire they found her, pouring out libations to the dead. and evermore i did bethink me of my son orestes, who now should be a man; and yearned sometimes to see his face, yet feared lest from his eyes his father's soul should smite me. so i lived happy and yet unquiet--a stern voice speaking of doom, which long time softer notes of careless weal, the music that doth spring from the fair harmonies of life and love, would drown in their own concord. this at times nay, day by day, stronger and dreadfuller, with dominant accent, marred the sounds of joy by one prevailing discord. so at length i came to lose the present in the dread of what might come; the penalty that waits upon successful sin; who, having sinned, had missed my sin's reward. until one day i, looking from my palace casement, saw a humble suppliant, clad in pilgrim garb, approach the marble stair. a sudden throb thrilled thro' me, and the mother's heart went forth thro' all disguise of garb and rank and years, knowing my son. how fair he was, how tall and vigorous, my boy! what strong straight limbs and noble port! how beautiful the shade of manhood on his lip! i longed to burst from my chamber down, yearning to throw myself upon his neck within the palace court, before the guards--spurning my queenly rank, all but my motherhood. and then a chill of doubt o'erspread me, knowing what a gulf fate set between our lives, impassable as that great gulf which yawns 'twixt life and death and 'twixt this hell and heaven. i shrank back, and turned to think a moment, half in fear, and half in pain; dividing the swift mind, yet all in love. then came a cry, a groan, from the inner court, the clash of swords, the fall of a body on the pavement; and one cried, 'the king is dead, slain by the young orestes, who cometh hither.' with the word, the door flew open, and my son stood straight before me, his drawn sword dripping blood. oh, he was fair and terrible to see, when from his limbs, the suppliant's mantle fallen, left the mail and arms of a young warrior. love and hate, which are the offspring of a common sire, strove for the mastery, till within his eyes i saw his father's ghost glare unappeased from out love's casements. then i knew my fate and his--mine to be slain by my son's hand, and his to slay me, since the furies drave our lives to one destruction; and i took his point within my breast. but i praise not the selfish, careless gods who wrecked our lives, making the king the murderer of his girl, and me his murderess; making my son the murderer of his mother and her love-- a mystery of blood!--i curse them all, the careless forces, sitting far withdrawn upon the heights of space, taking men's lives for playthings, and deriding as in sport our happiness and woe--i curse them all. we have a right to joy; we have a right, i say, as they have. let them stand confessed the puppets that they are--too weak to give the good they feign to love, since fate, too strong for them as us, beyond their painted sky, sits and derides them, too. i curse fate too, the deaf blind fury, taking human souls and crushing them, as a dull fretful child crushes its toys and knows not with what skill those feeble forms are feigned. i curse, i loathe, i spit on them. it doth repent me not. i would 'twere yet to do. i have lived my life. i have loved. see, there he lies within the bath, and thus i smite him! thus! didst hear him groan? oh, vengeance, thou art sweet! what, living still? ah me! we cannot die! come, torture me, ye furies--for i love not soothing words-- as once ye did my son. ye miserable blind ministers of hell, i do defy you; not all your torments can undo the past of passion and of love!" even as she spake there came a viewless trouble in the air, which took her, and a sweep of wings unseen, and terrible sounds, which swooped on her and hushed her voice, and seemed to occupy her soul with horror and despair; and as she passed i marked her agonized eyes. but as i went, full many a dreadful shape of lonely pain i saw. what need to tell them? we are filled who live to-day with a more present sense of the great love of god, than those of old who, groping in the dawn of knowledge, saw only dark shadows of the unknown; or he, first-born of modern singers, who swept deep his awful lyre, and woke the voice of song, dumb for long centuries of pain. we dread to dwell on those long agonies its sin brings on the offending soul; who hold a creed of deeper pity, knowing what chains of ill bind round our petty lives. each phase of woe, suffering, and torture which the gloomy thought of bigots feigns for others--all were there. one there was stretched upon a rolling wheel, which was the barren round of sense, that still returned upon itself and broke the limbs bound to it day and night. others i saw doomed, with unceasing toil, to fill the urns whose precious waters sank ere they could slake their burning thirst. another shapeless soul, full of revolts and hates and tyrannous force, the weight of earth, which was its earth-born taint, pressed groaning down, while with fierce beak and claw the vulture of remorse, piercing his breast, preyed on his heart. for others, overhead, great crags of rock impending seemed to fall, but fell not nor brought peace. i felt my soul blunted with horrors, yearning to escape to where, upon the limits of the wood, some scanty twilight grew. but ere i passed from those grim shades a deep voice sounded near, a voice without a form. "there is an end of all things that thou seest! there is an end of wrong and death and hell! when the long wear of time and suffering has effaced the stain ingrown upon the soul, and the cleansed spirit, long ages floating on the wandering winds or rolling deeps of space, renews itself and doth regain its dwelling, and, once more blent with the general order, floats anew upon the stream of things,[ ] and comes at length, after new deaths, to that dim waiting-place thou next shalt see, and with the justified white souls awaits the end; or, snatched at once, if fate so will, to the pure sphere itself, lives and is blest, and works the eternal work whose name and end is love! there is an end of wrong and death and hell!" even as i heard, i passed from out the shadow of death and pain, crying, "there is an end!" end of book i. book ii. hades. then from those dark and dreadful precincts passing, ghostly fields and voiceless took me. a faint twilight veiled the leafless, shadowy trees and herbless plains. there stirred no breath of air to wake to life the slumbers of the world. the sky above was one gray, changeless cloud. there looked no eye of life from the veiled heavens; but sleep and death were round me everywhere. and yet no fear nor horror took me here, where was no pain nor dread, save that strange tremor which assails one who in life's hot noontide looks on death and knows he too shall die. the ghosts which rose from every darkling copse showed thin and pale-- thinner and paler far than those i left in agony; even as pity seems to wear a thinner form than fear. not caged alone like those the avenging furies purged were these, nor that dim land as those black cavernous depths where no hope comes. fair souls were they and white whom there i saw, waiting as we shall wait, the beatific end, but thin and pale as the young faith which made them; touched a little by the sad memories of the earth; made glad a little by past joys: no more; and wrapt in musing on the brief play played by them upon the lively earth, yet ignorant of the long lapse of years, and what had been since they too breathed life's air, or if they knew, keeping some echo only; but their pain was fainter than their joy, and a great hope like ours possessed them dimly. first i saw a youth who pensive leaned against the trunk of a dark cypress, and an idle flute hung at his side. a sorrowful sad soul, such as sometimes he knows, who meets the gaze, mute, uncomplaining yet most pitiful, of one whom nature, by some secret spite, has maimed and left imperfect; or the pain which fills a poet's eyes. beneath his robe i seemed to see the scar of cruel stripes, too hastily concealed. yet was he not wholly unhappy, but from out the core of suffering flowed a secret spring of joy, which mocked the droughts of fate, and left him glad and glorying in his sorrow. as i gazed he raised his silent flute, and, half ashamed, blew a soft note; and as i stayed awhile i heard him thus discourse-- "the flute is sweet to gods and men, but sweeter far the lyre and voice of a true singer. shall i fear to tell of that great trial, when i strove and phoebus conquered? nay, no shame it is to bow to an immortal melody; but glory. once among the phrygian hills i lay a-musing,--while the silly sheep wandered among the thyme--upon the bank of a clear mountain stream, beneath the pines, safe hidden from the noon. a dreamy haze played on the uplands, but the hills were clear in sunlight, and no cloud was on the sky. it was the time when a deep silence comes upon the summer earth, and all the birds have ceased from singing, and the world is still as midnight, and if any live thing move-- some fur-clad creature, or cool gliding snake-- within the pipy overgrowth of weeds, the ear can catch the rustle, and the trees and earth and air are listening. as i lay, faintly, as in a dream, i seemed to hear a tender music, like the Æolian chords, sound low within the woodland, whence the stream, flowed full, yet silent. long, with ear to ground, i hearkened; and the sweet strain, fuller grown, rounder and clearer came, and danced along in mirthful measure now, and now grown grave in dying falls, and sweeter and more clear, tripping at nuptials and high revelry, wailing at burials, rapt in soaring thoughts, chanting strange sea-tales full of mystery, touching all chords of being, and life and death, now rose, now sank, and always was divine, so strange the music came. till, as i lay enraptured, swift a sudden discord rang, and all the sound grew still. a sudden flash, as from a sunlit jewel, fired the wood. a noise of water smitten, and on the hills a fair white fleece of cloud, which swiftly climbed into the farthest heaven. then, as i mused, knowing a parting goddess, straight i saw a sudden splendour float upon the stream, and knew it for this jewelled flute, which paused before me on an eddy. it i snatched eager, and to my ardent lips i bore the wonder, and behold, with the first breath-- the first warm human breath, the silent strains. the half-drowned notes which late the goddess blew, revived, and sounded clearer, sweeter far than mortal skill could make. so with delight i left my flocks to wander o'er the wastes untended, and the wolves and eagles seized the tender lambs, but i was for my art-- nought else; and though the high-pitched notes divine grew faint, yet something lingered, and at last so sweet a note i sounded of my skill, that all the phrygian highlands, all the white hill villages, were fain to hear the strain, which the mad shepherd made. so, overbold, and rapt in my new art, at last i dared to challenge phoebus' self. 'twas a fair day when sudden, on the mountain side, i saw a train of fleecy clouds in a white band descending. down the gleaming pinnacles and difficult crags they floated, and the arch, drawn with its thousand rays against the sun, hung like a glory o'er them. midst the pines they clothed themselves with form, and straight i knew the immortals. young apollo, with his lyre, kissed by the sun, and all the muses clad in robes of gleaming white; then a great fear, yet mixed with joy, assailed me, for i knew myself a mortal equalled with the gods. ah me! how fair they were! how fair and dread in face and form, they showed, when now they came upon the thymy slope, and the young god lay with his choir around him, beautiful and bold as youth and dawn! there was no cloud upon the sky, nor any sound at all when i began my strain. no coward fear of what might come restrained me; but an awe of those immortal eyes and ears divine looking and listening. all the earth seemed full of ears for me alone--the woods, the fields, the hills, the skies were listening. scarce a sound my flute might make; such subtle harmonies the silence seemed to weave round me and flout the half unuttered thought. till last i blew, as now, a hesitating note, and lo! the breath divine, lingering on mortal lips, hurried my soul along to such fair rhymes, sweeter than wont, that swift i knew my life rise up within me, and expand, and all the human, which so nearly is divine, was glorified, and on the muses' lips, and in their lovely eyes, i saw a fair approval, and my soul in me was glad. for all the strains i blew were strains of love-- love striving, love triumphant, love that lies within belovèd arms, and wreathes his locks with flowers, and lets the world go by and sings unheeding; and i saw a kindly gleam within the muses' eyes, who were indeed, women, though god-like. but upon the face of the young sun-god only haughty scorn sate and he swiftly struck his golden lyre, and played the song of life; and lo, i knew my strain, how earthy! oh, to hear the young apollo playing! and the hidden cells and chambers of the universe displayed before the charmèd sound! i seemed to float in some enchanted cave, where the wave dips in from the sunlit sea, and floods its depths with reflex hues of heaven. my soul was rapt by that i heard, and dared to wish no more for victory; and yet because the sound of music that is born of human breath comes straighter from the soul than any strain the hand alone can make; therefore i knew, with a mixed thrill of pity and delight, the nine immortal sisters hardly touched by this fine strain of music, as by mine, and when the high lay trembled to its close, still doubting. then upon the sun-god's face there passed a cold proud smile. he swept his lyre once more, then laid it down, and with clear voice, the voice of godhead, sang. oh, ecstasy, oh happiness of him who once has heard apollo singing! for his ears the sound of grosser music dies, and all the earth is full of subtle undertones, which change the listener and transform him. as he sang-- of what i know not, but the music touched each chord of being--i felt my secret life stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns to drink the summer rain; and at the call of those refreshing waters, all my thought stir from its dark and secret depths, and burst into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells deep call to deep, and all the mystery of all that is, laid open. as he sang, i saw the nine, with lovely pitying eyes, sign 'he has conquered.' yet i felt no pang of fear, only deep joy that i had heard such music while i lived, even though it brought torture and death. for what were it to lie sleek, crowned with roses, drinking vulgar praise, and surfeited with offerings, the dull gift of ignorant hands--all which i might have known-- to this diviner failure? godlike 'tis to climb upon the icy ledge, and fall where other footsteps dare not. so i knew my fate, and it was near. for to a pine they bound me willing, and with cruel stripes tore me, and took my life. but from my blood was born the stream of song, and on its flow my poor flute, to the cool swift river borne, floated, and thence adown a lordlier tide into the deep, wide sea. i do not blame phoebus, or nature which has set this bar betwixt success and failure, for i know how far high failure overleaps the bound of low successes. only suffering draws the inner heart of song and can elicit the perfumes of the soul. 'twere not enough to fail, for that were happiness to him who ever upward looks with reverent eye and seeks but to admire. so, since the race of bards soars highest; as who seek to show our lives as in a glass; therefore it comes that suffering weds with song, from him of old, who solaced his blank darkness with his verse; through all the story of neglect and scorn, necessity, sheer hunger, early death, which smite the singer still. not only those who keep clear accents of the voice divine are honourable--they are happy, indeed, whate'er the world has held--but those who hear some fair faint echoes, though the crowd be deaf, and see the white gods' garments on the hills, which the crowd sees not, though they may not find fit music for their thought; they too are blest, not pitiable. not from arrogant pride nor over-boldness fail they who have striven to tell what they have heard, with voice too weak for such high message. more it is than ease, palace and pomp, honours and luxuries, to have seen white presences upon the hills, to have heard the voices of the eternal gods." so spake he, and i seemed to look on him, whose sad young eyes grow on us from the page of his own verse: who did himself to death: or whom the dullard slew: or whom the sea rapt from us: and i passed without a word, slow, grave, with many musings. then i came on one a maiden, meek with folded hands, seated against a rugged face of cliff, in silent thought. anon she raised her arms, her gleaming arms, above her on the rock, with hands which clasped each other, till she showed as in a statue, and her white robe fell down from her maiden shoulders, and i knew the fair form as it seemed chained to the stone by some invisible gyves, and named her name: and then she raised her frightened eyes to mine as one who, long expecting some great fear, scarce sees deliverance come. but when she saw only a kindly glance, a softer look came in them, and she answered to my thought with a sweet voice and low. "i did but muse upon the painful past, long dead and done, forgetting i was saved. the angry clouds burst always on the low flat plains, and swept the harvest to the ocean; all the land was wasted. a great serpent from the deep, lifting his horrible head above their homes, devoured the children. and the people prayed in vain to careless gods. on that dear land, which now was turned into a sullen sea, gazing in safety from the stately towers of my sire's palace, i, a princess, saw, lapt in soft luxury, within my bower the wreck of humble homes come whirling by, the drowning, bleating flocks, the bellowing herds, the grain scarce husbanded by toiling hands upon the sunlit plain, rush to the sea, with floating corpses. on the rain-swept hills the remnant of the people huddled close, homeless and starving. all my being was filled with pity for them, and i joyed to give what food and shelter and compassionate hands of woman might. i took the little ones and clasped them shivering to the virgin breast which knew no other touch but theirs, and gave raiment and food. my sire, not stern to me, smiled on me as he saw. my gentle mother, who loved me with a closer love than binds a mother to her son; and sunned herself in my fresh beauty, seeing in my young eyes her own fair vanished youth; doted on me, and fain had kept my eyes from the sad sights that pained them. but my heart was sad in me, seeing the ineffable miseries of life, and that mysterious anger of the gods, and helpless to allay them. all in vain were prayer and supplication, all in vain the costly victims steamed. the vengeful clouds hid the fierce sky, and still the ruin came. and wallowing his grim length within the flood, over the ravaged fields and homeless homes, the fell sea-monster raged, sating his jaws with blood and rapine. then to the dread shrine of ammon went the priests, and reverend chiefs of all the nation. white robed, at their head, went slow my royal sire. the oracle spoke clear, not as ofttimes in words obscure, ambiguous. and as we stood to meet the suppliants--she who bare me, with her head upon my neck--we cheerful and with song welcomed their swift return; auguring well from such a quick-sped mission. but my sire hid his face from me, and the crowd of priests and nobles looked not at us. and no word was spoken till at last one drew a scroll and gave it to the queen, who straightway swooned, having read it, on my breast, and then i saw, i the young girl whose soft life scarcely knew shadow of sorrow, i whose heart was full of pity for the rest, what doom was mine. i think i hardly knew in that dread hour the fear that came anon; i was transformed into a champion of my race, made strong with a new courage, glorying to meet, in all the ecstasy of sacrifice, death face to face. some god, i know not who, o'erspread me, and despite my mother's tears and my stern father's grief, i met my fate unshrinking. when the moon rose clear from cloud once more again over the midnight sea, and that vast watery plain, where were before hundreds of happy homes, and well-tilled fields, and purple vineyards; from my father's towers the white procession went along the paths, the high cliff paths, which well i loved of old, among the myrtles. priests with censers went and offerings, robed in white, and round their brows the sacred fillet. with his nobles walked my sire with breaking heart. my mother clung to me the victim, and the young girls went with wailing and with tears. a solemn strain the soft flutes sounded, as we went by night to a wild headland, rock-based in the sea. there on a sea-worn rock, upon the verge, to some rude stanchions, high above my head, they bound me. out at sea, a black reef rose, washed by the constant surge, wherein a cave sheltered deep down the monster. the sad queen would scarcely leave me, though the priests shrunk back in terror. last, torn from my endless kiss, swooning they bore her upwards. all my robe fell from my lifted arms, and left displayed the virgin treasure of my breasts; and then the white procession through the moonlight streamed upwards, and soon their soft flutes sounded low upon the high lawns, leaving me alone. there stood i in the moonlight, left alone against the sea-worn rock. hardly i knew, seeing only the bright moon and summer sea, which gently heaved and surged, and kissed the ledge with smooth warm tides, what fate was mine. i seemed, soothed by the quiet, to be resting still within my maiden chamber, and to watch the moonlight thro' my lattice. then again fear came, and then the pride of sacrifice filled me, as on the high cliff lawns i heard the wailing cries, the chanted liturgies, and knew me bound forsaken to the rock, and saw the monster-haunted depths of sea. so all night long upon the sandy shores i heard the hollow murmur of the wave, and all night long the hidden sea caves made a ghostly echo; and the sea birds mewed around me; once i heard a mocking laugh, as of some scornful nereid; once the waters broke louder on the scarpèd reefs, and ebbed as if the monster coming; but again he came not, and the dead moon sank, and still only upon the cliffs the wails, the chants, and i forsaken on my sea-worn rock, and lo, the monster-haunted depths of sea. till at the dead dark hour before the dawn, when sick men die, and scarcely fear itself bore up my weary eyelids, a great surge burst on the rock, and slowly, as it seemed, the sea sucked downward to its depths, laid bare the hidden reefs, and then before my eyes-- oh, horrible! a huge and loathsome snake lifted his dreadful crest and scaly side above the wave, in bulk and length so large, coil after hideous coil, that scarce the eye could measure its full horror; the great jaws dropped as with gore; the large and furious eyes were fired with blood and lust. nearer he came, and slowly, with a devilish glare, more near, till his hot foetor choked me, and his tongue, forked horribly within his poisonous jaws, played lightning-like around me. for awhile i swooned, and when i knew my life again, death's bitterness was past. then with a bound leaped up the broad red sun above the sea, and lit the horrid fulgour of his scales, and struck upon the rock; and as i turned my head in the last agony of death, i knew a brilliant sunbeam swiftly leaping downward from crag to crag, and felt new hope where all was hopeless. on the hills a shout of joy, and on the rocks the ring of mail; and while the hungry serpent's gloating eyes were fixed on me, a knight in casque of gold and blazing shield, who with his flashing blade fell on the monster. long the conflict raged, till all the rocks were red with blood and slime, and yet my champion from those horrible jaws and dreadful coils was scatheless. zeus his sire protected, and the awful shield he bore withered the monster's life and left him cold, dragging his helpless length and grovelling crest: and o'er his glaring eyes the films of death crept, and his writhing flank and hiss of hate the great deep swallowed down, and blood and spume rose on the waves; and a strange wailing cry resounded o'er the waters, and the sea bellowed within its hollow-sounding caves. then knew i, i was saved, and with me all the people. from my wrists he loosed the gyves, my hero; and within his godlike arms bore me by slippery rock and difficult path, to where my mother prayed. there was no need to ask my love. without a spoken word love lit his fires within me. my young heart went forth, love calling, and i gave him all. dost thou then wonder that the memory of this supreme brief moment lingers still, while all the happy uneventful years of wedded life, and all the fair young growth of offspring, and the tranquil later joys, nay, even the fierce eventful fight which raged when we were wedded, fade and are deceased, lost in the irrecoverable past? nay, 'tis not strange. always the memory of overwhelming perils or great joys, avoided or enjoyed, writes its own trace with such deep characters upon our lives, that all the rest are blotted. in this place, where is not action, thought, or count of time, it is not weary as it were on earth, to dwell on these old memories. time is born of dawns and sunsets, days that wax and wane and stamp themselves upon the yielding face of fleeting human life; but here there is morning nor evening, act nor suffering, but only one unchanging present holds our being suspended. one blest day indeed, or centuries ago or yesterday, there came among us one who was divine, not as our gods, joyous and breathing strength and careless life, but crowned with a new crown of suffering, and a great light came with him, and with him he brought time and a new sense of dim, long-vanished years; and since he passed i seem to see new meaning in my fate, and all the deeds i tell of. evermore the young life comes, bound to the cruel rocks alone. before it the unfathomed sea smiles, filled with monstrous growths that wait to take its innocence. far off the voice and hand of love kneel by in agony, and entreat the seeming careless gods. still when the deep is smoothest, lo, the deadly fangs and coils lurk near, to smite with death. and o'er the crags of duty, like a sudden sunbeam, springs some golden soul half mortal, half divine, heaven-sent, and breaks the chain; and evermore for sacrifice they die, through sacrifice they live, and are for others, and no grief which smites the humblest but reverberates thro' all the close-set files of life, and takes the princely soul that from its royal towers looks down and sees the sorrow. sir, farewell! if thou shouldst meet my children on the earth or here, for maybe it is long ago since i and they were living, say to them i only muse a little here, and wait the waking." and her lifted arms sank down upon her knees, and as i passed i saw her gazing with soft rapt eyes, and on her lips a smile as of a saint. and then i saw a manly hunter pace along the lea, his bow upon his shoulder, and his spear poised idly in his hand: the face and form of vigorous youth; but in the full brown eyes a timorous gaze as of a hunted hart, brute-like, yet human still, even as the faun of old, the dumb brute passing into man, and dowered with double nature. as he came i seemed to question of his fate, and he answered me thus: "'twas one hot afternoon that i, a hunter, wearied with my day, heard my hounds baying fainter on the hills, led by the flying hart; and when the sound faded and all was still, i turned to seek, o'ercome by heat and thirst, a little glade, beloved of old, where, in the shadowy wood, the clear cold crystal of a mossy pool lipped the soft emerald marge, and gave again the flower-starred lawn where ofttimes overspent i lay upon the grass and careless bathed my limbs in the sweet lymph. but as i neared the hollow, sudden through the leaves i saw a throng of wood-nymphs fair, sporting undraped round one, a goddess. she with timid hand loosened her zone, and glancing round let fall her robe from neck and bosom, pure and bright, (for it was dian's self i saw, none else) as when she frees her from a fleece of cloud and swims along the deep blue sea of heaven on sweet june nights. silent awhile i stood, rooted with awe, and fain had turned to fly, but feared by careless footstep to affright those chaste cold eyes. great awe and reverence held me, and fear; then love with passing wing fanned me, and held my eyes, and checked my breath, signing 'beware!' so for a time i watched, breathless as one a brooding nightmare holds, who fleeth some great fear, yet fleeth not; till the last flutter of lawn, and veil no more obscured, and all the beauty of my dreams assailed my sense. but ere i raised my eyes, as one who fain would look and see the sun, the first glance dazed my brain. only i knew the perfect outline flow in tender curves, to break in doubled charms; only a haze of creamy white, dimple, and deep divine: and then no more. for lo! a sudden chill, and such thick mist as shuts the hills at eve, oppressed me gazing; and a heaven-sent shame, an awe, a fear, a reverence for the unknown, froze all the springs of will and left me cold, and blinded all the longings of my eyes, leaving such dim reflection still as mocks him who has looked on a great light, and keeps on his closed eyes the image. presently, my fainting soul, safe hidden for awhile deep in life's mystic shades, renewed herself, and straight, the innocent brute within the man bore on me, and with half-averted eye i gazed upon the secret. as i looked, a radiance, white as beamed the frosty moon on the mad boy and slew him, beamed on me; made chill my pulses, checked my life and heat; transformed me, withered all my soul, and left my being burnt out. for lo! the dreadful eyes of godhead met my gaze, and through the mask and thick disguise of sense, as through a wood, pierced to my life. then suddenly i knew an altered nature, touched by no desire for that which showed so lovely, but declined to lower levels. nought of fear or awe, nothing of love was mine. wide-eyed i gazed, but saw no spiritual beam to blight my brain with too much beauty, no undraped and awful majesty; only a brute, dumb charm, like that which draws the brute to it, unknowing it is drawn. so gradually i knew a dull content o'ercloud my sense, and unabashed i gazed, like that dumb bird which thinks no thought and speaks no word, yet fronts the sun that blinded homer--all my fear sunk with my shame, in a base happiness. 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 tare 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 on me, and tare me as i lay, and left me man again. wherefore i walk along these dim fields peopled with the ghosts of heroes who have left the ways of earth for this faint ghost of them. sometimes i think, pondering on what has been, that all my days were shadows, all my life an allegory; and, though i know sometimes some fainter gleam of the old beauty move me, and sometimes some beat of the old pulses; that my fate, for ever hurrying on in hot pursuit, to fall at length self-slain, was but a tale writ large by zeus upon a mortal life, writ large, and yet a riddle. for sometimes i read its meaning thus: life is a chase, and man the hunter, always following on, with hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense, some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still for ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep and wind-worn wolds of time. and if he turn a moment from the hot pursuit to seize some chance-brought sweetness, other than the search to which his soul is set,--some dalliance, some outward shape of art, some lower love, some charm of wealth and sleek content and home,-- then, if he check an instant, the swift chase of fierce untempered energies which pursue, with jaws unsated and a thirst for act, bears down on him with clanging shock, and whelms his prize and him in ruin. and sometimes i seem to myself a thinker, who at last, amid the chase and capture of low ends, pausing by some cold well of hidden thought comes on some perfect truth, and looks and looks till the fair vision blinds him. and the sum of all his lower self pursuing him, the strong brute forces, the unchecked desires, finding him bound and speechless, deem him now no more their master, but some soulless thing; and leap on him, and seize him, and possess his life, till through death's gate he pass to life, and, his own ghost, revives. but looks no more upon the truth unveiled, save through a cloud of creed and faith and longing, which shall change one day to perfect knowledge. but whoe'er shall read the riddle of my life, i walk in this dim land amid dim ghosts of kings, as one day thou shalt; meantime, fare thou well." then passed he; and i marked him slowly go along the winding ways of that weird land, and vanish in a wood. and next i knew a woman perfect as a young man's dream, and breathing as it seemed the old sweet air of the fair days of old, when man was young and life an epic. round the lips a smile subtle and deep and sweet as hers who looks from the old painter's canvas, and derides life and the riddle of things, the aimless strife, the folly of love, as who has proved it all, enjoyed and suffered. in the lovely eyes a weary look, no other than the gaze which ofttimes as the rapid chariot whirls, and ofttimes by the glaring midnight streets, gleams out and chills our thought. and yet not guilt nor sorrow was it; only weariness, no more, and still most lovely. as i named her name in haste, she looked with half surprise, and thus she seemed to speak: "what? dost thou know thou too, the fatal glances which beguiled those strong rude chiefs of old? has not the gloom of this dim land withdrawn from out mine eyes the glamour which once filled them? does my cheek retain the round of youth and still defy the wear of immemorial centuries? and this low voice, long silent, keeps it still the music of old time? aye, in thine eyes i read it, and within thine eyes i see thou knowest me, and the story of my life sung by the blind old bard when i was dead, and all my lovers dust. i know thee not, thee nor thy gods, yet would i soothly swear i was not all to blame for what has been, the long fight, the swift death, the woes, the tears the brave lives spent, the humble homes uptorn to gain one poor fair face. it was not i that curved these lips into this subtle smile, or gave these eyes their fire, nor yet made round this supple frame. it was not i, but love, love mirroring himself in all things fair, love that projects himself upon a life, and dotes on his own image. ah! the days, the weary years of love and feasts and gold, the hurried flights, the din of clattering hoofs at midnight, when the heroes dared for me, and bore me o'er the hills; the swift pursuits baffled and lost; or when from isle to isle the high-oared galley spread its wings and rose over the swelling surges, and i saw, time after time, the scarce familiar town, the sharp-cut hills, the well-loved palaces, the gleaming temples fade, and all for me, me the dead prize, the shell, the soulless ghost, the husk of a true woman; the fond words wasted on careless ears, that seemed to hear, of love to me unloving; the rich feasts, the silken dalliance and soft luxury, the fair observance and high reverence for me who cared not, to whatever land my kingly lover snatched me. i have known how small a fence love sets between the king and the strong hind, who breeds his brood, and dies upon the field he tills. i have exchanged people for people, crown for glittering crown, through every change a queen, and held my state hateful, and sickened in my soul to lie stretched on soft cushions to the lutes' low sound, while on the wasted fields the clang of arms rang, and the foemen perished, and swift death, hunger, and plague, and every phase of woe vexed all the land for me. i have heard the curse unspoken, when the wife widowed for me clasped to her heart her orphans starved for me; as i swept proudly by. i have prayed the gods, hating my own fair face which wrought such woe, some plague divine might light on it and leave my curse a ruin. yet i think indeed they had not cursed but pitied, those true wives who mourned their humble lords, and straining felt the innocent thrill which swells the mother's heart who clasps her growing boy; had they but known the lifeless life, the pain of hypocrite smiles, the dead load of caresses simulated, when love stands shuddering by to see his fires lit for the shrine of gold. what if they felt the weariness of loveless love which grew and through the jealous palace portals seized the caged unloving woman, sick of toys, sick of her gilded chains, her ease, herself, till for sheer weariness she flew to meet some new unloved seducer? what if they knew no childish loving hands, or worse than all, had borne them sullen to a sire unloved, and left them without pain? i might have been, i too, a loving mother and chaste wife, had fate so willed. for i remember well how one day straying from my father's halls seeking anemones and violets, a girl in spring-time, when the heart makes spring within the budding bosom, that i came of a sudden through a wood upon a bay, a little sunny land-locked bay, whose banks sloped gently downward to the yellow sand, where the blue wave creamed soft with fairy foam, and oft the nereids sported. as i strayed singing, with fresh-pulled violets in my hair and bosom, and my hands were full of flowers, i came upon a little milk-white lamb, and took it in my arms and fondled it, and wreathed its neck with flowers, and sang to it and kissed it, and the spring was in my life, and i was glad. and when i raised my eyes behold, a youthful shepherd with his crook stood by me and regarded as i lay, tall, fair, with clustering curls, and front that wore a budding manhood. as i looked a fear came o'er me, lest he were some youthful god disguised in shape of man, so fair he was; but when he spoke, the kindly face was full of manhood, and the large eyes full of fire drew me without a word, and all the flowers fell from me, and the little milk-white lamb strayed through the brake, and took with it the white fair years of childhood. time fulfilled my being with passion like a cup, and with one kiss left me a woman. ah! the lovely days, when on the warm bank crowned with flowers we sate and thought no harm, and his thin reed pipe made low music, and no witness of our love intruded, but the tinkle of the flock came from the hill, and 'neath the odorous shade we dreamed away the day, and watched the waves steal shoreward, and beyond the sylvan capes the innumerable laughter of the sea! ah youth and love! so passed the happy days till twilight, and i stole as in a dream homeward, and lived as in a happy dream, and when they spoke answered as in a dream, and through the darkness saw, as in a glass, the happy, happy day, and thrilled and glowed and kept my love in sleep, and longed for dawn and scarcely stayed for hunger, and with morn stole eager to the little wood, and fed my life with kisses. ah! the joyous days of innocence, when love was queen in heaven, and nature unreproved! break they then still, those azure circles, on a golden shore? smiles there no glade upon the older earth where spite of all, gray wisdom, and new gods, young lovers dream within each other's arms silent, by shadowy grove, or sunlit sea? ah days too fair to last! 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, where they kept me till i grew fairer with every year, and many wooed, heroes and chieftains, but i loved not one. and then the avengers came and snatched me back to sparta. all the dark high-crested chiefs of argos wooed me, striving king with king for one fair foolish face, nor knew i kept no heart to give them. yet since i was grown weary of honeyed words and suit of love, i wedded a brave chief, dauntless and true. but what cared i? i could not prize at all his honest service. i had grown so tired of loving and of love, that when they brought news that the fairest shepherd on the hills, having done himself to death for his lost love, lay, like a lovely statue, cold and white upon the golden sand, i hardly knew more than a passing pang. love, like a flower, love, springing up too tall in a young breast, the growth of morning, life's too scorching sun had withered long ere noon. love, like a flame on his own altar offering up my heart, had burnt my being to ashes. was it love that drew me then to paris? he was fair, i grant you, fairer than a summer morn, fair with a woman's fairness, yet in arms a hero, but he never had my heart, not love for him allured me, but the thirst for freedom, if in more than thought i erred, and was not rapt but willing. for my child, born to an unloved father, loved me not, the fresh sea called, the galleys plunged, and i fled willing from my prison and the pain of undesired caresses, and the wind was fair, and on the third day as we sailed, my heart was glad within me when i saw the towers of ilium rise beyond the wave. ah, the long years, the melancholy years, the miserable melancholy years! for soon the new grew old, and then i grew weary of him, of all, of pomp and state and novel splendour. yet at times i knew some thrill of pride within me as i saw from those high walls, a prisoner and a foe, the swift ships flock at anchor in the bay, the hasty landing and the flash of arms, the lines of royal tents upon the plain, the close-shut gates, the chivalry within issuing in all its pride to meet the shock of the bold chiefs without; so year by year the haughty challenge from the warring hosts rang forth, and i with a divided heart saw victory incline, now here, now there, and helpless marked the argive chiefs i knew, the spouse i left, the princely loves of old, now with each other strive, and now with troy: the brave pomp of the morn, the fair strong limbs, the glittering panoply, the bold young hearts, athirst for fame of war, and with the night the broken spear, the shattered helm, the plume dyed red with blood, the ghastly dying face, and nerveless limbs laid lifeless. and i knew the stainless hector whom i could have loved, but that a happy love made blind his eyes to all my baleful beauty; fallen and dragged his noble, manly head upon the sand by young achilles' chariot; him in turn fallen and slain; my fair false paris slain; plague, famine, battle, raging now within, and now without, for many a weary year, summer and winter, till i loathed to live, who was indeed, as well they said, the hell of men, and fleets, and cities. as i stood upon the walls, ofttimes a longing came, looking on rage, and fight, and blood, and death, to end it all, and dash me down and die; but no god helped me. nay, one day i mind i would entreat them. 'pray you, lords, be men. what fatal charm is this which até gives to one poor foolish face? be strong, and turn in peace, forget this glamour, get you home with all your fleets and armies, to the land i love no longer, where your faithful wives pine widowed of their lords, and your young boys grow wild to manhood. i have nought to give, no heart, nor prize of love for any man, nor recompense. i am the ghost alone of the fair girl ye knew; she still abides, if she still lives and is not wholly dead, stretched on a flowery bank upon the sea in fair heroic argos. leave this form that is no other than the outward shell of a once loving woman.' as i spake, my pity fired my eyes and flushed my cheek with some soft charm; and as i spread my hands, the purple, glancing down a little, left the marble of my breasts and one pink bud upon the gleaming snows. and as i looked with a mixed pride and terror, i beheld the brute rise up within them, and my words fall barren on them. so i sat apart, nor ever more looked forth, while every day brought its own woe. the melancholy years, the miserable melancholy years, crept onward till the midnight terror came, and by the glare of burning streets i saw palace and temple reel in ruin and fall, and the long-baffled legions, bursting in by gate and bastion, blunted sword and spear with unresisted slaughter. from my tower i saw the good old king; his kindly eyes in agony, and all his reverend hairs dabbled with blood, as the fierce foeman thrust and stabbed him as he lay; the youths, the girls, whom day by day i knew, their silken ease and royal luxury changed for blood and tears, haled forth to death or worse. then a great hate of life and fate seized on me, and i rose and rushed among them, crying, 'see, 'tis i, i who have brought this evil! kill me! kill the fury that is i, yet is not i! and let my soul go outward through the wound made clean by blood to hades! let me die, not these who did no wrong!' but not a hand was raised, and all shrank backward as afraid, as from a goddess. then i swooned and fell and knew no more, and when i woke i felt my husband's arms around me, and the wind blew fair for greece, and the beaked galley plunged; and where the towers of ilium rose of old, a pall of smoke above a glare of fire. what then in the near future? ten long years bring youth and love to that deep summer-tide when the full noisy current of our lives creeps dumb through wealth of flowers. i think i knew somewhat of peace at last, with my good lord who loved too much, to palter with the past, flushed with the present. young hermione had grown from child to woman. she was wed; and was not i her mother? at the pomp of solemn nuptials and requited love, i prayed she might be happy, happier far than ever i was; so in tranquil ease i lived a queen long time, and because wealth and high observance can make sweet our days when youth's swift joy is past, i did requite with what i might, not love, the kindly care of him i loved not; pomps and robes of price and chariots held me. but when fate cut short his life and love, his sons who were not mine reigned in his stead, and hated me and mine: and knowing i was friendless, i sailed forth once more across the sea, seeking for rest and shelter. still i knew that in my eyes love dwelt, and all the baleful charm of old burned as of yore, scarce dimmed as yet by time: i saw it in the mirror of the sea, i saw it in the youthful seamen's eyes, and was half proud again i had such power who now kept nothing else. so one calm eve, behold, a sweet fair isle blushed like a rose upon the summer sea: there my swift ship cast anchor, and they told me it was rhodes. there, in a little wood above the sea, like that dear wood of yore, i wandered forth forlorn, and all my seamen were apart, and i, alone; when at the close of day i knew myself surrounded by strange churls with angry eyes, and one who ordered them, a woman, whom i knew not, but who walked in mien and garb a queen. she, with the fire of hate within her eyes, 'quick, bind her, men! i know her; bind her fast!' then to the trunk of a tall plane they bound me with rude cords that cut my arms. and meantime, far below, the sun was gilding fair with dying rays isle after isle and purple wastes of sea. and then she signed to them, and all withdrew among the woods and left us, face to face, two women. ere i spoke, 'i know,' she said, 'i know that evil fairness. this it was, or ever he had come across my life, that made him cold to me, who had my love and left me half a heart. if all my life of wedlock was but half a life, what fiend came 'twixt my love and me, but that fair face? what left his children orphans, but that face? and me a widow? fiend! i have thee now; thou hast not long to live. i will requite thy murders; yet, oh fiend! that art so fair, were it not haply better to deface thy fatal loveliness, and leave thee bare of all thy baleful power? and yet i doubt, and looking on thy face i doubt the more, lest all thy dower of fairness be the gift of aphrodité, and i fear to fight against the immortal gods.' even with the word, and she relenting, all the riddle of life flashed through me, and the inextricable coil of being, and the immeasurable depths and irony of fate, burst on my thought and left me smiling in the eyes of death, with this deep smile thou seëst. then with a shriek the woman leapt on me, and with blind rage strangled my life. and when she had done the deed she swooned, and those her followers hasting back fell prone upon their knees before the corpse as to a goddess. then one went and brought a sculptor, and within a jewelled shrine they set me in white marble, bound to a tree of marble. and they came and knelt to me, young men and maidens, through the secular years, while the old gods bore sway, but i was here, and now they kneel no longer, for the world has gone from beauty. but i think, indeed, they well might worship still, for never yet was any thought or thing of beauty born except with suffering. that poor wretch who thought i injured her, stealing the foolish heart which she prized but i could not, what knew she of that i suffered? she had loved her love, though unrequited, and had borne to him children who loved her. what if she had been loved yet unloving: all the fire of love burnt out before love's time in one brief blaze of passion. ah, poor fool! i pity her, being blest and yet unthankful, and forgive, now that she is a ghost as i, the hand which loosed my load of life. for scarce indeed could any god who cares for mortal men have ever kept me happy. i had tired of simple loving, doubtless, as i tired of splendour and being loved. there be some souls for which love is enough, content to bear from youth to age, from chesnut locks to gray, the load of common, uneventful life and penury. but i was not of these; i know not now, if it were best indeed that i had reared my simple shepherd brood, and lived and died unknown in some poor hut among the argive hills; or lived a queen as i did, knowing every day that dawned some high emprise and glorious, and in death to fill the world with song. not the same meed the gods mete out for all, or she, the dread necessity, who rules both gods and men, some to dishonour, some to honour moulds, to happiness some, some to unhappiness. we are what zeus has made us, discords playing in the great music, but the harmony is sweeter for them, and the great spheres ring in one accordant hymn. but thou, if e'er there come a daughter of thy love, oh pray to all thy gods, lest haply they should mar her life with too great beauty!" so she ceased. the fairest woman that the poet's dream or artist hand has fashioned. all the gloom seemed lightened round her, and i heard the sound of her melodious voice when all was still, and the dim twilight took her. next there came two who together walked: one with a lyre of gold, which gave no sound; the other hung upon his breast, and closely clung to him, spent in a tender longing. as they came, i heard her gentle voice recounting o'er some ancient tale, and these the words she said: "dear voice and lyre now silent, which i heard across yon sullen river, bringing to me all my old life, and he, the ferryman, heard and obeyed, and the grim monster heard and fawned on you. joyous thou cam'st and free like a white sunbeam from the dear bright earth, where suns shone clear, and moons beamed bright, and streams laughed with a rippling music,--nor as here the dumb stream stole, the veiled sky slept, the fields were lost in twilight. like a morning breeze, which blows in summer from the gates of dawn across the fields of spice, and wakes to life their slumbering perfume, through this silent land of whispering voices and of half-closed eyes, where scarce a footstep sounds, nor any strain of earthly song, thou cam'st; and suddenly the pale cheeks flushed a little, the murmured words rose to a faint, thin treble; the throng of ghosts pacing along the sunless ways and still, felt a new life. thou camest, dear, and straight the dull cold river broke in sparkling foam, the pale and scentless flowers grew perfumed; last to the dim chamber, where with the sad queen i sat in gloom, and silently inwove dead wreaths of amaranths; thy music came laden with life, and i, who seemed to know not life's voice only, but my own, rose up, along the hollow pathways following the sound which brought back earth and life and love, and memory and longing. yet i went with half-reluctant footsteps, as of one whom passion draws, or some high fantasy, despite himself, because some subtle spell, part born of dread to cross that sullen stream and its grim guardians, part of secret shame of the young airs and freshness of the earth, being that i was, enchained me. then at last, from voice and lyre so high a strain arose as trembled on the utter verge of being, and thrilling, poured out life. thus closelier drawn i walked with thee, shut in by halcyon sound and soft environments of harmony, beyond the ghostly gates, beyond the dim calm fields, where the beetle hummed and the pale owl stole noiseless from the copse, and the white blooms stretched thin for lack of sun: so fair a light born out of consonant sound environed me. nor looked i backward, as we seemed to move to some high goal of thought and life and love, like twin birds flying fast with equal wing out of the night, to meet the coming sun above a sea. but on thy dear fair eyes, the eyes that well i knew on the old earth, i looked not, for with still averted gaze thou leddest, and i followed; for, indeed, while that high strain was sounding, i was rapt in faith and a high courage, driving out all doubt and discontent and womanish fear, nay, even my love itself. but when awhile it sank a little, or seemed to sink and fall to lower levels, seeing that use makes blunt the too accustomed ear, straightway, desire to look once more on thy recovered eyes seized me, and oft i called with piteous voice, beseeching thee to turn. but thou long time wert even as one unmindful, with grave sign and waving hand, denying. finally, when now we neared the stream, on whose far shore lay life, great terror took me, and i shrieked thy name, as in despair. then thou, as one who knows him set in some great jeopardy, a swift death fronting him on either hand, didst slowly turning gaze; and lo! i saw thine eyes grown awful, life that looked on death, clear purity on dark and cankered sin, the immortal on corruption,--not the eyes that erst i knew in life, but dreadfuller, and stranger. as i looked, i seemed to swoon, some blind force whirled me back, and when i woke i saw thee vanish in the middle stream, a speck on the dull waters, taking with thee my life, and leaving love with me. but i not for myself bewail, but all for thee, who, but for me, wert now among the stars with thy great lord; i sitting at thy feet: but now the fierce and unrestrainèd rout of passions woman-natured, finding thee scornful of love within thy lonely cell, with blind rage falling on thee, tore thy limbs, and left them to the muses' sepulture, while thy soul dwells in hades. but i wail my weakness always, who for love destroyed the life that was my love. i prithee, dear, forgive me if thou canst, who hast lost heaven to save a loving woman." he with voice sweeter than any mortal melody, and plaintive as the music that is made by the Æolian strings, or the sad bird that sings of summer nights: "eurydice, dear love, be comforted; not once alone that which thou mournest is, but day by day some lonely soul, which walks apart and feeds on high hill pastures, far from herds of men, comes to the low fat fields, and sunny vales joyous with fruits and flowers, and the white arms of laughing love; and there awhile he stays content, forgetting all the joys he knew, when first the morning broke upon the hills, and the keen air breathed from the eastern gates like a pure draught of wine; forgetting all the strains which float, as from a nearer heaven, to him who treads at dawn the untrodden snows, while all the warm world sleeps;--forgetting these and all things that have been. and if he gain to raise to his own heights the simpler souls that dwell upon the plains, the untutored thought, the museless lives, the unawakened brain that yet might soar, then is he blest indeed. but if he fail, then, leaving love behind, the wider love of the race, the closer love of some congenial soul, he turns again to the old difficult steeps, and there alone pines, till the widowed passions of his heart tear him and rend his soul, and drive him down to the low plains he left. and there he dwells, missing the heavens, dear, and the white peaks, and the light air of old; but in their stead finding the soft sweet sun of the vale, the clouds which veil the skies indeed, but give the rains that feed the streams of life and make earth green, and bring at last the harvest. so i walk in this dim land content with thee, o love, untouched by any yearning of regret for those old days; nor that the lyre which made erewhile such potent music now is dumb; nor that the voice that once could move the earth (zeus speaking through it), speaks in household words of homely love: love is enough for me with thee, o dearest; and perchance at last, zeus willing, this dumb lyre and whispered voice shall wake, by love inspired, to such clear note as soars above the stars, and swelling, lifts our souls to highest heaven." then he stooped, and, folded in one long embrace, they went and faded. and i cried, "oh, strong god, love, mightier than death and hell!" and then i chanced on a fair woman, whose sad eyes were full of a fixed self-reproach, like his who knows himself the fountain of his grief, and pines in self-inflicted sorrow. as i spake enquiring of her grief, she answered thus: "stranger, thou seest of all the shades below the most unhappy. others sought their love in death, and found it, dying; but for me the death that took me, took from me my love, and left me comfortless. no load i bear like those dark wicked women, who have slain their lords for lust or anger, whom the dread propitious ones within the pit below punish and purge of sin; only unfaith, if haply want of faith be not a crime blacker than murder, when we fail to trust one worthy of all faith, and folly bring no harder recompense than comes of scorn and loathing of itself. ah, fool, fool, fool, who didst mistrust thy love, who was the best, and truest, manliest soul with whom the gods have ever blest the earth; so brave, so strong, fired with such burning hate of powerful ill, so loving of the race, so swift to raise the fearless arm and mighty club, and smite all monstrous growths with ruin--zeus himself showed scarce more mighty--and yet was the while a very man, not cast in mould too fine for human love, but ofttimes snared and caught by womanish wiles, fast held within the net his passions wove. oh, it was grand to hear of how he went, the champion of his race, mighty in war, mighty in love, now bent to more than human tasks, now lapt in ease, now suffering, now enjoying. strong, vast soul, tuned to heroic deeds, and set on high above the range of common petty sins-- too high to mate with an unequal soul, too full of striving for contented days. ah me, how well i do recall the cause of all our ills! i was a happy bride when that dark até which pursues the steps of heroes--innocent blood-guiltiness-- drove us to exile, and i joyed to be his own, and share his pain. to a swift stream fleeing we came, where a rough ferryman waited, more brute than man. my hero plunged in those fierce depths and battled with their flow, and with great labour gained the strand, and bade the monster row me to him. but with lust and brutal cunning in his eyes, the thing seized me and turned to fly with me, when swift an arrow hissed from the unerring bow, pierced him, and loosed his grasp. then as his eyes grew glazed in death there came in them a gleam of what i know was hate, and he said, 'take this white robe. it is costly. see, my blood has stained it but a little. i did wrong: i know it, and repent me. if there come a time when he grows cold--for all the race of heroes wander, nor can any love fix theirs for long--take it and wrap him in it, and he shall love again.' then, from the strange deep look within his eyes i shrank in fear, and left him half in pity, and i went to meet my lord, who rose from that fierce stream fair as a god. ah me, the weary days we women live, spending our anxious souls, consumed with jealous fancies, hungering still for the belovèd voice and ear and eye, and hungering all in vain! for life is more to youthful manhood than to sit at home before the hearth to watch the children's ways and lead the life of petty household care which doth content us women. day by day i pined in trachis for my love, while he, now in some warlike exploit busied, now fighting some monster, now at some fair court, resting awhile till some new enterprise called him, returned not. news of treacheries avenged, friends succoured, dreadful monsters slain, came from him: always triumph, always fame, and honour, and success, and reverence, and sometimes, words of love for me who pined for more than words, and would have gone to him but that the toils of such high errantry asked more than woman's strength. so the slow years vexed me alone in trachis, set forlorn in solitude, nor hearing at the gate the frank and cheering voice, nor on the stair the heavy tread, nor feeling the strong arm around me in the darkling night, when all my being ran slow. last, subtle whispers came of womanish wiles which kept my lord from me, and one who, young and fair, a fresh-blown life and virgin, younger, fairer far than i when first he loved me, held him in the toils of scarce dissembled love. not easily might i believe this evil, but at last the oft-repeated malice finding me forlorn, and sitting imp-like at my ear, possessed me, and the fire of jealous love raged through my veins, not turned as yet to hate-- too well i loved for that--but breeding in me unfaith in him. love, setting him so high and self so low, betrayed me, and i prayed, constrained to hold him false, the immortal gods to make him love again. but still he came not. and still the maddening rumours worked, and still 'fair, young, and a king's daughter,' the same words smote me and pierced me. oh, there is no pain in hades--nay, nor deepest hell itself, like that of jealous hearts, the torture-pain which racked my life so long. till one fair morn there came a joyful message. 'he has come! and at the shrine upon the promontory, the fair white shrine upon the purple sea, he waits to do his solemn sacrifice to the immortal gods; and with him comes a young maid beautiful as dawn.' then i, mingling despair with love, rapt in deep joy that he was come, plunged in the depths of hell that she came too, bethought me of the robe the centaur gave me, and the words he spake, forgetting the deep hatred in his eyes, and all but love, and sent a messenger bidding him wear it for the sacrifice to the immortals, knowing not at all whom fate decreed the victim. shall my soul forget the agonized message which he sent, bidding me come? for that accursèd robe, stained with the poisonous accursèd blood, even in the midmost flush of sacrifice clung to him a devouring fire, and ate the piteous flesh from his dear limbs, and stung his great soft soul to madness. when i came, knowing it was my work, he bent on me, wise as a god through suffering and the near inevitable death, so that no word of mine was needed, such a tender look of mild reproach as smote me. 'couldst not thou trust me, who never loved as i love thee? what need was there of magical arts to draw the love that never wavered? i have lived as he lives who through perilous paths must pass, and lifelong trials, striving to keep down the brute within him, born of too much strength and sloth and vacuous days; by difficult toils, labours endured, and hard-fought fights with ill, now vanquished, now triumphant; and sometimes, in intervals of too long labour, finding his nature grown too strong for him, falls prone awhile a helpless prey, then once again rises and spurns his chains, and fares anew along the perilous ways. dearest, i would that thou wert wedded to some knight who stayed at home within thy gates, and were content to see thee happy. but for me the fierce rude energies of life, the mighty thews, the god-sent hate of wrong, these drove me forth to quench the thirst of battle. see, this maid, this is the bride i destined for our son who grows to manhood. do thou see to her when i am dead, for soon i know again the frenzy comes, and with it ceasing, death. go, therefore, ere i harm thee when my strength has lost its guidance. thou wert rich in love, be now as rich in faith. dear, for thy wrong i do forgive thee.' when i saw the glare of madness fire his eyes, and my ears heard the groans the torture wrung from his great soul, i fled with broken heart to the white shrine, and knelt in prayer, but still my sad ear took the agony of his cries. then i who knew there was no hope in god or man for me who had destroyed my love, and with him slain the champion of the suffering race of men, and knowing that my soul, though innocent of blood, was guilty of unfaith and vile mistrust, and wrapt in weakness like a cloak, and made the innocent tool of hate and wrong, against all love and good; grown sick and filled with hatred of myself, rose from my knees, and went a little space apart, and found a gnarled tree on the cliff, and with my scarf strangling myself, swung lifeless. but in death i found him not. for, building a vast pile of scented woods on oeta, as they tell, my hero with his own hand lighted it, and when the mighty pyre flamed far and wide over all lands and seas, he climbed on it and laid him down to die; but pitying zeus, before the swift flames reached him, in a cloud descending, snatched the strong brave soul to heaven, and set him mid the stars. wherefore am i of all the blameless shades within this place the most unhappy, if of blame, indeed, i bear no load. for what is sin itself, but error when we miss the road which leads up to the gate of heaven? ignorance! what if we be the cause of ignorance? being blind who might have seen! yet do i know but self-inflicted pain, nor stain there is upon my soul such as they bear who know the dreadful scourge with which the stern judge still lashes their sins. i am forgiven, i know, who loved so much, and one day, if zeus will, i shall go free from hence, and join my lord, and be with him again." and straight i seemed, passing, to look upon some scarce-spent life, which knows to-day the irony of fate in self-inflicted pain. together clung the ghosts whom next i saw, bound three in one by some invisible bond. a sire of port god-like as zeus, to whom on either hand a tender stripling clung. i knew them well, as all men know them. one fair youth spake low: "father, it does not pain me now, to be drawn close to thee, and by a double bond, with this my brother." and the other: "nay, nor me, o father; but i bless the chain which binds our souls in union. if some trace of pain still linger, heed it not--'tis past: still let us cling to thee." he with grave eyes full of great tenderness, upon his sons looked with the father's gaze, that is so far more sweet, and sad, and tender, than the gaze of mothers,--now on this one, now on that, regarding them. "dear sons, whom on the earth i loved and cherished, it was hard to watch your pain; but now 'tis finished, and we stand for ever, through all future days of time, symbols of patient suffering undeserved, endured and vanquished. yet sad memory still brings back our time of trial. for the day broke fair when i, the dread poseidon's priest, joyous because the unholy strife was done, and seeing the blue waters now left free of hostile keels--save where upon the verge far off the white sails faded--rose at dawn, and white robed, and in garb of sacrifice, and with the sacred fillet round my brows, stood at the altar; and behind, ye twain, decked by your mother's hand with new-cleansed robes, and with fresh flower-wreathed chaplets on your curls, attended, and your clear young voices made music that touched your father's eyes with tears, if not the careless gods. i seem to hear those high sweet accents mounting in the hymn which rose to all the blessed gods who dwelt upon the far olympus--zeus, the lord, and sovereign heré, and the immortal choir of deities, but chiefly to the dread poseidon, him who sways the purple sea as with a sceptre, shaking the fixed earth with stress of thundering surges. by the shrine the meek-eyed victim, for the sacrifice, stood with his gilded horns. the hymns were done, and i in act to strike, when all the crowd who knelt behind us, with a common fear cried, with a cry that well might freeze the blood, and then, with fearful glances towards the sea, fled, leaving us alone--me, the high priest, and ye, the acolytes; forlorn of men, alone, but with our god. but we stirred not: we could not flee, who in the solemn act of worship, and the ecstasy which comes to the believer's soul, saw heaven revealed, the mysteries unveiled, the inner sky which meets the enraptured gaze. how should we fear who thus were god-encircled! so we stood while the long ritual spent itself, nor cast an eye upon the sea. till as i came to that great act which offers up a life before life's lord, and the full mystery was trembling to completion, quick i heard a stifled cry of agony, and knew my children's voices. and the father's heart, which is far more than rite or service done by man for god, seeing that it is divine and comes from god to men--this rising in me, constrained me, and i ceased my prayer, and turned to succour you, and lo! the awful coils which crushed your lives already, bound me round and crushed me also, as you clung to me, in common death. some god had heard the prayer, and lo! we were ourselves the sacrifice-- the priest, the victim, the accepted life, the blood, the pain, the salutary loss. was it not better thus to cease and die together in one blest moment, mid the flush and ecstasy of worship, and to know ourselves the victims? they were wrong who taught that 'twas some jealous goddess who destroyed our lives, revengeful for discovered wiles, or hateful of our land. not readily should such base passions sway the immortal gods; but rather do i hold it sooth indeed that zeus himself it was, who pitying the ruin he foreknew, yet might not stay, since mightier fate decreed it, sent in haste those dreadful messengers, and bade them take the pious lives he loved, before the din of midnight slaughter woke, and the fair town flamed pitifully to the skies, and all was blood and ruin. surely it was best to die as we did, and in death to live, a vision for all ages of high pain which passes into beauty, and is merged in one accordant whole, as discords merge in that great harmony which ceaseless rings from the tense chords of life, than to have lived our separate lives, and died our separate deaths, and left no greater mark than drops which rain upon the unbounded sea. those hosts which fell before the scæan gate upon the sand, nor found a bard to sing their fate, but left their bones to dogs and kites--were they more blest than we who, in the people's sight before ilium's unshattered towers, lay down to die our swift miraculous death? dear sons, and good, dear children of my love, how doubly dear for this our common sorrow; suffering weaves not only chains of darkness round, but binds a golden glittering link, which though withdrawn or felt no longer, knits us soul to soul, in indissoluble bonds, and draws our lives so close, that though the individual life be merged, there springs a common life which grows to such dread beauty, as has power to take the sting from sorrow, and transform the pain into transcendent joy: as from the storm the unearthly rainbow draws its myriad hues and steeps the world in fairness. all our lives are notes that fade and sink, and so are merged in the full harmony of being. dear sons, cling closer to me. life nor death has torn our lives asunder, as for some, but drawn their separate strands together in a knot closer than life itself, stronger than death, insoluble as fate." then they three clung together--the strong father and young sons, and in their loving eyes i saw the pain fade into joy, suffering in beauty lost, and death in love! by a still sullen pool, into its dark depths gazing, lay the ghost whom next i passed. in form, a lovely youth, scarce passed from boyhood. golden curls were his, and wide blue eyes. the semblance of a smile came on his lip--a girl's but for the down which hardly shaded it; but the pale cheek was soft as any maiden's, and his robe was virginal, and at his breast he bore the perfumed amber cup which, when march comes gems the dry woods and windy wolds, and speaks the resurrection. looking up, he said: "methought i saw her then, my love, my fair, my beauty, my ideal; the dim clouds lifted, methought, a little--or was it fond fancy only? for i know that here no sunbeam cleaves the twilight, but a mist creeps over all the sky and fields and pools, and blots them; and i know i seek in vain my earth-sought beauty, nor can fancy bring an answer to my thought from these blind depths and unawakened skies. yet has use made the quest so precious, that i keep it here, well knowing it is vain. on the old earth 'twas otherwise, when in fair thessaly i walked regardless of all nymphs who sought my love, but sought in vain, whether it were dryad or naiad from the woods or streams, or white-robed oread fleeting on the side of fair olympus, echoing back my sighs, in vain, for through the mountains day by day i wandered, and along the foaming brooks, and by the pine-woods dry, and never took a thought for love, nor ever 'mid the throng of loving nymphs who knew me beautiful i dallied, unregarding; till they said some died for love of me, who loved not one. and yet i cared not, wandering still alone amid the mountains by the scented pines. till one fair day, when all the hills were still, nor any breeze made murmur through the boughs, nor cloud was on the heavens, i wandered slow, leaving the nymphs who fain with dance and song had kept me 'midst the glades, and strayed away among the pines, enwrapt in fantasy, and by the beechen dells which clothe the feet of fair olympus, wrapt in fantasy, weaving the thin and unembodied shapes which fancy loves to body forth, and leave in marble or in song; and so strayed down to a low sheltered vale above the plains, where the lush grass grew thick, and the stream stayed its garrulous tongue; and last upon the bank of a still pool i came, where was no flow of water, but the depths were clear as air, and nothing but the silvery gleaming side of tiny fishes stirred. there lay i down upon the flowery bank, and scanned the deep, half in a waking dream. then swift there rose, from those enchanted depths, a face more fair than ever i had dreamt of, and i knew my sweet long-sought ideal: the thick curls, like these, were golden, and the white robe showed like this; but for the wondrous eyes and lips, the tender loving glance, the sunny smile upon the rosy mouth, these knew i not, not even in dreams; and yet i seemed to trace myself within them too, as who should find his former self expunged, and him transformed to some high thin ideal, separate from what he was, by some invisible bar, and yet the same in difference. as i moved my arms to clasp her to me, lo! she moved her eager arms to mine, smiled to my smile, looked love to love, and answered longing eyes with longing. when my full heart burst in words, 'dearest, i love thee,' lo! the lovely lips, 'dearest, i love thee,' sighed, and through the air the love-lorn echo rang. but when i longed to answer kiss with kiss, and stooped my lips to her sweet lips in that long thrill which strains soul unto soul, the cold lymph came between and chilled our love, and kept us separate souls which fain would mingle, and the self-same heaven rose, a blue vault above us, and no shade of earthly thing obscured us, as we lay two reflex souls, one and yet different, two sundered souls longing to be at one. there, all day long, until the light was gone and took my love away, i lay and loved the image, and when night was come, 'farewell,' i whispered, and she whispered back, 'farewell,' with oh, such yearning! many a day we spent by that clear pool together all day long. and many a clouded hour on the wet grass i lay beneath the rain, and saw her not, and sickened for her; and sometimes the pool was thick with flood, and hid her; and sometimes some cold wind ruffled those clear wells, and left but glimpses of her, and i rose at eve unsatisfied, a cold chill in my limbs and fever at my heart: until, too soon! the summer faded, and the skies were hid, and my love came not, but a quenchless thirst wasted my life. and all the winter long the bright sun shone not, or the thick ribbed ice obscured her, and i pined for her, and knew my life ebb from me, till i grew too weak to seek her, fearing i should see no more my dear. and so the long dead winter waned and the slow spring came back. and one blithe day, when life was in the woods, and the birds sang, and soft airs fanned the hills, i knew again some gleam of hope within me, and again with feeble limbs crawled forth, and felt the spring blossom within me; and the flower-starred glades, the bursting trees, the building nests, the songs, the hurry of life revived me; and i crept, ghost-like, amid the joy, until i flung my panting frame, and weary nerveless limbs, down by the cold still pool. and lo! i saw my love once more, not beauteous as of old, but oh, how changed! the fair young cheek grown pale, the great eyes, larger than of yore, gaze forth with a sad yearning look; and a great pain and pity took me which were more than love, and with a loud and wailing voice i cried, 'dearest, i come again. i pine for thee,' and swift she answered back, 'i pine for thee;' 'come to me, oh, my own,' i cried, and she-- 'come to me, oh, my own.' then with a cry of love i joined myself to her, and plunged beneath the icy surface with a kiss, and fainted, and am here. and now, indeed, i know not if it was myself i sought, as some tell, or another. for i hold that what we seek is but our other self, other and higher, neither wholly like nor wholly different, the half-life the gods retained when half was given--one the man and one the woman; and i longed to round the imperfect essence by its complement, for only thus the perfect life stands forth whole, self-sufficing. worse it is to live ill-mated than imperfect, and to move from a false centre, not a perfect sphere, but with a crooked bias sent oblique athwart life's furrows. 'twas myself, indeed, thus only that i sought, that lovers use to see in that they love, not that which is, but that their fancy feigns, and view themselves reflected in their love, yet glorified, and finer and more pure. wherefore it is: all love which finds its own ideal mate is happy--happy that which gives itself unto itself, and keeps, through long calm years, the tranquil image in its eyes, and knows fulfilment and is blest, and day by day wears love like a white flower, nor holds it less though sharp winds bite, or hot suns fade, or age sully its perfect whiteness, but inhales its fragrance, and is glad. but happier still he who long seeks a high goal unattained, and wearies for it all his days, nor knows possession sate his thirst, but still pursues the fleeting loveliness--now seen, now lost, but evermore grown fairer, till at last he stretches forth his arms and takes the fair in one long rapture, and its name is death." thus he; and seeing me stand grave: "farewell. if ever thou shouldst happen on a wood in thessaly, upon the plain-ward spurs of fair olympus, take the path which winds through the close vale, and thou shalt see the pool where once i found my life. and if in spring thou go there, round the margin thou shalt know these amber blooms bend meekly, smiling down upon the crystal surface. pluck them not. but kneel a little while, and breathe a prayer to the fair god of love, and let them be. for in those tender flowers is hid the life that once was mine. all things are bound in one in earth and heaven, nor is there any gulf 'twixt things that live,--the flower that was a life, the life that is a flower,--but one sure chain binds all, as now i know. if there are still fair oreads on the hills, say to them, sir, they must no longer pine for me, but find some worthier lover, who can love again; for i have found my love." and to the pool he turned, and gazed with lovely eyes, and showed fair as an angel. leaving him enwrapt in musings, to a gloomy pass i came between dark rocks, where scarce a gleam of light, not even the niggard light of that dim land, might enter; and the soil was black and bare, nor even the thin growths which scarcely clothed the higher fields might live. hard by a cave which sloped down steeply to the lowest depths, whence dreadful sounds ascended, seated still, her head upon her hands, i saw a maid with eyes fixed on the ground--not tartarus it was, but hades; and she knew no pain, except her painful thought. yet there it seemed, as here, the unequal measure which awaits the adjustment, and meanwhile, inspires the strife which rears life's palace walls; and fills the sail which bears our bark across unfathomed seas, to its last harbour; this bore sway there too, and 'twas a luckless shade which sat and wept amid the gloom, though blameless. suddenly, she raised her head, and lo! the long curls, writhed tangled, and snake-like--as the dripping hair of a dead girl who freed from life and shame, from out the cruel wintry flow, is laid stark on the snow with dreadful staring eyes like hers. for when she raised her eyes to mine, they chilled my blood, so great a woe they bore; and as she gazed, wide-eyed, i knew my pulse beat slow, and my limbs stiffen. then they wore, at length, a softer look, and life revived within my breast as thus she softly spoke: "nay, friend, i would not harm thee. i have known great sorrow, and sometimes it racks me still, and turns me into stone, and makes my eyes as dreadful as of yore; and yet it comes but seldom, as thou sawest, now, for time and death have healing hands. only i love to sit within the darkness here, nor face the throng of happier ghosts; if any ghost of happiness come here. for on the earth they wronged me bitterly, and turned to stone my heart, till scarce i knew if e'er i was the happy girl of yore. that youth who dreams up yonder by the margin of the lake, knew but a cold ideal love, but me love in unearthly guise, but bodily form, seized and betrayed. i was a priestess once, of stern athené, doing day by day due worship; raising, every dawn that came, my cold pure hymns to take her virgin ear; nor sporting with the joyous company of youths and maids, who at the neighbouring shrine of aphrodité served. nor dance nor song allured me, nor the pleasant days of youth and twilights 'mid the vines. they held me cold who were my friends in childhood. for my soul was virginal, and at the virgin shrine i knelt, athirst for knowledge. day by day the long cold ritual sped, the liturgies were done, the barren hymns of praise went up before the goddess, and the ecstasy of faith possessed me wholly, till almost i knew not i was woman. yet i knew that i was fair to see, and fit to share some natural honest love, and bear the load of children like the rest; only my soul was lost in higher yearnings. like a god, he burst upon those pallid lifeless days, bringing fresh airs and salt, as from the sea, and wrecked my life. how should a virgin know deceit, who never at the joyous shrine of cypris knelt, but ever lived apart, and so grew guilty? for if i had spent my days among the throng, either my fault were blameless, or undone. for innocence the tempter spreads his net. for innocence the gods keep all their terrors. innocence it is that bears the burden, which for guilt is lightened, and the spoiler goes his way, uncaring, joyous, leaving her alone, the victim and unfriended. was it just in her, my mistress, who had had my youth, to wreak such vengeance on me? i had erred, it may be; but on him, whose was the guilt, no heaven-sent vengeance lighted, but he sped away to other hearts across the deep, careless and free; but me, the cold stern eyes of the pure goddess withered; and the scorn of maids, despised before, and the great blank of love, whose love was gone--this wrung my heart, and froze my blood; set on my brow despair, and turned my gaze to stone, and filled my eyes with horror, and stiffened the soft curls which once lay smooth and fair into such snake-like rings as made my aspect fearful. all who saw, shrank from me and grew cold, and felt the warm, full tide of life freeze in them, seeing in me love's work, who sat wrapt up and lost in shame, as in a cloak, consuming my own heart, and was in hell already. as they gazed upon me, my despair looked forth so cold from out my eyes, that if some spoiler came fresh from his wickedness, and looked on them, their glare would strike him dead; and those fair curls which once the accursèd toyed with, grew to be the poisonous things thou seest; and so, with hate of man's injustice and the gods', who knew me blameless, and yet punished me; and sick of life and love, and loathing earth and sky, and feeding on my sorrow, hate at last left me a fury. ah, the load of life which lives for hatred! we are made to love-- we women, and the injury which turns the honey of our lives to gall, transforms the angel to the fiend. for it is sweet to know the dreadful sense of strength, and smite and leave the tyrant dead with a glance; ay! sweet, in that fierce lust of power, to slay the life which harmed not, when the suppliants' cry ascends to ears which hate has deafened. so i lived long time in misery; to my sleepless eyes no healing slumbers coming; but at length, zeus and the goddess pitying, i knew soft rest once more veiling my dreadful gaze in peaceful slumbers. then a blessed dream i dreamt. for, lo! a god-like knight in mail of gold, who sheared with his keen flashing blade; with scarce a pang of pain, the visage cold which too great sorrow left me; at one stroke clean from the trunk, and then o'er land and sea, invisible, sped with winged heels, to where, upon a sea-worn cape, a fair young maid, more blameless even than i was, chained and bound, waited a monster from the deep and stood in innocent nakedness. then, as he rose, loathsome, from out the depths, a monstrous growth, a creature wholly serpent, partly man, the wrongs that i had known, stronger than death, rose up with such black hate in me again, and wreathed such hissing poison through my hair, and shot such deadly glances from my eyes, that nought that saw might live. and the vile worm was slain, and she delivered. then i dreamt my mistress, whom i thought so stern to me, athené, set those dreadful staring eyes, and that despairing visage, on her shield of chastity, and bears it evermore to fright the waverer from the wrong he would, and strike the unrepenting spoiler, dead." then for a little paused she, while i saw again her eyes grown dreadful, till once more, and with a softer glance: "from that blest dream i woke not on the earth, but only here. and now my pain is lightened since i know my dream, which was a dream within the dream which is our life, fulfilled. and i have saved another through my suffering, and through her a people. oh, strange chain of sacrifice, that binds an innocent life, and from its blood and sorrow works out joy! oh, mystery of pain and evil! wrong grown salutary, and mighty to redeem! if thou shouldst see a woman on the earth, who pays to-day like penalty of sin, and the new gods (for after saturn, zeus ruled; after him it may be there are others) love to take the tender heart of girlhood, and to immure within a cold and cloistered cell the life which nature meant to bless, and if love come hold her accursèd; or to some poor maid, forlorn and trusting, still the tempter comes and works his wrong, and leaves her in despair and shame and all abhorrence, while he goes his way unpunished,--if thou know her eyes freeze thee like mine--oh! bid her lose her pain in succouring others--say to her that time and death have healing hands, and here there comes to the forgiven transgressor only pain enough to chasten joy!" and a soft tear trembled within her eyes, and her sweet gaze was as the magdalen's, the horror gone and a great radiance come. then as i passed to upper air, i saw two figures rise together, one a woman with a grave fair face not all unhappy, and the robes and presence of a queen; and with her walked the fairest youth that ever maiden's dream conceived. and as they came, the throng of ghosts, for these who were not wholly ghosts, arose, and did them homage. not the chain of love bound them, but such calm kinship as is bred of long and difficult pilgrimages borne through common perils by two souls which share a common weary exile. nor as ghosts these showed, but rather like two lives which hung suspended in a trance. a halo of life played round them, and they brought a sweet brisk air tasting of earth and heaven, like sojourners who stayed but for awhile, and knew a swift release await them. first the youth it was who spake thus as they passed: "dread queen, once more i feel life stir within me, and my blood run faster, while a new strange cycle turns and grows completed. soon on the dear earth under the lively light of fuller day, i shall revive me of my wound; and thou, passing with me yon cold and lifeless stream, and the grim monster who will fawn on thee, shalt issue in royal pomp, and wreathed with flowers, upon the cheerful earth, leaving behind a deeper winter for the ghosts who dwell within these sunless haunts; and i shall lie once more within loved arms, and thou shalt see thy early home, and kiss thy mother's cheek, and be a girl again. but not for long; for ere the bounteous autumn spreads her hues of gold and purple, a cold voice will call and bring us to these wintry lands once more, as erst so often. blest are we, indeed, above the rest, and yet i would i knew the careless joys of old. for in hot youth, oh, it was sweet to greet the balmy night that was love's nurse, and feel the weary eyes closed by soft kisses,--sweet at early dawn to wake refreshed and, scarce from loving arms leaping, to issue forth, with winding horn, by dewy heath and brake, and taste the fair young breath of early morning; and 'twas sweet to chase the bounding quarry all day long with my true hounds and rapid steed, and gay companions of my youth, and with the eve to turn home laden with the spoil, and take the banquet which awaited, and sweet wine poured out, and kisses pressed on loving lips; circled by snowy arms. oh, it was sweet to be alive and young! for sure it is the gods gave not quick pulses and hot blood and strength and beauty for no end, but would that we should use them wisely; and the fair, sweet mistress of my service was, indeed, worthy of all observance. oh, her eyes when i lay bleeding! all day long we rode, i and my youthful peers, with horse and hound, and knew the joy of swift pursuit and toil and peril. at the last, a fierce boar turned at bay, and with his gleaming tusks o'erthrew my steed, and as i fell upon the flowers, pierced me as with a sword. then, as i lay, i knew the strange slow chill which, stealing, tells the young that it is death. yet knew i not of pain or fear, only great pity, indeed, that she should lose her love, who was so fond and gracious. but when, lifting my dim gaze, i saw her bend o'er me,--the lovely eyes suffused with tears, and her sweet smile replaced by agonized sorrow,--for a while i stayed life's ebbing tide, and raised my cold, white lips, with a faint smile, to hers. then, with a kiss-- one long last kiss, we mingled, and i knew no more. but even in death, so strong is love, i could not wholly die; and year by year, when the bright springtime comes, and the earth lives, love opens these dread gates, and calls me forth across the gulf. not here, indeed, she comes, being a goddess and in heaven, but smooths my path to the old earth, where still i know once more the sweet lost days, and once again blossom on that soft breast, and am again a youth, and rapt in love; and yet not all as careless as of yore; but seem to know the early spring of passion, tamed by time and suffering, to a calmer, fuller flow, less fitful, but more strong." then the sad queen "fair youth, thy lot i know, for i am old as the old earth and yet as young as is the budding spring, and i was here a queen, when love was not or time, and to my arms thou camest as a little child, to dwell within the halls of death, for without death there were nor birth nor love, nor would life yearn to lose itself within another life, and dying, to be born. i, too, have died for love in part, and live again through love; for in the far-off years, when time was young, and love unborn on earth, and zeus in heaven ruled, a young sovereign; i, a maiden, dwelt with dread demeter on the lovely plains of sunny sicily. there, day by day, i sported with the maiden goddesses, in virgin freedom. budding age made gay our lightsome feet, and on the flowery slopes we wandered daily, gathering flowers to weave in careless garlands for our locks, and passed the days in innocent gladness. thought of love there came not to us, for as yet the earth was virginal, nor yet had eros come with his delicious pain. and one fair morn-- not all the ages blot it--on the side of Ætna we were straying. there was then summer nor winter, springtide nor the time of harvest, but the soft unfailing sun shone always, and the sowing time was one with reaping; fruit and flower together sprung upon the trees; and blade and ripened ear together clothed the plains. there, as i strayed, sudden a black cloud down the rugged side of Ætna, mixed with fire and dreadful sound of thunder, rolled around me, and i heard the maids who were my fellows turn and flee with shrieks and cries for me. but i, i knew no terror while the god o'ershadowed me, hiding my life in his, nor when i wept my flowers all withered, and my blood ran slow within a wintry land. some voice there was which said, 'fear not. thou shalt return and see thy mother again, only a little while fate wills that thou shouldst tarry, and become queen of another world. thou seest that all thy flowers are faded. they shall live again on earth, as thou shalt, as thou livest now the life of death--for what is death but life suspended as in sleep? the changeless rule where life was constant, and the sun o'erhead, blazed forth for ever, changes and is hidden awhile. this region which thou seest, where all the trees are lifeless, and the flowers are dead, is but the self-same earth on which erewhile thou sportedst fancy free.' so, without fear i wandered on this bare land, seeing far upon the sky the peaks of my own hills and crests of my own woods. till, when i grew hungered, ere yet another form i saw; along the silent alleys journeying, and leafless groves; a fair and mystic tree rose like a heart in shape, and 'mid its leaves one golden mystic fruit with a fair seed hid in it. this, with childish hand, i took and ate, and straight i knew the tree was life, and the fruit death, and the hid seed was love. ah, sweet strange fruit! the which if any taste they may no longer keep their lives of old or their own selves unchanged, but some weird change and subtle alchemy comes which can transmute the blood, and mould the spirits of gods and men in some new magical form. not as before, our life comes to us, though the passion cools, no, never as before. my mother came too late to seek me. she had power to raise a life from out death's grasp, but from the arms of love she might not take me, nor undo love's past for all her strength. she came and sought with fires her daughter over land and sea, beyond the paths of all the setting stars, in vain, and over all the earth in vain, seeking whom love disguised. then on all lands she cast the spell of barrenness; the wheat was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes blushed no more on the vines, and all the gods were sorrowful, seeing the load of ill my rape had laid on men. last, zeus himself, pitying the evil that was done, sent forth his messenger beyond the western rim to fetch me back to earth. but not the same he found me who had eaten of love's seed, but changed into another; nor could his power prevail to keep me wholly on the earth, or make me maid again. the wintry life is homelier often than the summer blaze of happiness unclouded; so, when spring comes on the world, i, coming, cross with thee, year after year, the cruel icy stream; and leave this anxious sceptre and the shades of those in hell, or those for whom, though blest, no spring comes, till the last great spring which brings new heavens and new earth; and lay my head upon my mother's bosom, and grow young, and am a girl again. a soft air breathes across the stream and fills these barren fields with the sweet odours of the earth. i know again the perfume of the violets which bloom on Ætna's side. soon we shall pass together to our home, while round our feet the crocus flames like gold, the wind-flowers white wave their soft petals on the breeze, and all the choir of flowers lift up their silent song to the unclouded heavens. thou, fair boy, shalt lie within thy love's white arms again, and i within my mother's. sweet is love in ceasing and renewal; nay, in these it lives and has its being. thou couldst not keep thy youth as now, if always on the breast of love too late a lingerer thou hadst known possession sate thee. nor might i have kept my mother's heart, if i had lived to ripe and wither on the stalk. time calls and change commands both men and gods, and speeds us on we know not whither; but the old earth smiles spring after spring, and the seed bursts again out of its prison mould, and the dead lives renew themselves, and rise aloft and soar and are transformed, clothing themselves with change till the last change be done." as thus she spake, i saw a gleam of light flash from the eyes of all the listening shades, and a great joy thrill through the realms of death. and then again a youthful shade i saw, a comely boy, with lip and cheek just touched with manly down, and strong limbs wearing spring; in mien and garb a youthful chieftain, with a perfect face of fresh young beauty, clustered curls divine, and chiselled features like a sculptured god, but warm and breathing life; only the eyes, the fair large eyes, were full of dreaming thought, and seemed to gaze beyond the world of sight, on a hid world of beauty. him i stayed, accosting with soft words of courtesy; and, on a bank of scentless flowers reclined, he answered thus: "not for the garish sun i long, nor for the splendours of high noon in this dim land i languish; for of yore full often, when the swift chase swept along through the brisk morn, or when my comrades called to wrestling, or the foot-race, or to cleave the sunny stream, i loved to walk apart, self-centred, sole; and when the laughing girls to some fair stripling's oaten melody made ready for the dance, i heeded not; nor when to the loud trumpet's blast and blare my peers rode forth to battle. for, one eve, in latmos, after a long day in june, i stayed to rest me on a sylvan hill, where often youth and maid were wont to meet towards moonrise; and deep slumber fell on me musing on love, just as the ruddy orb rose on the lucid night, set in a frame of blooming myrtle and sharp tremulous plane; deep slumber fell, and loosed my limbs in rest. then, as the full orb poised upon the peak, there came a lovely vision of a maid, who seemed to step as from a golden car out of the low-hung moon. no mortal form, such as ofttimes of yore i knew and clasped at twilight 'mid the vines at the mad feast of dionysus, or the fair maids cold who streamed in white processions to the shrine of the chaste virgin goddess; but a shape richer and yet more pure. no thinnest veil obscured her; but each exquisite limb revealed, gleamed like a golden statue subtly wrought by a great sculptor on the architrave of some high temple-front--only in her the form was soft and warm, and charged with life, and breathing. as i seemed to gaze on her, nearer she drew and gazed; and as i lay supine, as in a spell, the radiance stooped and kissed me on the lips, a chaste, sweet kiss, which drew my spirit with it. so i slept each night upon the hill, until the dawn came in her silver chariot from the east, and chased my love away. but ever thus dissolved in love as in a heaven-sent dream, whenever the bright circle of the moon climbed from the hills, whether in leafy june or harvest-tide, or when they leapt and pressed red-thighed the spouting must, i walked apart from all, and took no thought for mortal maid, nor nimble joys of youth; but night by night i stole, when all were sleeping, to the hill, and slumbered and was blest; until i grew possest by love so deep, i seemed to live in slumber only, while the waking day showed faint as any vision. so i turned paler and paler with the months, and climbed the steep with laboured steps and difficult breath, but still i climbed. ay, though the wintry frost chained fast the streams and whitened all the fields, i sought my mistress through the leafless groves, and slumbered and was happy, till the dawn returning found me stretched out, cold and stark, with life's fire nigh burnt out. till one clear night, when the birds shivered in the pines, and all the inner heavens stood open, lo! she came, brighter and kinder still, and kissed my eyes and half-closed lips, and drew my soul through them, and in one precious ecstasy dissolved my life. and thenceforth, ever on the hill i lie unseen of man; a cold, white form, still young, through all the ages; but my soul, clothed in this thin presentment of old days, walks this dim land, where never moonrise comes, nor day-break, but a twilight waiting-time, no more; and, ah! how weary! yet i judge my lot a higher far than his who spends his youth on swift hot pleasure, quickly past; or theirs, my equals', who through long calm years grew sleek in dull content of wedded lives and fair-grown offspring. many a day for them, while i was wandering here, and my bones bleached upon the rocks, the sweet autumnal sun beamed, and the grapes grew purple. many a day they heaped up gold, they knelt at festivals, they waxed in high report and fame of men, they gave their girls in marriage; while for me upon the untrodden peaks, the cold, grey morn, the snows, the rains, the winds, the untempered blaze, beat year by year, until i turned to stone, and the great eagles shrieked at me, and wheeled affrighted. yet i judge it better indeed to seek in life, as now i know i sought, some fair impossible love, which slays our life, some fair ideal raised too high for man; and failing to grow mad, and cease to be, than to decline, as they do who have found broad-paunched content and weal and happiness: and so an end. for one day, as i know, the high aim unfulfilled fulfils itself; the deep, unsatisfied thirst is satisfied; and through this twilight, broken suddenly, the inmost heaven, the lucent stars of god, the moon of love, the sun of life; and i, i who pine here--i on the latmian hill shall soar aloft and find them." with the word, there beamed a shaft of dawn athwart the skies, and straight the sentinel thrush within the yew sang out reveillé to the hosts of day, soldierly; and the pomp and rush of life began once more, and left me there alone amid the awaking world. nay, not alone. one fair shade lingered in the fuller day, the last to come, when now my dream had grown half mixed with waking thoughts, as grows a dream in summer mornings when the broader light dazzles the sleeper's eyes; and is most fair of all and best remembered, and becomes part of our waking life, when older dreams grow fainter, and are fled. so this remained the fairest of the visions that i knew, most precious and most dear. the increasing light shone through her, finer than the thinnest shade, and yet most full of beauty; golden wings, from her fair shoulders springing, seemed to lift her stainless feet from the cold ground and snatch their wearer into air; and in her eyes was such fair glance as comes from virgin love, long chastened and triumphant. every trace of earth had vanished from her, and she showed as one who walks a saint already in life, virgin or mother. immortality breathed from those radiant eyes which yet had passed between the gates of death. i seemed to hear the soul of mortals speaking: "i was born of a great race and mighty, and was grown fair, as they said, and good, and kept a life pure from all stain of passion. love i knew not, who was absorbed in duty; and the mother of gods and men, seeing my life more calm than human, hating my impassive heart, sent down her perfect son in wrath to earth, and bade him break me. but when eros came, it did repent him of the task, for love is kin to duty. and within my life i knew miraculous change, and a soft flame wherefrom the snows of duty flushed to rose, and the chill icy flow of mind was turned to a warm stream of passion. long i lived not knowing what had been, nor recognized a presence walking with me through my life, as if by night, his face and form concealed: a gracious voice alone, which none but i might hear, sustained me, and its name was love. not as the earthly loves which throb and flush round earthly shrines was mine, but a pure spirit, lovelier than all embodied love, more pure and wonderful; but never on his eyes i looked, which still were hidden, and i knew not the fashion of his nature; for by night, when visual eyes are blind, but the soul sees, came he, and bade me seek not to enquire or whence he came or wherefore. nor knew i his name. and always ere the coming day, as if he were the sun-god, lingering with some too well-loved maiden, he would rise and vanish until eve. but all my being thrilled with my fair unearthly visitant to higher duty and more glorious meed of action than of old, for it was love that came to me, who might not know his name. thus, ever rapt by dreams divine, i knew the scorn that comes from weaker souls, which miss, being too low of nature, the great joy revealed to others higher; nay, my sisters, who being of one blood with me, made choice to tread the lower ways of daily life, grew jealous of me, bidding me take heed lest haply 'twas some monstrous fiend i loved, such as in fable ofttimes sought and won the innocent hearts of maids. long time i held my love too dear for doubt, who was so sweet and lovable. but at the last the sneers, the mystery which hid him, the swift flight before the coming dawn, the shape concealed, the curious girlish heart, these worked on me with an unsatisfied thirst. not his own words: 'dear, i am with thee only while i keep my visage hidden; and if thou once shouldst see my face, i must forsake thee: the high gods link love with faith, and he withdraws himself from the full gaze of knowledge'--not even these could cure me of my longing, or the fear those mocking voices worked; who fain would learn the worst that might befall. and one sad night, just as the day leapt from the hills and brought the hour when he should go: with tremulous hands, lighting my midnight lamp in fear, i stood long time uncertain, and at length turned round and gazed upon my love. he lay asleep, and oh, how fair he was! the flickering light fell on the fairest of the gods, stretched out in happy slumber. looking on his locks of gold, and faultless face and smile, and limbs made perfect, a great joy and trembling took me who was most blest of women, and in awe and fear i stooped to kiss him. one warm drop-- from the full lamp within my trembling hand, or a glad tear from my too happy eyes, fell on his shoulder. then the god unclosed his lovely eyes, and with great pity spake: 'farewell! there is no love except with faith, and thine is dead! farewell! i come no more.' and straightway from the hills the full red sun leapt up, and as i clasped my love again, the lovely vision faded from his place, and came no more. then i, with breaking heart, knowing my life laid waste by my own hand, went forth and would have sought to hide my life within the stream of death; but death came not to aid me who not yet was meet for death. then finding that love came not back to me, i thought that in the temples of the gods haply he dwelt, and so from fane to fane i wandered over earth, and knelt in each, enquiring for my love; and i would ask the priests and worshippers, 'is this love's shrine? sirs, have you seen the god?' but never at all i found him. for some answered, 'this is called the shrine of knowledge;' and another, 'this, the shrine of beauty;' and another, 'strength;' and yet another, 'youth.' and i would kneel and say a prayer to my love, and rise and seek another. long, o'er land and sea, i wandered, till i was not young or fair, grown wretched, seeking my lost love; and last, came to the smiling, hateful shrine where ruled the queen of earthly love and all delight, cypris, but knelt not there, but asked of one who seemed her priest, if eros dwelt with her. then to the subtle-smiling goddess' self they led me. she with hatred in her eyes: 'what! thou to seek for love, who art grown thin and pale with watching! he is not for thee. what love is left for such? thou didst despise love, and didst dwell apart. love sits within the young maid's eyes, making them beautiful. love is for youth, and joy, and happiness; and not for withered lives. ho! bind her fast. take her and set her to the vilest tasks, and bend her pride by solitude and tears, who will not kneel to me, but dares to seek a disembodied love. my son has gone and left thee for thy fault, and thou shalt know the misery of my thralls.' then in her house they bound me to hard tasks and vile, and kept my life from honour, chained among her slaves and lowest ministers, taking despite and injury for food, and set to bind their wounds whom she had tortured, and to feed the pitiful lives which in her prisons pent languished in hopeless pain. there is no sight of suffering but i saw it, and was set to succour it; and all my woman's heart was torn with the ineffable miseries which love and life have worked; and dwelt long time in groanings and in tears. and then, oh joy! oh miracle! once more at length again i felt love's arms around me, and the kiss of love upon my lips, and in the chill of deepest prison cells, 'mid vilest tasks, the glow of his sweet breath, and the warm touch of his invisible hand, and his sweet voice, ay, sweeter than of old, and tenderer, speak to me, pierce me, hold me, fold me round with arms divine, till all the sordid earth was hued like heaven, and life's dull prison-house turned to a golden palace, and those low tasks grew to be higher works and nobler gains than any gains of knowledge, and at last he whispered softly, 'dear, unclose thine eyes. thou mayst look on me now. i go no more, but am thine own for ever.' then with wings of gold we soared, i looking in his eyes, over yon dark broad river, and this dim land, scarce for an instant staying till we reached the inmost courts of heaven. but sometimes still i come here for a little, and speak a word of peace to those who wait. the slow wheel turns, the cycles round themselves and grow complete, the world's year whitens to the harvest-tide, and one word only am i sent to say to those dear souls, who wait here, or who now breathe earthly air--one universal word to all things living, and the word is 'love.'" then soared she visibly before my gaze, and the heavens took her, and i knew my eyes had seen the soul of man, the deathless soul, defeated, struggling, purified, and blest. then all the choir of happy waiting shades, heroes and queens, fair maidens and brave youths, swept by me, rhythmic, slow, as if they trod some unheard measure, passing where i stood in fair procession, each with a faint smile upon the lip, signing "farewell, oh shade! it shall be well with thee, as 'tis with us, if only thou art true. the world of life, the world of death, are but opposing sides of one great orb, and the light shines on both. oh, happy happy shade! farewell! farewell!" and so they passed away. end of book ii. book iii. olympus. but i, my gaze following the soaring soul which now was lost in the awakening skies, floated with her, as in a trance, beyond the golden gates which separate earth from heaven; and to my thought gladdened by that broad effluence of light, this old earth seemed transfigured, and the fields, so dim and bare, grew green and clothed themselves with lustrous hues. a fine ethereal air played round me as i mused, and filled the soul with an ineffable content. what need of words to tell of things unreached by words? or seek to engrave upon the treacherous thought the fair and fugitive fancies of a dream, which vanish ere we fix them? but methinks he knows the scene, who knows the one fair day, one only and no more, which year by year in springtime comes, when lingering winter flies, and lo! the trees blossom in white and pink. and golden clusters, and the glades are filled with delicate primrose and deep odorous beds of violets, and on the tufted meads with kingcups starred, and cowslip bells, and blue sweet hyacinths, and frail anemones, the broad west wind breathes softly, and the air is tremulous with the lark, and thro' the woods the soft full-throated thrushes all day long flood the green dells with joy, and thro' the dry brown fields the sower strides, sowing his seed, and all is life and song. or he who first, whether in fair free boyhood, when the world is his to choose, or when his fuller life beats to another life, or afterwards, keeping his youth within his children's eyes, looks on the snow-clad everlasting hills, and marks the sunset smite them, and is glad of the beautiful fair world. a springtide land it seemed, where east winds came not. sweetest song was everywhere, by glade or sunny plain; and thro' the golden valleys winding streams rippled in glancing silver, and above, the blue hills rose, and over all a peak, white, awful, with a constant fleece of cloud veiling its summit, towered. unfailing day lighted it, for no turn of dawn and eve came there, nor changing seasons, but a broad fixed joy of being, undisturbed by time. there, in a happy glade shut in by groves of laurel and sweet myrtle, on a green and flower-lit lawn, i seemed to see the ghosts of the old gods. upon the gentle slope of a fair hill, a joyous company, the immortals lay. hard by, a murmurous stream fell through the flowers; below them, space on space, laughed the immeasurable plains; beyond, the mystic mountain soared. height after height of bare rock ledges left the climbing pines, and reared their giddy, shining terraces into the ethereal air. above, the snows of the white summit cleft the fleece of cloud which always clothed it round. ah, fail-and sweet, yet with a ghostly fairness, fine and thin, those godlike presences. not dreams indeed, but something dream-like, were they. blessed shades heroic and divine, as when, in days when man was young, and time, the vivid thought translated into form the unattained impossible beauty of men's dreams, and fixed the loveliness in marble. as with awe following my spotless guide, i stood apart, not daring to draw near; a shining form rose from the throng, and floated, light as air, to where i trembled. and i knew the face and form of artemis, the fair, the pure, the undefiled. a crescent silvery moon shone thro' her locks, and by her side she bore a quiver of golden darts. at sight of whom i felt a sudden chill, like his who once looked upon her and died; yet could not fear, seeing how fair she was. her sweet voice rang clear as a bird's: "mortal, what fate hath brought thee hither, uncleansed by death? how canst thou breathe immortal air, being mortal? yet fear not, since thou art come. for we too are of earth whom here thou seest: there were not a heaven were there no earth, nor gods, had men not been, but each the complement of each and grown the other's creature, is and has its being, a double essence, human and divine. so that the god is hidden in the man, and something human bounds and forms the god; which else had shown too great and undefined for mortal sight, and having no human eye to see it, were unknown. but we who bore sway of old time, we were but attributes [ ]of the great god who is all things that be-- the pillar of the earth and starry sky, the depth of the great deep; the sun, the moon, the word which makes; the all-compelling love-- for all things lie within his infinite form." even as she spake, a throng of heavenly forms floated around me, filling all my soul with fair unearthly beauty, and the air with such ambrosial perfume as is born. when morning bursts upon a tropic sea, from boundless wastes of flowers; and as i knelt in rapture, lo! the same clear voice again from out the throng of gods: "those whom thou seest were even as i, embodiments of him who is the centre of all life: myself the maiden-queen of purity; and strength, divine when unabused; love too, the spring and cause of things; and knowledge, which lays bare their secret; and calm duty, queen of all, and motherhood in one; and youth, which bears, beauty of form and life and light, and breathes the breath of inspiration; and the soul, the particle of god, sent down to man, which doth in turn reveal the world and god. wherefore it is men called on artemis, the refuge of young souls; for still in age they keep some dim reflection uneffaced of a diviner purity than comes to the spring days of youth, when all the world smiles, and the rapid blood thro' the young veins courses, and all is glad; yet knowing too that innocence is young--before the soil and smirch of sadder knowledge, settling on it, sully its primal whiteness. so they knelt at my white shrines, the eager vigorous youths, to whom life's road showed like a dewy field in early summer dawns, when to the sound of youth's clear voice, and to the cheerful rush of the tumultuous feet and clamorous tongues careering onwards, fair and dappled fawns, strange birds with jewelled plumes, fierce spotted pards, rise in the joyous chase, to be caught and bound by the young conqueror; nor yet the charm of sensual ease allures. and they knelt too, the pure sweet maidens fair and fancy-free, whose innocent virgin hearts shrank from the touch of passion as from wrong--sweet moonlit lives which fade, and pale, and vanish, in the glare of love's hot noontide: these came robed in white, with holy hymns and soaring liturgies: and so men fabled me, a huntress now, borne thro' the flying woodlands, fair and free; and now the pale cold moon, light without warmth, zeal without touch of passion, heavenly love for human, and the altar for the home. but oh, how sweet it was to take the love and awe of my young worshippers; to watch the pure young gaze and hear the pure young voice mount in the hymn, or see the gay troop come with the first dawn of day, brushing the dew from the unpolluted fields, and wake to song the slumbering birds; strong in their innocence! i did not envy any goddess of all the olympian company her votaries! ah, happy days of old which now are gone! a memory and a dream! for now on earth i rule no longer o'er young willing hearts in voluntary fealty, which should cease when love, with fiery accents calling, woke the slumbering soul; as now it should for those who kneel before the purer, sadder shrine which has replaced my own. but ah! too oft, not always, but too often, shut from life within pale life-long cloisters and the bars of deadly convent prisons, year by year, age after age, the white souls fade and pine which simulate the joyous service free of those young worshippers. i would that i might loose the captives' chain; or herakles, who was a mortal once." but he who stood colossal at my side: "i toil no more on earth, nor wield again the mighty strength which zeus once gave me for the cure of ill. i have run my race; i have done my work; i rest for ever from the toilsome days i gave to the suffering race of men. and yet, indeed, methinks they suffer still. tyrannous growths and monstrous vex them still. pestilence lurks and sweeps them down. treacheries come, and wars, and slay them still. vaulting ambition leaps and falls in bloodshed still. but i am here at rest, and no man kneels to me, or keeps reverence for strength mighty yet unabused-- strength which is power, god's choicest gift, more rare and precious than all beauty, or the charm of wisdom, since it is the instrument thro' which all nature works. for now the earth is full of meekness, and a new god rules, teaching strange precepts of humility and mercy and forgiveness. yet i trow there is no lack of bloodshed and deceit and groanings, and the tyrant works his wrong even as of old; but now there is no arm like mine, made strong by zeus, to beat him down, him and his wrong together. yet i know i am not all discrowned. the strong brave souls, the manly tender hearts, whom tale of wrong to woman or child, to all weak things and small, fires like a blow; calling the righteous flush of anger to the brow; knotting the cords of muscle on the arm; with one desire to hew the spoiler down, and make an end, and go their way for others; making light of toil and pain, and too laborious days, and peril; beat unchanged, albeit they serve a lord of meekness. for the world still needs its champion as of old, and finds him still. not always now with mighty sinews and thews like mine, though still these profit, but keen brain and voice to move men's souls to love the right and hate the wrong; even tho' the bodily form be weak, of giant strength, strong to assail the hydra heads of evil, and to slay the monsters that now waste them: ignorance, self-seeking, coward fears, the hate of man, disguised as love of god. these there are still with task as hard as mine. for what was it to strive with bodily ills, and do great deeds of daring and of strength, and bear the crown, to his who wages lifelong, doubtful strife with an impalpable foe; conquering indeed, but, ere he hears the pæan or sees the pomp laid low in the arms of death? and tho' men cease to worship at my shrine, yet not the less i hold, it is the toils i knew, the pains i bore for others, which have kept the heart of manhood undefiled, and nerved the arm of sacrifice, and made the martyr strong to do and bear, and taught the race of men how godlike 'tis to suffer thro' life, and die at last for others' good!" the strong god ceased, and stood a little, musing; blest indeed, but bearing, as it seemed, some faintest trace of earthly struggle still, not the gay ease of the elder heaven-born gods. and then there came beauty and joy in one, bearing the form of woman. how to reach with halting words that infinite perfection? all have known the breathing marbles which the greek has left who saw her near, and strove to fix her charms, and exquisitely failed; or those fair forms the painter offered at a later shrine, and failed. nay, what are words?--he knows it well who loves, or who has loved. she with a smile playing around her rosy lips; as plays the sunbeam on a stream: "shall i complain men kneel to me no longer, taking to them some graver, sterner worship; grown too wise for fleeting joys of love? nay, love is youth, and still the world is young. still shall i reign within the hearts of men, while time shall last and life renews itself. all life that is, from the weak things of earth or sea or air, which creep or float for an hour; to godlike man-- all know me and are mine. i am the source and mother of all, both gods and men; the spring of force and joy, which, penetrating all within the hidden depths of the unknown, sets the blind seed of being, and from the bond of incomplete and dual essences evolves the harmony which is life. the world were dead without my rays, who am the light which vivifies the world. nay, but for me, the universal order which attracts sphere unto sphere, and keeps them in their paths for ever, were no more. all things are bound within my golden chain, whose name is love. and if there be, indeed, some sterner souls or sunk in too much learning, or hedged round by care and greed, or haply too much rapt by pale ascetic fervours, to delight to kneel to me, the universal voice scorns them as those who, missing willingly the good that nature offers, dwell unblest who might be blest, but would not. every voice of bard in every age has hymned me. all the breathing marbles, all the heavenly hues of painting, praise me. even the loveless shades of dim monastic cloisters show some gleam, tho' faint, of me. amid the busy throngs of cities reign i, and o'er lonely plains, beyond the ice-fields of the frozen north, and the warm waves of undiscovered seas. for i was born out of the sparkling foam which lights the crest of the blue mystic wave, stirred by the wandering breath of life's pure dawn from a young soul's calm depths. there, without voice, stretched on the breathing curve of a young breast, fluttering a little, fresh from the great deep of life, and creamy as the opening rose, naked i lie, naked yet unashamed, while youth's warm tide steals round me with a kiss, and floods each limb with fairness. shame i know not-- shame is for wrong, and not for innocence-- the veil which error grasps to hide itself from the awful eye. but i, i lie unveiled and unashamed--the livelong day i lie, the warm wave murmuring to me; and, all night, hidden in the moonlit caves of happy sleep, i dream until the morning and am glad. why should i seek to clothe myself, and hide the treasure of my beauty? shame may wait on those for whom 'twas given. the sties of sense are none of mine; the brutish, loveless wrong, the venal charm, the simulated flush of fleshly passion, they are none of mine, only corruptions of me. yet i know the counterfeit the stronger, since gross souls and brutish sway the earth; and yet i hold that sense itself is sacred, and i deem 'twere better to grow soft and sink in sense than gloat o'er blood and wrong. my kingdom is over infinite grades of being. all breathing things, from the least crawling insect to the brute, from brute to man, confess me. yet in man i find my worthiest worship. where man is, a youth and a maid, a youth and a maid, nought else is wanting for my temple. every clime kneels to me--the long breaker swells and falls under the palms, mixed with the merry noise of savage bridals, and the straight brown limbs know me, and over all the endless plains i reign, and by the tents on the hot sand and sea-girt isles am queen, and on the side of silent mountains, where the white cots gleam upon the green hill pastures, and no sound but the thunder of the avalanche is borne to the listening rocks around; and in fair lands where all is peace; where thro' the happy hush of tranquil summer evenings, 'mid the corn, or thro' cool arches of the gadding vines, the lovers stray together hand in hand, hymning my praise; and by the stately streets of echoing cities--over all the earth, palace and cot, mountain and plain and sea, the burning south, the icy north, the old and immemorial east, the unbounded west, no new god comes to spoil me utterly-- all worship and are mine!" with a sweet smile upon her rosy mouth, the goddess ceased; and when she spake no more, the silence weighed as heavy on my soul as when it takes some gracious melody, and leaves the ear unsatisfied and longing, till the fount of sweetness springs again. but while i stood expectant, lo! a fair pale form drew near with front severe, and wide blue eyes which bore mild wisdom in their gaze. great purity shone from her--not the young-eyed innocence of her whom first i saw, but that which comes from wider knowledge, which restrains the tide of passionate youth, and leads the musing soul by the calm deeps of wisdom. and i knew my eyes had seen the fair, the virgin queen, who once within her shining parthenon beheld the sages kneel. she with clear voice and coldly sweet, yet with a softness too, as doth befit a virgin: "she does right to boast her sway, my sister, seeing indeed that all things are as by a double law, and from a double root the tree of life springs up to the face of heaven. body and soul, matter and spirit, lower joys of sense and higher joys of thought, i know that both build up the shrine of being. the brute sense leaves man a brute; but, winged with soaring thought mounts to high heaven. the unembodied spirit, dwelling alone, unmated, void of sense, is impotent. and yet i hold there is, far off, but not too far for mortal reach, a calmer height, where, nearer to the stars, thought sits alone and gazes with rapt gaze, a large-eyed maiden in a robe of white. who brings the light of knowledge down, and draws to her pontifical eyes a bridge of gold, which spans from earth to heaven. for what were life, if things of sense were all, for those large souls and high, which grudging nature has shut fast within unlovely forms, or those from whom the circuit of the rapid gliding years steals the brief gift of beauty? shall we hold, with idle singers, all the treasure of hope is lost with youth--swift-fleeting, treacherous youth, which fades and flies before the ripening brain crowns life with wisdom's crown? nay, even in youth, is it not more to walk upon the heights alone--the cold free heights--and mark the vale lie breathless in the glare, or hidden and blurred by cloud and storm; or pestilence and war creep on with blood and death; while the soul dwells apart upon the peaks, outfronts the sun as the eagle does, and takes the coming dawn while all the vale is dark, and knows the springs of tiny rivulets hurrying from the snows, which soon shall swell to vast resistless floods, and feed the oceans which divide the world? oh, ecstasy! oh, wonder! oh, delight! which neither the slow-withering wear of time, that takes all else--the smooth and rounded cheek of youth; the lightsome step; the warm young heart which beats for love or friend; the treasure of hope immeasurable; the quick-coursing blood which makes it joy to be,--ay, takes them all and leaves us naught--nor yet satiety born of too full possession, takes or mars! oh, fair delight of learning! which grows great and stronger and more keen, for slower limbs, and dimmer eyes and loneliness, and loss of lower good--wealth, friendship, ay, and love-- when the swift soul, turning its weary gaze from the old vanished joys, projects itself into the void and floats in empty space, striving to reach the mystic source of things, the secrets of the earth and sea and air, the law that holds the process of the suns, the awful depths of mind and thought; the prime unfathomable mystery of god! is there, then, any who holds my worship cold and lifeless? nay, but 'tis the light which cheers the waning life! love thou thy love, brave youth! cleave to thy love, fair maid! it is the law which dominates the world, that bids ye use your nature; but, when now the fuller tide slackens a little, turn your calmer eyes to the fair page of knowledge. it is power i give, and power is precious. it is strength to live four-square, careless of outward shows, and self-sufficing. it is clearer sight to know the rule of life, the eternal scheme; and, knowing it, to do and not to err, and, doing, to be blest." the calm voice soared higher and higher to the close; the cold clear accents, fired as by a hidden fire, glowed into life and tenderness, and throbbed as with some spiritual ecstasy sweeter than that of love. but as they died, i heard an ampler voice; and looking, marked a fair and gracious form. she seemed a queen who ruled o'er gods and men; the majesty of perfect womanhood. no opening bud of beauty, but the full consummate flower was hers; and from her mild large eyes looked forth gentle command, and motherhood, and home, and pure affection. awe and reverence o'erspread me, as i knew my eyes had looked on sovereign heré, mother of the gods. she, with clear, rounded utterance, sweet and calm "i know love's fruit is good and fair to see and taste, if any gain it, and i know how brief life's passion-tide, which when it ends may change to thirst for knowledge, and i know how fair the realm of mind, wherein the soul thirsting to know, wings its impetuous way beyond the bounds of thought; and yet i hold there is a higher bliss than these, which fits a mortal life, compact of body and soul, and therefore double-natured--a calm path which lies before the feet, thro' common ways and undistinguished crowds of toiling men, and yet is hard to tread, tho' seeming smooth, and yet, tho' level, earns a worthier crown. for knowledge is a steep which few may climb, while duty is a path which all may tread. and if the soul of life and thought be this, how best to speed the mighty scheme, which still fares onward day by day--the life of the world, which is the sum of petty lives, that live and die so this may live--how then shall each of that great multitude of faithful souls who walk not on the heights, fulfil himself, but by the duteous life which looks not forth beyond its narrow sphere, and finds its work, and works it out; content, this done, to fall and perish, if fate will, so the great scheme goes onward? wherefore am i queen in heaven and earth, whose realm is duty, bearing rule more constant and more wide than those whose words thou heardest last. mine are the striving souls of fathers toiling day by day obscure and unrewarded, save by their own hearts, mid wranglings of the forum or the mart; who long for joys of thought, and yet must toil unmurmuring thro' dull lives from youth to age; who haply might have worn instead the crown of honour and of fame: mine the fair mothers who, for the love of children and of home, when passion dies, expend their toilful years in loving labour sweetened by the sense of duty: mine the statesman who toils on thro' vigilant nights and days, guiding his state. yet finds no gratitude; and those white souls who give themselves for others all their years in trivial tasks of pity. the fine growths of man and time are mine, and spend themselves for me and for the mystical end which lies beyond their gaze and mine, and yet is good, tho' hidden from men and gods. for as the flower of the tiger-lily bright with varied hues is for a day, then fades and leaves behind fairness nor fruit, while the green tiny tuft swells to the purple of the clustering grape or golden waves of wheat; so lives of men which show most splendid; fade and are deceased and leave no trace; while those, unmarked, unseen, which no man recks of, rear the stately tree of knowledge, not for itself sought out, but found in the dusty ways of life--a fairer growth than springs in cloistered shades; and from the sum of duty, blooms sweeter and more divine the fair ideal of the race, than comes from glittering gains of learning. life, full life, full-flowered, full-fruited, reared from homely earth, rooted in duty, and thro' long calm years bearing its load of healthful energies; stretching its arms on all sides; fed with dews of cheerful sacrifice, and clouds of care, and rain of useful tears; warmed by the sun of calm affection, till it breathes itself in perfume to the heavens--this is the prize i hold most dear, more precious than the fruit of knowledge or of love." the goddess ceased as dies some gracious harmony, the child of wedded themes which single and alone were discords, but united breathe a sound sweet as the sounds of heaven. and then stood forth the last of the gods i saw, the first in rank and dignity and beauty, the young god who grows not old, the light of heaven and earth, the worker from afar, who sends the fire of inspiration to the bard and bathes the world in hues of heaven--the golden link between high god and man. with a sweet voice whose every note was sweetest melody-- the melody has fled, the words remain-- apollo sang: "i know how fair the face of purity; i know the treasure of strength; i know the charm of love, the calmer grace of wisdom and of duteous well-spent lives: and yet there is a loftier height than these. there is a height higher than mortal thought; there is a love warmer than mortal love; there is a life which taketh not its hues from earth or earthly things; and so grows pure and higher than the petty cares of men, and is a blessed life and glorified. oh, white young souls, strain upward, upward still, even to the heavenly source of purity! brave hearts, bear on and suffer! strike for right, strong arms, and hew down wrong! the world hath need of all of you--the sensual wrongful world! hath need of you, and of thee too, fair love. oh, lovers, cling together! the old world is full of hate. sweeten it; draw in one two separate chords of life; and from the bond of twin souls lost in harmony create a fair god dwelling with you--love, the lord! waft yourselves, yearning souls, upon the stars; sow yourselves on the wandering winds of space; watch patient all your days, if your eyes take some dim, cold ray of knowledge. the dull world hath need of you--the purblind, slothful world! live on, brave lives, chained to the narrow round of duty; live, expend yourselves, and make the orb of being wheel onward steadfastly upon its path--the lord of life alone knows to what goal of good; work on, live on: and yet there is a higher work than yours. to have looked upon the face of the unknown and perfect beauty. to have heard the voice of godhead in the winds and in the seas. to have known him in the circling of the suns, and in the changeful fates and lives of men. to be fulfilled with godhead as a cup filled with a precious essence, till the hand on marble or on canvas falling, leaves celestial traces, or from reed or string draws out faint echoes of the voice divine that bring god nearer to a faithless world. or, higher still and fairer and more blest, to be his seer, his prophet; to be the voice of the ineffable word; to be the glass of the ineffable light, and bring them down to bless the earth, set in a shrine of song. for knowledge is a barren tree and bare, bereft of god, and duty but a word, and strength but tyranny, and love, desire, and purity a folly; and the soul, which brings down god to man, the light to the world; he is the maker, and is blest, is blest!" he ended, and i felt my soul grow faint with too much sweetness. in a mist of grace they faded, that bright company, and seemed to melt into each other and shape themselves into new forms, and those fair goddesses blent in a perfect woman--all the calm high motherhood of heré, the sweet smile of cypris, fair athené's earnest eyes, and the young purity of artemis, blent in a perfect woman; and in her arms, fused by some cosmic interlacing curves of beauty into a new innocence, a child with eyes divine, a little child, a little child--no more. and those great gods of power and beauty left a heavenly form strong not to act, but suffer; fair and meek, not proud and eager; with soft eyes of grace, not bold with joyous youth; and for the fire of song, and for the happy careless life, a sorrowful pilgrimage--changed, yet the same only diviner far; and keeping still the life god-lighted and the sacrifice. and when these faded wholly, at my side, tho' hidden before by those too-radiant forms, i was aware once more of her, my guide psyche, who had not left me, floating near on golden wings; and all the plains of heaven were left to us, me and my soul alone. then when my thought revived again, i said whispering, "but zeus i saw not, the prime source and sire of all the gods." and she, bent low with downcast eyes: "nay. thou hast seen of him all that thine eyes can bear, in those fair forms which are but parts of him and are indeed attributes of the substance which supports the universe of things--the soul of the world, the stream which flows eternal, from no source into no sea, his purity, his strength, his love, his knowledge, his unchanging rule of duty, thou hast seen, only a part and not the whole, being a finite mind too weak for infinite thought; nor, couldst thou see all of him visible to mortal sight, wouldst thou see all his essence, since the gods-- glorified essences of human mould, who are but zeus made visible to men-- see him not wholly, only some thin edge and halo of his glory; nor know they what vast and unsuspected universes lie beyond thought, where yet he rules, like those vast suns we cannot see, round which our sun moves with his system, or those darker still which not even thus we know, but yet exist tho' no eye marks, nor thought itself, and lurk in the awful depths of space; or that which is not orbed as yet, but indiscrete, confused, sown thro' the void--the faintest gleam of light which sets itself to be. and yet is he there too, and rules, none seeing. but sometimes to this our heaven, which is so like to earth but nearer to him, for awhile he shows some gleam of his own brightness, and methinks it cometh soon; but thou, if thou shouldst gaze, thy life will rush to his--the tiny spark absorbed in that full blaze--and what there is of mortal fall from thee." but i: "oh, soul, what holdeth life more precious than to know the giver and to die?" then she: "behold! look upward and adore." and with the word, unhasting, undelaying, gradual, sure, the floating cloud which clothed the hidden peak rose slow in awful silence, laying bare spire after rocky spire, snow after snow, whiter and yet more dreadful, till at last it left the summit clear. then with a bound, in the twinkling of an eye, in the flash of a thought, i knew an awful effluence of light, formless, ineffable, perfect, burst on me and flood my being round, and take my life into itself. i saw my guide bent down prostrate, her wings before her face; and then no more. but when i woke from my long trance behold, it was no longer tartarus, nor hades, nor olympus, but the bare and unideal aspect of the fields which spring not yet had kissed--the strange old earth so far more fabulous now than in the days when man was young, nor yet the mystery of time and fate transformed it. from the hills, the long night fled at last, the unclouded sun, the dear, fair sun, leapt upward swift, and smote my sight with rays of gold, and pierced my brain with too much light ere my entrancèd eyes could hide themselves. and i was on the earth dreaming the dream of life again, as late i dreamed the dream of death. another day dawned on the race of men; another world; new heavens, and new earth. and as i went across the lightening fields, upon a bank i saw a single snowdrop glance, and bring promise of spring; and keeping my old thought in the old fair hellenic vesture dressed, i felt myself a ghost, and seemed to be now fair adonis hasting to the arms of his lost love--now sad persephone restored to mother earth--or that high shade orpheus, who gave up heaven to save his love, and is rewarded--or young marsyas, who spent his youth and life for song, and yet was happy though in torture--or the fair and dreaming youth i saw, who still awaits, hopeful, the unveiling heaven, when he shall see his fair ideal love. the birds sang blithe; there came a tinkling from the waking fold; and on the hillside from the cot a girl tripped singing with her pitcher. all the sounds and thoughts which still are beautiful--youth, song, dawn, spring, renewal--and my soul was glad of all the freshness, and i felt again the youth and spring-tide of the world, and thought, which feigned those fair and gracious fantasies. for every dawn that breaks brings a new world, and every budding bosom a new life; these fair tales, which we know so beautiful, show only finer than our lives to-day because their voice was clearer, and they found a sacred bard to sing them. we are pent, who sing to-day, by all the garnered wealth of ages of past song. we have no more the world to choose from, who, where'er we turn, tread through old thoughts and fair. yet must we sing-- we have no choice; and if more hard the toil in noon, when all is clear, than in the fresh white mists of early morn, yet do we find achievement its own guerdon, and at last the rounder song of manhood grows more sweet than the high note of youth. for age, long age! nought else divides us from the fresh young days which men call ancient; seeing that we in turn shall one day be time's ancients, and inspire the wiser, higher race, which yet shall sing because to sing is human, and high thought grows rhythmic ere its close. nought else there is but that weird beat of time, which doth disjoin to-day from hellas. how should any hold those precious scriptures only old-world tales of strange impossible torments and false gods; of men and monsters in some brainless dream, coherent, yet unmeaning, linked together by some false skein of song? nay! evermore, all things and thoughts, both new and old, are writ upon the unchanging human heart and soul. has passion still no prisoners? pine there now no lives which fierce love, sinking into lust, has drowned at last in tears and blood--plunged down to the lowest depths of hell? have not strong will and high ambition rotted into greed and wrong, for any, as of old, and whelmed the struggling soul in ruin? hell lies near around us as does heaven, and in the world, which is our hades, still the chequered souls compact of good and ill--not all accurst nor altogether blest--a few brief years travel the little journey of their lives, they know not to what end. the weary woman sunk deep in ease and sated with her life, much loved and yet unloving, pines to-day as helen; still the poet strives and sings. and hears apollo's music, and grows dumb, and suffers, yet is happy; still the young fond dreamer seeks his high ideal love, and finds her name is death; still doth the fair and innocent life, bound naked to the rock, redeem the race; still the gay tempter goes and leaves his victim, stone; still doth pain bind men's souls in closer links of lovingness, than death itself can sever; still the sight of too great beauty blinds us, and we lose the sense of earthly splendours, gaining heaven. and still the skies are opened as of old to the entrancèd gaze, ay, nearer far and brighter than of yore; and might is there, and infinite purity is there, and high eternal wisdom, and the calm clear face of duty, and a higher, stronger love and light in one, and a new, reverend name, greater than any and combining all; and over all, veiled with a veil of cloud, god set far off, too bright for mortal eyes. and always, always, with each soul that comes and goes, comes that fair form which was my guide, hovering, with golden wings and eyes divine, above the bed of birth, the bed of death, still breathing heavenly airs of deathless love. for while a youth is lost in soaring thought, and while a maid grows sweet and beautiful, and while a spring-tide coming lights the earth, and while a child, and while a flower is born, and while one wrong cries for redress and finds a soul to answer, still the world is young! the end. footnotes: [ ] euripides, "hippolytus," lines - . [ ] virgil, "Æneid," vi. . [ ] see the orphic hymns. printed by william clowes and sons, limited, london and beccles. [transcriber's notes: this text is hemistichia, in that the end of one stanza is vertically aligned with the start of the next stanza. inconsistent hyphenation and text retained.] the adventures of ulysses _the wanderer_ an old story retold by c. ranger-gull author of "the hypocrite," "from the book beautiful," "back to lilac land," etc. illustrated by w. g. mein london greening and company, ltd. cecil court, charing cross road by the same author the hypocrite. seventh edition. s. d. back to lilac land. second edition. s. miss malevolent. second edition. s. d. the cigarette smoker. second edition. s. d. from the book beautiful. being old lights re-lit. s. d. in preparation. the serf. a tale of the times of king stephen. his grace's grace. a story of oxford life. [illustration: he stared steadily at them with his single eye for a full minute. _page ._ _frontispiece._] to herbert beerbohm tree in appreciation of his scholarship in admiration of his art to one of the few great artists who has never been untrue to the highest ideals of his calling and in special memory of the first night of "hamlet" at manchester contents page foreword brief account of principal characters in the odyssey the first episode--how they blinded the son of poseidon the second episode--the adventure of the palace in the wood the third episode--how ulysses walked in hell, and of the adventure of the sirens and scylla the fourth episode--how ulysses lost his merry men and came a waif to calypso with the shining hair the last episode--how the king came home again after the long years a note on homer and ulysses list of illustrations he stared steadily at them with his single eye for a full minute _frontispiece_ then he came swiftly upon the gleaming palace _facing page_ then he was, in an instant moment, aware of a more than mortal presence " they came to the brink of the river " "who am i that i can combat the will of zeus or the hardness of your heart?" " "nay, if you love me," he said, "none of that, my friend" " foreword seven fair and illustrious cities of the dim, ancient world, argos, athenæ, chios, colophon, salamis, rhodos, smyrna, fought a war of words over homer's birthplace. each claimed the honour. and if, indeed, such an accident of chance confers an honour upon a town, then the birthplace of the greatest poet of all time should be a place of pilgrimage. for, among the weavers of epos, drama, and romance, he who was called melesegenes is first of all and wears an imperishable crown. for years his fame has streamed down the ages. the world has changed. great empires have risen, flowered and passed. christianity came, flooding mankind with light, at a time when, though homer was a dim tradition, his work was a living force in the world. when christ was born, homerus was dead years. a man with such immensity of glory ceases to be a man. he becomes a force. of the two imperishable monuments homer has left us, the decision of critical scholarship has placed the _iliad_ first. it has been said that the _iliad_ is like the midday, the _odyssey_ like the setting sun. both are of equal splendour, though the latter has lost its noonday heat. but i would take that adroit simile and draw another meaning from it. when deferred, expected night at last approaches, when the sun paints the weary west with faëry pictures of glowing seas, of golden islands hanging in the sky, of lonely magic waterways unsailed by mortal keels; then, indeed, there comes into the heart and brain another warmth,--the mysterious quickening of romance. for i think that the ringing sound of arms, the vibrant thriddings of bows, the clash of heroes, are far less wonderful than the long, lonely wanderings of ulysses. through all the _odyssey_ the winds are blowing, the seas moaning, and the estranged sad spectres of the night flit noiselessly across the printed page. through new lands, among new peoples--friends and foes--touching at green islands set like emeralds in wine-coloured seas, the immortal mariner moves to the music of his creator's verse. the sirens' voices, the fairy's enchanted wine, the twin monsters of the strait pass and are forgotten. his wife's tears bid him ever towards home. i sometimes have wondered if vergil thought of ulysses when he made his own lesser wanderer say:-- "per varios casus per tot discrimina rerum, tendimus in latium, sedes ubi fata quietas ostendunt." and now, since we are to have, on that so magical a stage, a concrete picture: since we are to take away another storied memory from beneath the copper dome, i feel that the story of ulysses may once more be told in english. a fine poet, a great player, are to give us an ulysses who must perforce be not only full of the spirit of his own age of myth, but instinct with the spirit of this. that is as inevitable as it is interesting. the "gentle elia" (how one wishes one could find a better name for him--but custom makes cowards of us all) has written his own version of the _odyssey_. i cannot emulate that. but i think i can at least be useful. there are three stages of knowing homer: the time when one dog's ears and dogrells him at school, the time when one loves him, a literary love! at oxford, and the time when the _va et vient_ of life in great capitals wakes the dormant ulysses in the heart of every artist, and he begins to understand. "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----" _c. ranger-gull._ a brief account of the principal characters in the wanderings of ulysses, according to the ancient writers and legends. ulysses. the hero of homer's great poem was known to the greeks under the name of odysseus. he was king of the pastoral islands of ithaca and dulichium. most of the petty greek chieftains became suitors for the hand of the beautiful helen, and ulysses was among the number, but withdrew when he realised the smallness of his chances. he then married penelope, the daughter of icarius, and at the same time joined with the other unsuccessful lovers of helen in a sworn league for her future protection should she ever stand in need of it. he then returned to ithaca with his bride. the rape of helen soon compelled him to leave penelope and join the other grecian princes in the great war against troy. he endeavoured to avoid the summons by pretending madness. yoking a horse and a bull together, he began to plough the sands of the sea shore. the messenger who was sent to him took telemachus, the infant son of ulysses, and placed the child in the direct course of the plough, in this way circumventing his design. ulysses was one of the most prominent figures during the trojan war, his valour, and still more his cunning, making him of supreme importance in the councils of the princes. after the trojan war ulysses set sail for home, and at this period of his career the story of the _odyssey_ begins. he was driven by malevolent winds on to the shores of africa, where he and his mariners were captured by the one-eyed giant, polyphemus, who ate five of the band. ulysses escaped by thrusting a stake into the giant's eye and then leaving the cave in which he was confined by crawling under the bellies of the sheep when the cyclops led them to pasture. he next arrives at Æolia, and Æolus gave him, imprisoned in bags, all the evil winds which were likely to obstruct his safe return homewards. the sailors, curious to know what the bags contained, opened them, and the imprisoned winds, rushing out with fearful violence, destroyed the whole fleet save only the vessel which bore ulysses. the ship was thrown on the shores of the goddess circe's enchanted island, and the companions of ulysses were changed into swine by the enchantress. ulysses escaped the like fate by means of a magic herb he had received from mercury, and forced the goddess to bring his friends to their original shape. he then yielded to her solicitations and made her the mother of telegonus. the next stage of his adventures brings him to hades, where he goes to consult the shade of the wise tiresias as to the means of reaching home in safety. he passes the terrible coasts of the sirens unhurt, and escaped the monsters scylla and charybdis by a series of narrow chances. in sicily his sailors, urged by extreme hunger, killed some of apollo's cattle, and the sun-god in revenge destroyed all his companions and also his ship. ulysses alone escaped on a raft and swam to the shores of an island belonging to calypso, with whom he lived a lotos life as husband for seven years. the gods eventually interfered, and ulysses, once more properly equipped, set out on his travels again. however, neptune (poseidon), the lord of the sea, still remembered the injury done to his son, the giant polyphemus, and wrecked this ship also. ulysses was cast up on the island of the phoeacians, where he was hospitably received by king alcinous and his daughter the princess nausicaa, and at last sent home in safety to his own kingdom after an absence of more than twenty years. the goddess athene befriended him, and informed him that his palace was crowded with debauched and insolent suitors for the hand of queen penelope, but that his wife was still faithful and unceasingly mourned his loss. adopting the advice of the goddess, he disguised himself in rags to see for himself the state of his home. he then slew the suitors and lived quietly at home for the remaining sixteen years of his adventurous life. tradition says that he at last met his death at the hands of his illegitimate son telegonus. penelope. a famous græcian princess, wife of ulysses. she married at about the same time that helen wedded king menelaus, and returned home to ithaca with her husband against the wishes of her father icarius of sparta. during the long absence of ulysses she was besieged by suitors for her hand, who established themselves in the palace. she became practically their prisoner, and was compelled to dissimulate and put them off by various excuses. she managed to keep her importunate guests in some sort of good humour by giving out that she would make a choice among them as soon as she had completed a piece of tapestry on which she was engaged. each night she undid the stitches she had worked in the daytime. on the return of ulysses she was, of course, freed from the suitors by her husband. according to some ancient writers, after the death of ulysses she married telegonus, ulysses' son by the goddess circe. her name penelope sprung from some river-birds who were called "penelopes." telemachus. the son of ulysses and penelope. when his father left for the trojan war telemachus was but an infant, but at the close of the campaign he went to seek him and to obtain what information he could about his father's absence. when ulysses returned home in disguise athene brought son and parent together, and the two concerted means to rid the palace of the suitors. after the death of ulysses, telemachus is said to have gone to the island of circe and married the enchantress, formerly his father's mistress. a son called latinus sprung from this union. athene (minerva). the goddess of wisdom was born from zeus' brain without a mother. she sprang from his head in full armour. she was the most powerful of the goddesses and the friend of mankind. she was the patroness of ulysses, and it was believed she first invented ships. her chastity was inviolable. her worship was universal. zeus (jupiter). chief of all the gods. his attitude towards ulysses was friendly owing to the persuasion of his daughter athene. poseidon (neptune) was the sea god and next in power to zeus. he was the father of the giant polyphemus whom ulysses blinded, and is the consistent enemy of ulysses throughout the whole _odyssey_. neptune was the brother of zeus. hermes (mercury) was the messenger of the gods and a son of zeus. he was especially the patron of travellers and well disposed to ulysses. tiresias was in life a celebrated soothsayer and philosopher of thebes. his wisdom was universal. having inadvertently seen the goddess athene bathing in the fountain of hippocrene, he was blinded. ulysses visited his spirit in hades, in order to obtain his advice as to the journey homewards to ithaca. circe. an enchantress celebrated for her knowledge of the magic properties of herbs. she was of extreme personal beauty. in girlhood she married the prince of colchis, whom she murdered to obtain his kingdom. she was thereon banished to the fairy island of Ææa. when ulysses visited her shores she changed his companions into swine, but ulysses was protected by the magic virtues of a herb called _moly_. ulysses spent a year in the arms of circe, and she gave birth to a son called telegonus. calypso. one of the daughters of atlas, was known as the "bright-haired goddess of silence," and was queen of the lost island of ogygia. ulysses spent seven years with her, and she bore him two sons. by order of zeus, hermes was sent to the island ordering ulysses to leave his voluptuous sloth, and calypso, who was inconsolable at his loss, was forced to allow him to depart. the legend runs that the goddess offered him the gift of immortality if he would remain with her. scylla and charybdis. scylla was a terrible female monster who devoured six of ulysses' crew, though the hero himself escaped her. below the waist she was composed of creatures like dogs who never ceased barking. she was supported by twelve feet and had six different heads. the monster dwelt in a cave under the sea on one side of a narrow strait off the coast of sicily. on the other side of the strait was the great whirlpool charybdis. it was invested with a personality by homer, and charybdis was said to be a giantess who sucked down ships as they passed. the sirens. monsters with sweet alluring voices who inhabited a small island near sicily. they had bodies like great birds, according to some writers, with the heads of beautiful women. whosoever heard their magic song must go to them and remain with them for ever. ulysses escaped the enchantment by causing himself to be bound to the ship's mast. polyphemus. the son of poseidon. he was the giant king of the cyclopes who were workers in the forge of vulcan and made armour for the gods. ulysses and his companions blinded him in order to escape from the cavern where he had imprisoned them. antinous. a native gentleman of ithaca, one of penelope's most persistent suitors. when ulysses came home disguised as a beggar antinous struck him. he was the first to fall by ulysses' bow. euryclea. the nurse of ulysses in his infancy, and one of the first to recognise him on his return from his wanderings. she was in her youth the lovely daughter of ops of ithaca. eumÆus. the herdsman and steward of ulysses who knew his master on his return after an absence of twenty years. he was the king's right-hand man in the plot against, and fight with, the suitors of penelope. the adventures of ulysses the first episode how they blinded the son of poseidon a warm mild wind, laden with sweet scents, blew over the sailors from the island, which now lay far astern. in the weary west the charmed sunset still lingered over lotus land. a rosy flush lay on the snow-capped mountains which were yet spectral in the last lights of the day, but looking out over the bows the sky was dark purple changing into black, and where it met the sea there was a white gleam of foam. the companions of ulysses sat idle from the oars, for the wind filled the belly of the sail and there was no need for rowing. a curious silence brooded over them all. no one spoke to his fellow. the faces of all were sad, and in the eyes of some the fire of an unutterable regret burnt steadily. the heads of all were turned towards the island, which was fast disappearing from their view. some of the men shaded their eyes with their hands in one last long look of farewell. as the curtain of the dark fell upon the sea, the warm offshore wind died away. a colder breeze, full of the sea-smell itself, came down over the port bow; it moaned through the cordage, and little waves began to hiss under the cutwater. every now and again the wind freshened rapidly. the mournful whistling became a sudden snarling of trumpets. the ship and crew seemed to have passed over the limits of a tableau. not only was it a quick elemental change of scene, but the change had its influence with the spectators. the sad fire--if the glow of regret is indeed a fire--died out of heavy eyes half veiled by weary lids. the sea-light dawned once more upon the faces of the mariners, the bright warm blood moved swiftly in their veins. one man ran to the steering oar to give an aid to the helmsman as the ship went about on the starboard tack, three more stood by the sheet, a hum of talk rose from the waist of the boat. ulysses stood in the bows looking forward into the night. his tall, lean figure was bent forward, and his arm was thrown round the gilded boss of the prow. his eyes were deep set in his head, and his brow was furrowed with the innumerable wrinkles which come to the man who lives a life of hardship and striving. yet the long years of battle and wandering, a life of shocks! had only intensified the alertness of his pose. he seemed, as he looked out into the night, a personification of "readiness." a crisp dark beard grew round his throat, and the veins on his bare brown arms were like blue enamel round a column of bronze. when the ship went about again he came down into the body of the ship and helped to pull upon the brace. though he was no taller than many of his men, and leaner than most, in physical strength as well as in intellect he was first and chief. the mighty muscles leapt up on his arms as he strained on the taut rope. the ship slanted away down the wind into the night. the men gathered round their captain. "comrades," he said to them in a singularly sweet and musical voice, "once more we adventure the deep, and no man knows what shall befall us. to our island home in the west, to dear ithaca! if the gods so will it. our wives weep for us on our deserted hearthstone. our little ones are noble youths ere now, and may zeus bring us safe home at last. yet much it misdoubts me that there are other perils in store for us ere we hear the long breakers beat upon the shores of ithaca and see the morning sun run down the wooded sides of neriton. be that as the fates will it, let us keep always courage, gaiety, and the quiet mind." "we are well away from there," said one of the men, nodding vaguely towards the stern. "that are we," said another; "that cursed fruit is honeysweet in my mouth still. it stole away our brains and made us as women, we! the men who fought in troyland." "of what profit is it to look to the past, phocion?" said ulysses. "we did eat and sleep and forget, but it is over. the sea wind is salt once more upon our faces. let us eat the night meal, and then i will choose a watch and the rest may sleep. hand me the cup--to to-morrow's dawn!" then one of the sailors took dried goat's flesh and fruit from a locker in the stern, and by the light of a torch of sawn sandal wood they fell to eating. great bunches of purple grapes lay before each sailor, but they had brought none of the magic lotus fruit with them to steal away their vigour and thicken their blood. then they lay down to sleep under coverings of skins. two men went to the great steering oar, three men watched amidship by the braces, and ulysses himself wrapped a woollen cloak round him and went once more into the bows. alone there with the wind his thoughts once more went back to his far distant home. he thought with longing of his old father laertes, of the child telemachus playing in the marble courtyard of the sunny palace on the hill. a deep sigh shuddered out from his lips as his thoughts fell upon the lonely queen penelope. "wife of mine," he thought, "shall i ever lie beside you more? is there silver in your bright hair now? are your thoughts to mewards as mine to you? perchance another rules in my palace and sits at my seat. are your lips another's now? the great tears are blinding me. courage!" bending his head upon his breast, ulysses prayed long and earnestly to his awful patroness, the goddess athene, that she would still keep ward over his fortunes and guide him safely home. the night wore on and became very silent. the ship seemed to be moving swiftly and surely, though the wind had dropped and the voice of the waves was hushed. it seemed to the watcher in the bows that the ship was moving in the path of some strong current. a curious white mist suddenly rolled over the still surface of the sea, thick and ghostly. the mast and sail, which was now drooping and lifeless, swayed through it like giant spectres. ulysses could see none of his companions, but when he hailed the watch the voice of phocion came back to him through the ghostly curtain, curiously thick and muffled. "the mist thickens, my captain," said the sailor. "can you see aught ahead?" "i can see nothing, phocion," shouted ulysses; "the mist is like wool. but i think it is a land mist come out to meet us. there should be land ahead." "i hear no surf or the rolling of waves," said phocion. "may zeus guide the boat, for mortal men are of no avail to-night." the ship moved on swiftly as if guided by invisible hands towards some goal, and still the expectant mariners heard no sound. quite suddenly, and without the slightest warning, a vivid copper-coloured flash of lightning illuminated the ship. for an instant in the hard lurid light ulysses saw the whole of the vessel in a distinct picture. every detail was manifest--the mast, the cordage, the sleeping sailors below, the watching group by the shrouds, and, right away astern, the startled helmsmen motionless as statues of bronze. then with a long grinding noise the ship seemed suddenly lifted up in the water, jerked forward, and then dropped again. she began to heel over a little out of the perpendicular, and then remained still, stranded upon an unknown and mysterious shore, where the waves were all asleep. still the white mist circled round them. "comrades," said ulysses, "we are brought here by no chance of wind and waves. some god has done this thing, but whether for weal or woe i cannot tell. let us land upon the beach and lie down with our weapons within sound of the sea till dawn. at sunrise we shall know where the god has brought us." they landed at the order, and with the supreme indifference of the adventurer lay upon the shore and slept out the remainder of the night. but ulysses had a prescience of harm, and was full of sinister forebodings. he did not sleep, but paced through the mist all night in a little beaten track among the boulders. he prayed long and earnestly to athene. when the first faint hintings of dawn brightened through the mist a little breeze arose, and before the sky was more than faintly flushed with day the night fog was blown away like thistledown. as the sun climbed up the sky the companions found that they had been carried to a scene of singular beauty. they were on an island, a small, rich place at the mouth of a great bay. rich level grass meadows, green as bright enamel and brilliant with flowers, sloped gently down to the violet sea. behind was a thickly-wooded hill, at the foot of which was a sparkling spring surrounded by a tall grove of poplar trees. in the leafy wood the wild goats leapt under the wild vine trees like pan at play, as fearless of the intruders as if they had never seen men before. all the bright morning the sailors made the wood ring with happy laughter as they speared the goats for a feast. all trouble passed from their minds, and as the spears flashed swiftly through the green wood the shrill, jocund voices of the hunters made all the island musical. ulysses plunged into a translucent pool at the foot of the spring, and the cool water flashed like diamonds over his strong brown arms, and he looked indeed as if he were some river-god and this his fairy home. all day long they feasted and drank wine which they had brought in skins from lotus land. when night was falling, very still and gentle, they saw the blue smoke of fires over the bay, on the mainland, about a mile away, and the bleating of many sheep and the lowing of herds came to them over the wine-coloured sea. ever and again voices could be heard--strange resonant voices. "that must be the country of some strange gods," the sailors said to each other. "those are no mortal voices. we are come into some great peril." before they slept they sacrificed a goat on the seashore to zeus, that he might guard them from any coming harm. in the morning the king prepared for action. it was necessary to find upon what shores they had arrived, to get direction of ithaca, and if treasure was to be won by force or guile, to take the opportunity which chance or the gods had sent. ulysses chose twelve of his men, tried veterans with nerves of steel, old comrades who had fought with him for helen on the windy plains of troy. with these old never-strikes he embarked on the ship. he left phocion as leader of the remainder of the crew, and taking elpenor with him as second in command, they got out six sweeps, three on each side of the ship, and rowed slowly over the glassy bay. the mainland, on the shore where they landed, was a wild rocky place, and there was a broad road winding away up to the higher pasture lands. the road was made of great rocks beaten into smoothness, and fresh spoor of cattle showed that not long since a great herd had passed to the upland feeding grounds. directly in front of them as they landed was a high cave. it was fringed with laurel bushes, which grew on ledges in the cliff side. before the cave a great wall had been built in a square, forming a courtyard. the wall was built with enormous masses of rock, and fenced with a palisade of pine trunks and massive boles of oak. there was no sign of any living thing. slowly and cautiously the party crept up to the wall. their weapons were in readiness as they stole through the gateway. within the square formed by the wall they could see that it was a vast cattle pen. "this must be the dwelling of some giant," said elpenor; "men do not build like this. on what strange place have we chanced?" he looked inquiringly at ulysses when he had spoken, and a ring of eager faces turned towards him whose wisdom was never at fault, the favourite of athene. "i think, comrades," said ulysses, "that we have been driven to the shores of the cyclopes. they are mighty giants, who work in the forge of vulcan making armour for the gods. now this cave must be the dwelling of one of them, and i like not where we are. let us but go within for a short time and take what we can find, and then hasten back to the island. the cyclopes have no boats and cannot follow us. but it would go hard with us were we found, for they are crafty and cruel monsters." with hasty, curious footsteps they crossed the echoing flags of the courtyard and entered the cave. as the shadow of the entrance fell upon them and the chill of the air inside struck on their faces, more than one would have gladly stayed in the warm outside sunshine. it was an ill-omened, sinister place this lair of giants. a pungent ammoniacal smell made them cough and shudder as they crossed the threshold. ulysses turned with a grim smile to his followers. "thank the gods we are seamen and sons of the fresh wind. this cyclops lives like a swine in a stye." the large entrance to the cave gave a fair light within, and their eyes soon became accustomed to it. along one side of the cave were folds of fat lambs and kids who bleated lustily at them. at the end of the cave was a great couch of skins by the ashes of a pine fire. bones and scraps of flesh were piled round, relics of some great orgy, and a sickly stench of decay came from the _débris_. piles of wicker baskets were loaded with huge yellow cheeses, and there were many copper milk pails and bowls brimful of whey. the sailors rejoiced at such an abundance of good cheer, and they killed one of the fattest of the lambs and lit a fire to roast it. "the giant will not return till even," said elpenor, "and by then we shall be far away. we will make a good meal now, and then load the ship with cheeses and drive off the best of the lambs. our comrades will welcome us home this night, for we shall be full-handed!" so, careless of danger, they sat them down in that perilous place and made merry on the giant's cheer. they had brought skins of wine with them, and they drank in mockery to their absent host. in the middle of the feast one of the men suddenly laid down his cup. "hearken," he said uneasily, "do you hear anything, friends?" "i hear nothing," said ulysses. "what sound did you hear?" "a distant sound, i thought," answered the man, "as if the earth shook." "there is nothing," said a third at length; but a certain constraint fell upon them all, and anxiety clouded their faces. "let us begone," said ulysses at length. "there is what i do not like in the air. i fear evil." he had but hardly made an end of speaking when all of them there were struck rigid with apprehension. a distant but rapidly-nearing sound assailed their ears, a heavy crunching sound like the blows of a great hammer upon the earth, save that each succeeding blow was louder than the last. they stood irresolute for one fatal moment, and then started to run towards the mouth of the cave. the noise filled all the air, which hummed and trembled with it. they reached the entrance, but too late. even as the first man came out into the afternoon sunlight, a great herd of cattle came pouring into the courtyard. behind them, towering over the wall, as tall as the tallest pine on the slopes of hymettus, strode polyphemus, the giant king of the cyclopes, son of the god poseidon. the giant was naked to the waist, where he wore a girdle of skins. one great eye burned in the centre of his forehead, and a row of sharp, white teeth were framed by thick dribbling lips, like the lips of a cow. under his arm polyphemus carried a bundle of young sapling trees, which he had brought for faggots for his fire. he threw them on the floor of the courtyard by the mouth of the cave with a great crash. the adventurers crouched away at the back of the cave in the darkness as the giant entered. he drove all the ewes of his flock before him, leaving the rams outside in the court. then he took a great hole of rock, which scarce twenty teams of horses could have moved, and closed the mouth of the cave. with a great sigh of weariness, which echoed like a hissing wind and blew the silent bats which hung to the roof this way and that in a frightened eddy of wings, he sank down upon his couch of skins. the giant had brought some of the firewood into the cave with him and he threw it into the embers. a resinous piece of wood suddenly caught the flame and flared up, filling the cavern with red light. one of the sailors dropped his spear with a loud clatter as the flames made plain the figure of the monster. polyphemus turned his head and saw them. he stared steadily at them with his single eye for full a minute. a cruel smile played on his face. "who are you, strangers?" he said at length, in a thick, low voice like the swell of a great organ. "merchants, are you? pirates? and whence come you along the paths of the sea?" then ulysses spoke in a smooth voice of conciliation. "we are greeks, oh lord, soldiers of agamemnon's army, bound for home over the seas from troy. bad weather has driven us out of our course, and so we have come to you and beg you to be our honoured host. oh, great lord, have reverence for the gods, for zeus himself is the god of hospitality." then the giant smiled cunningly. "you are a man of little wit, stranger," he said, "or else you have indeed come from the very end of the world. i pay no heed to zeus, for i am stronger than he. but now, tell me, where is your ship?" but ulysses, the wary one, saw the snare and answered humbly, "the great poseidon, god of the deep, wrecked our ship upon the rocks, and we alone survive of all our company." the giant looked fixedly at the trembling band for a moment. then, with a sudden movement, he snatched among the mariners and grasped two of them in his mighty hand. the swift horror remained with them in all their after life. he stripped the clothes from each like a man strips the scales from a prawn with one quick twirl of his fingers. then he dashed the quivering bodies upon the ground so that the yellow paste of the brains smeared the stone--save for the horrid crunching of bone and flesh, and the liquid gurgle of the monster's throat as he made his frightful meal, there was no sound in the cave. then he fell into a foul sleep. three times during the long night did ulysses draw his sword to plunge it into the monster's heart, three times did he sheathe it again. for in his wisdom he knew that if he killed polyphemus no one could ever move away the great stone which shut them from the outside world. in the morning elpenor and one other died, and the giant drove his flocks to pasture and closed up the heroes in the cave. then ulysses comforted the dying hearts of his men, and as polyphemus strode away over the hills whistling to his cattle, he made a plan for one last bid for freedom. leaning against the wall of the cave was a great club of hard wood which the monster had put there to dry. it was an olive-tree trunk as big as the great spar of a ship. this they took and sharpened with their swords, and hardened it in the flame of the fire and hid it carefully away. then very sadly the sailors cast lots as to who should be the four to help the captain. all day long they sat in the foetid cave and prayed to the gods for an alms of aid. and their hearts were leaden for love of their valiant comrades. at eventime two more heroes died. then ulysses rose, and though his knees were weak and his face blanched with agony, he spoke in a smooth voice. "my lord cyclops," he said, "i have filled this bowl with wine which we brought with us. i pray you drink, and perchance your heart may be touched and you will let us go." so the giant took the bowl from the king, and as ulysses went near him his breath reeked of carrion and blood. he drank the wine, which was a sweet and drowsy vintage from the lotus island. "give me more," he cried thickly, "and say how you are named, for i will grant you a favour." ulysses filled the bowl for him three times. "oh, my lord," he said, "my friends and parents call me noman, for that is my name. now, great lord, your boon." the giant leered at the hero with drunken cunning. "noman, since that is your name noman, you shall die last of all, and the others first. that is your boon!" and once more he sank into his sleep, gorged with blood and wine. the hours wore on and the flames of the fire sank into a bright red glow. the loud stertorous breathing of the monster became more deep and regular. very silently the five rose from among the rest and stole towards the fire with the great stake. they pressed it into the heart of the white hot embers and sat watching it change from black to crimson, while little sparks ran up and down the sides like flies upon the wall. when the spar was just about to burst into flame they drew it out, and with quick, nervous footsteps carried it to where polyphemus lay sleeping. the glow from the hot hard wood played upon that vast blood-smeared countenance and the yellow wrinkled lid which veiled the cruel eye. ulysses directed the point to the exact centre of the foul skin, and then with their old battle cry of "helen!" the five heroes pressed it home through the hissing, steaming eyeball, turning it round and round until everything was burned away. they had just time to leap aside when the giant rose in horrid agony. his cries of rage and pain were like the cries of a thousand tortured beasts, and the din was so great that pieces of rock began to fall from the roof of the cave. he spun round in his torture, beating upon the walls with his arms and head until they were a raw and bleeding wound. at this awful sound mighty footsteps were heard outside the cave as the other giants rushed down from the hills. there came great and terrible voices shouting together, and it was as though a great storm was racing through the world. "what ails you, brother, that you call us from sleep in the night?" cried the giants. "help! help! brothers. noman is murdering me. i die!" a chorus of thunderous laughter came rolling back. "if noman harms thee, then how should we aid thee, brother? 'tis the gods who have sent thee a sickness which thou must endure." and now, through an aperture high up in the cave, the light began to whiten, and showed day was at hand. the footsteps of the cyclopes grew faint and ceased, but polyphemus lay moaning by the great stone which closed the entrance. the morning light grew stronger, and a breeze stole in, fresh and clean, and played upon the faces of the prisoners. the ewes began to bleat, for their milking time was at hand, and the rams cried out for freedom and the green pastures of the hill. the giant moved aside the stone to let them go and in the morning sunlight the sailors could see that he felt over them with his hands so that no men should mingle with them and so escape. first the ewes went out and then the young rams, and last of all the great old rams, patriarchs of the flock, began to move slowly towards the door. then courage came back to ulysses, and with it all his cunning. stooping low under the belly of a great beast, he motioned to his friends to do likewise, and, slowly, in this way, holding to the fleece of the rams, they moved out of the cave. they could feel the rams tremble when the giant's hands ranged over the wool of their backs, but nevertheless they came safely out into the light, and stole down to where their ship yet lay at anchor. the air of the morning was like wine to them, and the face of the water as dear as the face of a well-beloved wife as they ran over the bright yellow sand. then from the stern of the boat ulysses cried out in a great voice of triumph. at that sound the monster came stumbling from his cave, reeling like a drunken man, and calling on his father poseidon, lord of the sea, to avenge him on his enemies. he took up the stone that had barred the cave and threw it far out into the water, but it overshot the boat and did not harm the heroes, though the wave of its descent flung the ship from side to side as if it were a piece of driftwood. the mariners bent to the oars, and the vessels moved away from that accursed shore, slowly at first but more swiftly as their tired arms grew strong with the chance of safety, and the wine of hope flowed in their veins once more. they saw the sightless face of polyphemus working horribly, his mouth opening and shutting like a dying fish as he looked heavenwards and implored his mighty father's aid. and after a space of mourning for the brave dead the heroes set out again over the sad grey seas, seeking ithaca. but the heart of king ulysses was sick and weary, for he dreaded the wrath to come, and most of all he longed for home. the second episode the adventure of the palace in the wood ulysses slowly mounted the wooded hill. the path which rose towards the summit wound in and out through thick undergrowth, and his feet made no sound upon the green moss of the track. he had his spear ready for any game that he might chance on, but for half a day he saw no living thing save a few mailed lizards that lay open-eyed upon a stone. no birds twittered in the forest on the mountainside, only the wild bees sang in the stillness like jewels with voices. how beautiful the wood was! and how mysterious also. ulysses felt a quickening of the pulses which did not come from fear, and a strange excitement possessed him which arose from he knew not what cause. the trees in the forest were very old and grew thickly together. the trunks were painted delicate greens, greys and browns by lichens, and the foliage overhead met and made a roof of bright leaves. beneath this canopy there was a sort of twilight like the gloom in the temple of zeus at sparta. ulysses toiled on and up. after a time the trees began to open out and grow less thickly. the moss-carpet began to be rocky and uneasy to walk upon, so that ulysses knew that he must be nearing the top. at last he climbed a few worn boulders and stood alone upon the peak. from that great height he could discern the sea on all sides of the island. beyond the thick woodlands below, the yellow sands of the shore went out to meet the water, and the king could see the ship riding at anchor and a small boat plying from it to a tiny group of black dots upon the beach. ulysses sent his gaze circling slowly over the unbroken green of the woods. when his roving glance fell upon the very centre of the island he started suddenly and shaded his eyes from the sunlight with both hands. a thick column of blue smoke was rising from among the trees, and looking more intently than before he could see the gleam of white marble here and there through the greenwood, and catch the sunlight glinting upon copper. he had learned what he came to know; there was life upon the island. but of what kind? did some fearful monster lurk yonder, three miles away in the forest. another cyclops, perchance, or some angry god wroth at a disturbance of his privacy. the still smoke rose into the soft air and a great calm seemed to brood over the place. no birds flew about the roofs. he began to retrace his steps down towards his comrades on the shore to tell them what he had seen. the wood was as still as before, but when he came to the meadow lands below he dropped quickly behind a clump of fern, for his keen eyes had seen a smooth brown flank not far away. a great stag was drinking at a little stream which sang its way down from the mountain to the sea. they had touched at the island with very little food left, and the king had promised that he would return with spoils from hunting. just as the beast raised his head from the water the spear flashed like a gleam of light from the clump of fern, and the quarry stumbled, clattering among the stones with a sob. then ulysses made a rope of willow twigs and tied the stag's feet together and brought him to the ship. only half the crew were upon the shore, for the rest had gone to explore the inward parts of the island with eurylochus as their leader. they skinned the stag and made a fire, and roasted the sweet flesh upon their spear points. while they sat eating, a man with a white face came running over the shore towards them, and as they saw him come they rose with their arms in fear, for they knew that once more they had come to some dangerous and evil place, and that a deadly peril lurked in the forest. they saw he who ran was eurylochus, and that he ran in terror. but none followed him in pursuit, nor did any arrow come singing like a bee from the shelter of the neighbouring trees. eurylochus rushed up to them and sank exhausted by the fire. ulysses gave him wine, and motioned the others to ask no questions but to let the man tell his tale in his own way. for he knew it would be more vivid so. "more evil, comrades!" he sobbed out at last, "and good men and true lost to us for ever. know you where we have landed? this accursed place is Ææa, the home of the goddess circe, and i have seen her face to face." ulysses started violently, and despair crept into his eyes as he motioned eurylochus to proceed. "we went up through the valleys," said the lieutenant, "and entered the wood. after we had walked long, and were thirsty and weary, we came to an open glade in which stood the house of circe. it was built of polished marble with copper roofs, and the trees made a thick wall on all sides of the glade. a very strange, silent place! all round the house were lions and mountain wolves playing with each other. we turned to fly in fear, but the beasts fawned upon us with gentle paws and waving tails, and we saw their eyes were sad and tame, and they were all unlike the beasts of the field. they were as dogs at supper begging for food from their masters. but it was an awful sight nevertheless. "now, as we stood waiting in the porch, we heard a sweet low song inside the palace, sweeter than any mortal song, like the flutes and harps of the gods. then we looked in, and we saw the goddess weaving at a golden loom, and going up and down before it as she sang. and polites--oh, dear polites!--called out to her, and the song ceased, and circe came out to us, and bade us enter, and her beauty was like moonlight. then the men went in, but i remained, mindful of the cyclops and fearing harm. so i sat down in the wood, and the beasts played round me, and the lions licked my hands with their hard rough tongues. but i could see what was toward in the palace hall. "the goddess led them to rich couches and chairs, and she prepared a drink for them of golden honey and purple wine, white fresh cheese, and meal of corn. but she poured a brew of magic herbs into the drink, and when they had passed the bowl from hand to hand and drunk she waved a wand of cedar wood over them." he stopped, choking with emotion and shaking with horror at what he had seen. he covered his face with his hands. ulysses placed a firm hand upon his shoulder, and he took up his tale once more. "and when she waved her wand behold a horror! for suddenly my comrades dwindled, and were changed to swine. the bristles of swine grew out upon them, and they grunted like swine, but still the souls of men shone out of their eyes. and she drove them away into a pen, and threw them beech nuts, laughing most musically. and i, the unhappy one, fled and am come hither with my tale." ulysses rose with a pale set face, and stern hard lines flashed out round his lips. for a moment he prayed in silence to athene. then he slung his strung bow upon his shoulder, and loosened the arrows in the quiver, testing each one for a flaw in the shaft. he took his great silver-studded sword and buckled it round his waist. "i alone, my comrades, must go to the palace of the enchantress," he said. "i have no choice but to go and strive. may the gods preserve you, friends." he was preparing to move away when they all entreated him to remain with them, but he would not listen, and as he moved away and was lost to their sight they broke out into loud praises of him among themselves. it was ever thus. their father and captain was first in wisdom and courage, and had always seemed to them more god than man. ulysses passed over the meadows with slow sure step, thinking deeply. the forest closed about him, dark and lonely, and his walk changed. he became alert, walking warily and softly. his keen eyes roved over the untrodden paths, seeking to pierce the mystery of the greenwood. he had halted by a brook for a moment, debating which path he should venture, when help came to him. there was a crash in the tree tops above him, a glittering ball of light fell through the green, and a wind rushed among the leaves, suddenly rousing all the voices of the wood. [illustration: then he came swiftly upon the gleaming palace. _page ._] a young and beautiful man, holding a golden rod, with a slight down upon his lip, came towards him. ulysses knew that the god hermes had flashed down from heaven to be his counsellor. he fell upon his knees before the divine messenger. "the great athene has sent me to you, king," said the god, "for she heard your prayer upon the shore, and will deliver you from the forest danger. here is a sprig of the magic herb moly. take it in your hand for a safeguard against the wiles of circe. "when you go into the palace she will mix you her enchanted potion, and strike you with her wand. do you draw your sword, and make as though to slay her. then she will fear greatly and swear to do you no harm." ulysses took the white flowered talisman, and hermes vanished among the trees. then he came swiftly upon the gleaming palace, and going up to the marble porch struck upon it with his sword hilt, and called to the goddess. she glimmered towards him. her hair was like a young horse-chestnut fresh from the pod. her eyes were like pools of violet water, her neck was a tower of ivory, and her lips were red as sunset. the flower of evil, the goddess of strange sins! she smiled at the hero, and led him by the hand to a table on which was a golden cup, proffering it to him in welcome. ulysses bowed low before her loveliness, and as he drank there was a strange smile in his eyes. the enchantress looked at him steadily. for a single moment a ripple of doubt crossed her face, but suddenly she seized her cedarn rod and smote his side, crying, "get you to the stye, and lie there in filth with your companions." ulysses drew his great sword, and held it over her with menacing eyes. she drooped to him, a very woman! and clung round him, weeping, and he could feel her warm heart beating, beating close to his. her lovely hair fell around her in a golden cloud, and tears streamed down her cheeks as she swore by the gods on the holy hill never to harm him. and looking on her sinful loveliness the brain of ulysses burned for her, and he took her lithe body in his strong arms and pressed the blossom of her lips to his. her arms stole round him, and she called him lord and king. then with a soft smile she led him to the courtyard where the swine lay sleeping in the sun. when the foul beasts saw ulysses they set up a horrid chorus of grunting, and he raged to see his valiant friends so degraded. but clinging to him, the goddess raised her hand, and the swine vanished, and the goodly mariners stood up among the straw, more straight and tall than before, with all the marks of hardship and travel smoothed from their faces. that night the other mariners came up from the shore, guided by ulysses. and the amber lamps flared in the hall, and all night till daybreak they made a great feast. they sang in praise of love and wine, and circe sat at the right hand of the king of ithaca. when the rosy dawn rushed up the sky, the goddess rose. the lamps paled in the fresh new light, and the feast was over. the mariners lay in sleep about the board, and the purple wine was spilt about them. only the goddess and the hero were awake. then she said, "lord and love, the night is over. the sun climbs the sky, the woodlands awake. but let us go into my scented chamber, my purple chamber where the day never comes. there will we lie in love and sleep and forget the day." she led him by the hand over the cool marble floor. the purple curtains fell behind them with a soft noise of falling. all sound was hushed in the courts of the palace, and the whole house was still. the third episode how ulysses walked in hell, and of the adventure of the sirens and scylla the king of ithaca stood all alone on a gloomy barren shore, spear in hand. the sky lowered black overhead, and from the vast yawning hole in the terrible cliff which rose up before him he seemed to hear strange wailings and faint cries coming, so it seemed, from a great distance. had he at last broken away from the loving arms of circe for this horror? stung once more by the latent manhood in his blood, he had roused his energies and left the enchanted island to set out once more upon the weary quest for home. he had bade the goddess farewell and sailed away from the island of sweet lust to seek a ghostly counsellor and to drink deep at that fountain of wisdom which was once the glory of thebes. when circe had bade him, if he would indeed get back to ithaca and leave her arms, seek the dead tiresias in the place of the dead it had seemed an easy thing. what were pale ghosts to a warrior of troyland and the vanquisher of polyphemus? if the old seer alone could tell him how to conquer the wrath of poseidon and win to his wife's arms once more, should he not go with a will? [illustration: then he was, in an instant moment, aware of a more than mortal presence. _page ._] and he had set out with his crew, and the magic wind which circe gave them had brought them hither over grey sad seas, while they had touched nor oars nor helm. and now ulysses went slowly up to the fissure in the rock, but a long solitary cry made him reel back trembling as his brave heart had never done before. then he was, in an instant moment, aware of a more than mortal presence. into that dread place came the awful majesty of the queen of heaven, and he fell to the ground before athene. the full flowing river of her speech came down upon him. "if thou wouldst hold thy wife once more, ulysses, and see thy rocky western home, then must thou dare this peril. none can help thee now save thou thyself. so it is decreed by the gods. if so be it that thy courage fails thee now then wilt thou be a wanderer for ever." "lady of heaven," he said, "i dare not go. oh, anything but that." "penelope!" she murmured sweetly. "i cannot face the dead." "ithaca." "oh, listen to those wailings in the abyss!" "thy father laertes weeps yet for the wanderer." "the dead! the dead are waiting there!" "men call thee ulysses!" said the goddess, and at that word something moved within him and his limbs began to stiffen, and once more the hero felt the spear-shank hard and cold within his grasp. he raised his face, and there was once more the old proud light upon it. athene had gone, and big with his new resolve he stepped towards the blackness. a voice came to him, thin, and far down. "ulysses! ulysses! son of laertes, i wait to guide thee. hermes, son of zeus, is with thee. take courage in both hands and come." the king moved forward, and the dark swallowed him up. he stumbled along a descending rock-strewn pathway. in the increasing gloom it seemed to him that he was on the side of a steep hill. a moaning wind encircled him. now and again a slight gleam was visible from the golden helmet of the god. far far down he saw the leaden livid river of death, and on the sullen tide floated the stately funeral barge of charon, the ferryman of the dead. the wind grew even more mournful and sad as they trod the meadows of asphodel and the grey lilies of the underworld towards the marge of styx. then the god called out aloud to the ferryman. as his voice echoed over the water, the dusky night became full of the sound of wings, and dark shapes filled the air. the spirits of the dead flapped round them in continual movement. the ghosts began to call and cry to the living hero. some had little squeaky voices like bats, others made a louder and more hollow sound. the howlings of the formless increased all round ulysses. the inarticulate found utterance in the indefinite. the waves of weird and hopeless voices rose, fell, undulated, now loud and shrill, now sobbing into silence. little eager whispers filled the hero's ear. and to the terror of these great murmurs were added the sight of superhuman outlines, which melted away in the gloom almost as they appeared. alecto and tisiphone, the furies, circled round ulysses, and megeara flew through the dark to her sisters. a cold hand seemed placed upon the hero's soul. cries from precipice to precipice, from air to water, went on unceasingly--the melancholy vociferations of the lost! the loquacity of hell! and in deadly fear, but resolute still, ulysses struggled on through this great twilight world, open on all sides. as he walked on, the flying outlaws of the tomb seemed to be swarming over him and pressing him to the ground. he struggled beneath the weight of lost souls, but his whirling arms struck nothing but the empty air. fresh clouds of spirits pricked the twilight, increased in size, amalgamated, thickened, and hurried towards him, crying. they came to the brink of the river. before them, as they looked out over the water, was no horizon, but an opaque lividity like a wan, moving precipice, a cliff of the night. then the old man charon bowed to the commands of the gods and embarked them on his barge. he gazed on ulysses with his keen wicked eyes, and his long white beard wagged in hideous mockery at this mortal among the dead. the thin pole dipped in and out of the water, and the drops which fell from it were the colour of leaden bullets, for there is no life in the water of styx. ulysses knelt in the bottom of the boat and shut out hell from his eyes with his hand. he prayed to athene for help to endure, and that he might have an answer from the old seer tiresias that would lead him safely home at last. and now the other bank of the river began to loom up before them and the air began to be silent. on the bank, as it seemed to welcome them, stood a tall old man with a golden sceptre in his hand. his face was full of an unutterable sadness, and his eyes were horny and dim with blindness. but his magic staff conducted him safely to the river brink, and in a high shivering voice he hailed ulysses. "why hast thou come here, o wise one, leaving the happy daylight for this cheerless shore? noble son of laertes, i know thy quest, and thus make answer. father zeus gave me power, which still remains, and i, an old blind ghost, can see into the future even on the shores of styx. thou seekest to know if thou wilt ever catch thy wife in thy strong arms once more, and tread the well-beloved fields of ithaca. the mighty god of the sea, poseidon, is wroth with thee and a malevolent god. for even now his son polyphemus stumbles a bruised and sightless way among his native hills. but yet you may return after long woes and heavy toil. but one thing bear well in mind, o king, else wilt thou suffer unbelievable things. when thy ship touches at the island thrinacia, great herds of cattle will be feeding there on the fresh sweet grass which grows in the goodly upper world. these be the beeves and steers of the divine helios, the sun-god, and must be inviolate to men. but if one sacred beast is slain, then thy ship and all thy company will perish. "perchance thou thyself may win ithaca forlorn, and to find others in thy place, but that i know not. i have spoken." [illustration: they came to the brink of the river. _page ._] then with a long melancholy cry the figure vanished into the dark. but in its place came a shadowy form which made the heart of the hero leap and beat, so it seemed all hades was filled with the tumult. his mother anticlea stood before him. stretching out her cold, thin hands she spoke. "my boy that i suckled, why hast thou come into hades not yet being dead, for i see that the flesh is still warm upon thee for which i drank to zeus?" "mother of mine, i sought tiresias the theban prophet. i have not even yet won ithaca nor seen the dear ones there. a god is against me. so i came through the spirits of the unburied, and over the dark river to seek counsel of the seer. knowest thou in this beyond-earth if the beloved penelope still holds me in her heart? or is she perhaps here with thee, lost to the sunlight?" the mother of ulysses answered, "penelope is as faithful and true as on thy wedding day, but she is in a peril, so haste ye home. and now farewell." where ulysses had seen his mother, was but a little grey vapour which swayed and vanished. then the hero called roughly to charon, and bade him take the pole and urge the barge back to the starting-place. this time, though the multitude of the dead circled over him with cries, begging his help to take them out of hades, he felt no fear, for his mind was burning with other thoughts. he mounted the long cliff side, and at last in the distance saw a faint gleam of light stealing down towards him. in the pale gleam the figure of hermes was manifest for a moment flitting up to the day before him. the cries grew fainter and more faint. the light changed from grey to primrose, from primrose to yellow. the little star which was the mouth of the cave became a sun and then a world, and the yellow turned into the white hot sunshine as hell faded utterly away. on the beach the little blue waves sang on the yellow sand. the black divers rose lazily on the swell, and the shields round the prow of the ship shone like white fire. * * * * * once more the vessel of heroes swam over the seas. and now there was another quality in the wind for them, and the world was a new world. their leader had told them that if they obeyed his commands they would win home once more. the news he had brought back from hades made them sturdy and strong of heart, and they vowed that in all things they would trust in the king who had dared the perils of the underworld. their thoughts turned with a lover's thirst to images of their native land, tranquil skies, the old-remembered meadows, cool brooks, and eternal peace after their long wandering. hope beat high in the heart of ulysses also. the grey nightmare of hell was over and in the past, one more memory when in his own halls he would weave his saga. he had been near to the awful thing death. he had found that after all it was only death. the ship with a fair wind ran up a lane of light into the setting sun, and when at length the moon had risen and silvered all the sea, ulysses called the men round him. "comrades," he said, "with the dawn, if i have kept the reckoning aright, we shall come to the island where the sirens dwell. now the lady circe warned me against the sirens, the singers who charm all men with their song. he who listens to parthenope, ligeia and leucosia must stay with them for ever, listening spellbound to the song until he dies. and the island is covered with the bones of dead men. to listen is to die. but i wish to hear the voices and to escape the enchantment, and so obey my commands. when we near the island do you all close your ears with wax so that no sound can reach your brains. and take a stout rope and bind me to the mast so that i can in no wise loose myself. and howsoever i may order or entreat you to let me go to the sirens, if their magic song enchants me, take no heed, but row steadily onwards until the island is far astern. then only may you set me free." as dawn came, a faint grey line upon the horizon showed itself on the starboard bow. at the sight, with some laughter, for it was difficult to believe in the perils of sweet music!--even for men who had seen the wonders that they had seen--the men began to press yellow wax from the honeycomb into each other's ears. then when no one among them could hear the flapping of the sail or the voice of the sea, nor could tell the meaning of his neighbour's voice, they went up to ulysses, and with many light-hearted jests bound him to the mast, and because his strength was well known to them they reeved the rope with a treble hitch. no living man could have escaped from such bonds. as sailors will, they treated the whole thing as a huge jest, making a mock mutiny of it as they bound the captain. ulysses could not help smiling at their mirth. after such wise precaution he had no fear, and in his heart of hearts he did not believe that the song of the sirens would affect him much, though he followed the advice of circe and made himself a prisoner. but a fierce curiosity possessed him. he cursed the slowness of the wind, for, as they bound him, the island was still a low line without colour on the water, and called out to the men to row faster, forgetting that they could not hear him. slowly the grey island became purple, then brown, and at last showed itself a green, low, pleasant land, a place of meadows. the wind was behind them, and until they came quite close under the lee of the island ulysses could hear no voices but those of the wind and waves. then faintly at first, but rapidly becoming more sonorous and sweet, he heard the magic voices which were to ring in his ears in all his after life. no words of his at any time could express the loveliness of those voices, of the unutterable sweetness of it, nothing. the strains floated over the still sea like harps of heaven. all that man had known or desired in life, all the emotions which had stirred the human heart, were blended in those magic voices. the world had nothing more to give; here, here at last, was the absolute fulfilment of beauty. louder and more piercingly sweet, as the unconscious sailors bent to the oars in earnest, and the sweat ran down their bare brown backs. "whither away, whither away, whither away? fly no more. whither away from the high green field, and the happy blossoming shore? day and night to the billow the fountain calls: down shower the gambolling waterfalls from wandering over the lea." the face of ulysses grew wan and grey as the ship passed a projecting point of rock. on the smooth green turf the three singers were standing. in face and form they were sweet and lovely girls. naked to the waist, they wore long flowing draperies below, and as they sung the rosy bosoms rose and fell with the music, and the lucid throats rippled with song. "mariner, mariner, furl your sails, for here are blissful downs and dales, and merrily, merrily carol the gales, and the spangle dances in bight and bay, and the rainbow forms and flies on the land over the islands free; and the rainbow lives in the curve of the sand; hither, come hither and see." and still the ship went on, but more slowly, as it were some force were at work deadening the arms of the rowers. then the shrill loveliness fired the hero's blood, and he knew that he must go to the three lovely singers on the strand. earth held nothing better than this--to lie for ever with that music in his ears. "whither away? listen and stay: mariner, mariner, fly no more."[ ] [ ] these few lines of the sirens' song have been taken from lord tennyson's beautiful poem "the sea fairies." then, as if drawn by the long cadenced notes as by cords, ulysses gathered up his mighty strength and strove with his bonds. but the sailors had done their work too well, and the rope only cut deeply into the flesh. the white arms were stretched out to him in supplication, the song grew more full of unearthly beauty than before--and the ship was slowly passing by. ulysses called out to the crew in an agony of command and entreaty. one of the men happened to look up and saw his face. he grinned, nudged his companion, and turned away. the song grew fainter, the three tall figures dwindled. the face of ulysses grew ashen, and when at length they came to him and cut the ropes he said no word. he went alone to the prow of the vessel and looked out over the fair sun-bathed sea, and there were tears in his eyes, and his mouth was softer and more tremulous than it was wont to be. so they came away from parthenope, ligeia and leucosia, the sirens. * * * * * the next day ulysses called the crew together as before and told them of the new peril that awaited them. for the wise circe had warned him that after the island of the sirens he must needs encounter the terrible scylla, for the ship must pass by her lair on its passage towards home. but ulysses knew that it was impossible to fight the monster, and that some of the crew were fated to die, but in his wisdom he did not tell them that. he finished his speech as follows:--"and so, my friends, the gods ordain that we must face scylla, and the whirlpool charybdis. there is no other way. but courage! always have courage. i who brought you safe from out of the cave of the cyclops will bring you safe from this also. and so onward and have stout hearts." it was a misty day, and everything was shadowy and faint, but the ship moved slowly along a sheer wall of black cliff which towered up above them for a thousand feet or more. the top was lost in the mist. it was a lowering, frightful place. one of the sailors gave a shout which echoed back to them in mournful mockery through the mist. they rowed on steadily, hugging the cliff. ulysses stood in the prow of the boat. he had put on armour and took two spears in his hand. his eyes searched the face of the cliff till they ached from the minute scrutiny. this waiting for the inevitable was terribly unnerving. ulysses himself, knowing that some must die, was heavy and sad at heart as they glided along the side of the cliff. to the left the great whirlpool seethed and boiled, its outermost convolution scarce a bow-shot away. when it threw up the water the spray dashed up a hundred feet and fell in showers over the sailors, and as the water ran back in the ebb ulysses could see, far down the black and spinning sides, to where the old witch charybdis dwelt on the dark sand of the sea bottom. suddenly the end came. a loud barking and howling startled them all so that each man paused on his oar. a pack of hounds were unkenneled, so it seemed, somewhere on the cliff face in the mist. then a sickly musky smell enveloped them, so foul and stale that they coughed and spat even as their blood ran cold with fear. through the curtain of mist, which had suddenly grown very thick, six objects loomed right over the boat. six long tentacles swayed and quivered over the sailors, and at the end of each was a grinning head set with cruel fangs and a little red eager tongue that flickered in and out. for a moment the heads hung poised, and then each sought and found its victim. six sailors were slowly drawn out of the boat, shrieking the name of ulysses for the last time in their death agony. and all the time the barking of the hounds in the obscene womb of the monster went on unceasingly. then the fury of flight came upon them. with bursting brains and red fire before their eyes they laboured at the great oars until the wood bent and shook and the ship leaped forward like a driven horse. and they left the strait of death and came out of the mist into a wide sunlit sea. but still a sound of distant barking came down the wind. so scylla took her horrid toll of heroes. but ulysses called them to prayer and lamentation for the dead. the fourth episode how ulysses lost his merry men and came a waif to calypso with the shining hair the crew sat round a fire of driftwood. there was shelter where they sat, in a natural alcove of rock, but outside the great winds thundered and the wrack flew before the storm and a mighty unceasing roar filled the air. the faces of all the sailors wore a sullen look. hunger had begun to suck the colour from their cheeks, their eyes were prominent and strained, their movements without energy or vigour. a rude shelter of sailcloth and various _débris_ that was scattered about seemed to show that for some time, at least, they had made their home in this place where the winds did not come. ulysses was not among them. they were talking in low, discontented tones among themselves. "a whole month," said eurylochus, "a whole month have we been sea bound in this accursed island. i am sick of islands!" "never have we put to shore without some evil thing befalling," said another. "oh, for ithaca!" "i doubt we shall ever see ithaca again," said a third. "we will be wanderers till we die; that is what i think. and this place is like to be the grave of all of us. i never knew a wind so furious to blow so long. we should sink in an hour did we but put out." "there is only food for one day more, and that sparse," said eurylochus. "for my part, my limbs are heavy as brass and the strength is all gone from me. i could not move an oar now. man needs meat and wine or the fires of hunger burn the sinews and dry the blood. brown meat and red wine! i could fill my belly till the skin cracked!" "the rich brown meat, mate! dost mind the soft kids on circe's island? by zeus, i can taste them now!" "ay and the fat cows, roast till the blood ran out of them like liquid life." "i can even smell the smell of the roasting meat now. a welcome smell to a hungry man." "would that we had never left circe. 'twas a kind queen, meet for our master! but her girls were kindly in love also." "to hades with the girls!" said eurylochus. "thy talk of meat makes me heave with desire." he looked round cautiously before he continued. "friends," he said in a low, rapid whisper, "tell me, are ye purposing to starve in the midst of plenty? saw ye ever such fat oxen and cows as graze in the pastures above?" "never did i see such cattle," answered another hungry wight. "gods! they would make a feast for kings." "and yet pain and sickness is all over us, and we lust for food till we know not what we do!" "captain's orders!" "ulysses has lost his cunning for sure, and hunger has turned his brain. he is no more the brave leader of old. he goes wandering alone among the rocks and sleeps all day. and his eye is clouded and courage has left his voice. friends, shall we die thus? no man of ye loveth ulysses better than i love him. is he not my kinsman indeed? he brought us from the cyclops' cave and dared the perils of hell. all this i know and say before you now. but the king is distraught and moody. he does not know what he is doing. he would be the first to join us with the merry and grateful word were he to come back and find the good red beef roasting on the fire and smell the savoury smoke." "ay, captain was never one set against a feast! he loves good cheer, as becomes a proper fighting man." "my mind doubts me, comrades," said another. "should we not rather trust the king even unto this last thing? have we ever found him wanting yet? did he not make us promise? zeus knows if the thought of hot meat does not tickle my belly as well as thine--more, friend, for thou hast a paunch yet and none have i--but i for one trust in the captain. he knows." then eurylochus took up his spear as if he had decided and the discussion was over. "listen, men," he said. "in all shapes death is a terrible thing. but i would rather die quickly at scylla's hands than fade into hades through famine. hunger is the worst death of all. come with me and bring your spears. we will choose the best of the herd and sacrifice to the gods. when we reach home again, can we not build a great temple to helios, and fill it with rich gifts? the sun-god, who gives light to all the world, will not grudge us a cow or two. not he. 'tis a more genial god than that. ay, and though we indeed anger the god and he wreck us in the deep! i put ye this question--would ye not rather swallow the cold salt water for a moment and so die, than die for days among the rocks?" his pale face worked with the force of his words. his eyes glistened with a terrible eagerness. as he spoke in a high, quivering nervous tenor, shaking his spear at them, the eagerness crept into their eyes also. famine strangely transforms the human face. they became men with brute's eyes. eurylochus marched away out of the shelter towards the pasture lands, and the others followed him. new strength seemed to come to them as they walked towards the herd, which could be seen, a red brown mass, grazing on a plain some half-mile away. the full force of the wind struck and retarded them as they emerged into the open, but it brought the lowing of the cattle to their ears and they pressed on. ulysses lay sleeping about a quarter of a mile from the cove. he had wandered away from his companions in great despondency. for four long weeks the gale had roared past the island away to the north. the rain had fallen like spears, the thunder stammered its awful message, the green and white lightning snapped like whips of light. in all this the king saw the finger of evil. he knew that the mighty poseidon still watched his fortunes with cruel, angry eyes. for this storm was no chance warring of the elements, but came, he knew, directed against him and his fated crew. food had got lower and lower, the men began to grumble, and black looks of reproach met his eyes on every side. and all the time the fat cattle of apollo cropped the tender shoots of the grass, the full udder dropped with creamy milk, and the shining flanks of the great beasts sent an alluring message to the starving men. often ulysses withdrew into some lonely place and prayed to athene, but she seemed asleep or weary of his woes, for there came no answering sign. on this day hope seemed to have utterly departed from him. there was no break in the leaden clouds of the future. he had wandered away along the seashore, and fallen asleep from languor and grief, lulled by the great singing of the gale overhead. in his sleep he dreamed vividly. he saw the interior of the island. suddenly, from among a clump of trees, a bright beam of golden light shot up heavenwards. he knew that one of the shepherd nymphs of apollo went with some message for the god, and he shivered and moaned in his slumber. then it seemed that he was in a great place of cloud, an immense formless world of mist. and through the mist came a terrible voice which turned him to stone. it was the voice of apollo crying in anger. "oh, father zeus, and all ye gods who dwell upon the hill above the thunder! punish the comrades of ulysses for their crime. they have speared my beautiful cows that were my joy and of which i had great pleasure. whenever i turned my face and shone upon the world i watched them feeding in my island. and now these whelps have slain the finest of all my herd. vengeance! bitter vengeance, or will i go far down into hell and leave the world in gloom and shine no more upon it. i will make hades a place of warmth and laughter, and the world all grey and full of death." in the midst ulysses awoke with that angry cry still ringing in his ears. with a sick apprehension he hurried along the slippery boulders to the shelter place where he had left the crew. within a hundred yards of the place he knew the worst. the wind blew a savoury smoke towards him, and his stomach yearned while his brain trembled in fear. the men were in high glee when he came round the corner of rock among them, great joints turned upon rough spits, skins and horns encumbered the ground, and the rich fat dropped hissing into the fire. a sudden silence fell upon their merriment as the captain came. he spread out his hands with a gesture of despair. "comrades," he said sorrowfully, "ye have chosen to do this thing against my advice, and now it is done we must abide by the deed. i cannot reproach you. still, i know that we must pay heavily for this sin against the sun-god. farewell, ithaca! and now it is over let us eat of our unhallowed spoil. it may be that this is our last meal together, comrades." as he had finished speaking a strange and ominous thing happened. the blood-stained skins began to creep about like live things upon the ground. the red meat over the fire withered and moaned as if in pain. the air was filled with a lowing as of cows. then in mad fear and riotous despair they fell upon the horrid meal with eager, tremulous hands. ulysses was taken with the madness like the rest, and until sundown they gorged the dripping meat till they could eat no more, and their faces were bloated and their eyes were strained. as the sun sank into the sea with a red and angry face the wind dropped and ceased. a great calm spread over the waters. when the moon rose the ocean was like a sheet of still silver. very hurriedly, whispering among themselves, as though they were afraid of their own voices, they launched the ship and rowed out into the moonlight, racing away from the accursed isle. and now the last scene of all came very quickly. ulysses was wont to say that of all the things he had witnessed in his life this was the saddest and most terrible. a sudden crackle of thunder pealed over the sky. a fantastic network of lightning played round the ship like lace. a dark cloud formed itself directly over the boat, not two mast's lengths above, and all the waves below became like ink in the shadow. for a time it hung there motionless, and then suddenly a mighty wind swooped down on them like a hawk drops out of the sky. the mast snapped like a pipe-stem and crashed upon the deck, braining the helmsman in its fall. a smooth green wave, just slightly bubbling with froth on the crest, but like a hill of oil, rose and swept over the ship. ulysses clung to a stanchion with all his mighty strength, and was just able to battle against the flood. when it passed over him he saw that every man of the crew was in the water. for a few moments they floated round him with sad cries of farewell, and then one by one they were swept into the ultimate. the timbers of the ship broke away and she fell to pieces. with a loud cry to athene, ulysses launched himself on the waves clinging to a great log which had formed part of the keel. a swift current urged him along far away from the scene of the wreck. the purpose of the god was accomplished, and the waves fell, and the moonlight shone out clear and still once more. on all the waste of waters no sail, no cape nor headland broke the silver monotone. loneliness descended upon the hero like a cloak; an utter abandonment such as he had never known before in life. the water began to grow very cold. an awful silence lay over the sea. the terrible jubilant silence of a god revenged! "and so all those well-known, long-tried voices were still! never again would eurylochus drain the full tankard in a kindly health." ulysses bowed his head, and bitter tears welled up into his eyes. "never again would grey old diphilos stand at the helm of the good ship, sending his keen eyes out over the sounding wastes. how the last mournful cry of jamenos had echoed through the storm. young, straight jamenos who had approached the cyclops with him, beautiful young jamenos, with the bold eyes and curling hair! and there was old perdix too, old perdix with his grin and chuckle and his tales. never would perdix sit by the fire and make merry yarns any more. the little twinkling rat-like eyes were stark and glazed now. perdix stood beside the livid river among the rushing spirits. he would have no jests now." he saw them all together, in peril, storm, and quiet weather. his trusty men! his dear comrades! and now he alone was left, alone, alone, alone. perhaps athene herself was still with him and had not even yet forgotten her wanderer. as the thought struck along his brain a faint blush of hope began to flush his pallid cheek. he floated on and on. dawn came, waxed strong, waned. tremulous evening came like a shy novice about to take the veil of night. night blazed in moonlit splendour once more. and at the hour when night stands still and dawn is not yet, the waves, kindlier than before, carried him to the island of ogygia, where he heard the sea nymphs on the shore singing him a fairy welcome. soft hands drew him from the deep, soft voices welcomed him; it seemed as if one queenly presence, a tall woman with golden hair which shone, towered among the rest, and he fell into a gentle swoon, a soft surrender to sleep. * * * * * "we watch the fleeting isles of shade that float upon the sea when 'neath the sun some cloud hath spread his purple canopy. the woodbine odours scent the air, the cypress' leaves are wet from meadow springs that rise among parsley and violet. here shall the wanderer remain; the land of love's delight; shall here forget the past, the old sad spectres of the night." soft and low the sea-maidens sang while ulysses lay sleeping--even as they had sung nine long years ago when the sea cast him up on the shores of calypso's kingdom. it was bright sunlight, a great fire of cedar wood burnt on an altar before the cave of the goddess who loved the hero, and the smoke scented all the island. among the grove of stately trees which bordered the smooth pneumatic lawn in front of the cave ulysses lay sleeping on a bed of fresh-born violets. a purple mantle shot with gold, woven by calypso, was spread over him. the poplars and fragrant cypresses were full of sweet-voiced birds. over the mouth of the cave grew a great vine, and the black grapes drooped and fell from it in their abundance. from the centre of the short emerald grass four springs of clear water came up in thin whips and flowed away in flashing rivulets. this was the home and kingdom of the goddess calypso, and was so beautiful a place that the fame of it had even reached olympus, and the gods knew of the island. and nine long years had passed! it was nine years ago that the pale gaunt waif of the sea--a sad jetsam!--had swooned upon the yellow sand, while the bright-haired lady of ogygia had gazed in wonder upon him. circe had enthralled ulysses for a year in her palace of wine and sorcery and lust. that was a time of fierce sinful pleasures, of wild deliriums. the fire had blazed, burnt, and died away in that still marble house in the wood. but how different these nine dreamy years! the mild-eyed, loving goddess lay in the hero's arms each night in tender love and sleep. she was no circe, but a lady of quieter delights. her spell was upon him, he was chained to her kind side by a magic influence, but she loved him, and was no circe. nine long years! those old valiant mariners from the plains of troyland were only white bones now, part of the sea-bed. they were far-off, remote, sweet sad memories. calypso was the slow and gracious music to which his life moved now. often he doubted all the past. they were phantoms all those old half-forgotten people. so he lay sleeping among the violets. the scented wind gave a myriad whispers to the poplars. the four springs sang a thin jocund song as they burst from the dark rich earth into the sunshine, and within her cave the goddess threw the golden shuttle and made a low crooning music as she thought of her stately warrior hard by, and sent him dreams of her white neck and wealth of golden hair. she knew he would never leave her now. her spells were too strong. her love too great. during the first years he had been wont to wander away to a lonely part of the shore. he would sit gazing with haunted eyes out over the sea, and his thoughts went to penelope, and he shed a tear for old king laertes and whispered to little telemachus. but that also was over for him now. ithaca was but a misty cloud, and the dear ones there but dreams in this island of dreams. the face of ulysses was changed. the hard lines of endeavour, the brown painting of the wind, had gone from it. noble and beautiful still, but even in sleep it could be seen to have lost its force. suddenly, in the dim recesses of the grove, there was a silence. the birds stopped singing, and the murmur of the insects droned, swelled louder, and died away. nothing was heard for a moment but the trickle of the streams, and then this also faded from sound. by the side of the sleeping hero stood the tall white figure of athene. at her feet yellow flowers broke out like little flames, and her deep, grave eyes were bent full upon ulysses. perhaps he felt that unearthly majesty above him, for he turned and moaned in his sleep. the goddess, like a statue of white marble, stood looking down at him for several moments. then with a little sigh she stooped and touched his forehead with her long slender fingers. the birds began a full-throated ecstasy of song, which filled the wood with a sound as of a myriad tiny flutes. the furry bees went swinging through the sunlit grove with deep organ music, the shrill tinkle of the streams sent its cool message once more into the hot swooning air. where the goddess had stood there was nothing but a clump of yellow crocus and some violets more vivid than the rest. ulysses awoke with sudden stammerings like a frightened child. he looked round him with strange troubled eyes. then slowly he rose up and walked through the wood towards the cave of calypso. forgotten fingers were upon the latch of his brain, old scenes began to move through it in swift familiar panorama, he was as a man who wakened from a sleep of years. one word burst from his lips--"penelope!" his face cleared as though a mist had suddenly dispersed before it, and his walk quickened into a firm, long stride as he came out on to the lawn. he stopped short as he saw the mouth of the cave. calypso was pacing up and down with her sinuous graceful step, and at her side walked a tall young man with a golden wand in his hand and winged sandals upon his feet. and ulysses knew him for the god hermes who had given him the sacred herb in circe's island and who had led him down the gloomy ways of hades. they turned and came towards him. "he will never wish to go, hermes," he heard calypso say as they drew near. "king," said the god, "i am come to you with a message from father zeus. he hath seen you lying in this island with the goddess, and bids me tell you of ithaca and home once more, that your heart may beat strong within you and you may adventure forth and find your wife penelope in your ancestral house. and the father promises you divine protection. your long wanderings shall be at an end, and you shall come safely to the land of your heart's desire. is it your will to go and leave the lady?" the goddess laughed a little musical laugh of certain triumph. "go!" she cried. "ah, he will not go, hermes. could he not have left me any time these nine long years of love? go! no, my mariner loves too well the soft couches of ogygia, and these weak arms can yet hold his wisdom captive. how will you answer, my heart's love?" "to ithaca?" said ulysses. "yes, to penelope thy wife, who sorroweth for thee and is in peril," answered the god. a bright light flashed into ulysses' eyes and his cheek was flushed with hope. "now have i tarried too long in this place," he cried. "i know not why, but never before has my heart burned within me as now. yes, to ithaca! back to my father and my wife and the old hills of home! zeus be praised, for i who was asleep waken this day, and manhood is mine once more." then calypso drooped her lovely head like a tired flower as the god hermes flashed up into the sky like a beam of light. "i see something of which i know not has come over you, lord of my heart," she said sadly. "i have no more power, save only the power of my deep love for you which you have forgotten. who am i that i can combat the will of zeus or the hardness of your heart? i have loved you well and cherished you, and shall i love you less now? no, i am no cruel goddess. go, and my heart be with you; and what power is mine to aid you that shall you have. i doubt," she said, with a sudden burst of anger, "i doubt you have some greater goddess than i at your side, some lovelier lady, else how could my spell be broken? but now come within and make a farewell feast with me. my heart is sick and i would die. but one thing i can give you if you will not go. would you be immortal? stay with your lover and that gift is yours. never shall death touch you or age. i am a goddess and can never die. am i less beautiful than penelope, or less kind?" ulysses answered her pleadings slowly and painfully. [illustration: "who am i that i can combat the will of zeus or the hardness of your heart?" _page ._] "my queen and goddess, i know indeed that penelope can never compare with such immortal loveliness as yours. yes, she will grow old and wrinkled, and must die. yet night and day all my heart must go out to her, and i would endure a thousand storms and sorrows to see home once more." "because of my great love for you, go, and may all the gods shower blessings on you and protect you," she said in a low voice, and her eyes were all blind with tears. * * * * * on a red evening calypso stood alone on a rock that jutted out into the sea. a black speck against the setting sun showed clear and far away. then the night fell, and she wandered weeping through her scented avenues. but her heart was away on the moaning sea, away with ulysses the departed. the last episode how the king came home again after the long years with the tears blinding his eyes, with shaking hands, speechless with the happy thoughts surging in his brain, ulysses knelt and kissed the dear, dear shores of his own country. the same rocky coasts, the same great mountain in the centre of the island raising its head into the clouds, everywhere eternally the same, and how beloved! was it not all mist and dreams--the long past? how he heard the sirens sing, seen the swaying arms of the foul scylla, and dwelt in love and slumber with calypso? and by his side once more stood the goddess, serene and beautiful in her benevolent but awful calm. from her lips he had heard that here, even here in his own land, in the fields of his inheritance, one more supreme effort awaited him. he had learnt how his palace was full of riotous princes, who wooed his wife, the queen penelope. he knew how his son, the goodly prince telemachus, was least in his own house, and how wild revel and wantonness ate up his substance. the queen in peril! penelope all but given up to the desires of lust and greed. all his great heart burnt with anger and hate against the suitors, and yet, with a strange dual emotion, beat high with pride for his dear and stainless lady, who still mourned for her husband, and longed against hope for his return. he kissed the kindly home-ground, and at that sacred contact a sense of strength and power came to him, a god-like power, that in all his long toils and wanderings he had never known before. he became conscious that athene was speaking to him. "and remember ever, my ulysses, that now thou hast need of all thy wit and cunning. in all the chances of thy life before never hadst thou need to walk as warily as now. for mere strength and valour unallied to wisdom and cunning will avail one nothing against the hundred. but at the hour of need i will be once more with thee if thou doest well and wisely. courage! son of laertes! 'tis but a little while till the end. let not thy love and hate master thee until the appointed hour. and now, that thou mayest walk in thy palace and groves unknown for who thou art, i give thee a disguise. and so farewell until the hour of triumph." she stretched out her spear over the kneeling king. the firm flesh dried and wrinkled upon his arms and legs. his hair shrivelled up into grey sparseness and his eyes dimmed. he wore a tattered cloak, a thing of shreds and patches, and an old beggar's staff of ilex was in his hand. but beneath this seeming age and weakness was hidden the true hero as strong and cunning as before. the goddess turned into light and was no more, and with slow, tottering footsteps ulysses took a lonely way among the well-remembered paths of his native hills. after an hour's travelling he came out on a smooth pasture land, with a little homestead nestling among a clump of trees. his heart beat eagerly within him, for if perchance after these long years farmer eumæus still lived, here he might gain news of his palace and perhaps a friend. eumæus was once the steward of the estates and a very faithful servant of his master. ulysses approached the house. in front was a large courtyard, made by a fence of oak and hawthorn boughs, and within were twelve great pens for swine. and in the porch sat old eumæus himself making himself a pair of sandals, hardly changed in a single feature, though perhaps his eyes were not so bright as in the old times. hearing footsteps, the four fierce dogs which herded the swine rushed out of the yard and leapt angrily at the newcomer. he might have fared badly, for the great beasts were lean and evil-tempered, had not the swineherd ran out to his help and drew them off with curses. [illustration: "nay, if you love me," he said, "none of that, my friend."] he turned to ulysses. "thank the gods, old fellow," he cried, "that i was near by. a little more and you would have been torn to pieces, and then you would be in an evil plight but i a worse! dead would you be and past caring, but i should be disgraced. heaven knows, i have enough trouble to bear. here's my lawful master gone in foreign parts these long years--dead as like as not--and i sit here feeding swine for them that are but little better themselves. but come in, come in, old shrew. there's a bite of food for you within, which you need i make no doubt, and then you can tell me your story, for i am a lonely man now and like a crack of talk as well as most." the garrulous old fellow pushed him in with busy geniality and sat him down on the goatskin, which was his bed. then he fetched what meat and wine he could furnish, and they sat down to a frugal meal. "what, then, about this lord of yours?" said ulysses. "i myself have wandered far these last years. perhaps i may have met with him, and can give you news." the swineherd chuckled. "nay, if you love me," he said, "none of that, my friend. why, every dirty old man as comes along this way has some such tale to tell. and then my poor lady up in the palace--the gods save her!--she takes them in and gives them a new cloak or what not, and believes all they say until the next one comes along. no! my dear lord is dead and never shall i look upon the like of him again. by zeus! but he was a man if you like!" "well, my host, we shall see in the future," said ulysses, in so significant a tone that the swineherd was startled for a moment. the wind had arisen and it was a black stormy night so they went to rest early, and eumæus slept soundly till dawn. but all through the silent hours the brain of ulysses worked like a shuttle in a loom. at breakfast-time, while the swineherd was preparing the meal, the dogs began to bark loudly outside, but in a welcome manner, saluting one whom they knew. footsteps were heard crossing the yard, and a tall young man with the first down of manhood on his lip stood in the doorway. eumæus dropped the bowls in which he had been mixing the wine with a sudden clatter and ran towards the stranger. "my young lord," he cried, "oh, my young lord, the sight of you is a welcome one to weary eyes. come within my poor place. this is but a poor old man who shelters with me for a day or two. don't mind him, my lord." it was telemachus the son of ulysses. the king rose humbly and offered his seat to his son. "keep your place, old man," said the prince. "the swineherd will find me another. and who may you be, and what do you in ithaca?" then ulysses told him a long story. he said that he was a cretan, and had fought at troy and was now destitute and a wanderer. "could you not take him to the palace, my lord?" said eumæus. "perhaps he might find some work there." "i will clothe him, and arm him with a sword, and give him a little to help him on his way," said telemachus, "and that most gladly. but i cannot take him to the palace. the suitors would ill-use him because of his age, perhaps they would kill him for sport. i cannot restrain them; i am young; and what is one against so many? moreover, so great is the hate they bear towards me, they would surely slay any guest of mine." then ulysses rose from his seat and bowed. "lord," he said, "if i may dare to speak and you will hear, i say foul wrong is wrought against you in your palace, and my blood rages when i think of it." "old fellow, you are right enough," said the boy, sadly. "oh, for my dead sire! to sweep these dogs from ithaca!" "yes, the king!" said eumæus, with a deep sigh. suddenly ulysses saw the tall figure of athene was standing by his side. the other two were looking towards him, but could see nothing of her presence. the goddess looked at him with kindly eyes and touched him with her spear. telemachus and eumæus crouched trembling and speechless against the furthest side of the hut. the bronze came back to the face of the king, his hair fell from his head in all its old luxuriance, his figure filled out, and he stood before them in his full stature and all the glory of his manhood. eumæus fell upon his knees and covered his eyes with his hand. "a god! a god!" he cried, "a god has come to us! hail, oh immortal one, guest of my poor homestead!" telemachus knelt also. "oh, divine stranger, a boon! tell me of my dear father, if indeed he lives and knows of the peril of his house. and will he ever come back to sit in his own chair and rule?" then ulysses stepped to his son and caught him in his arms and kissed him. "telemachus! telemachus!" he said, "no god am i, but your own dear father come home at last, and i am come with doom and death for the insolent ones about my board!" and when they had all three mingled their happy tears, telemachus said, "father, i know how great a warrior you are, and all the world rings with the wisdom and valour of your deeds. but we two can never fight against so many. in all, the princes number a hundred and a score of men; and they are all trained fighting men, the best from ithaca and all the neighbouring islands. we must have other aid." "comfort yourself, son," said ulysses. "aid we have, and the mightiest of all. athene herself watches over my fortunes and will come in the hour of need. she has brought me hither and given me this disguise, and in all the coming contest her voice will help and her arm be for us. should we need more aid than that?" "truly, my father," said the boy, "we are well favoured, and my heart leaps within me at what is to come." as he finished speaking, once more the manhood of ulysses left him and only a poor old beggar man stood before the swineherd and the prince. "now will we go to the palace," said ulysses. "i shall seem but a poor old beggar man, and however the princes may ill-use me i shall do nothing till the time has come and we are ready, and i charge you, my son, and my good friend eumæus, that you do nothing to protect me however i am treated. you may check them by words if you can, but no more. and not even the queen herself must know that the king has come home again. "and now let us go. the judge is set, the doom begun; none shall stay it!" and the three went out from the hut over the mountain paths towards the palace. * * * * * the revel was at its height in the courtyard of the palace. stone seats ran round the wall which enclosed the buildings. over a low colonnade the orchard trees drooped into the court, and a huge vine trailed its weight of fruit over the marble. the hot afternoon sun sent a vivid colour over everything. beyond the palace the blue mountains towered into a sky of deeper blue. purple shadows from the buildings lay upon the white marble, and the long light glittered on a great table piled with golden cups and bowls, holding the _débris_ of the feast. a wild uproar and shouting filled the air. the court was filled with whirling figures of men and girls half drunk with wine and excitement as they moved in the figures of a lascivious dance. all the household girls were there with the suitors joining in the feast, and peals of laughter shivered through the sunny air. telemachus sat on a seat apart watching the revel with keen eyes. there was a repressed excitement in his face and an eager regard. one of the girls noticed it as she strolled past. she was a slight, fair wanton creature with a mocking smile. "how, lord telemachus?" she said, laughing lightly, "are you not going to join us in the fun? you make a sorry host indeed! is not this your palace, and do you leave us without your countenance. oh, shame upon you for a laggard youth when wine and kisses wait you." she made an impudent grimace at him and flitted past. but a short time back he would have raged at this impudent salutation from a pretty slave girl who drew a confident strength from the protection of his enemies. but now he hardly heard her, but leant forward again in the attitude of one who watches and waits. outside the palace gate, on the hot white road, two old men were approaching. one was the swineherd eumæus and the other a wandering beggar man. just by the threshold of the courtyard an old lean dog, very grey and feeble, lay upon a heap of dung in the sunlight. the mailed horse-flies hovered round him in swarms, but he seemed too weak to drive them away. as the beggar approached he threw his muzzle up into the air with a quick movement. his sightless eyes turned towards the advancing footsteps. with a great effort he scrambled to his feet. the lean tail wagged in tremulous joy, the scarred ears were pricked in welcome. he stumbled to the feet of ulysses. when he touched him the old dog lay down in the dust and with a long sigh he died. and this was the first welcome the king had to his palace, and as he went in through the gates his eyes were wet with tears. when telemachus saw the steward he beckoned him to the table and sat beside him while he ate. but ulysses crouched down by the threshold. telemachus gave bread and meat to the swineherd. "go, eumæus," he said aloud, "give these broken meats to that poor old beggar man by the gate, and tell him from me that if he lacks he should be bold and go to the princes and ask them for alms. by zeus! he will never grow fat if he crouches by the door there!" ulysses took the food with a low bow and packed it away in his wallet. he rose up grasping his staff, and went tottering among the suitors. his lean arms and furrowed, wrinkled face were so piteous, his whining appeal full of such misery, that many of the princes tossed him something. at the head of the table a tall and splendid young man was sitting. he was richly dressed in a showy, ostentatious manner. his florid, handsome face wore a perpetual and evil sneer. his grey eyes were ill-tempered and quarrelsome. "by the gods, my friends," he cried, with a sneer, "how tender-hearted and compassionate you are grown! with what lavishness do you bestow the wealth of ulysses, or rather of the queen, upon this old scarecrow. such old beasts are no use in this world. get you gone, you old dog!" with that he hurled a three-legged stool at ulysses. the stool struck him a heavy blow on his side. for a moment the black turmoil in the hero's heart was almost irrepressible. but with an enormous effort of will he overcame it. he stood quite still, with his head sunk upon his breast in humility. now came the girls from out of the house carrying great jars of fresh wine, and copper bowls of water for the mixing, which they put upon the table. here was better sport than an old beggar and his woes, and ulysses moved aside and was forgotten. but one of the girls touched him on the shoulder. "wanderer," said she, "the queen penelope has seen how antinous used you from her room within the hall, and she sends me to summon you to her, for she would speak to you." then, with beating heart and footsteps which trembled with no simulated age, the king followed the girl over the threshold of his own palace. as he was walking towards the chamber of the queen an old woman came towards them, a very old woman with a lined brown face and little, brilliant twinkling eyes. "poor old man," she said, "it is a shame that they should use your grey hairs so, and abuse the hospitality which is the sacred right of strangers. my lady penelope sends me to you, and bids me wash your feet in this bowl of water, so that we may purge our house of the stain the prince without has cast upon it. sit on this stool and i will lave ye." so the old nurse euryclea bathed the feet of her master whom she had dandled in her arms as a child. suddenly ulysses made as though he would draw away his foot. he remembered that on his leg he bore a strange-shaped scar made by a savage boar when he was a boy, and he feared the wise old woman would know him by that mark. but as she passed her hand along his ankle she touched the mark and turned his foot towards the light and saw it. she dropped his foot quickly, and the basin was overturned and the water ran away over the marble floor. she looked up into the king's face and knew him for all his disguise. in a fierce, hurried whisper he bade her be silent for her life and his and the queen's safety. as she vowed, trembling, by zeus and the gods, to do his bidding, a trumpet snarled suddenly outside on the steps of the palace. the riot without died into silence. the clear cold voice of a herald began to speak. thus says the queen penelope: "to-morrow will i make an end of all. in the forenoon i will choose from among the princes whom i will wed. too long have ye rioted within the palace and eaten up the substance of myself and my son. i am aweary. and since there is no other way, to-morrow i will choose. ye shall take the great bow of the king ulysses from its cover. and he who can shoot an arrow through twelve axes in a row--even as ulysses was wont to do--him will i wed." "nurse!" whispered ulysses, "the king will be here before any can bend that bow. now go into the queen and tell her that the old man is sick and begs leave to wait upon her another time. and comfort her with an omen that you have seen, but tell her nothing. and now farewell. there is much to do ere dawn." * * * * * there was a silence of consternation in the great banqueting hall of the palace. penelope from her seat upon the raised steps beneath the richly-decorated wall at the end smiled faintly to herself. the twelve axes stood in a row, driven into sockets in the pavement. the suitors stood in two long rows on either side. antinous, the strongest of them all, held a great polished bow. his face blazed with anger and was red with shame. all eyes were centred on him. no one saw old eumæus steal out into the porch and silently lower the heavy bars of the door and lash them tight with cords. "ah!" cried antinous, "i know now why neither any of you nor i myself can bend this bow. it is not the great strength of ulysses, for i am stronger than he ever was. this is apollo's festival, the archer-god, and it is useless to strive to bend this bow to-day. let us sacrifice to helios to-day, and then to-morrow come again to the trial." then the old beggar man came forward. "my lords," he said, "i pray you give me the bow, since you have done your trial for to-day. i was once strong in my youth. let me have this honour." antinous scowled at him, and stepped toward him to strike such insolence, but the clear voice of penelope called sharply down the lane of men,-- "who insults even the meanest in my palace? have more regard, sir, for i am still queen here. give the old man the bow since that is his whim." antinous was cowed, but still murmured, when telemachus stepped quickly up to him. the boy seemed taller, his eyes shone with a cold, fierce light they had never seen in them before. his voice rang with a new authority. "be silent, sir!" he said in a keen, threatening voice. "the bow is mine, and mine alone, to give or refuse as i decide. mother, the trial is over for to-day. go with your maidens into your own chamber. i will see to this old man, and i am master here and will be so." with a frightened pride and wonder the queen withdrew. the suitors began to whisper to each other, wondering what this might mean. their confidence seemed to be slipping away from them. each and all felt uneasy. there was some strange influence in the air which sapped their courage and silenced the loud insolent words which were ever on their lips. the shadow of death was creeping into the hall. the great marble room suddenly grew cold. the old beggar came up to the splendid antinous and took the bow from his unresisting hand. as he plucked the string the gods spake at last. a crash of thunder pealed among them. there was a moment's silence, and then the bow-string rang beneath the hero's touch as clear as the note of a swallow. and in a strange light, which glowed out from the walls and great pillars of bronze, the princes saw no beggar, but a noble form with bronzed face and flashing eyes, and they knew the king had come home again. ulysses motioned to his son, and telemachus drew his sword and with a great shout rushed up the hall after his father. they turned and stood on the steps. an arrow sang like a flying wasp, and antinous lay dying on the floor. then the princes rushed to the walls where their armour and swords were wont to hang, but all the pegs were bare. only above the steps where ulysses stood were three spears and three shields, and as they gazed in cold fear eumæus leapt upon the steps and the three girded on the armour. again the great bow sang, and amphinomus lay dead. then telemachus with a great shout drove his spear through the fat ctessipus, and he fell gurgling his life away. but one of the suitors, melanthius, climbed up a pillar through one of the lanterns of the hall and clambered over the roofs to the armoury unseen by ulysses. and while the deadly arrows sped with bitter mocking words towards the cowering throng, he gathered a great sheaf of spears and flung them down among his comrades. they seized upon the spears with a fierce cry of joy, and ulysses' heart failed him where he stood for there were still many living. they began to run up the hall towards the steps. then at last athene saw that her time had come, and she lifted her terrible war shield which brings death to the sons of men. and the flight of spears all went far wide of the mark, and some fell with a rattle upon the floor. with one cry of triumph the king leapt like light among the crowd. hither and there flashed the three swords like swooping vultures, and athene took all power from the princes, and one by one they screamed and met their doom. and soon the din of battle died away, and save for a faint moaning the hall was silent. and the princes, the pride of the islands, lay fallen in dust and blood, heaped one on the other, like a great catch of fishes turned out from a fisherman's nets upon the shore. eumæus went to the door of the hall and cut the lashings, and raised the bars so that the sunlight came slanting in great beams. the dust danced in the light rays like a powder of tiny lives. then ulysses called the servants and bade them carry the bodies away. and he ordered euryclea to wash the blood-stained floors, and to bring sulphur and torches that the place might be purified. and that night great beacons flared on the hills, and far out to sea the fishermen saw them and said, "surely the king has come home again." and while the music rang though the lighted palace and the people passed before the gates shouting for joy, old euryclea spread the marriage bed of the king by the light of flaming torches. and when all was prepared, the old nurse went to ulysses and penelope and led them to the door of the marriage chamber, as she had led them twenty years before. then the music ceased in the palace halls and silence fell over all the house. a note on homer and ulysses the uncertainty which prevails as to the actual birthplace of homer also extends to the exact period at which he flourished. doubts have been expressed by some modern scholars as to whether the poet ever existed as a personality. the view that the _iliad_ and _odyssey_ were not the work of an individual, but merely a collection of old folklore verse welded into a whole by many hands, made compact by ages, a self-born epic rising from crystallised tradition, is, however, not a tenable one, and need not be discussed here. as far as we are able to place the poet in his period correctly, we can say with some certainty that he flourished at a time between and years before the birth of christ. the arundelian marbles fix his era at years before the dawn of christianity. about the life of the most ancient of all poets nothing whatever is known. there is a tradition that he had a school of followers in the island of chios, and we have early records of celebrations held there in his honour every few years. but no proof whatever exists of the truth of the supposition, though up to quite modern times the islanders maintained and believed in it. in the same way must be treated the story of homer's blindness. it is a legend which cannot be proved or disproved. yet at a time when literature must have been almost purely oral, his blindness need have been no bar to the exercise of his talent. it has been said, and the theory is at least an interesting one, that the music and sonance of homer's lines came from the fact that they were composed to be _spoken_ rather than _read_. that the blindness of milton did not in any way detract from the grandeur of his verse is an undoubted fact, and yet milton had to _speak_ every line before he could have it recorded by others. we can deduce something of homer from his work. that he must have been a travelled man seems indubitable. to this day the modern ulysses or menelaus, standing on the bridge of his tramp steamer, can see the headlands, islands, and capes, unchanged from years ago. that homer was a man of deep feeling, was possessed of the "artistic temperament" in a very marked degree, seems equally clear. nothing can be more delicate and touching than his handling of penelope. other ancient writers have represented the wife of ulysses as an abandoned harlot, and said that her husband repudiated her for incontinence during his absence. homer, with a far surer, finer touch, made her a model for wives to emulate and husbands to desire. the whole of the home-coming scenes in the _odyssey_ could only have been written by a man who was no mere materialist. when homer wrote, human nature was much less profound a thing than it has since become. and yet, though men's motives were entirely different, men's actions sprang from less subtle causes than now. homer was a psychologist of the first class. he knew his fellow-men. in all romance no one can point to a finer and more consistent character-study than that of ulysses. shakespeare has drawn no more vivid picture of a single temperament. homer must have mixed with mankind, observed them closely, been an acute and untiring observer. the absolutely original temper of his mind is extraordinary. for we must remember that homer could hardly have had any models to inform his choice of subjects or direct his style. yet none of his imitators, and there have been many, were able, even in their happiest moments, even to approach him. as he was the first poet, so he was the greatest, and we may well conclude he will remain so until men themselves are things of the past. in the ancient world, when we get into the actual periods of recorded history, we find a worship of homer universally existing. his works reposed under the pillow of alexander together with the sword which had made him great. the conqueror enshrined the _iliad_ in the richest casket of the vanquished persian king. altars smoked in homer's honour all over greece, he was venerated as a god. but speculations about homer have, after all, but little value. we know nothing, and we shall never now know anything about him. he remains a glorious and mysterious fact. we have the priceless legacy of this being, and that is enough. ulysses even euclid, the inventor of concrete logical processes, is forced to begin with axioms and definitions that are absurd. once allow them, and everything proceeds to a brilliant triumph of mentality; but in order to build a basis in a vacuum, one has to swallow a dose of nonsense first. it must be confessed that in order to estimate the character-drawing employed by homer to create ulysses, we must swallow the supernatural influences which surrounded him. put them out of the question and the hero lacks perspective and becomes a doll. let it be granted that minerva stood beside the wanderer. "her clear and bared limbs o'erthwarted with the brazen-headed spear." let us but believe with homer that the careless gods lie beside their nectar on the hill, and hurl their bolts far below into the valleys of men, then the man ulysses shines out clear and full of colour, an absolute achievement in art. an ancient norse pick-axe has been discovered, bearing the following inscription:-- "_either i will find a way or make one_," and a broken helmet was once found in battle abbey, engraved with this crest:-- "_l'espoir est ma force._" the master mariner might have owned them both. the first quality which we marvel at in our analysis of ulysses' character is the extraordinary _resource_ which he displays throughout all his wanderings. his qualities of passive endurance, his enormous courage, his mental agility--the very cream of cunning, are all component parts of his unfailing readiness to take sudden advantage of his opportunity. for him all tides were at flood to lead on to fortune. charybdis sucks down his stout ship into the womb of the sea, he makes a raft of the restored keel. he estimates the brain power of the stupid cyclops at its exact value, and escapes the vengeance of his companions by a pun. and there is a well-defined touch of fatalism in ulysses also. when the irreparable blunder has been committed by his sailors, and apollo's sacred beeves are smoking on the spit, he knows that he and all his men must pay heavily for their disregard of circe's warning. it is inevitable. nothing can turn aside the coming anger of the sun-god. so ulysses, being hungry, though innocent of the initial sacrilege, makes his unhallowed meal with the rest. he must endure the pain, so plucks the pelf also. to enlarge upon his courage and endurance were unnecessary. the _odyssey_ is one long pæan of them both. his sagacity is manifest so vividly in all his actions that even zeus, father of heaven, says to athene, "_no, daughter, i could never forget ulysses, the wisest worldling of them all_." but what of ulysses as a sybarite? the hero "mulierose," to borrow from the _cloister and the hearth_, the lover of ladies, "propt on beds of amaranth and moly," while white enchanted arms hold him a willing captive? i have heard it remarked that here the ionian father of poets has gone astray. people have said to me that ulysses loved his wife too well to dwell contented on the spicy downs of lotos land, that he was too taut and hardy a man. but homer did not err in his study of temperament. how can one judge the man of years ago by the standards of to-day? in the ages when hosts joined in battle for the fair body of helen men looked on women with other eyes than ours. heaven and hell were very material places, pleasure was a very material, tangible, understandable thing and a lovely woman a gift from the gods. ulysses strove for ithaca through storm and wrack, and when fortune sent him to calypso, or beached his ship on circe's fairy isle, he was content to rest a little while. he yielded, like others of the wise. socrates studied under aspasia, and aspasia ruled the world under the name of pericles. it is in trying to fit the temperament of an ancient to a modern that the majority of people must always fail to understand a great piece of contemporary literature. one may sift the instances of modern temperament and comment on them, but one should not try to mould the residue into a like form. the bible story paints king david, for example, as a truculent, bloodthirsty, canting monster--a complete portrait. the immorality and stupidity lies in trying to reconcile his old testament enormities with the revelations of the new. so with ulysses, circe, calypso, nausicaa, and even in later years the legendary erippe, all fall truly, artistically and naturally into the mosaic of the hero's life. one interesting point in the pleasure-loving side of ulysses' nature should by no means be disregarded. not only did he take eagerly such joys as the fates apportioned, but he was a true and discriminating sybarite. we find him taking stringent precautions against disaster from the sirens, yet determined to enjoy the luxury of their song. it is a pleasure not to be missed and not to be paid for. in after years we may imagine him relating his unique and delicious experience to his friends with an undoubted complacency. in the commendable and ancient virtues of filial love, a cardinal virtue in the old world, a forgotten duty to-day, ulysses was singularly strong. his tenderest inquiries in hades, the most passionate expressions of affection, are protested to the shade of anticlea, his mother. one of the most touching scenes in the _odyssey_ is the meeting between ulysses and laertes, his father, after the long wanderings are over. "_he flung his arms around his father and cried out, 'oh, my father, i am here indeed once more. i have come back to you at last! dry your tears, for mine is the victory.'_" a many-sided man. hard as a diamond and as bright, with every facet in his many-sided nature cut and polished by the hand of a master. c. r. g. the end _colston & coy, limited, printers, edinburgh_ _advertisement_ by special appointment [decoration] to his majesty the king w. clarkson theatrical costumier and perruquier wigs, costumes, masks, limelight scenery and properties amateur theatricals and tableaux vivants attended in town or country on most reasonable terms thoroughly competent men sent with every requisite [decoration] [decoration] clarkson's lillie powder [decoration] in three shades--blanche, naturelle, rachel s. per box; s. d. post free used by mrs langtry and all the leading ladies of the theatrical profession [decoration] w. clarkson & wellington st., strand [decoration] london, w.c. transcriber's note the author's surname is hyphenated throughout this book, although the library of congress lists his name without the hyphen. the author varies slightly from _the odyssey_ in places--for instance, the number of years ulysses remains with calypso. these variations are preserved as written. there is no page number reference on the illustration facing page . the author uses some variant spelling which is preserved as printed. this includes phoeacians, vergil, melesegenes, dogrells, both græcian and grecian, and both lotos and lotus. these latter two variations appear in different sections of the book, so may well be deliberate on the part of the author. minor punctuation errors have been repaired. the following amendments have also been made: page --discrimena amended to discrimina--per varios casus per tot discrimina rerum ... page --smiled amended to smile--a cruel smile played on his face. page --ago years amended to years ago--it was nine years ago that the pale gaunt waif of the sea ... page --iufluence amended to influence--there was some strange influence in the air ... the frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page. other illustrations have been moved where necessary so that they are not in the middle of a paragraph.