AGE OF FABLE OR BEAUTIES OF MYTHOLOGY
Bulfinch, Thomas

Preface

	If no other knowledge deserves to be called useful but that which helps to 
enlarge our possessions or to raise our station in society, then Mythology has no claim 
to the appellation.  But if that which tends to make us happier and better can be called 
useful, then we claim that epithet for our subject. For Mythology is the handmaid of 
literature; and literature is one of the best allies of virtue and promoters of happiness.

	Without a knowledge of mythology much of the elegant literature of our own 
language cannot be understood and appreciated.  When Byron calls Rome "the Niobe 
of nations," or says of Venice, "She looks a Sea-Cybele fresh from ocean," he calls up 
to the mind of one familiar with our subject illustrations more vivid and striking than the 
pencil could furnish, but which are lost to the reader ignorant of mythology.  Milton 
abounds in similar allusions.  The short poem "Comus" contains more than thirty such, 
and the ode "On the Morning of the Nativity" half as many.  Through "Paradise Lost" 
they are scattered profusely.  This is one reason why we often hear persons by no 
means illiterate say that they cannot enjoy Milton.  But were these persons to add to 
their more solid acquirements the easy learning of this little volume, much of the poetry 
of Milton which has appeared to them "harsh and crabbed" would be found "musical as 
is Apollo's lute." Our citations, taken from more than twenty-five poets, from Spenser to 
Longfellow, will show how general has been the practice of borrowing illustrations from 
mythology.

	The prose writers also avail themselves of the same source of elegant and 
suggestive illustration.  One can hardly take up a number of the Edinburgh or Quarterly 
Review without meeting with instances.  In Macaulay's article on Milton there are 
twenty such.

	But how is mythology to be taught to one who does not learn it through the 
medium of the languages of Greece and Rome?  To devote study to a species of 
learning which relates wholly to false marvels and obsolete faiths, is not to be 
expected of the general reader in a practical age like this.  The time even of the young 
is claimed by so many sciences of facts and things, that little can be spared for set 
treatises on a science of mere fancy.

	But many not the requisite knowledge of the subject be acquired by reading the 
ancient poets in translations?  We reply, the field is to extensive for a preparatory 
course; and these very translations require some previous knowledge of the subject to 
make them intelligible.  Let any one who doubts it read the first page of the "Aeneid," 
and see what he can make of "the hatred of Juno," the "decree of the Parcae," the 
"judgment of Paris," and the "honors of Ganymede," without this knowledge.

	Shall we be told that answers to such queries may be found in notes, or by a 
reference to the Classical Dictionary?  We reply, the interruption of one's reading by 
either process is so annoying that most readers prefer to let an allusion pass 
unapprehended rather than submit to it.  Moreover, such sources give us only the dry 
facts without any of the charm of the original narrative; and what is a poetical myth 
when stripped of its poetry?  The story of Ceyx and Halcyone, which fills a chapter in 
our book, occupies but eight lines in the best (Smith's) Classical Dictionary; and so of 
others.

	Our book is an attempt to solve this problem, by telling the stories of mythology in 
such a manner as to make them a source of amusement.  We have endeavored to tell 
them correctly, according to the ancient authorities, so that when the reader finds them 
referred to he may not be at a loss to recognize the reference.  Thus we hope to teach 
mythology not as a study, but as a relaxation from study; to give our work the charm of 
a story-book, yet by means of it to impart a knowledge of an important branch of 
education. The index at the end will adapt it to the purposes of reference, and make it 
a Classical Dictionary for the parlor.

	Most of the classical legends in this book are derived from Ovid and Virgil.  They 
are not literally translated, for, in the author's opinion, poetry translated into literal 
prose is very unattractive reading.  Neither are they in verse, as well for other reasons 
as from a conviction that to translate faithfully under all the embarrassments of rhyme 
and measure is impossible.  The attempt has been made to tell the stories in prose, 
preserving so much of the poetry as resides in the thoughts and is separable from the 
language itself, and omitting those amplifications which are not suited to the altered 
form.

	The Northern mythological stories are copied with some abridgment from Mallet's 
Northern Antiquities.  These chapters, with those on Oriental and Egyptian mythology, 
seemed necessary to complete the subject, though it is believed these topics have not 
usually been presented in the same volume with the classical fables.

	The poetical citations so freely introduced are expected to answer several 
valuable purposes.  They will tend to fix in memory the leading fact of each story, they 
will help to the attainment of a correct pronunciation of the proper names, and they will 
enrich the memory with many gems of poetry, some of them such as are most 
frequently quoted or alluded to in reading and conversation.

	Having chosen mythology as connected with literature for our province, we have 
endeavored to omit nothing which the reader of elegant literature is likely to find 
occasion for.  Such stories and parts of stories as are offensive to pure taste and good 
morals are not given.  But such stories are not often referred to, and if they 
occasionally should be, the English reader need feel no mortification in confessing his 
ignorance of them.

	Our book is not for the learned, nor for the theologian, nor for the philosopher, 
but for the reader of English literature, of either sex, who wishes to comprehend the 
allusions so frequently made by public speakers, lecturers, essayists, and poets, and 
those which occur in polite conversation.

	We trust our young readers will find it a source of entertainment; those more 
advanced a useful companion in their reading those who travel, and visit museums 
and galleries of art, an interpreter of paintings and sculptures; those who mingle in 
cultivated society, a key to allusions which are occasionally made; and last of all, those 
in advanced life, pleasure in retracing a path of literature which leads them back to the 
days of their childhood, and revives at every step the associations of the morning of 
life.

	The permanency of those associations is beautifully expressed in the well-known 
lines of Coleridge, in "The Piccolomini," Act ii.  Scene 4.

     "The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
     The fair humanities of old religion,
     The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty
     That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain,
     Or forest, by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
     Or chasms and watery depths; all these have vanished.
     They live no longer in the faith of reason;
     But still the heart doth need a language; still
     Doth the old instinct bring back the old names;
     Spirits or gods that used to share this earth
     With man as with their friend; and at this day
     "Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
     And Venus who brings every thing that's fair."


Chapter I: Introduction

	The religions of ancient Greece and Rome are extinct.  The so-called divinities of 
Olympus have not a single worshipper among living men.  They belong now not to the 
department of theology, but to those of literature and taste.  There they still hold their 
place, and will continue to hold it, for they are too closely connected with the finest 
productions of poetry and art, both ancient and modern, to pass into oblivion.

	We propose to tell the stories relating to them which have come down to us from 
the ancients, and which are alluded to by modern poets, essayists, and orators.  Our 
readers may thus at the same time be entertained by the most charming fictions which 
fancy has ever created, and put in possession of information indispensable to every 
one who would read with intelligence the elegant literature of his own day.

	In order to understand these stories, it will be necessary to acquaint ourselves 
with the ideas of the structure of the universe, which prevailed among the Greeks - the 
people from whom the Romans, and other nations through them, received their 
science and religion.

	The Greeks believed the earth to be flat and circular their own country occupying 
the middle of it, the central point being either Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods or 
Delphi, so famous for its oracle.

	The circular disk of the earth was crossed from west to east, and divided into two 
equal parts by the Sea, as they called the Mediterranean, and its continuation the 
Euxine, the only seas with which they were acquainted.

	Around the earth flowed the River Ocean, its course being from south to north on 
the western side of the earth, and in a contrary direction on the eastern side.  It flowed 
in a steady, equable current, unvexed by storm or tempest.  The sea, and all the rivers 
on earth, received their waters from it.

	The northern portion of the earth was supposed to be inhabited by a happy race 
named the Hyperboreans, dwelling in everlasting bliss and spring beyond the lofty 
mountains whose caverns were supposed to send forth the piercing blasts of the north 
wind, which chilled the people of Hellas, (Greece.) Their country was inaccessible by 
land or sea.  They lived exempt from disease or old age, from toils and warfare.  
Moore has given us the "Song of a Hyperborean," beginning

     "I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
     Where golden gardens glow,
     Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
     Their conch shells never blow."

	On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean, dwelt a people 
happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans.  They were named the Aethiopians.  The gods 
favored them so highly that they were wont to leave at times their Olympian abodes, and 
go to share their sacrifices and banquets

	On the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay a happy place 
named the Elysian Plain, whither mortals favored by the gods were transported without 
tasting of death, to enjoy an immortality of bliss.  This happy region was also called the 
"Fortunate Fields," and the "Isles of the Blessed."

	We thus see that the Greeks of the early ages knew little of any real people 
except those to the east and south of their own country, or near the coast of the 
Mediterranean.  Their imagination meantime peopled the western portion of this sea with 
giants, monsters, and enchantresses; while they placed around the disk of the earth, 
which they probably regarded as of no great width, nations enjoying the peculiar favor of 
the gods, and blessed with happiness and longevity.

	The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to rise out of the Ocean, on 
the eastern side, and to drive through the air, giving light to gods and men.  The stars 
also, except those forming the Wain or Bear, and others near them, rose out of and sank 
into the stream of Ocean.  There the sun-god embarked in a winged boat, which 
conveyed him round by the northern part of the earth, back to his place of rising in the 
east.  Milton alludes to this in his "Comus."

     "Now the gilded car of day
     His golden axle doth allay
     In the steep Atlantic stream,
     And the slope Sun his upward beam
     Shoots against the dusky pole,
     Pacing towards the other goal
     Of his chamber in the east."

	The abode of the gods was on the summit of Mount Olympus, in Thessaly. A 
gate of clouds, kept by the goddesses named the Seasons, opened to permit the 
passage of the Celestials to earth, and to receive them on their return. The gods had 
their separate dwellings; but all, when summoned, repaired to the palace of Jupiter, as 
did also those deities whose usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld.  
It was also in the great hall of the palace of the Olympian king that the gods feasted 
each day on ambrosia and nectar, their food and drink, the latter being handed round by 
the lovely goddess Hebe. Here they conversed of the affairs of heaven and earth; and as 
they quaffed their nectar, Apollo, the god of music, delighted them with the tones of his 
lyre, to which the Muses sang in responsive strains.  When the sun was set, the gods 
retired to sleep in their respective dwellings.

	The following lines from the Odyssey will show how Homer conceived of 
Olympus: -

     "So saying, Minerva, goddess azure-eyed,
     Rose to Olympus, the reputed seat
     Eternal of the gods, which never storms
     Disturb, rains drench, or snow invades, but calm
     The expanse and cloudless shines with purest day.
     There the inhabitants divine rejoice
     Forever." Cowper.

	The robes and other parts of the dress of the goddesses were woven by Minerva 
and the Graces, and every thing of a more solid nature was formed of the various 
metals.  Vulcan was architect, smith, armorer, chariot builder, and artist of all work in 
Olympus.  He built of brass the houses of the gods; he made for them the golden shoes 
with which they trod the air or the water, and moved from place to place with the speed 
of the wind, or even of thought. He also shod with brass the celestial steeds which 
whirled the chariots of the gods through the air, or along the surface of the sea.  He was 
able to bestow on his workmanship self-motion, so that the tripods (chairs and tables) 
could move of themselves in and out of the celestial hall.  He even endowed with 
intelligence the golden handmaidens whom he made to wait on himself.

	Jupiter, or Jove, (Zeus, ^*) though called the father of gods and men, had himself 
a beginning.  Saturn (Cronos) was his father, and Rhea (Ops) his mother.  Saturn and 
Rhea were of the race of Titans, who were the children of Earth and Heaven, which 
sprang from Chaos, of which we shall give a further account in our next chapter.

	[Footnote *: The names included in parentheses are the Greek, the others being 
the Roman or Latin names.]

	There is another cosmogony, or account of the creation, according to which 
Earth, Erebus, and Love were the first of beings.  Love (Eros) issued from the egg of 
Night, which floated on Chaos.  By his arrows and torch he pierced and vivified all 
things, producing life and joy.

	Saturn and Rhea were not the only Titans.  There were others, whose names 
were Oceanus, Hyperion, Iapetus, and Ophion, males; and Themis, Mnemosyne, 
Eurynome, females.  They are spoken of as the elder gods, whose dominion was 
afterwards transferred to others.  Saturn yielded to Jupiter, Oceanus to Neptune, 
Hyperion to Apollo.  Hyperion was the father of the Sun, Moon, and Dawn.  He is 
therefore the original sun-god, and is painted with the splendor and beauty which were 
afterwards bestowed on Apollo.

	"Hyperion's curls, the front of Jove himself." Shakspeare.

	Ophion and Eurynome ruled over Olympus till they were dethroned by Saturn 
and Rhea.  Milton alludes to them in Paradise Lost.  He says the heathens seem to have 
had some knowledge of the temptation and fall of man,

     "And fabled how the serpent, whom they called
     Ophion, with Eurynome, (the wide-Encroaching Eve perhaps,) had first the rule
     Of high Olympus, thence by Saturn driven.

	The representations given of Saturn are not very consistent; for on the one hand 
his reign is said to have been the golden age of innocence and purity, and on the other 
he is described as a monster who devoured his own children. ^* Jupiter, however, 
escaped this fate, and when grown up espoused Metis, (Prudence,) who administered a 
draught to Saturn which caused him to disgorge his children.  Jupiter, with his brothers 
and sisters, now rebelled against their father Saturn, and his brothers the Titans; 
vanquished them, and imprisoned some of them in Tartarus, inflicting other penalties on 
others. Atlas was condemned to bear up the heavens on his shoulders.

	[Footnote *: This inconsistency arises from considering the Saturn of the Romans 
the same with the Grecian deity Cronos.  (Time,) which brings an end to all things which 
have had a beginning may be said to devour its own offspring.]

	On the dethronement of Saturn, Jupiter with his brothers Neptune (Poseidon) 
and Pluto (Dis) divided his dominions.  Jupiter's portion was the heavens, Neptune's the 
ocean, and Pluto's the realms of the dead.  Earth and Olympus were common property.  
Jupiter was king of gods and men.  The thunder was his weapon, and he bore a shield 
called Aegis, made for him by Vulcan. The eagle was his favorite bird, and bore his 
thunderbolts.

	Juno (Hera) was the wife of Jupiter, and queen of the gods.  Iris, the goddess of 
the rainbow, was her attendant and messenger.  The peacock was her favorite bird

	Vulcan, (Hephaestos,) the celestial artist, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.  He 
was born lame, and his mother was so displeased at the sight of him that she flung him 
out of heaven.  Other accounts say that Jupiter kicked him out for taking part with his 
mother, in a quarrel which occurred between them. Vulcan's lameness, according to this 
account, was the consequence of his fall. He was a whole day falling, and at last 
alighted in the Island of Lemnos, which was thenceforth sacred to him.  Milton alludes to 
this story in Paradise Lost, Book I.

     "From morn
     To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
     A summer's day; and with the setting sun
     Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
     On Lemnos, the Aegean isle."

	Mars, (Ares,) the god of war, was the son of Jupiter and Juno.

	Phoebus Apollo, the god of archery, prophecy, and music, was the son of Jupiter 
and Latona, and brother of Diana, (Artemis.) He was god of the sun, as Diana, his sister, 
was the goddess of the moon.

	Venus, (Aphrodite,) the goddess of love and beauty, was the daughter of Jupiter 
and Dione.  Others say that Venus sprang from the foam of the sea. The zephyr wafted 
her along the waves to the Isle of Cyprus, where she was received and attired by the 
Seasons, and then led to the assembly of the gods. All were charmed with her beauty, 
and each one demanded her for his wife. Jupiter gave her to Vulcan, in gratitude for the 
service he had rendered in forging thunderbolts.  So the most beautiful of the goddesses 
became the wife of the most ill-favored of the gods.  Venus possessed an embroidered 
girdle called Cestus, which had the power of inspiring love.  Her favorite birds were 
swans and doves, and the plants sacred to her were the rose and the myrtle.

	Cupid, (Eros,) the god of love, was the son of Venus He was her constant 
companion; and, armed with bow and arrows, he shot the darts of desire into the 
bosoms of both gods and men.  There was a deity named Anteros, who was sometimes 
represented as the avenger of slighted love, and sometimes as the symbol of reciprocal 
affection.  The following legend is told of him: -

	Venus, complaining to Themis that her son Eros continued always a child, was 
told by her that it was because he was solitary, and that if he had a brother he would 
grow apace.  Anteros was soon afterwards born, and Eros immediately was seen to 
increase rapidly in size and strength.

	Minerva, (Pallas, Athene,) the goddess of wisdom, was the offspring of Jupiter, 
without a mother.  She sprang forth from his head, completely armed. Her favorite bird 
was the owl, and the plant sacred to her the olive.

	Byron, in "Childe Harold," alludes to the birth of Minerva, thus: -


     "Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be,
     And Freedom find no champion and no child,
     Such as Columbia saw arise, when she
     Sprang forth a Pallas, armed and undefiled?
     Or must such minds be nourished in the wild,
     Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar
     Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled
     On infant Washington?  Has earth no more
     Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore?"

	Mercury (Hermes) was the son of Jupiter and Maia.  He presided over 
commerce, wrestling, and other gymnastic exercises, even over thieving, and every 
thing, in short, which required skill and dexterity.  He was the messenger of Jupiter, and 
wore a winged cap and winged shoes He bore in his hand a rod entwined with two 
serpents, called the Caduceus.

	Mercury is said to have invented the lyre.  He found one day, a tortoise, of which 
he took the shell, made holes in the opposite edges of it, and drew cords of linen through 
them, and the instrument was complete.  The cords were nine, in honor of the nine 
Muses.  Mercury gave the lyre to Apollo, and received from him in exchange the 
caduceus. ^*

	[Footnote *: From this origin of the instrument, the word "shell" is often used as 
synonymous with "lyre," and figuratively for music and poetry.  Thus Gray, in his ode on 
the "Progress of Poesy," says. -

     "O Sovereign of the willing soul,
     Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
     Enchanting shell!  the sullen Cares
     And frantic Passions hear thy soft control']

	Ceres (Demeter) was the daughter of Saturn and Rhea.  She had a daughter 
named Proserpine, (Persephone,) who became the wife of Pluto, and queen of the 
realms of the dead.  Ceres presided over agriculture.

	Bacchus, (Dionysus,) the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and Semele. He 
represents not only the intoxicating power of wine, but its social and beneficent 
influences likewise, so that he is viewed as the promoter of civilization, and a lawgiver 
and lover of peace.

	The Muses were the daughters of Jupiter and Mnemosyne, (Memory.) They 
presided over song, and prompted the memory.  They were nine in number, to each of 
whom was assigned the presidence over some particular department of literature, art, or 
science.  Calliope was the muse of epic poetry, Clio of history, Euterpe of lyric poetry, 
Melpomene of tragedy, Terpsichore of choral dance and song, Erato of love poetry, 
Polyhymnia of sacred poetry, Urania of astronomy, Thalia of comedy.

	The Graces were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance, and all 
social enjoyments and elegant arts.  They were three in number.  Their names were 
Euphrosyne, Aglaia, and Thalia.

	Spenser describes the office of the Graces thus: -


     "These three on men all gracious gifts bestow
     Which deck the body or adorn the mind,
     To make them lovely or well-favored show;
     As comely carriage, entertainment kind,
     Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind,
     And all the complements of courtesy;
     They teach us how to each degree and kind
     We should ourselves demean, to low, to high,
     To friends, to foes; which skill men call Civility."

	The Fates were also three - Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos.  Their office was to 
spin the thread of human destiny, and they were armed with shears, with which they cut 
it off when they pleased.  They were the daughters of Themis, (Law,) who sits by Jove 
on his throne to give him counsel.

	The Erinnyes, or Furies, were three goddesses who punished by their secret 
stings the crimes of those who escaped or defied public justice.  The heads of the Furies 
were wreathed with serpents, and their whole appearance was terrific and appalling.  
Their names were Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera. They were also called Eumenides.

	Nemesis was also an avenging goddess.  She represents the righteous anger of 
the gods, particularly towards the proud and insolent.

	Pan was the god of flocks and shepherds.  His favorite residence was in Arcadia.

	The Satyrs were deities of the woods and fields.  They were conceived to be 
covered with bristly hair, their heads decorated with short, sprouting horns, and their feet 
like goats' feet.

	Momus was the god of laughter, and Plutus the god of wealth.

Roman Divinities. 

	The preceding are Grecian divinities, though received also by the Romans. 
Those which follow are peculiar to Roman mythology.

	Saturn was an ancient Italian deity.  It was attempted to identify him with the 
Grecian god Cronos, and fabled that after his dethronement by Jupiter, he fled to Italy, 
where he reigned during what was called the Golden Age.  In memory of his beneficent 
dominion, the feast of Saturnalia was held every year in the winter season.  Then all 
public business was suspended, declarations of war and criminal executions were 
postponed, friends made presents to one another, and the slaves were indulged with 
great liberties. A feast was given them at which they sat at table, while their masters 
served them, to show the natural equality of men, and that all things belonged equally to 
all, in the reign of Saturn.

	Faunus, ^* the grandson of Saturn, was worshipped as the god of fields and 
shepherds, and also as a prophetic god.  His name in the plural, Fauns, expressed a 
class of gamesome deities, like the Satyrs of the Greeks.

	[Footnote *: There was also a goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea.]

	Quirinus was a war god, said to be no other than Romulus, the founder of Rome, 
exalted after his death to a place among the gods.

	Bellona, a war goddess.

	Terminus, the god of landmarks.  His statue was a rude stone or post, set in the 
ground to mark the boundaries of fields.

	Pales, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures.

	Pomona presided over fruit trees.

	Flora, the goddess of flowers.

	Lucina, the goddess of childbirth.

	Vesta (the Hestia of the Greeks) was a deity presiding over the public and private 
hearth.  A sacred fire, tended by six virgin priestesses called Vestals, flamed in her 
temple.  As the safety of the city was held to be connected with its conservation, the 
neglect of the virgins, if they let it go out, was severely punished, and the fire was 
rekindled from the rays of the sun.

	Liber is the Latin name of Bacchus; and Mulciber of Vulcan.

	Janus was the porter of heaven.  He opens the year, the first month being named 
after him.  He is the guardian deity of gates, on which account he is commonly 
represented with two heads, because every door looks two ways. His temples at Rome 
were numerous.  In war time the gates of the principal one were always open.  In peace 
they were closed; but they were shut only once between the reign of Numa and that of 
Augustus.

	The Penates were the gods who were supposed to attend to the welfare and 
prosperity of the family.  Their name is derived from Penus, the pantry, which was 
sacred to them.  Every master of a family was the priest to the Penates of his own 
house.

	The Lares, or Lars, were also household gods, but differed from the Penates in 
being regarded as the deified spirits of mortals.  The family Lars were held to be the 
souls of the ancestors, who watched over and protected their descendants.  The words 
Lemur and Larva more nearly correspond to our word Ghost.

	The Romans believed that every man had his Genius, and every woman her 
Juno; that is, a spirit who had given them being, and was regarded as their protector 
through life.  On their birthdays men made offerings to their Genius, women to their 
Juno.

	A modern poet thus alludes to some of the Roman gods: -


     "Pomona loves the orchard,
     And Liber loves the vine,
     And Pales loves the straw-built shed
     Warm with the breath of kine;
     And Venus loves the whisper
     Of plighted youth and maid,
     In April's ivory moonlight,
     Beneath the chestnut shade."

	Macaulay, "Prophecy of Capys."

	N. B. - It is to be observed that in proper names the final e and es are to be 
sounded.  Thus Cybele and Penates are words of three syllables.  But Proserpine and 
Thebes are exceptions, and to be pronounced as English words. In the In lex at the 
close of the volume, we shall mark the accented syllable, in all words which appear to 
require it.


Chapter II: Prometheus And Pandora

	The creation of the world is a problem naturally fitted to excite the liveliest 
interest of man, its inhabitant.  The ancient pagans, not having the information on the 
subject which we derive from the pages of Scripture, had their own way of telling the 
story, which is as follows: -

	Before earth, and sea, and heaven were created, all things wore one aspect, to 
which we give the name of Chaos - a confused and shapeless mass, nothing but dead 
weight, in which, however, slumbered the seeds of things Earth, sea, and air were all 
mixed up together; so the earth was not solid, the sea was not fluid, and the air was 
not transparent.  God and Nature at last interposed, and put an end to this discord, 
separating earth from sea, and heaven from both.  The fiery part, being the lightest, 
sprang up, and formed the skies; the air was next in weight and place.  The earth, 
being heavier, sank below and the water took the lowest place, and buoyed up the 
earth.

	Here some god - it is not known which - gave his good offices in arranging and 
disposing the earth.  He appointed rivers and bays their places, raised mountains, 
scooped out valleys, distributed woods, fountains, fertile fields, and stony plains.  The 
air being cleared, the stars began to appear, fishes took possession of the sea, birds 
of the air, and four-footed beasts of the land.

	But a nobler animal was wanted, and Man was made.  It is not known whether 
the Creator made him of divine materials, or whether in the earth, so lately separated 
from heaven, there lurked still some heavenly seeds. Prometheus took some of this 
earth, and kneading it up with water, made man in the image of the gods.  He gave 
him an upright stature, so that while all other animals turn their faces downward, and 
look to the earth, he raises his to heaven, and gazes on the stars.

	Prometheus was one of the Titans, a gigantic race, who inhabited the earth 
before the creation of man.  To him and his brother Epimetheus was committed the 
office of making man, and providing him and all other animals with the faculties 
necessary for their preservation.  Epimetheus undertook to do this, and Prometheus 
was to overlook his work, when it was done. Epimetheus accordingly proceeded to 
bestow upon the different animals the various gifts of courage, strength, swiftness, 
sagacity; wings to one, claws to another, a shelly covering to a third, etc.  But when 
man came to be provided for, who was to be superior to all other animals, Epimetheus 
had been so prodigal of his resources that he had nothing left to bestow upon him.  In 
his perplexity he resorted to his brother Prometheus, who, with the aid of Minerva, 
went up to heaven, and lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down 
fire to man.  With this gift man was more than a match for all other animals. It enabled 
him to make weapons wherewith to subdue them; tools with which to cultivate the 
earth; to warm his dwelling, so as to be comparatively independent of climate; and 
finally to introduce the arts and to coin money, the means of trade and commerce.

	Woman was not yet made.  The story (absurd enough!) is, that Jupiter made her, 
and sent her to Prometheus and his brother, to punish them for their presumption in 
stealing fire from heaven; and man, for accepting the gift. The first woman was named 
Pandora.  She was made in heaven, every god contributing something to perfect her.  
Venus gave her beauty, Mercury persuasion, Apollo music, etc.  Thus equipped, she 
was conveyed to earth, and presented to Epimetheus, who gladly accepted her, 
though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and his gifts.  Epimetheus had in 
his house a jar, in which were kept certain noxious articles, for which, in fitting man for 
his new abode, he had had no occasion.  Pandora was seized with an eager curiosity 
to know what this jar contained; and one day she slipped off the cover and looked in.  
Forthwith there escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless man, - such as gout, 
rheumatism, and colic for his body, and envy, spite, and revenge for his mind, - and 
scattered themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid; but, alas!  the 
whole contents of the jar had escaped, one thing only excepted, which lay at the 
bottom, and that was hope.  So we see at this day, whatever evils are abroad, hope 
never entirely leaves us; and while we have that, no amount of other ills can make us 
completely wretched.

	Another story is, that Pandora was sent in good faith, by Jupiter, to bless man; 
that she was furnished with a box, containing her marriage presents, into which every 
god had put some blessing.  She opened the box incautiously, and the blessings all 
escaped, hope only excepted.  This story seems more probable than the former; for 
how could hope, so precious a jewel as it is, have been kept in a jar full of all manner 
of evils, as in the former statement?

	The world being thus furnished with inhabitants, the first age was an age of 
innocence and happiness, called the Golden Age.  Truth and right prevailed, though 
not enforced by law, nor was there any magistrate to threaten or punish.  The forest 
had not yet been robbed of its trees to furnish timbers for vessels, nor had men built 
fortifications round their towns.  There were no such things as swords, spears, or 
helmets.  The earth brought forth all things necessary for man, without his labor in 
ploughing or sowing.  Perpetual spring reigned, flowers sprang up without seed, the 
rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow honey distilled from the oaks.

	Then succeeded the Silver Age, inferior to the golden, but better than that of 
brass.  Jupiter shortened the spring, and divided the year into seasons.  Then, first, 
men had to endure the extremes of heat and cold, and houses became necessary.  
Caves were the first dwellings, and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of 
twigs.  Crops would no longer grow without planting.  The farmer was obliged to sow 
the seed, and the toiling ox to draw the plough.

	Next came the Brazen Age, more savage of temper and readier to the strife of 
arms, yet not altogether wicked.  The hardest and worst was the Iron Age. Crime burst 
in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled.  In their places came fraud and cunning, 
violence, and the wicked love of gain. Then seamen spread sails to the wind, and the 
trees were torn from the mountains to serve for keels to ships, and vex the face of 
ocean.  The earth, which till now had been cultivated in common, began to be divided 
off into possessions.  Men were not satisfied with what the surface produced, but must 
dig into its bowels, and draw forth from thence the ores of metals. Mischievous iron, 
and more mischievous gold, were produced.  War sprang up, using both as weapons; 
the guest was not safe in his friend's house; and sons-in-law and fathers-in-law, 
brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, could not trust one another.  Sons wished 
their fathers dead, that they might come to the inheritance; family love lay prostrate.  
The earth was wet with slaughter, and the gods abandoned it, one by one, till Astraea 
^* alone was left, and finally she also took her departure.

	[Footnote *: The goddess of innocence and purity.  After leaving earth, she was 
placed among the stars, where she became the constellation Virgo - the Virgin.  
Themis (Justice) was the mother of Astraea.  She is represented as holding aloft a pair 
of scales, in which she weighs the claims of opposing parties.

	It was a favorite idea of the old poets, that these goddesses would one day 
return, and bring back the Golden Age.  Even in a Christian Hymn, the Messiah of 
Pope, this idea occurs.

     "All crimes shall cease, and ancient fraud shall fail,
     Returning Justice lift aloft her scale,
     Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,
     And white-robed Innocence from heaven descend."

	See, also, Milton's Hymn to the Nativity, stanzas xiv. and xv]

	Jupiter, seeing this state of things, burned with anger.  He summoned the gods to 
council.  They obeyed the call, and took the road to the palace of heaven.  The road, 
which any one may see in a clear night, stretches across the face of the sky, and is 
called the Milky Way.  Along the road stand the palaces of the illustrious gods; the 
common people of the skies live apart, on either side.  Jupiter addressed the assembly.  
He set forth the frightful condition of things on the earth, and closed by announcing his 
intention to destroy the whole of its inhabitants, and provide a new race, unlike the first, 
who would be more worthy of life, and much better worshippers of the gods.  So saying 
he took a thunderbolt, and was about to launch it at the world, and destroy it by burning; 
but recollecting the danger that such a conflagration might set heaven itself on fire, he 
changed his plan, and resolved to drown it.  The north wind, which scatters the clouds, 
was chained up; the south was sent out, and soon covered all the face of heaven with a 
cloak of pitchy darkness.  The clouds, driven together, resound with a crash; torrents of 
rain fall; the crops are laid low; the year's labor of the husbandman perishes in an hour.  
Jupiter, not satisfied with his own waters, calls on his brother Neptune to aid him with 
his.  He lets loose the rivers, and pours them over the land.  At the same time, he 
heaves the land with an earthquake, and brings in the reflux of the ocean over the 
shores.  Flocks, herds, men, and houses are swept away and temples, with their sacred 
enclosures, profaned.  If any edifice remained standing, it was overwhelmed, and its 
turrets lay hid beneath the waves.  Now all was sea, sea without shore.  Here and there 
an individual remained on a projecting hill-top, and a few, in boats, pulled the oar where 
they had lately driven the plough.  The fishes swim among the tree-tops; the anchor is let 
down into a garden.  Where the graceful lambs played but now unwieldy sea calves 
gambol.  The wolf swims among the sheep, the yellow lions and tigers struggle in the 
water.  The strength of the wild boar serves him not, nor his swiftness the stag.  The 
birds fall with weary wing into the water, having found no land for a resting-place.  Those 
living beings whom the water spared fell a prey to hunger.

	Parnassus alone, of all the mountains, overtopped the waves; and there 
Deucalion, and his wife Pyrrha, of the race of Prometheus, found refuge - he a just man, 
and she a faithful worshipper of the gods.  Jupiter, when he saw none left alive but this 
pair, and remembered their harmless lives and pious demeanor, ordered the north winds 
to drive away the clouds, and disclose the skies to earth, and earth to the skies.  
Neptune also directed Triton to blow on his shell, and sound a retreat to the waters.  The 
waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its shores, and the rivers to their channels.  
Then Deucalion thus addressed Pyrrha: "O wife, only surviving woman, joined to me first 
by the ties of kindred and marriage, and now by a common danger, would that we 
possessed the power of our ancestor Prometheus, and could renew the race as he at 
first made it!  But as we cannot, let us seek yonder temple, and inquire of the gods what 
remains for us to do." They entered the temple, deformed as it was with slime, and 
approached the altar, where no fire burned.  There they fell prostrate on the earth, and 
prayed the goddess to inform them how they might retrieve their miserable affairs.  The 
oracle answered, "Depart from the temple with head veiled and garments unbound, and 
cast behind you the bones of your mother." They heard the words with astonishment.  
Pyrrha first broke silence: "We cannot obey; we dare not profane the remains of our 
parents." They sought the thickest shades of the wood, and revolved the oracle in their 
minds.  At length Deucalion spoke: "Either my sagacity deceives me, or the command is 
one we may obey without impiety.  The earth is the great parent of all; the stones are her 
bones; these we may cast behind us; and I think this is what the oracle means.  At least, 
it will do no harm to try." They veiled their faces, unbound their garments, and picked up 
stones, and cast them behind them.  The stones (wonderful to relate) began to grow 
soft, and assume shape.  By degrees, they put on a rude resemblance to the human 
form, like a block half finished in the hands of the sculptor.  The moisture and slime that 
were about them became flesh; the stony part became bones; the veins remained veins, 
retaining their name, only changing their use.  Those thrown by the hand of the man 
became men, and those by the woman became women.  It was a hard race, and well 
adapted to labor, as we find ourselves to be at this day, giving plain indications of our 
origin.

	The comparison of Eve to Pandora is too obvious to have escaped Milton, who 
introduces it in Book IV. of Paradise Lost: -

     "More lovely than Pandora, whom the gods
     Endowed with all their gifts, and O, too like
     In sad event, when to the unwiser son
     Of Japhet brought by Hermes, she insnared
     Mankind with her fair looks, to be avenged
     On him who had stole Jove's authentic fire."

	Prometheus and Epimetheus were sons of Iapetus, which Milton changes to 
Japhet.

	Prometheus has been a favorite subject with the poets.  He is represented as the 
friend of mankind, who interposed in their behalf when Jove was incensed against them, 
and who taught them civilization and the arts.  But as, in so doing, he transgressed the 
will of Jupiter, he drew down on himself the anger of the ruler of gods and men.  Jupiter 
had him chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, where a vulture preyed on his liver, 
which was renewed as fast as devoured.  This state of torment might have been brought 
to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to submit to his oppressor; 
for he possessed a secret which involved the stability of Jove's throne, and if he would 
have revealed it, he might have been at once taken into favor.  But that he disdained to 
do.  He has therefore become the symbol of magnanimous endurance of unmerited 
suffering, and strength of will resisting oppression.

	Byron and Shelley have both treated this theme.  The following are Byron's lines: 
-

     "Titan! to whose immortal eyes
     The sufferings of mortality,
     Seen in their sad reality,
     Were not as things that gods despise,
     What was thy pity's recompense?
     A silent suffering, and intense;
     The rock, the vulture, and the chain;
     All that the proud can feel of pain;
     The agony they do not show,
     The suffocating sense of woe.

     "Thy godlike crime was to be kind;
     To render with thy precepts less
     The sum of human wretchedness,
     And strengthen man with his own mind.
     And, baffled as thou wert from high.
     Still, in thy patient energy

     In the endurance and repulse
     Of thine impenetrable spirit,
     Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
     A mighty lesson we inherit."

	Byron also employs the same allusion, in his ode to Napoleon Bonaparte: -


     "Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
     Wilt thou withstand the shock?
     And share with him - the unforgiven -
     His vulture and his rock?"


Chapter III: Apollo, Daphne, Pyramus, Thisbecephalus, Procris

	The slime with which the earth was covered by the waters of the flood produced 
an excessive fertility, which called forth every variety of production, both bad and good.  
Among the rest, Python, an enormous serpent, crept forth, the terror of the people, and 
lurked in the caves of Mount Parnassus.  Apollo slew him with his arrows - weapons 
which he had not before used against any but feeble animals, hares, wild goats, and 
such game.  In commemoration of this illustrious conquest he instituted the Pythian 
games, in which the victor in feats of strength, swiftness of foot, or in the chariot race, 
was crowned with a wreath of beech leaves; for the laurel was not yet adopted by 
Apollo as his own tree.

	The famous statue of Apollo called the Belvedere represents the god after this 
victory over the serpent Python.  To this Byron alludes in his Childe Harold, iv. 161: -

     "The lord of the unerring bow,
     The god of life, and poetry, and light,
     The Sun, in human limbs arrayed, and brow
     All radiant from his triumph in the fight.
     The shaft has just been shot; the arrow bright
     With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye
     And nostril, beautiful disdain, and might,
     And majesty flash their full lightnings by,
     Developing in that one glance the Deity."

Apollo And Daphne. 

	Daphne was Apollo's first love.  It was not brought about by accident, but by the 
malice of Cupid.  Apollo saw the boy playing with his bow and arrows; and being himself 
elated with his recent victory over Python, he said to him, "What have you to do with 
warlike weapons, saucy boy?  Leave them for my hands worthy of them.  Behold the 
conquest I have won by means of them over the vast serpent who stretched his 
poisonous body over acres of the plain!  Be content with your torch, child, and kindle up 
your flames, as you call them, where you will, but presume not to meddle with my 
weapons."

	Venus's boy heard these words, and rejoined, "Your arrows may strike all things 
else, Apollo, but mine shall strike you." So saying, he took his stand on a rock of 
Parnassus, and drew from his quiver two arrows of different workmanship, one to excite 
love, the other to repel it.  The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the latter blunt and 
tipped with lead.  With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the daughter of the 
river god Peneus, and with the golden one Apollo, through the heart.  Forthwith the god 
was seized with love for the maiden, and she abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight 
was in woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase.  Many lovers sought her, but she 
spurned them all, ranging the woods, and taking no thought of Cupid nor of Hymen.  Her 
father often said to her, "Daughter, you owe me a son-in-law; you owe me 
grandchildren." She, hating the thought of marriage as a crime, with her beautiful face 
tinged all over with blushes, threw her arms around her father's neck, and said, "Dearest 
father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain unmarried, like Diana." He 
consented, but at the same time said, "Your own face will forbid it."

	Apollo loved her, and longed to obtain her; and he who gives oracles to all the 
world was not wise enough to look into his own fortunes.  He saw her hair flung loose 
over her shoulders, and said, "IF so charming in disorder, what would it be if arranged?" 
He saw her eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing 
them.  He admired her hands and arms, naked to the shoulder, and whatever was 
hidden from view he imagined more beautiful still.  He followed her; she fled, swifter than 
the wind, and delayed not a moment at his entreaties.  "Stay," said he, "daughter of 
Peneus; I am not a foe.  Do not fly me as a lamb flies the wolf, or a dove the hawk. It is 
for love I pursue you.  You make me miserable, for fear you should fall and hurt yourself 
on these stones, and I should be the cause. Pray run slower and I will follow slower.  I 
am no clown, no rude peasant. Jupiter is my father, and I am lord of Delphos and 
Tenedos, and know all things, present and future.  I am the god of song and the lyre.  My 
arrows fly true to the mark; but alas!  an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my 
heart!  I am the god of medicine, and know the virtues of all healing plants. Alas!  I suffer 
a malady that no balm can cure!"

	The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered.  And even as she 
fled she charmed him.  The wind blew her garments, and her unbound hair streamed 
loose behind her.  The god grew impatient to find his wooings thrown away, and, sped 
by Cupid, gained upon her in the race.  It was like a hound pursuing a hare, with open 
jaws ready to seize, while the feebler animal darts forward, slipping from the very grasp.  
So flew the god and the virgin - he on the wings of love, and she on those of fear.  The 
pursuer is the more rapid, however, and gains upon her, and his panting breath blows 
upon her hair.  Her strength begins to fail, and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, 
the river god: "Help me, Peneus!  open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, 
which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness 
seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became 
leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face 
became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its beauty. Apollo stood 
amazed.  He touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark.  He 
embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his 
lips.  "Since you cannot be my wife," said he, "you shall assuredly be my tree.  I will wear 
you for my crown I will decorate with you my harp and my quiver; and when the great 
Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into 
wreaths for their brows.  And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green, 
and your leaf know no decay." The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed its 
head in grateful acknowledgment.

	That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear strange, 
but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may.  The poet Armstrong, 
himself a physician, thus accounts for it: -

     "Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
     Expels diseases, softens every pain;
     And hence the wise of ancient days adored
     One power of physic, melody, and song."

	The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets.  Waller applies it 
to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not soften the heart of his 
mistress, yet won for the poet wide-spread fame.

     "Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
     Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
     All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
     Attend his passion and approve his song.
     Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
     He caught at love and filled his arms with bays."

	The following stanza from Shelley's Adonais alludes to Byron's early quarrel with 
the reviewers: -

     "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
     The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;
     The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true,
     Who feed where Desolation first has fed.
     And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,
     When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
     The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
     And smiled!  The spoilers tempt no second blow;
     They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go."

Pyramus And Thisbe. 

	Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in all 
Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned.  Their parents occupied adjoining houses; and 
neighborhood brought the young people together, and acquaintance ripened into love.  
They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade.  One thing however, they 
could not forbid - that love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both.  They 
conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being covered 
up.  In the wall that parted the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in 
the structure.  No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it.  What will not 
love discovered!  It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass 
backward and forward through the gap.  As they stood, Pyramus on this side.  Thisbe on 
that, their breaths would mingle.  "Cruel wall," they said, "why do you keep two lovers 
apart: But we will not be ungrateful.  We owe you, we confess, the privilege of 
transmitting loving words to willing ears." Such words they uttered on different sides of 
the wall; and when night came and they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon 
the wall, she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.

	Next morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had melted the 
frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot.  Then, after lamenting their hard 
fate, they agreed that next night, when all was still, they would slip away from watchful 
eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and to insure a meeting, repair to 
a well-known edifice, standing without the city's bounds, called the Tomb of Ninus, and 
that the one who came first should await the other at the foot of a certain tree.  It was a 
white mulberry tree, and stood near a cool spring.  All was agreed on, and they waited 
impatiently for the sun to go down beneath the waters and night to rise up from them.  
Then cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her head covered with a 
veil, made her way to the monument and sat down under the tree.  As she sat alone in 
the dim light of the evening she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent 
slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst.  Thisbe fled at the sight, and 
sought refuge in the hollow of a rock.  As she fled she dropped her veil.  The lioness, 
after drinking at the spring, turned to retreat to the woods, and seeing the veil on the 
ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.

	Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting.  He saw 
in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled from his cheeks at the sight.  
Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody.  "O, hapless girl," said he, "I have been 
the cause of thy death!  Thou, more worthy of life than I, hast fallen the first victim.  I will 
follow.  I am the guilty cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and not 
being myself on the spot to guard thee.  Come forth, ye lions, from the rocks, and tear 
this guilty body with your teeth." He took up the veil, carried it with him to the appointed 
tree, and covered it with kisses and with tears.  "My blood also shall stain your texture," 
said he, and drawing his sword plunged it into his heart.  The blood spirited from the 
wound, and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red; and sinking into the earth re 
ched the roots, so that the red color mounted through the trunk to the fruit.

	By this time, Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to disappoint her 
lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for the youth, eager to tell him the 
danger she had escaped.  When she came to the spot and saw the changed color of the 
mulberries she doubted whether it was the same place.  While she hesitated she saw 
the form of one struggling in the agonies of death.  She started back, a shudder ran 
through her frame as a ripple on the face of the still water when a sudden breeze 
sweeps over it. But as soon as she recognized her lover, she screamed and beat her 
breast; embracing the lifeless body, pouring tears into its wounds, and imprinting kisses 
on the cold lips.  "O, Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it 
is your own Thisbe that speaks.  Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping head!" At the 
name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again.  She saw her veil 
stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword.  "Thy own hand has slain thee, 
and for my sake," she said.  "I too can be brave for once, and my love is as strong as 
thine.  I will follow thee in death, for I have been the cause; and death, which alone could 
part us, shall not prevent my joining thee.  And ye, unhappy parents of us both, deny us 
not our united request.  As love and death have joined us, let one tomb contain us.  And 
thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter.  Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our 
blood." So saying she plunged the sword into her breast.  Her parents ratified her wish, 
the gods also ratified it.  The two bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and the tree ever 
after brought forth purple berries, as it does to this day.

	Moore, in the Sylph's Ball, speaking of Davy's Safety Lamp, is reminded of the 
wall that separated Thisbe and her lover: -

     "O for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
     That curtain of protecting wire,
     Which Davy delicately draws
     Around illicit, dangerous fire!

     "The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
     (Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)
     Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
     May see each other, but not kiss."

	In Mickle's translation of the Lusiad occurs the following allusion to the story of 
Pyramus and Thisbe, and the metamorphosis of the mulberries. The poet is describing 
the Island of Love.

     " - here each gift Pomona's hand bestows
     In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
     The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
     Than e'er was fostered by the hand of care.
     The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
     And stained with lovers' blood, in pendent rows
     The mulberries o'erload the bending boughs."

	If any of our young readers can be so hard-hearted as to enjoy a laugh at the 
expense of poor Pyramus and Thisbe, they may find an opportunity by turning to 
Shakespeare's play of the Midsummer Night's Dream, where it is most amusingly 
burlesqued.

Cephalus And Procris. 

	Cephalus was a beautiful youth and fond of manly sports.  He would rise before 
the dawn to pursue the chase.  Aurora saw him when she first looked forth, fell in love 
with him and stole him away.  But Cephalus was just marri d to a charming wife whom 
he devotedly loved.  Her name was Procris. She was a favorite of Diana, the goddess of 
hunting, who had given her a dog which could outrun every rival, and a javelin which 
would never fail of its mark; and Procris gave these presents to her husband.  Cephalus 
was so happy in his wife that he resisted all the entreaties of Aurora, and she finally 
dismissed him in displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep your wife, whom, if I 
am not much mistaken, you will one day be very sorry you ever saw again."

	Cephalus returned, and was as happy as ever in his wife and his woodland 
sports.  Now it happened some angry deity had sent a ravenous fox to annoy the 
country; and the hunters turned out in great strength to capture it. Their efforts were all in 
vain; no dog could run it down; and at last they came to Cephalus to borrow his famous 
dog, whose name was Lelaps.  No sooner was the dog let loose than he darted off, 
quicker than their eye could follow him.  If they had not seen his footprints in the sand 
they would have thought he flew. Cephalus and others stood on a hillaand saw the race.  
The fox tried every art; he ran in a circle and turned on his track, the dog close upon him, 
with open jaws, snapping at his heels, but biting only the air. Cephalus was about to use 
his javelin, when suddenly he saw both dog and game stop instantly. The heavenly 
powers who had given both, were not willing that either should conquer.  In the very 
attitude of life and action they were turned into stone. So lifelike and natural did they 
look, you would have thought, as you looked at them, that one was going to bark, the 
other to leap forward.

	Cephalus, though he had lost his dog, still continued to take delight in the chase.  
He would go out at early morning, ranging the woods and hills unaccompanied by any 
one, needing no help, for his javelin was a sure weapon in all cases.  Fatigued with 
hunting, when the sun got high he would seek a shady nook where a cool stream flowed, 
and, stretched on the grass, with his garments thrown aside, would enjoy the breeze.  
Sometimes he would say aloud, "Come, sweet breeze, come and fan my breast, come 
and allay the heat that burns me." Some one passing by one day heard him talking in 
this way to the air, and, foolishly believing that he was talking to some maiden, went and 
told the secret to Procris, Cephalus's wife.  Love is credulous.  Procris, at the sudden 
shock, fainted away.  Presently recovering, she said, "It cannot be true; I will not believe 
it unless I myself am a witness to it." So she waited, with anxious heart, till the next 
morning, when Cephalus went to hunt as usual.  Then she stole out after him, and 
concealed herself in the place where the informer directed her.  Cephalus came as he 
was wont when tired with sport, and stretched himself on the green bank, saying, 
"Come, sweet breeze, come and fan me; you know how I love you!  you make the 
groves and my solitary rambles delightful." He was running on in this way when he 
heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the bushes.  Supposing it some wild 
animal, he threw his javelin at the spot.  A cry from his beloved Procris told him that the 
weapon had too surely met its mark.  He rushed to the place, and found her bleeding, 
and with sinking strength endeavoring to draw forth from the wound the javelin, her own 
gift.  Cephalus raised her from the earth, strove to stanch the blood, and called her to 
revive and not to leave him miserable, to reproach himself with her death.  She opened 
her feeble eyes, and forced herself to utter these few words: "I implore you, if you have 
ever loved me, if I have ever deserved kindness at your hands, my husband, grant me 
this last request; do not marry that odious Breeze!" This disclosed the whole mystery: 
but alas!  what advantage to disclose it now? She died; but her face wore a calm 
expression, and she looked pityingly and forgivingly on her husband when he made her 
understand the truth.

	Moore, in his Legendary Ballads, has one on Cephalus and Procris, beginning 
thus: -

     "A hunter once in a grove reclined,
     To shun the noon's bright eye,
     And oft he wooed the wandering wind
     To cool his brow with its sigh.
     While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
     Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
     His song was still, 'Sweet Air, O come!'
     While Echo answered, 'Come, sweet Air"

Chapter IV: Juno And Her Rivals

Juno And Her Rivals, Io And Callisto - Diana And Actaeon - Latona And 
Rustics. 
	Juno one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately suspected that 
her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his doings that would not bear the 
light.  She brushed away the cloud, and saw her husband, on the banks of a glassy 
river, with a beautiful heifer standing near him.  Juno suspected the heifer's form 
concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould, - as was, indeed, the case; for it was Io, 
the daughter of the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter had been flirting with, and, when 
he became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form.

	Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its beauty, and asked 
whose it was, and of what herd.  Jupiter, to stop questions, replied that it was a fresh 
creation from the earth.  Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do?  He 
was loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a 
simple heifer?  He could not, without exciting suspicion; so he consented.  The 
goddess was not yet relieved of her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to Argus, to 
be strictly watched.

	Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with more 
than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly.  He suffered her to feed 
through the day, and at night tied her up with a vile rope round her neck.  She would 
have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to 
stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that frightened even herself.  She saw her 
father and her sisters, went near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and heard 
them admire her beauty.  Her father reached her a tuft of grass, and she licked the 
outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known to him, and would have uttered 
her wish; but, alas! words were wanting.  At length she bethought herself of writing, 
and inscribed her name - it was a short one - with her hoof on the sand. Inachus 
recognized it, and discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in vain, 
was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and, embracing her white neck, 
exclaimed, "Alas!  my daughter, it would have been a less grief to have lost you 
altogether!" While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, came and drove her away, and 
took his seat on a high bank, from whence he could see all round in every direction.

	Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress, and calling 
Mercury told him to go and despatch Argus.  Mercury made haste, put his winged 
slippers on his feet, and cap on his head, took his sleep- producing wand, and leaped 
down from the heavenly towers to the earth.  There he laid aside his wings, and kept 
only his wand, with which he presented himself as a shepherd driving his flock.  As he 
strolled on he blew upon his pipes.  These were what are called in the Syrinx or 
Pandean pipes.  Argus listened with delight, for he had never seen the instrument 
before.  "Young man," said he, "come and take a seat by me on this stone.  There is 
no better place for your flock to graze in than hereabouts, and here is a pleasant 
shade such as shepherds love." Mercury sat down, talked, and told stories till it grew 
late, and played upon his pipes his most soothing strains, hoping to lull the watchful 
eyes to sleep, but all in vain; for Argus still contrived to keep some of his eyes open 
though he shut the rest.

	Among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which he played 
was invented.  "There was a certain nymph, whose name was Syrinx, who was much 
beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the wood; but she would have none of them, but 
was a faithful worshipper of Diana, and followed the chase. You would have thought it 
was Diana herself, had you seen her in her hunting dress, only that her bow was of 
horn and Diana's of silver.  One day, as she was returning from the chase, Pan met 
her, told her just this, and added more of the same sort.  She ran away, without 
stopping to hear his compliments, and he pursued till she came to the bank of the 
river, where he overtook her, and she had only time to call for help on her friends the 
water nymphs.  They heard and consented.  Pan threw his arms around what he 
supposed to be the form of the nymph, and found he embraced only a tuft of reeds!  
As he breathed a sigh, the air sounded through the reeds, and produced a plaintive 
melody. The god, charmed with the novelty, and with the sweetness of the music, said, 
'Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.' And he took some of the reeds, and placing 
them together, of unequal lengths, side by side, made an instrument which he called 
Syrinx, in honor of the nymph." Before Mercury had finished his story he saw Argus's 
eyes all asleep.  As his head nodded forward on his breast, Mercury with one stroke 
cut his neck through, and tumbled his head down the rocks.  O, hapless Argus!  the 
light of your hundred eyes is quenched at once!  Juno took them and put them as 
ornaments on the tail of her peacock, where they remain to this day.

	But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated.  She sent a gadfly to torment Io, 
who fled over the whole world from its pursuit.  She swam through the Ionian Sea, 
which derived its name from her, then roamed over the plains of Illyria, ascended 
Mount Haemus, and crossed the Thracian strait, thence named the Bosphorus, 
(cowford,) rambled on through Scythia, and the country of the Cimmerians, and arrived 
at last on the banks of the Nile.  At length Jupiter interceded for her, and upon his 
promising not to pay her any more attentions Juno consented to restore her to her 
form.  It was curious to see her gradually recover her former self.  The coarse hairs fell 
from her body, her horns shrank up, her eyes grew narrower, her mouth shorter; hands 
and fingers came instead of hoofs to her fore feet; in fine there was nothing left of the 
heifer, except her beauty.  At first she was afraid to speak for fear she should low, but 
gradually she recovered her confidence and was restored to her father and sisters.

	In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following allusion to the story of 
Pan and Syrinx occurs: -

     "So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside,
     That we might look into a forest wide,

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
     Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
     Poor nymph - poor Pan - how he did weep to find
     Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
     Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
     Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain"

Callisto. 

	Callisto was another maiden who excited the jealousy of Juno, and the goddess 
changed her into a boar.  "I will take away," said she, "that beauty with which you have 
captivated my husband." Down fell Callisto on her hands and knees; she tried to stretch 
out her arms in supplication, - they were already beginning to be covered with black hair.  
Her hands grew rounded, became armed with crooked claws, and served for feet; her 
mouth, which Jove used to praise for its beauty, became a horrid pair of jaws; her voice, 
which if unchanged would have moved the heart to pity, became a growl, more fit to 
inspire terror.  Yet her former disposition remained, and with continual groaning, she 
bemoaned her fate, and stood upright as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg for 
mercy; and felt that Jove was unkind, though she could not tell him so.  Ah, how often, 
afraid to stay in the woods all night alone, she wandered about the neighborhood of her 
former haunts; how often, frightened by the dogs, did she, so lately a huntress, fly in 
terror from the hunters!  Often she fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now 
a wild beast herself; and, bear as she was, was afraid of the bears.

	One day a youth espied her as he was hunting.  She saw him and recognized 
him as her own son, now grown a young man.  She stopped and felt inclined to embrace 
him.  As she was about to approach, he, alarmed, raised his hunting spear, and was on 
the point of transfixing her, when Jupiter, beholding, arrested the crime, and snatching 
away both of them, placed them in the heavens as the Great and Little Bear.

	Juno was in a rage to see her rival so set in honor, and hastened to ancient 
Tethys and Oceanus, the powers of ocean, and in answer to their inquiries, thus told the 
cause of her coming.  "Do you ask why I, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly 
plains and sought your depths.  Learn that I am supplanted in heaven, - my place is 
given to another.  You will hardly believe me; but look when night darkens the world, and 
you shall see the two of whom I have so much reason to complain exalted to the 
heavens, in that part where the circle is the smallest, in the neighborhood of the pole. 
Why should any one hereafter tremble at the thought of offending Juno, when such 
rewards are the consequence of my displeasure!  See what I have been able to effect! I 
forbade her to wear the human form, - she is placed among the stars!  So do my 
punishments result, - such is the extent of my power! Better that she should have 
resumed her former shape, as I permitted Io to do.  Perhaps he means to marry her, and 
put me away!  But you, my foster- parents, if you feel for me, and see with displeasure 
this unworthy treatment of me, show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty couple 
from coming into your waters." The powers of the ocean assented, and consequently the 
two constellations of the Great and Little Bear move round and round in heaven, but 
never sink, as the other stars do, beneath the ocean.

	Milton alludes to the fact that the constellation of the Bear never sets, when he 
says -

     "Let my lamp at midnight hour
     Be seen in some high lonely tower,
     Where I may oft outwatch the Bear," &c.

	And Prometheus, in J. R. Lowell's poem, says, -


     "One after one the stars have risen and set,
     Sparkling upon the hoar frost of my chain;
     The Bear that prowled all night about the fold
     Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den,
     Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn."

	The last star in the tail of the Little Bear is the Pol star, called also the Cynosure.  
Milton says, -

     "Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
     While the landscape round it measures.

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Towers and battlements it sees
     Bosomed high in tufted trees,
     Where perhaps some beauty lies
     The Cynosure of neighboring eyes."

	The reference here is both to the Pole-star as the guide of mariners, and to the 
magnetic attraction of the North.  He calls it also the "Star of Arcady," because Callisto's 
boy was named Arcas, and they lived in Arcadia. In Comus, the brother, benighted in the 
woods, says, -

     " - Some gentle taper!
     Though a rush candle, from the wicker hole
     Of some clay habitation, visit us
     With thy long levelled rule of streaming light,
     And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,
     Or Tyrian Cynosure."

Diana And Actaeon. 

	Thus, in two instances, we have seen Juno's severity to her rivals; now let us 
learn how a virgin goddess punished an invader of her privacy.

	It was midday, and the sun stood equally distant from either goal, when young 
Actaeon, son of King Cadmus, thus addressed the youths who with him were hunting the 
stag in the mountains: -

	"Friends, our nets and our weapons are wet with the blood of our victims; we 
have had sport enough for one day, and to-morrow we can renew our labors. Now, while 
Phoebus parches the earth, let us put by our implements and indulge ourselves with 
rest."

	There was a valley thick enclosed with cypresses and pines, sacred to the 
huntress queen, Diana.  In the extremity of the valley was a cave, not adorned with art, 
but nature had counterfeited art in its construction, for she had turned the arch of its roof 
with stones as delicately fitted as if by the hand of man.  A fountain burst out from one 
side, whose open basin was bounded by a grassy rim.  Here the goddess of the woods 
used to come when weary with hunting and lave her virgin limbs in the sparkling water.

	One day, having repaired thither with her nymphs, she handed her javelin, her 
quiver, and her bow to one, her robe to another, while a third unbound the sandals from 
her feet.  Then Crocale, the most skilful of them, arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale 
and the rest drew water in capacious urns.  While the goddess was thus employed in the 
labors of the toilet, behold Actaeon, having quitted his companions, and rambling without 
any especial object, came to the place, led thither by his destiny.  As he presented 
himself at the entrance of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed 
towards the goddess to hide her with their bodies.  But she was taller than the rest and 
overtopped them all by a head.  Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or at dawn, 
came over the countenance of Diana thus taken by surprise.  Surrounded as she was by 
her nymphs, she yet turned half away, and sought with a sudden impulse for her arrows.  
As they were not at hand, she dashed the water into the face of the intruder, adding 
these words; "Now go and tell, if you can, that you have seen Diana unapparelled." 
Immediately a pair of branching stag's horns grew out of his head, his neck gained in 
length, his ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms long legs, his body 
was covered with a hairy spotted hide.  Fear took the place of his former boldness, and 
the hero fled. He could not but admire his own speed; but when he saw his horns in the 
water, "Ah, wretched me!" he would have said, but no sound followed the effort.  He 
groaned, and tears flowed down the face which had taken the place of his own. Yet his 
consciousness remained.  What shall he do? - go home to seek the palace, or lie hid in 
the woods?  The latter he was afraid, the former he was ashamed to do.  While he 
hesitated the dogs saw him.  First Melampus, a Spartan dog, gave the signal with his 
bark, then Pamphagus, Dorceus, Lelaps, Theron, Nape, Tigris, and all the rest, rushed 
after him swifter than the wind.  Over rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that 
seemed impracticable, he fled and they followed.  Where he had often chased the stag 
and cheered on his pack, his pack now chased him, cheered on by his huntsmen. He 
longed to cry out, "I am Actaeon; recognize your master!" but the words came not at his 
will. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs.  Presently one fastened on his back, 
another seized his shoulder.  While they held their master, the rest of the pack came up 
and buried their teeth in his flesh.  He groaned, - not in a human voice, yet certainly not 
in a stag's, - and falling on his knees, raised his eyes, and would have raised his arms in 
supplication, if he had had them.  His friends and fellow-huntsmen cheered on the dogs, 
and looked every where for Actaeon, calling on him to join the sport.  At the sound of his 
name, he turned his head, and heard them regret that he should be away. He earnestly 
wished he was.  He would have been well pleased to see the exploits of his dogs, but to 
feel them was too much.  They were all around him, rending and tearing; and it was not 
till they had torn his life out, that the anger of Diana was satisfied.

	In Shelley's poem Adonais is the following allusion to the story of Actaeon: -

     "Midst others of less note came one frail form,
     A phantom among men: companionless
     As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
     Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
     Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
     Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
     With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness;
     And his own Thoughts, along that rugged way,
     Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey.'

	Stanza 31.

	The allusion is probably to Shelly himself.

Latona And The Rustics. 

	Some thought the goddess in this instance more severe than was just, while 
others praised her conduct as strictly consistent with her virgin dignity.  As usual, the 
recent event brought older ones to mind, and one of the bystanders told this story.  
"Some countrymen of Lycia once insulted the goddess Latona, but not with impunity.  
When I was young, my father, who had grown too old for active labors, sent me to Lycia 
to drive thence some choice oxen, and there I saw the very pond and marsh where the 
wonder happened. Near by stood an ancient altar, black with the smoke of sacrifice and 
almost buried among the reeds.  I inquired whose altar it might be, whether of Faunus or 
the Naiads or some god of the neighboring mountain, and one of the country people 
replied, 'No mountain or river god possesses this altar but she whom royal Juno in her 
jealousy drove from land to land, denying her any spot of earth whereon to rear her 
twins.  Bearing in her arms the infant deities, Latona reached this land, weary with her 
burden and parched with thirst.  By chance she espied in the bottom of the valley this 
pond of clear water, where the country people were at work gathering willows and 
osiers. The goddess approached, and kneeling on the bank would have slaked her thirst 
in the cool stream, but the rustics forbade her.  'Why do you refuse me water?' said she; 
'water is free to all.  Nature allows no one to claim as property the sunshine, the air, or 
the water.  I come to take my share of the common blessing.  Yet I ask it of you as a 
favor.  I have no intention of washing my limbs in it, weary though they be, but only to 
quench my thirst. My mouth is so dry that I can hardly speak.  A draught of water would 
be nectar to me; it would revive me, and I would own myself indebted to you for life itself.  
Let these infants move your pity, who stretch out their little arms as if to plead for me;' 
and the children, as it happened, were stretching out their arms.

	"Who would not have been moved with these gentle words of the goddess? But 
these clowns persisted in their rudeness; they even added jeers and threats of violence 
if she did not leave the place.  Nor was this all.  They waded into the pond and stirred up 
the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to drink.  Latona was so angry that 
she ceased to mind her thirst. She no longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her hands 
to heaven exclaimed, 'May they never quit that pool, but pass their lives there!' And it 
came to pass accordingly.  They now live in the water, sometimes totally submerged, 
then raising their heads above the surface or swimming upon it. Sometimes they come 
out upon the bank, but soon leap back again into the water.  They still use their base 
voices in railing, and though they have the water all to themselves, are not ashamed to 
croak in the midst of it.  Their voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their mouths have 
become stretched by constant railing, their necks have shrunk up and disappeared, and 
their heads are joined to their bodies.  Their backs are green, their disproportioned 
bellies white, and in short they are now frogs, and dwell in the slimy pool."

	This story explains the allusion in one of Milton's sonnets, "On the detraction 
which followed upon his writing certain treatises."

     "I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
     By the known laws of ancient liberty,
     When straight a barbarous noise environs me
     Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs.
     As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
     Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
     Which after held the sun and moon in fee."

	The persecution which Latona experienced from Juno is alluded to in the story.  
The tradition was that the future mother of Apollo and Diana, flying from the wrath of 
Juno, besought all the islands of the Aegean to afford her a place of rest, but all feared 
too much the potent queen of heaven to assist her rival.  Delos alone consented to 
become the birthplace of the future deities.  Delos was then a floating island; but when 
Latona arrived there, Jupiter fastened it with adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea, 
that it might be a secure resting-place for his beloved.  Byron alludes to Delos in his Don 
Juan: -

     "The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece!
     Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
     Where grew the arts of war and peace,
     Where Delos rose and Phoebus sprun




Chapter V: Phaeton

	Phaeton was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene.  One day a schoolfellow 
laughed at the idea of his being the son of the god, and Phaeton went in rage and 
shame and reported it to his mother.  "If," said he, "I am indeed of heavenly birth, give 
me, mother, some proof of it, and establish my claim to the honor." Clymene stretched 
forth her hands towards the skies, and said, "I call to witness the Sun which looks 
down upon us, that I have told you the truth.  If I speak falsely, let this be the last time I 
behold his light.  But it needs not much labor to go and inquire for yourself; the land 
whence the Sun rises lies next to ours.  Go and demand of him whether he will own 
you as a son." Phaeton heard with delight.  He travelled to India, which lies directly in 
the regions of sunrise; and, full of hope and pride, approached the goal whence his 
parent begins his course.

	The palace of the Sun stood reared aloft on columns, glittering with gold and 
precious stones, while polished ivory formed the ceilings, and silver the doors.  The 
workmanship surpassed the material; ^* for upon the walls Vulcan had represented 
earth, sea and skies, with their inhabitants. In the sea were the nymphs, some sporting 
in the waves, some riding on the backs of fishes, while others sat upon the rocks and 
dried their sea-green hair.  Their faces were not all alike, nor yet unlike, - but such as 
sisters' ought to be. ^* The earth had its towns and forests and rivers and rustic 
divinities.  Over all was carved the likeness of the glorious heaven; and on the silver 
doors the twelve signs of the zodiac, six on each side.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 477.]

	Clymene's son advanced up the steep ascent, and entered the halls of his 
disputed father.  He approached the paternal presence, but stopped at a distance, for 
the light was more than he could bear.  Phoebus, arrayed in a purple vesture, sat on a 
throne which glittered as with diamonds.  On his right hand and his left stood the Day 
the Month, and the Year, and, at regular intervals, the Hours.  Spring stood with her 
head crowned with flowers, and Summer, with garment cast aside, and a garland 
formed of spears of ripened grain, and Autumn, with his feet stained with grape-juice, 
and icy Winter, with his hair stiffened with hoar frost.  Surrounded by these attendants, 
the Sun, with the eye that sees every thing beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty 
and splendor of the scene, and inquired the purpose of his errand The youth replied, 
"O, light of the boundless world, Phoebus, my father, - if you permit me to use that 
name, - give me some proof, I beseech you, by which I may be known as yours." He 
ceased; and his father, laying aside the beams that shone all around his head, bade 
him approach, and embracing him, said, "My son, you deserve not to be disowned, 
and I confirm what your mother has told you.  To put an end to your doubts, ask what 
you will, the gift shall be yours.  I call to witness that dreadful lake, which I never saw, 
but which we gods swear by in our most solemn engagements." Phaeton immediately 
asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot of the sun.  The father repented 
of his promise; thrice and four times he shook his radiant head in warning.  "I have 
spoken rashly," said he; "this only request I would fain deny.  I beg you to withdraw it.  
It is not a safe boon, nor one, my Phaeton, suited to your youth and strength.  Your lot 
is mortal, and you ask what is beyond a mortal's power.  In your ignorance you aspire 
to do that which not even the gods themselves may do.  None but myself may drive 
the flaming car of day.  Not even Jupiter, whose terrible right arm hurls the 
thunderbolts.  The first part of the way is steep, and such as the horses when fresh in 
the morning can hardly climb; the middle is high up in the heavens, whence I myself 
can scarcely, without alarm, look down and behold the earth and sea stretched 
beneath me.  The last part of the road descends rapidly, and requires most careful 
driving.  Tethys, who is waiting to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall 
headlong.  Add to all this, the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the 
stars with it.  I have to be perpetually on my guard lest that movement, which sweeps 
every thing else along, should hurry me also away.  Suppose I should lend you the 
chariot, what would you do?  Could you keep your course while the sphere was 
revolving under you?  Perhaps you think that there are forests and cities, the abodes 
of gods, and palaces and temples on the way.  On the contrary, the road is through the 
midst of frightful monsters.  You pass by the horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, 
and near the Lion's jaws, and where the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction 
and the Crab in another.  Nor will you find it easy to guide those horses, with their 
breasts full of fire that they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils.  I can scarcely 
govern them myself, when they are unruly and resist the reins. Beware, my son, lest I 
be the donor of a fatal gift; recall your request while yet you may.  Do you ask me for a 
proof that you are sprung from my blood?  I give you a proof in my fears for you.  Look 
at my face, - I would that you could look into my breast, you would there see all a 
father's anxiety.  Finally," he continued, "look round the world and choose whatever 
you will of what earth or sea contains most precious, - ask it and fear no refusal.  This 
only I pray you not to urge.  It is not honor, but destruction you seek.  Why do you 
hang round my neck and still entreat me? You shall have it if you persist, - the oath is 
sworn and must be kept, - but I beg you to choose more wisely."

	He ended; but the youth rejected all admonition, and held to his demand. So, 
having resisted as long as he could, Phoebus at last led the way to where stood the 
lofty chariot.

	It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan; the axle was of gold, the pole and wheels of 
gold, the spokes of silver.  Along the seat were rows of chrysolites and diamonds, 
which reflected all around the brightness of the sun.  While the daring youth gazed in 
admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the east, and showed the 
pathway strewn with roses.  The stars withdrew, marshalled by the Daystar, which last 
of all retired also. The father, when he saw the earth beginning to glow, and the Moon 
preparing to retire, ordered the Hours to harness up the horses.  They obeyed, and led 
forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins.  
Then the father bathed the face of his son with a powerful unguent, and made him 
capable of enduring the brightness of the flame.  He set the rays on his head, and, with 
a foreboding sigh, said, "If, my son, you will in this at least heed my advice, spare the 
whip and hold tight the reins.  They go fast enough of their own accord; the labor is to 
hold them in.  You are not to take the straight road directly between the five circles, but 
turn off to the left. Keep within the limit of the middle zone, and avoid the northern and 
the southern alike.  You will see the marks of the wheels, and they will serve to guide 
you.  And, that the skies and the earth may each receive their due share of heat, go 
not too high, or you will burn the heavenly dwellings, nor too low, or you will set the 
earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best. ^* And now I leave you to your 
chance, which I hope will plan better for you than you have done for yourself.  Night is 
passing out of the western gates and we can delay no longer.  Take the reins; but if at 
last your heart fails you, and you will benefit by my advice, stay where you are in 
safety, and suffer me to light and warm the earth." The agile youth sprang into the 
chariot, stood erect and grasped the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his 
reluctant parent.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 477.]

	Meanwhile the horses fill the air with their snortings and fiery breath, and stamp 
the ground impatient.  Now the bars are let down, and the boundless plain of the 
universe lies open before them.  They dart forward and cleave the opposing clouds, 
and outrun the morning breezes which started from the same eastern goal.  The 
steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter than usual; and as a ship 
without ballast is tossed hither and thither on the sea, so the chariot, without its 
accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty.  They rush headlong and leave the 
travelled road.  He is alarmed, and knows not how to guide them; nor, if he knew, has 
he the power. Then, for the first time, the Great and Little Bear were scorched with 
heat, and would fain, if it were possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent 
which lies coiled up round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with 
warmth felt its rage revive.  Bootes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his 
plough, and all unused to rapid motion.

	When hapless Phaeton looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast 
extent beneath him, he grew pale and his knees shook with terror.  In spite of the glare 
all around him, the sight of his eyes grew dim.  He wished he had never touched his 
father's horses, never learned his parentage, never prevailed in his request.  He is 
borne along like a vessel that flies before a tempest, when the pilot can do no more 
and betakes himself to his prayers. What shall he do?  Much of the heavenly road is 
left behind, but more remains before.  He turns his eyes from one direction to the 
other; now to the goal whence he began his course, now to the realms of sunset which 
he is not destined to reach.  He loses his self command, and knows not what to do, - 
whether to draw tight the reins or throw them loose; he forgets the names of the 
horses.  He sees with terror the monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven.  
Here the Scorpion extended his two great arms, with his tail and crooked claws 
stretching over two signs of the zodiac.  When the boy beheld him, reeking with poison 
and menacing with his fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his hands.  The 
horses, when they felt them loose on their backs, dashed headlong, and unrestrained 
went off into unknown regions of the sky, in among the stars, hurling the chariot over 
pathless places, now up in high heaven, now down almost to the earth.  The moon 
saw with astonishment her brother's chariot running beneath her own.  The clouds 
begin to smoke, and the mountain tops take fire; the fields are parched with heat, the 
plants wither, the trees with their leafy branches burn, the harvest is ablaze!  But these 
are small things.  Great cities perished, with their walls and towers; whole nations with 
their people were consumed to ashes!  The forest-clad mountains burned, Athos and 
Taurus and Tmolus and Oete; Ida, once celebrated for fountains, but now all dry; the 
Muses' mountain Helicon, and Haemus; Aetna, with fires within and without, and 
Parnassus, with his two peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy 
crown.  Her cold climate was no protection to Scythia, Caucasus burned, and Ossa 
and Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus; the Alps high in air, and the Apennines 
crowned with clouds.

	Then Phaeton beheld the world on fire, and felt the heat intolerable. The air he 
breathed was like the air of a furnace and full of burning ashes, and the smoke was of 
a pitchy darkness.  He dashed forward he knew not whither. Then, it is believed, the 
people of Aethiopia became black by the blood being forced so suddenly to the 
surface, and the Libyan desert was dried up to the condition in which it remains to this 
day.  The Nymphs of the fountains, with dishevelled hair, mourned their waters, nor 
were the rivers safe beneath their banks; Tanais smoked, and Caicus, Xanthus and 
Meander. Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus with golden sands, and Cayster 
where the swans resort.  Nile fled away and hid his head in the desert, and there it still 
remains concealed.  Where he used to discharge his waters through seven mouths 
into the sea, there seven dry channels alone remained.  The earth cracked open, and 
through the chinks light broke into Tartarus, and frightened the king of shadows and 
his queen.  The sea shrank up.  Where before was water, it became a dry plain; and 
the mountains that lie beneath the waves lifted up their heads and became islands.  
The fishes sought the lowest depths, and the dolphins no longer ventured as usual to 
sport on the surface.  Even Nereus, and his wife Doris, with the Nereids, their 
daughters, sought the deepest caves for refuge.  Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his 
head above the surface, and thrice was driven back by the heat.  Earth, surrounded as 
she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare, screening her face with her 
hand, looked up to heaven, and with a husky voice called on Jupiter.

	"O, ruler of the gods, if I have deserved this treatment, and it is your will that I 
perish with fire, why with hold your thunderbolts?  Let me at least fall by you hand.  Is 
this the reward of my fertility, of my obedient service?  Is it for this that I have supplied 
herbage for cattle, and fruits for men, and frankincense for your altars?  But if I am 
unworthy of regard, what has my brother Ocean done to deserve such a fate?  If 
neither of us can excite your pity, think, I pray you, of your own heaven and behold 
how both the poles are smoking which sustain your palace, which must fall if they be 
destroyed.  Atlas faints, and scarce holds up his burden.  If sea, earth, and heaven 
perish, we fall into ancient Chaos.  Save what yet remains to us from the devouring 
flame.  O, take thought for our deliverance in this awful moment!"

	Thus spoke Earth, and overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then 
Jupiter omnipotent, calling to witness all the gods, including him who had lent the 
chariot, and showing them that all was lost unless some speedy remedy were applied, 
mounted the lofty tower from whence he diffuses clouds over the earth, and hurls the 
forked lightnings.  But at that time not a cloud was to be found to interpose for a screen 
to earth, nor was a shower remaining unexhausted.  He thundered, and brandishing a 
lightning bolt in his right hand launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the 
same moment from his seat and from existence!  Phaeton, with his hair on fire, fell 
headlong, like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness as it falls, 
and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his burning frame.  The Italian 
Naiads reared a tomb for him, and inscribed these words upon the stone: -

     "Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaeton,
     Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
     He could not rule his father's car of fire,
     Yet was it much so nobly to aspire."

	His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate were turned into poplar trees, 
on the banks of the river and their tears, which continued to flow, became amber as they 
dropped into the stream.

	Milman, in his poem of Samor, makes the following allusion to Phaeton's story: -

     "As when the palsied universe aghast
     Lay . . . mute and still,
     When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth
     Devious through Heaven's affrighted signs his sire's
     Ill-granted chariot.  Him the Thunderer hurled
     From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf
     Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
     Even now the sister trees their amber tears
     O'er Phaeton untimely dead."

	In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Landor, descriptive of the Sea- shell, there 
is an allusion to the Sun's palace and chariot.  The water-nymph says, -

     " - I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
     Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
     In the sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
     His chariot wheel stands midway in the wave.
     Shake one and it awakens; then apply
     Its polished lip to your attentive ear,
     And it remembers its august abodes,
     And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."

	Gebir, Book 1.



Chapter VI: Midas - Baucis And Philemon

	Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school-master and foster- father, 
Silenus, missing.  The old man had been drinking, and in that state wandered away, 
and was found by some peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas.  Midas 
recognized him, and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights 
with an unceasing round of jollity.  On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and 
restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of a 
reward, whatever he might wish.  He asked that whatever he might touch should be 
changed into gold. Bacchus consented, though sorry that he had not made a better 
choice.  Midas went his way, rejoicing in his new-acquired power, which he hastened 
to put to the test.  He could scarce believe his eyes when he found a twig of an oak, 
which he plucked from the branch, become gold in his hand.  He took up a stone; it 
changed to gold.  He touched a sod; it did the same.  He took an apple from the tree; 
you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no 
bounds, and as soon as he got home, he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast 
on the table.  Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it hardened 
in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth.  He took a glass of wine, but 
it flowed down his throat like melted gold.

	In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest himself of his 
power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted.  But all in vain; starvation seemed to 
await him.  He raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to 
be delivered from his glittering destruction.  Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and 
consented.  "Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head, 
there plunge your head and body in, and wash away your fault and its punishment." He 
did so, and scarce had he touched the waters before the gold-creating power passed 
into them, and the river sands became changed into gold, as they remain to this day.

	Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country, and 
became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields.  On a certain occasion Pan had the 
temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre 
to a trial of skill.  The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain god, was 
chosen umpire.  The senior took his seat, and cleared away the trees from his ears to 
listen.  At a given signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great 
satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be present.  
Then Tmolus turned his head toward the Sun-god, and all his trees turned with him. 
Apollo rose; his brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple 
swept the ground.  In his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the 
strings.  Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of 
the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented, and questioned 
the justice of the award.  Apollo would not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any 
longer to wear the human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy, 
within and without, and movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of 
those of an ass.

	Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself with the 
thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he attempted to do by means 
of an ample turban or head-dress.  But his hair- dresser of course knew the secret.  He 
was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to 
disobey.  But he found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went 
out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the 
story, and covered it up.  Before long a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow, 
and as soon as it had gained its growth, began whispering the story and has continued 
to do so, from that day to this, every time a breeze passes over the place.

	The story of King Midas has been told by others with some variations. Dryden, in 
the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas's queen the betrayer of the secret.

     "This Midas knew, and durst communicate
     To none but to his wife his ears of state."

	Midas was king of Phrygia.  He was the son of Gordius, a poor countryman, who 
was taken by the people and made king, in obedience to the command of the oracle, 
which had said that their future king should come in a wagon.  While the people were 
deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his wagon into the public 
square.

	Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the oracle, and 
tied it up in its place with a fast knot.  This was the celebrated Gordian knot, which, in 
after times it was said, whoever should untie should become lord of all Asia.  Many tried 
to untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander the Great, in his career of conquest, came 
to Phrygia.  He tried his skill with as ill success as others, till growing impatient he drew 
his sword and cut the knot.  When he afterwards succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his 
sway, people began to think that he had complied with the terms of the oracle according 
to its true meaning.

Baucis And Philemon. 

	On a certain hill in Phrygia stand a linden tree and an oak, enclosed by a low 
wall.  Not far from the spot is a marsh, formerly good habitable land, but now indented 
with pools, the resort of fen-birds and cormorants.  Once on a time, Jupiter, in human 
shape, visited this country, and with him his son Mercury, (he of the caduceus,) without 
his wings.  They presented themselves as weary travellers, at many a door, seeking rest 
and shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the inhospitable inhabitants would 
not rouse themselves to open for their reception.  At last a humble mansion received 
them, a small thatched cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband 
Philemon, united when young, had grown old together.  Not ashamed of their poverty, 
they found it endurable by moderate desires and kind One need not look there for 
master or for servant; they two were the whole household, master and servant alike.  
When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble threshold, and bowed their heads to 
pass under the low door, the old man placed a seat, on which Baucis, bustling and 
attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down.  Then she raked out the coals 
from the ashes, and kindled up a fire, fed it with leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty 
breath blew it into a flame.  She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry branches, 
broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle.  Her husband collected some 
pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred them from the stalks, and prepared them for the 
pot.  He reached down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the chimney, cut a 
small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with the herbs, setting away the rest for another 
time.  A beechen bowl was filled with warm water, that their guests might wash.  While 
all was doing they beguiled the time with conversation.

	On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed with sea weed; 
and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but ancient and coarse enough, was 
spread over that.  The old lady, with her apron on, with trembling hand set the table.  
One leg was shorter than the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the level.  
When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling herbs.  Upon it she 
set some of chaste Minerva's olives, some cornel berries preserved in vinegar, and 
added radishes and cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes.  All were served in 
earthen dishes, and an earthen-ware pitcher, with wooden cups, stood beside them. 
When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot, was set on the table.  Some wine, not of the 
oldest, was added; and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all, 
friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.

	Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to see that the 
wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in the pitcher, of its own accord.  Struck 
with terror, Baucis and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their knees, 
and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor entertainment.  There was an 
old goose, which they kept as the guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought 
them to make this a sacrifice in honor of their guests.  But the goose, too nimble, with 
the aid of feet and wings, for the old folks, eluded their pursuit, and at last took shelter 
between the gods themselves.  They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these words: 
"We are gods.  This inhospitable village shall pay the penalty of its impiety you alone 
shall go free from the chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to the top of 
yonder hill." They hastened to obey, and, staff in hand, labored up the steep ascent.  
They had reached to within an arrow's flight of the top, when turning their eyes below, 
they beheld all the country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing. While they 
gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate of their neighbors, that old house 
of theirs was changed into a temple.  Columns took the place of the corner posts, the 
thatch grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble, the doors 
were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold.  Then spoke Jupiter in benignant 
accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your 
wishes; what favor have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few 
moments; then declared to the gods their united wish.  "We ask to be priests and 
guardians of this your temple; and since here we have passed our lives in love and 
concord, we wish that one and the same hour may take us both from life, that I may not 
live to see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was granted.  They 
were the keepers of the temple as long as they lived.  When grown very old, as they 
stood one day before the steps of the sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the 
place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis 
changing in like manner.  And now a leafy crown had grown over their heads, while 
exchanging parting words, as long as they could speak. "Farewell, dear spouse," they 
said, together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their mouths.  The 
Tyanean shepherd still shows the two trees, standing side by side made out of the two 
good old people.

	The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a burlesque 
style, the actors in the change being two wandering saints and the house being changed 
into a church, of which Philemon is made the parson.  The following may serve as a 
specimen: -

     "They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft,
     The roof began to mount aloft;
     Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
     The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
     The chimney widened and grew higher,
     Became a steeple with a spire.
     The kettle to the top was hoist,
     And there stood fastened to a joist,
     But with the upside down, to show
     Its inclination for below;
     In vain, for a superior force,
     Applied at bottom, stops its course;
     Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
     'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
     A wooden jack, which had almost
     Lost by disuse the art to roast,
     A sudden alteration feels,
     Increased by new intestine wheels;
     And, what exalts the wonder more,
     The number made the motion slower;
     The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
     Turned round so quick you scarce could see 't;
     But slackened by some secret power.
     Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
     The jack and chimney, near allied,
     Had never left each other's side.
     The chimney to a steeple grown,
     The jack would not be left alone;
     But up against the steeple reared,
     Became a clock, and still adhered;
     And still its love to household cares
     By a shrill voice at noon declares.
     Warning the cook-maid not to burn
     That roast meat which it cannot turn.
     The groaning chair began to crawl.
     Like a huge snail, along the wall;
     There stuck aloft in public view,
     And with small change, a pulpit grew.
     A bedstead of the antique mode,
     Compact of timber many a load,
     Such as our ancestors did use,
     Was metamorphosed into pews,
     Which still their ancient nature keep
     By lodging folks disposed to sleep."



Chapter VII: Proserpine - Glaucus And Scylla

	When Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished them to 
Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods.  They were the giants Typhon, 
Briareus, Enceladus, and others.  Some of them had a hundred arms, others breathed 
out fire.  They were finally subdued and buried alive under Mount Aetna, where they 
still sometimes struggle to get loose, and shake the whole island with earthquakes.  
Their breath comes up through the mountain, and is what men call the eruption of the 
volcano.

	The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was alarmed, and 
feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the light of day.  Under this 
aprrehension, he mounted his chariot, drawn by black horses, and took a circuit of 
inspection to satisfy himself of the extent of the damage.  While he was thus engaged, 
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, espied him, and 
said, "My son, take your darts with which you conquer all, even Jove himself, and send 
one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus.  Why 
should he alone escape?  Seize the opportunity to extend your empire and mine.  Do 
you not see that even in heaven some despise our power?  Minerva the wise, and 
Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is that daughter of Ceres, who threatens to 
follow their example.  Now do you, if you have any regard for your own interest or 
mine, join these two in one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his sharpest 
and truest arrow; then, straining the bow against his knee, he attached the string, and, 
having made ready, shot the arrow with its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.

	In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which screen it from the 
fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground is covered with flowers, and Spring 
reigns perpetual.  Here Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies 
and violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when Pluto saw her, loved 
her, and carried her off.  She screamed for help to her mother and her companions; 
and when in her fright she dropped the corners of her apron and let the flowers fall, 
childlike she felt the loss of them as an addition to her grief.  The ravisher urged on his 
steeds, calling them each by name, and throwing loose over their heads and necks his 
iron-colored reins.  When he reached the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he 
struck the river-bank with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to 
Tartarus.

	Ceres sought her daughter all the world over.  Bright-haired Aurora, when she 
came forth in the morning, and Hesperus, when he led out the stars in the evening, 
found her still busy in the search.  But it was all unavailing.  At length weary and sad, 
she sat down upon a stone, and continued sitting nine days and nights, in the open air, 
under the sunlight and moonlight and falling showers.  It was where now stands the 
city of Eleusis, then the home of an old man named Celeus.  He was out in the field, 
gathering acorns and blackberries, and sticks for his fire.  His little girl was driving 
home their two goats, and as she passed the goddess, who appeared in the guise of 
an old woman, she said to her, "Mother," - and the name was sweet to the ears of 
Ceres, - "why do you sit here alone upon the rocks?" The old man also stopped, 
though his load was heavy, and begged her to come into his cottage, such as it was.  
She declined, and he urged her.  "Go in peace," she replied, "and be happy in your 
daughter; I have lost mine." As she spoke tears - or something like tears, for the gods 
never weep, - fell down her cheeks upon her bosom.  The compassionate old man and 
his child wept with her.  Then said he, "Come with us, and despise not our humble 
roof; so may your daughter be restored to you in safety." "Lead on, said she, "I cannot 
resist that appeal!" So she rose from the stone and went with them.  As they walked he 
told her that his only son, a little boy, lay very sick, feverish and sleepless.  She 
stooped and gathered some poppies. As they entered the cottage they found all in 
great distress, for the boy seemed past hope of recovery Metanira, his mother, 
received her kindly, and the goddess stooped and kissed the lips of the sick child.  
Instantly the paleness left his face, and healthy vigor returned to his body.  The whole 
family were delighted - that is, the father, mother, and little girl, for they were all; they 
had no servants.  They spread the table, and put upon it curds and cream, apples, and 
honey in the comb.  While they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk of the boy.  
When night came and all was still, she arose, and taking the sleeping boy, moulded his 
limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a solemn charm, then went and 
laid him in the ashes.  His mother, who had been watching what her guest was doing, 
sprang forward with a cry and snatched the child from the fire.  Then Ceres assumed 
her own form, and a divine splendor shone all around.  While they were overcome with 
astonishment, she said, "Mother, you have been cruel in your fondness to your son.  I 
would have made him immortal, but you have frustrated my attempt. Nevertheless, he 
shall be great and useful.  He shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards 
which labor can win from the cultivated soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about 
her, and mounting her chariot rode away.

	Ceres continued her search for her daughter, passing from land to land, and 
across seas and rivers, till at length she returned to Sicily, whence she at first set out, 
and stood by the banks of the River Cyane, where Pluto made himself a passage with 
his prize to his own dominions.  The river nymph would have told the goddess all she 
had witnessed, but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she only ventured to take up the 
girdle which Proserpine had dropped in her flight, and waft it to the feet of the mother.  
Ceres, seeing this, was no longer in doubt of her loss, but she did not yet know the 
cause, and laid the blame on the innocent land.  "Ungrateful soil," said she, "which I 
have endowed with fertility and clothed with herbage and nourishing grain, no more 
shall you enjoy my favors." Then the cattle died, the plough broke in the furrow, the 
seed failed to come up; there was too much sun, there was too much rain; the birds 
stole the seeds, - thistles and brambles were the only growth. Seeing this, the fountain 
Arethusa interceded for the land. "Goddess," said she, "blame not the land; it opened 
unwillingly to yield a passage to your daughter.  I can tell you of her fate, for I have 
seen her. This is not my native country; I came hither from Elis.  I was a woodland 
nymph, and delighted in the chase.  They praised my beauty, but I cared nothing for it, 
and rather boasted of my hunting exploits.  One day I was returning from the wood, 
heated with exercise, when I came to a stream silently flowing, so clear that you might 
count the pebbles on the bottom. The willows shaded it, and the grassy bank sloped 
down to the water's edge. I approached, I touched the water with my foot.  I stepped in 
knee-deep, and not content with that, I laid my garments on the willows and went in.  
While I sported in the water, I heard an indistinct murmur coming up as out of the 
depths of the stream; and made haste to escape to the nearest bank.  The voice said, 
"Why do you fly, Arethusa?  I am Alpheus, the god of this stream." I ran, he pursued; 
he was not more swift than I, but he was stronger, and gained upon me, as my 
strength failed.  At last, exhausted, I cried for help to Diana.  'Help me, goddess!  help 
your votary!' The goddess heard, and wrapped me suddenly in a thick cloud.  The river 
god looked now this way and now that, and twice came close to me, but could not find 
me. 'Arethusa!  Aresthusa!' he cried.  O, how I trembled, - like a lamb that hears the 
wolf growling outside the fold.  A cold sweat came over me, my hair flowed down in 
streams; where my foot stood there was a pool. In short, in less time than it takes to 
tell it I became a fountain.  But in this form Alpheus knew me, and attempted to mingle 
his stream with mine. Diana cleft the ground, and I, endeavoring to escape him, 
plunged into the cavern, and through the bowels of the earth came out here in Sicily.  
While I passed through the lower parts of the earth, I saw your Proserpine.  She was 
sad, but no longer showing alarm in her countenance.  Her look was such as became 
a queen, - the queen of Erebus; the powerful bride of the monarch of the realms of the 
dead."

	When Ceres heard this, she stood for a while like one stupefied; then turned her 
chariot towards heaven, and hastened to present herself before the throne of Jove.  
She told the story of her bereavement, and implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the 
restitution of her daughter.  Jupiter consented on one condition, namely, that 
Proserpine should not during her stay in the lower world have taken any food; 
otherwise, the Fates forbade her release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, 
accompanied by Spring, to demand Proserpine of Pluto.  The wily monarch consented; 
but alas!  the maiden had taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and had 
sucked the sweet pulp from a few of the seeds.  This was enough to prevent her 
complete release; but a compromise was made, by which she was to pass half the 
time with her mother, and the rest with her husband Pluto.

	Ceres allowed herself to be pacified with this arrangement, and restored the 
earth to her favor.  Now she remembered Celeus and his family, and her promise to 
his infant son Triptolemus.  When the boy grew up, she taught him the use of the 
plough, and how to sow the seed.  She took him in her chariot, drawn by winged 
dragons, through all the countries of the earth, imparting to mankind valuable grains, 
and the knowledge of agriculture.  After his return, Triptolemus built a magnificent 
temple to Ceres in Eleusis, and established the worship of the goddess, under the 
name of the Eleusinian mysteries, which, in the splendor and solemnity of their 
observance, surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks.

	There can be little doubt of this story of Ceres and Proserpine being an allegory.  
Proserpine signifies the seed-corn which when cast into the ground lies there 
concealed, - that is, she is carried off by the god of the underworld; it reappears, - that 
is, Proserpine is restored to her mother. Spring leads her back to the light of day.

	Milton alludes to the story of Proserpine in Paradise Lost, Book IV: -


     ". . . Not that fair field
     Of Enna where Proserpine gathering flowers,
     Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis
     Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
     To seek her through the world, -
     . . . might with this Paradise
     Of Eden strive."

	Hood, in his Ode to Melancholy, uses the same allusion very beautifully:


     "Forgive, if somewhile I forget,
     In woe to come the present bliss;
     As frighted Proserpine let fall
     Her flowers at the sight of Dis."

	The River Alpheus does in fact disappear underground, in part of its course, 
finding its way through subterranean channels, till it again appears on the surface. - It 
was said that the Sicilian fountain Arethusa was the same stream, which, after passing 
under the sea, came up again in Sicily. Hence the story ran that a cup thrown into the 
Alpheus appeared again in Arethusa.  It is this fable of the underground course of 
Alpheus that Coleridge alludes to in his poem of Kubla Khan: -

     "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
     A stately pleasure-dome decree,
     Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
     Through caverns measureless to man,
     Down to a sunless sea."

	In one of Moore's juvenile poems he thus alludes the same story, and to the 
practice of throwing garlands or other light objects on his stream to be carried downward 
by it, and afterwards reproduced at its emerging: -

     "O my beloved, how divinely sweet
     Is the pure joy when kindred spirits meet!
     Like him the river god, whose waters flow,
     With love their only light, through caves below,
     Wafting in triumph all the flowery braids
     And festal rings, with which Olympic maids
     Have decked his current, as an offering meet
     To lay at Arethusa's shining feet.
     Think, when he meets at last his fountain bride,
     What perfect love must thrill the blended tide!
     Each lost in each, till mingling into one,
     Their lot the same for shadow or for sun.
     A type of true love, to the deep they run."

	The following extract from Moore's Rhymes on the Road gives an account of a 
celebrated picture by Albano at Milan, called a Dance of Loves: -

     "'Tis for the theft of Enna's flower from earth
     These urchins celebrate their dance of mirth,
     Round the green tree, like fays upon a heath -
     Those that are nearest linked in order bright,
     Cheek after cheek, like rosebuds in a wreath;
     And those more distant showing from beneath
     The others' wings their little eyes of light.
     While see!  among the clouds, their eldest brother,
     But just flown up, tells with a smile of bliss,
     This prank of Pluto to his charmed mother,
     Who turns to greet the tidings with a kiss."

Glaucus And Scylla. 

	Glaucus was a fisherman.  One day he had drawn his nets to land, and had 
taken a great many fishes of various kinds.  So he emptied his net, and proceeded to 
sort the fishes on the grass.  The place where he stood was a beautiful island in the 
river, a solitary spot, uninhabited, and not used for pasturage of cattle, nor ever visited 
by any but himself.  On a sudden, the fishes, which had been laid on the grass, began to 
revive and move their fins as if they were in the water; and while he looked on 
astonished, they one and all moved off to the water, plunged in and swam away.  He did 
not know what to make of this, whether some god had done it, or some secret power in 
the herbage.  "What herb has such a power?" he exclaimed; and gathering some of it, 
he tasted it.  Scarce had the juices of the plant reached his palate when he found himself 
agitated with a longing desire for the water He could no longer restrain himself, but 
bidding farewell to earth, he plunged into the stream.  The gods of the water received 
him graciously, and admitted him to the honor of their society.  They obtained the 
consent of Oceanus and Tethys, the sovereigns of the sea, that all that was mortal in 
him should be washed away.  A hundred rivers poured their waters over him.  Then he 
lost all sense of his former nature and all consciousness.  When he recovered, he found 
himself changed in form and mind.  His hair was sea-green, and trailed behind him on 
the water; his shoulders grew broad, and what had been thighs and legs assumed the 
form of a fish's tail.  The sea-gods complimented him on the change of his appearance, 
and he fancied himself rather a good-looking personage.

	One day Glaucus saw the beautiful maiden Scylla, the favorite of the water-
nymphs, rambling on the shore, and when she had found a sheltered nook, laving her 
limbs in the clear water.  He fell in love with her, and showing himself on the surface, 
spoke to her, saying such things as he thought most likely to win her to stay; for she 
turned to run immediately on the sight of him, and ran till she had gained a cliff 
overlooking the sea.  Here she stopped and turned round to see whether it was a god or 
a sea animal, and observed with wonder his shape and color.  Glaucus partly emerging 
from the water, and supporting himself against a rock, said, "Maiden, I am no monster, 
nor a sea animal, but a god; and neither Proteus nor Triton ranks higher than I.  Once I 
was a mortal, and followed the sea for a living; but now I belong wholly to it." Then he 
told the story of his metamorphosis, and how he had been promoted to his present 
dignity, and added, "But what avails all this if it fails to move your heart?" He was going 
on in this strain, but Scylla turned and hastened away.

	Glaucus was in despair, but it occurred to him to consult the enchantress, Circe.  
Accordingly he repaired to her island, - the same where afterwards Ulysses landed, as 
we shall see in one of our later stories. After mutual salutations, he said, "Goddess, I 
entreat your pity; you alone can relieve the pain I suffer.  The power of herbs I know as 
well as any one, for it is to them I owe my change of form.  I love Scylla.  I am ashamed 
to tell you how I have sued and promised to her, and how scornfully she has treated me.  
I beseech you to use your incantations, or potent herbs, if they are more prevailing, not 
to cure me of my love, - for that I do not wish, - but to make her share it and yield me a 
like return." To which Circe replied, for she was not insensible to the attractions of the 
sea-green deity, "You had better pursue a willing object; you are worthy to be sought, 
instead of having to seek in vain.  Be not diffident, know your own worth.  I protest to you 
that even I, goddess though I be, and learned in the virtues of plants and spells, should 
not know how to refuse you.  If she scorns you, scorn her; meet one who is ready to 
meet you half way, and thus make a due return to both at once." To these words 
Glaucus replied, "Sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the ocean, and seaweed on 
the top of the mountains, than I will cease to love Scylla, and her alone."

	The goddess was indignant, but she could not punish him, neither did she wish to 
do so, for she liked him too well; so she turned all her wrath against her rival, poor 
Scylla.  She took plants of poisonous powers and mixed them together, with incantations 
and charms.  Then she passed through the crowd of gambolling beasts, the victims of 
her art, and proceeded to the coast of Sicily, where Scylla lived.  There was a little bay 
on the shore to which Scylla used to resort, in the heat of the day, to breathe the air of 
the sea, and to bathe in its waters.  Here the goddess poured her poisonous mixture, 
and muttered over it incantations of mighty power.  Scylla came as usual and plunged 
into the water up to her waist.  What was her horror to perceive a brood of serpents and 
barking monsters surrounding her!  At first she could not imagine hey were a part of 
herself, and tried to run from them, and to drive them away; but as she ran she carried 
them with her, and when she tried to touch her limbs, she found her hands touch only 
the yawning jaws of monsters.  Scylla remained rooted to the spot.  Her temper grew as 
ugly as her form, and she took pleasure in devouring hapless mariners who came within 
her grasp.  Thus she destroyed six of the companions of Ulysses, and tried to wreck the 
ships of Aeneas, till at last she was turned into a rock, and as such still continues to be a 
terror to mariners.

	Keats, in his Endymion, has given a new version of the ending of "Glaucus and 
Scylla" - Glaucus consents to Circe's blandishments, till he by chance is witness to her 
transactions with her beasts. ^* Disgusted with her treachery and cruelty, he tries to 
escape from her, but is taken and brought back, when with reproaches she banishes 
him, sentencing him to pass a thousand years in decrepitude and pain.  He returns to 
the sea, and there finds the body of Scylla, whom the goddess has not transformed but 
drowned. Glaucus learns that his destiny is that, if he passes his thousand years in 
collecting all the bodies of drowned lovers, a youth beloved of the gods will appear and 
help him.  Endymion fulfills this prophecy, and aids in restoring Glaucus to youth, and 
Scylla and all the drowned lovers to life.

	[Footnote *: See Page 325.]

	The following is Glaucus's account of his feelings after his "sea- change: " -

     "I plunged for life or death.  To interknit
     One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff
     Might seem a work of pain; so not enough
     Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt,
     And buoyant round my limbs.  At first I dwelt
     Whole days and days in sheer astonishment;
     Forgetful utterly of self-intent,
     Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow.
     Then like a new-fledged bird that first doth show
     His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill,
     I tried in fear the pinions of my will.
     'Twas freedom!  and at once I visited
     The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed," &c.
     Keats.




Chapter VIII: Pygmalion, Dryope, Venus And Adonis, Apollo And 
Hyacinthus

	Pygmalion saw so much to blame in women that he came at last to abhor the 
sex, and resolved to live unmarried.  He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful 
skill a statue of ivory, so beautiful that no living woman came any where near it.  It was 
indeed the perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive, and only prevented 
from moving by modesty.  His art was so perfect that it concealed itself and its product 
looked like the workmanship of nature.  Pygmalion admired his own work, and at last 
fell in love with the counterfeit creation.  Oftentimes he laid his hand upon it as if to 
assure himself whether it were living or not, and could not even then believe that it was 
only ivory.  He caressed it, and gave it presents such as young girls love, - bright 
shells and polished stones, little birds and flowers of various hues beads and amber.  
He put raiment on its limbs, and jewels on its fingers, and a necklace about its neck.  
To the ears he hung ear-rings, and strings of pearls upon the breast.  Her dress 
became her, and she looked not less charming than when unattired.  He laid her on a 
couch spread with cloths of Tyrian dye, and called her his wife, and put her head upon 
a pillow of the softest feathers, as if she could enjoy their softness.

	The festival of Venus was at hand, - a festival celebrated with great pomp at 
Cyprus.  Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense filled the air 
When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he stood before the altar 
and timidly said, "Ye gods, who can do all things, give me, I pray you, for my wife" - he 
dared not say "my ivory virgin," but said instead - "one like my ivory virgin." Venus, 
who was present at the festival, heard him and knew the thought he would have 
uttered; and as an omen of her favor, caused the flame on the altar to shoot up thrice 
in a fiery point into the air.  When he returned home, he went to see his statue, and 
leaning over the couch, gave a kiss to the mouth.  It seemed to be warm. He pressed 
its lips again, he laid his hand upon the limbs; the ivory felt soft to his touch. and 
yielded to his fingers like the wax of Hymettus.  While he stands astonished and glad, 
though doubting, and fears he may be mistaken, again and again with a lover's ardor, 
he touches the object of his hopes.  It was indeed alive!  The veins when pressed 
yielded to the finger and again resumed their roundness.  Then at last the votary of 
Venus found words to thank the goddess, and pressed his lips upon lips as real as his 
own.  The virgin felt the kisses and blushed, and opening her timid eyes to the light, 
fixed them at the same moment on her lover. Venus blessed the nuptials she had 
formed, and from this union Paphos was born, from whom the city, sacred to Venus, 
received its name.

	Schiller, in his poem the Ideals, applies this tale of Pygmalion to the love of 
nature in a youthful heart.  The following translation is furnished by a friend: -

     "As once with prayers in passion flowing,
     Pygmalion embraced the stone,
     Till from the frozen marble glowing,
     The light of feeling o'er him shone,
     So did I clasp with young devotion
     Bright nature to a poet's heart;
     Till breath and warmth and vital motion
     Seemed through the statue form to dart.

     "And then, in all my ardor sharing,
     The silent form expression found;
     Returned my kiss of youthful daring,
     And understood my heart's quick sound.
     Then lived for me the bright creation,
     The silver rill with song was rife;
     The trees, the roses shared sensation,
     An echo of my boundless life."

	S. G. B.

Dryope. 

	Dryope and Iole were sisters.  The former was the wife of Andraemon, beloved 
by her husband, and happy in the birth of her first child.  One day the sisters strolled to 
the bank of a stream that sloped gradually down to the water's edge, while the upland 
was overgrown with myrtles.  They were intending to gather flowers for forming garlands 
for the altars of the nymphs, and Dryope carried her child at her bosom, a precious 
burden, and nursed him as she walked.  Near the water grew a lotus plant, full of purple 
flowers. Dryope gathered some and offered them to the baby, and Iole was about to do 
the same, when she perceived blood dropping from the places where her sister had 
broken them off the stem.  The plant was no other than the Nymph Lotis, who, running 
from a base pursuer, had been changed into this form.  This they learned from the 
country people when it was too late.

	Dryope, horror-struck when she perceived what she had done, would gladly have 
hastened from the spot, but found her feet rooted to the ground.  She tried to pull them 
away, but moved nothing but her upper limbs.  The woodiness crept upward, and by 
degrees invested her body.  In anguish she attempted to tear her hair, but found her 
hands filled with leaves.  The infant felt his mother's bosom begin to harden, and the milk 
cease to flow. Iole looked on at the sad fate of her sister, and could render no 
assistance. She embraced the growing trunk, as if she would hold back the advancing 
wood, and would gladly have been enveloped in the same bark.  At this moment, 
Andraemon, the husband of Dryope, with her father, approached; and when they asked 
for Dryope, Iole pointed them to the new-formed lotus.  They embraced the trunk of the 
yet warm tree, and showered their kisses on its leaves.

	Now there was nothing left of Dryope but her face.  Her tears still flowed and fell 
on her leaves, and while she could she spoke.  "I am not guilty.  I deserve not this fate.  I 
have injured no one.  If I speak falsely, may my foliage perish with drought and my trunk 
be cut down and burned.  Take this infant and give it to a nurse.  Let it often be brought 
and nursed under my branches, and play in my shade; and when he is old enough to 
talk, let him be taught to call me mother, and to say with sadness, 'My mother lies hid 
under this bark.' But bid him be careful of river banks, and beware how he plucks 
flowers, remembering that every bush he sees may be a goddess in disguise.  Farewell, 
dear husband, and sister, and father.  If you retain any love for me, let not the axe 
wound me, nor the flocks bite and tear my branches.  Since I cannot stoop to you, climb 
up hither and kiss me and while my lips continue to feel, lift up my child that I may kiss 
him.  I can speak no more, for already the bark advances up my neck, and will soon 
shoot over me.  You need not close my eyes, the bark will close them without your aid." 
Then the lips ceased to move, and life was extinct; but the branches retained for some 
time longer the vital heat.

	Keats, in Endymion, alludes to Dryope, thus: -


     "She took a lute from which there pulsing came
     A lively prelude, fashioning the way
     In which her voice should wander.  'Twas a lay
     More subtle-cadenced, more forest-wild
     Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child;" &c.

Venus And Adonis. 

	Venus, playing one day with her boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of his 
arrows.  She pushed him away, but the wound was deeper than she thought. Before it 
healed she beheld Adonis, and was captivated with him.  She no longer took any interest 
in her favorite resorts, - Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathos, rich in metals.  She 
absented herself even from heaven, for Adonis was dearer to her than heaven.  Him she 
followed and bore him company.  She who used to love to recline in the shade, with no 
care but to cultivate her charms, now rambles through the woods and over the hills, 
dressed like the huntress Diana; and calls her dogs, and chases hares and stags, or 
other game that it is safe to hunt, but keeps clear of the wolves and bears, reeking with 
the slaughter of the herd.  She charged Adonis, too, to beware of such dangerous 
animals.  "Be brave towards the timid," said she; "courage against the courageous is not 
safe.  Beware how you expose yourself to danger, and put my happiness to risk.  Attack 
not the beasts that Nature has armed with weapons.  I do not value your glory so high as 
to consent to purchase it by such exposure.  Your youth, and the beauty that charms 
Venus, will not touch the hearts of lions and bristly boars.  Think of their terrible claws 
and prodigious strength!  I hate the whole race of them.  Do you ask me why?" Then she 
told him the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, who were changed into lions for their 
ingratitude to her.

	Having given him this warning, she mounted her chariot drawn by swans, and 
drove away through the air.  But Adonis was too noble to heed such counsels.  The dogs 
had roused a wild boar from his lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the 
animal with a sidelong stroke.  The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws, and rushed 
after Adonis, who turned and ran; but the boar overtook him, and buried his tusks in his 
side, and stretched him dying upon the plain.

	Venus, in her swan-drawn chariot, had not yet reached Cyprus, when she heard 
coming up through mid air the groans of her beloved, and turned her white-winged 
coursers back to earth.  As she drew near and saw from on high his lifeless body bathed 
in blood, she alighted, and bending over it beat her breast and tore her hair.  
Reproaching the Fates, she said, "Yet theirs shall be but a partial triumph; memorials of 
my grief shall endure, and the spectacle of your death, my Adonis, and of my 
lamentation shall be annually renewed.  Your blood shall be changed into a flower; that 
consolation none can envy me." Thus speaking, she sprinkled nectar on the blood; and 
as they mingled, bubbles rose as in a pool, on which raindrops fall, and in an hour's time 
there sprang up a flower of bloody hue like that of the pomegranate. But it is short-lived.  
It is said the wind blows the blossoms open, and afterwards blows the petals away; so it 
is called Anemone, or Wind Flower, from the cause which assists equally in its 
production and its decay.

	Milton alludes to the story of Venus and Adonis in his Comus. -


     "Beds of hyacinth and roses
     Where young Adonis oft reposes,
     Waxing well of his deep wound
     In slumber soft, and on the ground
     Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;" &c.

Apollo And Hyacinthus. 

	Apollo was passionately fond of a youth named Hyacinthus.  He accompanied 
him in his sports, carried the nets when he went fishing, led the dogs when he went to 
hunt, followed him in his excursions in the mountains, and neglected for him his lyre and 
his arrows.  One day they played a game of quoits together, and Apollo, heaving aloft 
the discuss, with strength mingled with skill, sent it high and far.  Hyacinthus watched it 
as it flew, and excited with the sport ran forward to seize it, eager to make his throw, 
when the quoit bounded from the earth and struck him in the forehead.  He fainted and 
fell.  The god, as pale as himself, raised him and tried all his art to stanch the wound and 
retain the flitting life, but all in vain; the hurt was past the power of medicine.  As when 
one has broken the stem of a lily in the garden it hangs its head and turns its flowers to 
the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his neck, fell over on his 
shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," so spoke Phoebus, "robbed of thy youth by me.  Thine 
is the suffering, mine the crime.  Would that I could die for thee!  But since that may not 
be, thou shalt live with me in memory and in song.  My lyre shall celebrate thee, my song 
shall tell thy fate, and thou shalt become 2 a flower inscribed with my regrets." While 
Apollo spoke, behold the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the 
herbage, ceased to be blood; but a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian sprang 
up, resembling the lily, if it were not that this is purple and that silvery white. ^* And this 
was not enough for Phoebus; but to confer still greater honor, he marked the petals with 
his sorrow, and inscribed "Ah!  ah!" upon them, as we see to this day. The flower bears 
the name of Hyacinthus, and with every returning spring revives the memory of his fate.

	[Footnote *: It is evidently not our modern hyacinth that is here described. It is 
perhaps some species of iris, or perhaps of larkspur, or of pansy.]

	It was said that Zephyrus, (the West-wind,) who was also fond of Hyacinthus and 
jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to make it strike 
Hyacinthus.  Keats alludes to this in his Endymion, where he describes the lookers-on at 
the game of quoits: -

     "Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
     On either side, pitying the sad death
     Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
     Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent,
     Who now ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
     Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain."

	An allusion to Hyacinthus will also be recognized in Milton's Lycidas: -

	"Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe."



Chapter IX: Ceyx And Halcyone; Or, The Halcyon Birds

	Ceyx was king of Thessaly, where he reigned in peace, without violence or 
wrong.  He was son of Hesperus, the Day-star, and the glow of his beauty reminded 
one of his father.  Halcyone the daughter of Aeolus was his wife, and devotedly 
attached to him.  Now Ceyx was in deep affliction for the loss of his brother, and direful 
prodigies following his brother's death made him feel as if the gods were hostile to him.  
He thought best therefore to make a voyage to Claros in Ionia, to consult the oracle of 
Apollo.  But as soon as he disclosed his intention to his wife Halcyone, a shudder ran 
through her frame, and her face grew deadly pale.  "What fault of mine, dearest 
husband, has turned your affection from me?  Where is that love of me that used to be 
uppermost in your thoughts?  Have you learned to feel easy in the absence of 
Halcyone?  Would you rather have me away?" She also endeavored to discourage 
him, by describing the violence of the winds, which she had known familiarly when she 
lived at home in her father's house, Aeolus being the god of the winds, and having as 
much as he could do to restrain them.  "They rush together," said she, "with such fury 
that fire flashes from the conflict. But if you must go," she added, "dear husband, let 
me go with you, otherwise I shall suffer, not only the real evils which you must 
encounter, but those also which my fears suggest."

	These words weighed heavily on the mind of King Ceyx, and it was no less his 
own wish than hers to take her with him, but he could not bear to expose her to the 
dangers of the sea.  He answered therefore consoling her as well as he could, and 
finished with these words: "I promise, by the rays of my father the Day-star, that if fate 
permits I will return before the moon shall have twice rounded her orb." When he had 
thus spoken he ordered the vessel to be drawn out of the shiphouse, and the oars and 
sails to be put aboard.  When Halcyone saw these preparations she shuddered, as if 
with a presentiment of evil.  With tears and sobs she said farewell, and then fell 
senseless to the ground.

	Ceyx would still have lingered, but now the young men grasped their oars and 
pulled vigorously through the waves, with long and measured strokes. Halcyone raised 
her streaming eyes, and saw her husband standing on the deck, waving his hand to 
her.  She answered his signal till the vessel had receded so far that she could no 
longer distinguish his form from the rest.  When the vessel itself could no more be 
seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too 
disappeared.  Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch. 
Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among the ropes.  The 
seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails.  When half or less of their course was 
passed, as night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east 
wind to blow a gale.  The master gave the word to take in sail, but the storm forbade 
obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and waves his orders are unheard.  The 
men, of their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the ship, 
to reef the sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm increases.  
The shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves, 
mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to 
scatter its foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color 
of the shoal, - a Stygian blackness.

	The vessel shares all these changes.  It seems like a wild beast that rushes on 
the spears of the hunters.  Rain falls in torrents, as if the skies were coming down to 
unite with the sea.  When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add 
its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the darkness 
asunder, and lighting up all with a glare.  Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to 
come on every wave. The men are stupefied with terror.  The thought of parents, and 
kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their minds Ceyx thinks of Halcyone.  
No name but hers is on his lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her 
absence.  Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken, 
and the triumphant surge curling over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and 
crushes it to fragments.  Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and rise no 
more; others cling to fragments of the wreck.  Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp 
the sceptre, holds fast to a plank, calling for help, - alas, in vain, - upon his father and 
his father- in-law.  But oftenest on his lips was the name of Halcyone.  To her his 
thoughts cling.  He prays that the waves may bear his body to her sight, and that it 
may receive burial at her hands.  At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks.  
The Day-star looked dim that night.  Since it could not leave the heavens, it shrouded 
its face with clouds.

	In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted the days till her 
husband's promised return.  Now she gets ready the garments which he shall put on, 
and now what she shall wear when he arrives.  To all the gods she offers frequent 
incense, but more than all to Juno.  For her husband, who was no more, she prayed 
incessantly; that he might be safe; that he might come home; that he might not, in his 
absence, see any one that he would love better than her.  But of all these prayers, the 
last was the only one destined to be granted.  The goddess, at length, could not bear 
any longer to be pleaded with for one already dead, and to have hands raised to her 
altars, that ought rather to be offering funeral rites.  So, calling Iris, she said, "Iris, my 
faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to send a vision 
to Halcyone, in the form of Ceyx, to make known to her the event."

	Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tinging the sky with her bow, seeks the 
palace of the King of Sleep Near the Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode 
of the dull god, Somnus.  Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday or 
setting.  Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers 
faintly.  The bird of dawning, with crested head, never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor 
watchful dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence.  No wild beast, nor 
cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the 
stillness.  Silence reigns there; but from the bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows, 
and by its murmur invites to sleep.  Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the 
cave, and other herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters 
over the darkened earth.  There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor 
any watchman; but in the midst, a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes 
and black curtains.  There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with sleep.  Around him 
lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the 
forest leaves, or the seashore sandgrains.

	As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that hovered 
around her, her brightness lit up all the cave.  The god, scarce opening his eyes, and 
ever and anon dropping his beard upon his breast, at last shook himself free from 
himself, and leaning on his arm, enquired her errand, - for he knew who she was.  She 
answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds and soother of care-
worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that you despatch a dream to Halcyone, 
in the city of Trachine, representing her lost husband and all the events of the wreck."

	Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not longer endure 
the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness creeping over her, she made her escape, 
and returned by her bow the way she came.  Then Somnus called one of his 
numerous sons, - Morpheus, - the most expert in counterfeiting forms, and in imitating 
the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even the clothes and attitudes most 
characteristic of each.  But he only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate 
birds, beasts, and serpents.  Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who turns 
himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things without life.  These wait upon kings 
and great personages in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common 
people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of 
Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful repose.

	Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to the 
Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the form of Ceyx. Under 
that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he stood before the couch of the wretched 
wife.  His beard seemed soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.  
Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do you recognize your 
Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much changed my visage?  Behold me, know 
me, your husband's shade, instead of himself.  Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me 
nothing.  I am dead.  No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my return.  The 
stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea, waves filled my mouth while it called 
aloud on you.  No uncertain messenger tells you this, no vague rumor brings it to your 
ears. I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate Arise!  give me tears, 
give me lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept." To these words 
Morpheus added the voice which seemed to be that of her husband he seemed to 
pour forth genuine tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.

	Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her sleep, striving to 
embrace his body, but grasping only the air.  "Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly?  let 
us go together." Her own voice awakened her Starting up, she gazed eagerly around, 
to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her cries, had brought a 
light.  When she found him not, she smote her breast and rent her garments.  She 
cares not to unbind her hair, but tears it wildly.  Her nurse asks what is the cause of 
her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers, "she perished with her Ceyx.  Utter not 
words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead.  I have seen him, I have recognized 
him. I stretched out my hands to seize him and detain him.  His shade vanished, but it 
was the true shade of my husband.  Not with the accustomed features, not with the 
beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet with sea-water, he 
appeared to wretched me.  Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood," - and she 
looked to find the mark of his footsteps.  "This it was, this that my presaging mind 
foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me, to trust himself to the waves.  O, how 
I wish, since thou wouldst go, thou hadst taken me with thee!  It would have been far 
better.  Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a 
separate death to die.  If I could bear to live and struggle to endure, I should be more 
cruel to myself than the sea has been to me.  But I will not struggle, I will not be 
separated from thee, unhappy husband.  This time, at least, I will keep thee company. 
In death, if one tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes 
with thine, my name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more words, 
and these were broken with tears and sobs.

	It was now morning.  She went to the sea shore, and sought the spot where she 
last saw him, on his departure.  "While he lingered here, and cast off his tacklings, he 
gave me his last kiss." While she reviews every object, and strives to recall every 
incident, looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object floating in the 
water.  At first she was in doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it nearer, 
and it was plainly the body of a man.  Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of 
some ship-wrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears, saying, "Alas!  
unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy wife!" Borne by the waves, it came 
nearer.  As she more and more nearly views it, she trembles more and more.  Now, 
now it approaches the shore.  Now marks that she recognizes appear.  It is her 
husband!  Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she exclaims, "O, dearest 
husband, is it thus you return to me?"

	There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break the assaults of 
the sea, and stem its violent ingress.  She leaped upon this barrier and (it was 
wonderful she could do so,) she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the 
instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird.  As she flew, her 
throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of one lamenting.  When she 
touched the mute and bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-
formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak.  Whether Ceyx felt it, or 
whether it was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted, but the 
body seemed to raise its head.  But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods both 
of them were changed into birds.  They mate and have their young ones.  For seven 
placid days, in winter time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea.  
Then the way is safe to seamen.  Aeolus guards the winds and keeps them from 
disturbing the deep.  The sea is given up, for the time, to his grandchildren.


	The following lines from Byron's Bride of Abydos might seem borrowed from the 
concluding part of this description, if it were not stated that the author derived the 
suggestion from observing the motion of a floating corpse.

     "As shaken on his restless pillow,
     His head heaves with the heaving billow;
     That hand, whose motion is nor life,
     Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
     Flung by the tossing tide on high,
     Then levelled with the wave - "

	Milton in his Hymn to the Nativity thus alludes to the fable of the Halcyon: -

     "But peaceful was the night
     Wherein the Prince of light
     His reign of peace upon the earth began;
     The winds with wonder whist
     Smoothly the waters kist
     Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
     Who now hath quite forgot to rave
     While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave

	Keats also in Endymion says, -


     'O magic sleep!  O comfortable bird
     That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind
     Till it is hushed and smooth."



Chapter X: Vertumnus And Pomona

	The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs.  Pomona was of this class, and no one 
excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.  She cared not for forests and 
rivers, but loved the cultivated country and trees that bear delicious apples.  Her right 
hand bore for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning-knife.  Armed with this, she 
busied herself at one time to repress the too luxuriant growths, and curtail the 
branches that straggled out of place; at another, to split the twig and insert therein a 
graft, making the branch adopt a nursling not its own.  She took care, too, that her 
favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of water by them that the 
thirsty roots might drink.  This occupation was her pursuit, her passion; and she was 
free from that which Venus inspires.  She was not without fear of the country people, 
and kept her orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs 
would have given all they possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who looks 
young for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves around his head.  
But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no better than the rest.  O, how often, 
in the disguise of a reaper, did he bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very 
image of a reaper!  With a hay band tied round him, one would think he had just come 
from turning over the grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and 
you would have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen.  Now he bore a pruning-
hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again with a ladder on his shoulder, he 
seemed as if he was going to gather apples.  Sometimes he trudged along as a 
discharged soldier, and again he bore a fishing-rod as if going to fish.  In this way, he 
gained admission to her, again and again, and fed his passion with the sight of her.

	One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair surmounted with a 
cap, and a staff in her hand.  She entered the garden and admired the fruit.  "It does 
you credit, my dear," she said, and kissed her, not exactly with an old woman's kiss.  
She sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with fruit which hung 
over her.  Opposite was an elm entwined with a vine loaded with swelling grapes.  She 
praised the tree and its associated vine, equally.  "But," said she, "if the tree stood 
alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to attract or offer us but its 
useless leaves.  And equally the vine, if it were not twined round the elm, would lie 
prostrate on the ground.  Why will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine, 
and consent to unite yourself with some one?  I wish you would.  Helen herself had not 
more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses.  Even while you 
spurn them, they court you, - rural deities and others of every kind that frequent these 
mountains.  But if you are prudent and want to make a good alliance, and will let an old 
woman advise you, - who loves you better than you have any idea of, - dismiss all the 
rest and accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation.  I know him as well as he knows 
himself.  He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these mountains.  Nor is he like 
too many of the lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to see; he loves you, 
and you only.  Add to this, he is young and handsome, and has the art of assuming 
any shape he pleases, and can make himself just what you command him.  Moreover, 
he loves the same things that you do, delights in gardening, and handles your apples 
with admiration.  But now he cares nothing for fruits, nor flowers, nor any thing else, 
but only yourself.  Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my mouth. 
Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a hard heart, and will 
visit such offences sooner or later.  To prove this, let me tell you a story, which is well 
known in Cyprus to be a fact; and I hope it will have the effect to make you more 
merciful.

	"Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved Anaxarete, a 
noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer.  He struggled long with his passion, but 
when he found he could not subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion.  First he 
told his passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-child to favor his 
suit.  And then he tried to win her domestics to his side.  Sometimes he committed his 
vows to written tablets, and often hung at her door garlands which he had moistened 
with his tears.  He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered his complaints to the 
cruel bolts and bars.  She was deafer than the surges which rise in the November 
gale; harder than steel from the German forges, on a rock that still clings to its native 
cliff.  She mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her ungentle treatment, 
and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.

	"Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love, and, standing 
before her doors, he spake these last words: 'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and 
shall no longer have to bear my importunities.  Enjoy your triumph!  Sing songs of joy, 
and bind your forehead with laurel, - you have conquered!  I die; stony heart, rejoice!  
This at least I can do to gratify you, and force you to praise me; and thus shall I prove 
that the love of you left me but with life.  Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell you of my 
death. I will come myself, and you shall see me die, and feast your eyes on the 
spectacle.  Yet, O, ye gods, who look down on mortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but 
this; let me be remembered in coming ages, and add those years to my fame which 
you have reft from my life.' Thus he said, and, turning his pale face and weeping eyes 
towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to the gate-post, on which he had often hung 
garlands, and putting his head into the noose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will 
please you, cruel girl!' and falling hung suspended with his neck broken.  As he fell he 
struck against the gate, and the sound was as the sound of a groan.  The servants 
opened the door and found him dead, and with exclamations of pity raised him and 
carried him home to his mother, for his father was not living She received the dead 
body of her son, and folded the cold form to her bosom; while she poured forth the sad 
words which bereaved mothers utter.  The mournful funeral passed through the town, 
and the pale corpse was borne on a bier to the place of the funeral pile.  By chance the 
home of Anaxarete was on the street where the procession passed, and the 
lamentations of the mourners met the ears of her whom the avenging deity had 
already marked for punishment.

	"'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a turret, whence 
through an open window she looked upon the funeral.  Scarce had her eyes rested 
upon the form of Iphis stretched on the bier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm 
blood in her body to become cold.  Endeavoring to step back, she found she could not 
move her feet; trying to turn away her face, she tried in vain; and by degrees all her 
limbs became stony like her heart. That you may not doubt the fact, the statue still 
remains, and stands in the temple of Venus at Salamis, in the exact form of the lady.  
Now think of these things, my dear, and lay aside your scorn and your delays, and 
accept a lover. So may neither the vernal frosts blight your young fruits, nor furious 
winds scatter your blossoms!"

	When Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old woman, 
and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely youth.  It appeared to her like 
the sun bursting through a cloud.  He would have renewed his entreaties, but there 
was no need; his arguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph 
no longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.

	Pomona was the especial patroness of the Apple-orchard, and as such she was 
invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider, in blank verse. Thomson in the 
Seasons alludes to him: -

     "Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou
     Who nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,
     With British freedom, sing the British song."

	But Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and as such is 
invoked by Thomson: -

     "Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,
     To where the lemon and the piercing lime,
     With the deep orange, glowing through the green,
     Their lighter glories blend.  Lay me reclined
     Beneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,
     Fanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit."


Chapter XI: Cupid And Psyche

	A certain king and queen had three daughters.  The charms of the two elder were 
more than common, but the beauty of the youngest was so wonderful that the poverty 
of language is unable to express its due praise.  The fame of her beauty was so great 
that strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and 
looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due only to Venus 
herself.  In fact Venus found her altars deserted, while men turned their devotion to 
this young virgin.  As she passed along, the people sang her praises, and strewed her 
way with chaplets and flowers.

	This perversion of homage due only to the immortal powers to the exaltation of a 
mortal gave great offence to the real Venus.  Shaking her ambrosial locks with 
indignation, she exclaimed, "Am I then to be eclipsed in my honors by a mortal girl?  In 
vain then did that royal shepherd whose judgment was approved by Jove himself, give 
me the palm of beauty over my illustrious rivals, Pallas and Juno.  But she shall not so 
quietly usurp my honors.  I will give her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty."

	Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own 
nature, and rouses and provokes him yet more by her complaints.  She points out 
Psyche to him and says, "My dear son, punish that contumacious beauty; give thy 
mother a revenge as sweet as her injuries are great; infuse into the bosom of that 
haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so that she may reap a 
mortification as great as her present exultation and triumph."

	Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother.  There are two fountains in 
Venus's garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter.  Cupid filled two amber vases, 
one from each fountain, and suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to 
the chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter 
fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity; then touched 
her side with the point of his arrow.  At the touch she awoke, and opened eyes upon 
Cupid (himself invisible) which so startled him that in his confusion he wounded 
himself with his own arrow.  Heedless of his wound his whole thought now was to 
repair the mischief he had done, and he poured the balmy drops of joy over all her 
silken ringlets.

	Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all her 
charms.  True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth spoke her 
praises; but neither king, royal youth, nor plebeian presented himself to demand her in 
marriage.  Her two elder sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two 
royal princes; but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that 
beauty, which while it procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love.

	Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, 
consulted the oracle of Apollo, and received this answer "The virgin is destined for the 
bride of no mortal lover.  Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain.  
He is a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist."

	This dreadful decree of the oracle filled all the people with dismay, and her 
parents abandoned themselves to grief.  But Psyche said, "Why, my dear parents, do 
you now lament me?  You should rather have grieved when the people showered upon 
me undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus.  I now perceive that I 
am a victim to that name.  I submit.  Lead me to that rock to which my unhappy fate 
has destined me." Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place 
in the procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial pomp, and with her 
parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the mountain, on the summit 
of which they left her alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home.

	While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and with eyes 
full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth and bore her with an easy 
motion into a flowery dale.  By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid 
herself down on the grassy bank to sleep.  When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she 
looked round and beheld near by a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees.  She 
entered it, and in the midst discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal 
waters, and fast by, a magnificent palace whose august front impressed the spectator 
that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some god.  Drawn by 
admiration and wonder she approached the building and ventured to enter. Every 
object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement.  Golden pillars supported the 
vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings representing 
beasts of the chase and rural scenes, adapted to delight the eye of the beholder.  
Proceeding onward she perceived that besides the apartments of state there were 
others filled with all manner of treasures, and beautiful and precious productions of 
nature and art.

	While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she saw no 
one, uttering these words: "Sovereign lady, all that you see is yours.  We whose voices 
you hear are your servants and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care 
and diligence.  Retire therefore to your chamber and repose on your bed of down, and 
when you see fit repair to the bath.  Supper awaits you in the adjoining alcove when it 
pleases you to take your seat there."

	Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendants, and after repose 
and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself in the alcove, where a table 
immediately presented itself, without any visible aid from waiters or servants, and 
covered with the greatest delicacies of food and the most nectareous wines.  Her ears 
too were feasted with music from invisible performers; of whom one sang, another 
played on the lute, and all closed in the wonderful harmony of a full chorus.

	She had not yet seen her destined husband.  He came only in the hours of 
darkness and fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full of love, and 
inspired a like passion in her.  She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, 
but he would not consent.  On the contrary he charged her to make no attempt to see 
him, for it was his pleasure, for the best of reasons, to keep concealed.  "Why should 
you wish to behold me?" he said "have you any doubt of my love?  have you any wish 
ungratified?  If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me, but all I 
ask of you is to love me.  I would rather you would love me as an equal than adore me 
as a god."

	This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty lasted 
she felt quite happy.  But at length the thought of her parents, left in ignorance of her 
fate, and of her sisters, precluded from sharing with her the delights of her situation, 
preyed on her mind and made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison.  
When her husband came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from 
him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.

	So calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's commands, and he, 
promptly obedient, soon brought them across the mountain down to their sister's 
valley.  They embraced her and she returned their caresses.  "Come," said Psyche, 
"enter with me my house and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to offer.  
Then taking their hands she led them into her golden palace, and committed them to 
the care of her numerous train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths and at 
her table, and to show them all her treasures.  The view of these celestial delights 
caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young sister possessed of such 
state and splendor, so much exceeding their own.

	They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person her 
husband was.  Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth, who generally spent the 
daytime in hunting upon the mountains.  The sisters, not satisfied with this reply, soon 
made her confess that she had never seen him.  Then they proceeded to fill her 
bosom with dark suspicions.  "Call to mind," they said "the Pythian oracle that declared 
you destined to marry a direful and tremendous monster.  The inhabitants of this valley 
say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent, who nourishes you for a 
while with dainties that he may by and by devour you.  Take our advice.  Provide 
yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife; put them in concealment that your husband 
may not discover them, and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed, bring forth your 
lamp and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not.  If it is, hesitate not to 
cut off the monster's head, and thereby recover your liberty."

	Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not fail to 
have their effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone, their words and her 
own curiosity were too strong for her to resist.  So she prepared her lamp and a sharp 
knife, and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had fallen into his first sleep, 
she silently rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most 
beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy 
neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, whiter than snow, and 
with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring.  As she leaned the lamp over 
to have a nearer view of his face a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder of the god, 
startled with which he opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her; then, without 
saying one word, he spread his white wings and flew out of the window.  Psyche, in 
vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the ground.  Cupid, beholding 
her as she lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and said, "O foolish Psyche, 
is it thus you repay my love?  After having disobeyed my mother's commands and 
made you my wife, will you think me a monster and cut off my head?  But go; return to 
your sisters, whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine.  I inflict no other 
punishment on you than to leave you for ever.  Love cannot dwell with suspicion." So 
saying he fled away leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with 
mournful lamentations.

	When she had recovered some degree of composure she looked around her, but 
the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the open field not far 
from the city where her sisters dwelt.  She repaired thither and told them the whole 
story of her misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful creatures 
inwardly rejoiced; "for now," said they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this 
idea, without saying a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning 
and ascended the mountain, and having reached the top, called upon Zephyr to 
receive her and bear her to his lord; then leaping up, and not being sustained by 
Zephyr, fell down the precipice and was dashed to pieces.

	Psyche meanwhile wandered day and night, without food or repose, in search of 
her husband.  Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain having on its brow a magnificent 
temple, she sighed and said to herself, "Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there," and 
directed her steps thither.

	She had no sooner entered than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears and 
some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley.  Scattered about lay sickles and rakes, 
and all the instruments of harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the 
weary reapers' hands in the sultry hours of the day.

	This unseemly confusion the pious Psyche put an end to, by separating and 
sorting every thing to its proper place and kind, believing that she ought to neglect 
none of the gods, but endeavor by her piety to engage them all in her behalf.  The holy 
Ceres, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed, thus spoke to her: "O 
Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, 
yet I can teach you how best to allay her displeasure.  Go then and voluntarily 
surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and submission to 
win her forgiveness, and perhaps her favor will restore you the husband you have 
lost."

	Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres and took her way to the temple of 
Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what she should say and 
how best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps 
fatal.

	Venus received her with angry countenance.  "Most undutiful and faithless of 
servants," said she, "do you at last remember that you really have a mistress?  Or 
have you rather come to see your sick husband, yet laid up of the wound given him by 
his loving wife?  You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the only way you can 
merit your lover must be by dint of industry and diligence.  I will make trial of your 
housewifery." Then she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, 
where was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and lentils 
prepared for food for her pigeons, and said, "Take and separate all these grains, 
putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done 
before evening." Then Venus departed and left her to her task.

	But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, sat stupid and 
silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heap.

	While she sat despairing Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native of the fields, to 
take compassion on her.  The leader of the ant hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-
legged subjects, approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence taking grain by 
grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its parcel; and when it was all done, 
they vanished out of sight in a moment.

	Venus at the approach of twilight returned from the banquet of the gods, 
breathing odors and crowned with roses.  Seeing the task done she exclaimed, "This is 
no work of yours, wicked one, but his, whom to your own and his misfortune you have 
enticed." So saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper and went 
away.

	Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her, "Behold yonder 
grove which stretches along the margin of the water.  There you will find sheep feeding 
without a shepherd, with golden-shining fleeces on their backs.  Go, fetch me a sample 
of that precious wool gathered from every one of their fleeces."

	Psyche obediently went to the river side, prepared to do her best to execute the 
command.  But the river god inspired the reeds with harmonious murmurs, which 
seemed to say, "O maiden, severely tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture 
among the formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under the 
influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their 
sharp horns or rude teeth.  But when the noontide sun has driven the cattle to the 
shade, and the serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then cross in 
safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the 
trees."

	Thus the compassionate river god gave Psyche instructions how to accomplish 
her task, and by observing his directions she soon returned to Venus with her arms full 
of the golden fleece; but she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, 
who said, "I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded 
in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself 
useful.  But I have another task for you.  Here, take this box, and go your way to the 
infernal shades, and give this box to Proserpine and say, "My mistress Venus desires 
you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending her sick son she has lost some of 
her own.  Be not too long on your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the 
circle of the gods and goddesses this evening."

	Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being obliged to go 
with her own feet directly down to Erebus.  Wherefore, to make no delay of what was 
not to be avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate herself headlong, 
thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below.  But a voice from the tower said 
to her, "Why, poor unlucky girl, dost thou design to put an end to thy days in so 
dreadful a manner?  And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger who 
hast been so miraculously supported in all thy former?" Then the voice told her how by 
a certain cave she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of 
the road, to pass by Cerberus, the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the 
ferryman, to take her across the black river and bring her back again.  But the voice 
added, "When Proserpine has given you the box, filled with her beauty, of all things 
this is chiefly to be observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box nor 
allow your curiosity to pry into the treasure of the beauty of the goddesses."

	Psyche encouraged by this advice obeyed it in all things, and taking heed to her 
ways travelled safely to the kingdom of Pluto.  She was admitted to the palace of 
Proserpine, and without accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was 
offered her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered her message 
from Venus.  Presently the box was returned to her, shut and filled with the precious 
commodity.  Then she returned the way she came, and glad was she to come out 
once more into the light of day.

	But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task a longing desire 
seized her to examine the contents of the box.  "What," said she, "shall I, the carrier of 
this divine beauty, not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more 
advantage in the eyes of my beloved husband!" So she carefully opened the box, but 
found nothing there of any beauty at all, but an infernal and truly Stygian sleep, which 
being thus set free from its prison, took possession of her, and she fell down in the 
midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense of motion.

	But Cupid, being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to bear the 
absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest crack of the window of 
his chamber which happened to be left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and 
gathering up the sleep from her body closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche 
with a light touch of one of his arrows.  "Again," said he, "hast thou almost perished by 
the same curiosity.  But now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, 
and I will take care of the rest."

	Then Cupid, as swift as lightning penetrating the heights of heaven, presented 
himself before Jupiter with his supplication.  Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded 
the cause of the lovers so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent.  On this he 
sent Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, 
handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, "Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal; nor shall 
Cupid ever break away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be 
perpetual."

	Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and in due time they had a 
daughter born to them whose name was Pleasure.

	The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical.  The Greek 
name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means the soul. There is no 
illustration of the immortality of the soul so striking and beautiful as the butterfly, 
bursting on brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull, grovelling, 
caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the most fragrant and 
delicate productions of the spring. Psyche then is the human soul, which is purified by 
sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure 
happiness.

	In works of art Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a butterfly, 
along with Cupid, in the different situations described in the allegory.

	Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion of his Comus: -

     "Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced,
     Holds his dear Psyche sweet entranced,
     After her wandering labors long,
     Till free consent the gods among
     Make her his eternal bride;
     And from her fair unspotted side
     Two blissful twins are to be born,
     Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn."

	The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the beautiful 
lines of T.K. Harvey: -

     'They wove bright fables in the days of old,
     When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
     When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
     And told in song its high and mystic things!
     And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
     The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given,
     That led her through the world, - Love's worshipper, -
     To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!

     "In the full city, - by the haunted fount, -
     Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars, -
     'Mid the pine temples, on the moon-lit mount,
     Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
     In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
     The painted valley, and the scented air,
     She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
     And found his footsteps' traces every where.

     "But never more they met!  since doubts and fears,
     Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
     Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
     And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
     Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
     Had learned to seek him only in the skies;
     Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
     And she became Love's angel bride in heaven!"

	The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a writer of 
the second century of our era.  It is therefore of much more recent date than most of the 
legends of the Age of Fable.  It is this that Keats alludes to in his Ode to Psyche.

     "O latest-born and loveliest vision far
     Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
     Fairer than Phoebe's sapphire-regioned star
     Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of the sky;
     Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
     Nor altar heaped with flowers;
     Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
     Upon the midnight hours;
     No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet,
     From chain-swung censer teeming;
     No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
     Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming."

	In Moore's Summer Fete a fancy ball is described, in which one of the characters 
personated is Psyche.

     " - not in dark disguise to-night
     Hath our young heroine veiled her light; -
     For see, she walks the earth, Love's own.
     His wedded bride, by holiest vow
     Pledged in Olympus, and made known
     To mortals by the type which now
     Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,
     That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
     Which means the soul, (though few would think it)
     And sparkling thus on brow so white
     Tells us we ve Psyche here to-night."


Chapter XII: Cadmus - The Myrmidons

	Jupiter, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away Europa, the daughter of 
Agenor, king of Phoenicia.  Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to go in search of his 
sister, and not to return without her.  Cadmus went and sought long and far for his 
sister, but could not find her, and not daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the 
oracle of Apollo to know what country he should settle in.  The oracle informed him 
that he should find a cow in the field, and should follow her wherever she might 
wander and where she stopped, should build a city and call it Thebes.  Cadmus had 
hardly left the Castalian cave, from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a 
young cow slowly walking before him.  He followed her close, offering at the same time 
his prayers to Phoebus.  The cow went on till she passed the shallow channel of 
Cephisus and came out into the plain of Panope.  There she stood still, and raising her 
broad forehead to the sky, filled the air with her lowings. Cadmus gave thanks, and 
stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his eyes, greeted the surrounding 
mountains.  Wishing to offer a sacrifice to Jupiter, he sent his servants to seek pure 
water for a libation.  Near by there stood an ancient grove which had never been 
profaned by the axe, in the midst of which was a cave, thick covered with the growth of 
bushes, its roof forming a low arch, from beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest 
water.  In the cave lurked a horrid serpent with a crested head and scales glittering like 
gold.  His eyes shone like fire, his body was swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple 
tongue, and showed a triple row of teeth.  No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their 
pitchers in the fountain, and the ingushing waters made a sound, than the glittering 
serpent raised his head out of the cave and uttered a fearful hiss.  The vessels fell 
from their hands, the blood left their cheeks, they trembled in every limb.  The serpent, 
twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, raised his head so as to overtop the tallest trees, 
and while the Tyrians from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his fangs, 
others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath.

	Cadmus having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in search of 
them.  His covering was a lion's hide, and besides his javelin he carried in his hand a 
lance, and in his breast a bold heart, a surer reliance than either.  When he entered 
the wood, and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the monster with his bloody 
jaws, he exclaimed, "O faithful friends, I will avenge you, or share your death." So 
saying he lifted a huge stone and threw it with all his force at the serpent.  Such a 
block would have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no impression on the 
monster.  Cadmus next threw his javelin, which met with better success, for it 
penetrated the serpent's scales, and pierced through to his entrails.  Fierce with pain 
the monster turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out the 
weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron point rankling in his flesh.  His 
neck swelled with rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils 
poisoned the air around.  Now he twisted himself into a circle, then stretched himself 
out on the ground like the trunk of a fallen tree.  As he moved onward, Cadmus 
retreated before him, holding his spear opposite to the monster's opened jaws.  The 
serpent snapped at the weapon and attempted to bite its iron point.  At last Cadmus 
watching his chance thrust the spear at a moment when the animal's head thrown 
back came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side.  His 
weight bent the tree as he struggled in the agonies of death.

	While Cadmus stood ovtr his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size, a voice 
was heard (from whence he knew not, but he heard it distinctly) commanding him to 
take the dragon's teeth and sow them in the earth.  He obeyed.  He made a furrow in 
the ground, and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of men.  Scarce had he 
done so when the clods began to move, and the points of spears to appear above the 
surface.  Next helmets with their nodding plumes came up, and next the shoulders and 
breasts and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed warriors.  
Cadmus alarmed prepared to encounter a new enemy, but one of them said to him, 
"Meddle not with our civil war." With that he who had spoken smote one of his earth-
born brothers with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from another. The 
latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner the whole crowd dealt with each other till 
all fell slain with mutual wounds, except five survivors. One of these cast away his 
weapons and said, "Brothers, let us live in peace!" These five joined with Cadmus in 
building his city, to which they gave the name of Thebes.

	Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus.  The gods left 
Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence, and Vulcan presented the bride 
with a necklace of surpassing brilliancy, his own workmanship.  But a fatality hung over 
the family of Cadmus in consequence of his killing the serpent sacred to Mars.  
Semele and Ino, his daughters, and Actaeon and Pentheus, his grandchildren, all 
perished unhappily, and Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to 
them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them with honor 
and made Cadmus their king.  But the misfortunes of their children still weighed upon 
their minds; and one day Cadmus exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, 
I would I were myself a serpent." No sooner had he uttered the words than he began to 
change his form.  Harmonia beheld it and prayed to the gods to let her share his fate.  
Both became serpents.  They live in the woods, but mindful of their origin, they neither 
avoid the presence of man, nor do they ever injure any one.

	There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the letters of the 
alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians.  This is alluded to by Byron where 
addressing the modern Greeks, he says, -

     "You have the letters Cadmus gave,
     Think you he meant them for a slave?"

	Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of the serpents of 
the classical stories and says, -

     " - pleasing was his shape,
     And lovely: never since of serpent kind
     Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed
     Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god
     In Epidaurus."

	For an explanation of the last allusion, see Epidaurus.

The Myrmidons. 

	The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles, in the Trojan war.  From them all 
zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political chief are called by that name, down to 
this day.  But the origin of the Myrmidons would not give one the idea of a fierce and 
bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful one.

	Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of Aegina to seek assistance of 
his old friend and ally Aeacus, the king, in his war with Minos, king of Crete.  Cephalus 
was most kindly received, and the desired assistance readily promised.  "I have people 
enough," said Aeacus, "to protect myself and spare you such a force as you need." "I 
rejoice to see it," replied Cephalus, "and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find 
such a host of youths as I see around me, all apparently of about the same age.  Yet 
there are many individuals whom I previously knew, that I look for now in vain.  What has 
become of them?" Aeacus groaned, and replied with a voice of sadness, "I have been 
intending to tell you, and will now do so, without more delay, that you may see how from 
the saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows.  Those whom you formerly knew 
are now dust and ashes! A plague sent by angry Juno devastated the land She hated it 
because it bore the name of one of her husband's female favorites.  While the disease 
appeared to spring from natural causes we resisted it as we best might, by natural 
remedies; but it soon appeared that the pestilence was too powerful for our efforts, and 
we yielded. At the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and thick 
clouds shut in the heated air.  For four months together a deadly south wind prevailed.  
The disorder affected the wells and springs; thousands of snakes crept over the land 
and shed their poison in the fountains.  The force of the disease was first spent on the 
lower animals, dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The luckless ploughman wondered to see 
his oxen fall in the midst of their work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow.  The 
wool fell from the bleating sheep, and their bodies pined away.  The horse once 
foremost in the race contested the palm no more, but groaned at his stall and died an 
inglorious death.  The wild boar forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness, the bears no 
longer attacked the herds.  Every thing languished; dead bodies lay in the roads, the 
fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by them.  I tell you what is hardly credible, 
but neither dogs nor birds would touch them, nor starving wolves.  Their decay spread 
the infection.  Next the disease attacked the country people, and then the dwellers in the 
city.  At first the cheek was flushed, and the breath drawn with difficulty.  The tongue 
grew rough and swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged and 
gasped for the air.  Men could not bear the heat of their clothes or their beds, but 
preferred to lie on the bare ground; and the ground did not cool them, but on the 
contrary, they heated the spot where they lay.  Nor could the physicians help, for the 
disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them infection, so that the 
most faithful were the first victims.  At last all hope of relief vanished, and men learned to 
look upon death as the only deliverer from disease.  Then they gave way to every 
inclination, and cared not to ask what was expedient, for nothing was expedient.  All 
restraint laid aside, they crowded around the wells and fountains and drank till they died, 
without quenching thirst.  Many had not strength to get away from the water, but died in 
the midst of the stream, and others would drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their 
weariness of their sick beds that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough to 
stand, would die on the ground.  They seemed to hate their friends, and got away from 
their homes, as if, not knowing the cause of their sickness, they charged it on the place 
of their abode.  Some were seen tottering along the road, as long as they could stand, 
while others sank on the earth, and turned their dying eyes around to take a last look, 
then closed them in death.

	"What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I to have had, except to 
hate life and wish to be with my dead subjects?  On all sides lay my people strewn like 
over-ripened apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak.  You see 
yonder a temple on the height.  It is sacred to Jupiter.  O, how many offered prayers 
there, husbands for wives, fathers for sons, and died in the very act of supplication!  How 
often, while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell, struck down by disease 
without waiting for the blow At length all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies 
were thrown out unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one 
another for the possession of them.  Finally there were none left to mourn; sons and 
husbands, old men and youths, perished alike unlamented.

	"Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven.  'O Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou 
art indeed my father, and art not ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or 
take me also away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard.  'I accept the omen,' I 
cried; 'O, may it be a sign of a favorable disposition towards me!' By chance there grew 
by the place where I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter.  I 
observed a troop of ants busy with their labor, carrying minute grains in their mouths and 
following one another in a line up the trunk of the tree.  Observing their numbers with 
admiration I said, 'Give me, O father, citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my 
empty city.' The tree shook and gave a rustling sound with its branches though no wind 
agitated them.  I trembled in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree.  I would not 
confess to myself that I hoped, yet I did hope.  Night came on and sleep took possession 
of my frame oppressed with cares.  The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its 
numerous branches all covered with living, moving creatures.  It seemed to shake its 
limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of those industrious grain-gathering 
animals, which appeared to gain in size, and grow larger and larger, and by-and-by to 
stand erect, lay aside their superfluous legs and their black color, and finally to assume 
the human form.  Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to chide the gods who had 
robbed me of a sweet vision and given me no reality in its place.  Being still in the temple 
my attention was caught by the sound of many voices without; a sound of late unusual to 
my ears.  While I began to think I was yet dreaming, Telamon, my son, throwing open 
the temple-gates, exclaimed, 'Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your 
hopes!' I went forth, I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my dream, and they 
were passing in procession in the same manner.  While I gazed with wonder and delight 
they approached, and kneeling hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and 
proceeded to allot the vacant city to the new-born race, and to parcel out the fields 
among them.  I called them Myrmidons from the ant, (myrmex,) from which they sprang.  
You have seen these persons; their dispositions resemble those which they had in their 
former shape.  They are a diligent and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of 
their gains. Among them you may recruit your forces.  They will follow you to the war, 
young in years and bold in heart."

	This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account which 
Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the plague of Athens.  The historian drew from 
life, and all the poets and writers of fiction since his day, when they have had occasion to 
describe a similar scene, have borrowed their details from him.


Chapter XIII: Nisus And Scylla, Echo And Narcissus, Clytie, Hero And 
Leander

Nisus And Scylla. 
	Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Megara.  Nisus was king of Megara, and 
Scylla was his daughter.  The siege had now lasted six months, and the city still held 
out, for it was decreed by fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple 
lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on his head.  There was a 
tower on the city walls, which overlooked the plain where Minos and his army were 
encamped.  To this tower Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the 
hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned to distinguish the 
persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular, excited her admiration.  Arrayed in his 
helmet, and bearing his shield, she admired his graceful deportment; if he threw his 
javelin, skill seemed combined with force in the discharge; if he drew his bow, Apollo 
himself could not have done it more gracefully.  But when he laid aside his helmet, and 
in his purple robes, his white horse with its gay caparisons, in its foaming mouth, the 
daughter of Nisus was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with 
admiration.  She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins that he held. She felt as 
if she could, if it were possible, go to him through the hostile ranks; she felt an impulse 
to cast herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to open the gates to 
him, or to do any thing else, so only it might gratify Minos.  As she sat in the tower, she 
talked thus with herself: "I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad war.  I 
grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any cause that brings him to my sight. 
Perhaps he would be willing to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would 
fly down, if I could, and alight in his camp, and tell him that we yield ourselves to his 
mercy.  But, then, to betray my father!  No!  rather would I never see Minos again.  And 
yet no doubt it is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered, when the 
conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on his side.  I think we 
shall be conquered; and if that must be the end of it, why should not love unbar the 
gates to him, instead of leaving it to be done by war?  Better spare delay and slaughter 
if we can.  And O, if any one should wound or kill Minos!  No one surely would have 
the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not knowing him, one might.  I will, I will surrender 
myself to him, with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war.  But how?  
The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he only stands in my way.  O 
that it might please the gods to take him away! But why ask the gods to do it? Another 
woman, loving as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the way of 
her love.  And can any other woman dare more than I?  I would encounter fire and 
sword to gain my object; but here there is no need of fire and sword. I only need my 
father's purple lock.  More precious than gold to me, that will give me all I wish."

	While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace was buried 
in sleep.  She entered her father's bedchamber and cut off the fatal lock; then passed 
out of the city and entered the enemy's camp.  She demanded to be led to the king, 
and thus addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus.  I surrender to you my 
country and my father's house.  I ask no reward but yourself; for love of you I have 
done it.  See here the purple lock! With this I give you my father and his kingdom." She 
held out her hand with the fatal spoil.  Minos shrunk back and refused to touch it.  "The 
gods destroy thee, infamous woman," he exclaimed; "disgrace of our time!  May 
neither earth nor sea yield thee a resting-place!  Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself 
was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster!" Thus he said, and gave orders 
that equitable terms should be allowed to the conquered city, and that the fleet should 
immediately sail from the island.

	Scylla was frantic.  "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it thus you leave me? - 
me who have given you victory, - who have sacrificed for you parent and country!  I am 
guilty, I confess, and deserve to die, but not by your hand." As the ships left the shore, 
she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the one which carried Minos, she 
was borne along an unwelcome companion of their course.  A sea-eagle soaring aloft - 
it was her father who had been changed into that form, - seeing her, pounced down 
upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws.  In terror she let go the ship, and 
would have fallen into the water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird.  The 
sea-eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies her in his lofty 
flight, you may see him dart down upon her, with beak and claws, to take vengeance 
for the ancient crime.

Echo And Narcissus. 

	Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where she devoted 
herself to woodland sports.  She was a favorite of Diana, and attended her in the 
chase.  But Echo had one failing; she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or 
argument, would have the last word.  One day Juno was seeking her husband, who, 
she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs.  Echo by her talk 
contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape.  When Juno 
discovered it, she passed sentence upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the 
use of that tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you 
are so fond of - reply.  You shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first."

	This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the 
mountains.  She loved him, and followed his footsteps.  O, how she longed to address 
him in the softest accents, and win him to converse!  but it was not in her power.  She 
waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready.  One day the 
youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo 
replied, "Here." Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come." Echo 
answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again, "Why do you shun me?" 
Echo asked the same question. "Let us join one another," said the youth.  The maid 
answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to 
throw her arms about his neck.  He started back, exclaiming, "Hands off!  I would 
rather die than you should have me!" "Have me," said she; but it was all in vain.  He 
left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods.  From that 
time forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs.  Her form faded with grief, till 
at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was 
nothing left of her but her voice.  With that she is still ready to reply to any one who 
calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word.

	Narcissus's cruelty in this case was not the only instance.  He shunned all the 
rest of the nymphs, as he had lone poor Echo.  One day a maiden, who had in vain 
endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that he might some time or other feel what 
it was to love and meet no return of affection.  The avenging goddess heard and 
granted the prayer.

	There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the shepherds never 
drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats resorted, nor any of the beasts of the for est; 
neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh around 
it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun.  Hither came one day the youth fatigued with 
hunting, heated and thirsty.  He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the 
water; he thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the fountain.  He stood 
gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of 
Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of 
health and exercise over all.  He fell in love with himself.  He brought his lips near to 
take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object.  It fled at the touch, 
but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination.  He could not tear 
himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he hovered over the brink of the 
fountain gazing upon his own image.  He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, 
beautiful being, do you shun me?  Surely, my face is not one to repel you.  The 
nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth 
my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with 
the like." His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image.  As he saw it depart, he 
exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you!  Let me at least gaze upon you, if I may not touch you." 
With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed 
him, so that by degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which formerly had 
so charmed the nymph Echo.  She kept near him, however, and when he exclaimed, 
"Alas!  alas!" she answered him with the same words.  He pined away and died; and 
when his shade passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of 
itself in the waters.  The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water-nymphs; and 
when they smote their breasts, Echo smote hers also.  They prepared a funeral pile, 
and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a 
flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and 
preserves the memory of Narcissus.

	Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's song in Comus.  
She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and sings to attract their attention.

     "Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
     Within thy aery shell
     By slow Meander's margent green,
     And in the violet-embroidered vale,
     Where the love-lorn nightingale
     Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
     Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
     That likest thy Narcissus are?
     O, if thou have
     Hid them in some flowery cave,
     Tell me but where,
     Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
     So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
     And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."

	Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes Eve 
give of the first sight of herself reflected in the fountain: -

     "That day I oft remember when from sleep
     I first awaked, and found myself reposed
     Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
     And what I was, whence thither brought, and how.
     Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
     Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
     Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
     Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
     With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
     On the green bank, to look into the clear
     Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
     As I bent down to look, just opposite
     A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
     Bending to look on me.  I started back;
     It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
     Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
     Of sympathy and love.  There had I fixed
     Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
     Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
     What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself;'" &c.

     Paradise Lost, Book IV

	No one of the fables of antiquity has been oftener alluded so by the poets than 
that of Narcissus.  Here are two epigrams which treat it in different ways.  The first is by 
Goldsmith: -

     "On a beautiful Youth, struck blind by Lightning."

     "Sure 'twas by Providence designed,
     Rather in pity than in hate,
     That he should be like Cupid blind,
     To save him from Narcissus' fate."

	The other is by Cowper: -


     "On an ugly Fellow.

     "Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
     Or fountain, lest that hideous hook,
     Thy nose, thou chance to see;
     Narcissus' fate would then be thine,
     And self-detested thou would'st pine
     As self-enamoured he."

Clytie. 

	Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no return. So 
she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold ground, with her unbound tresses 
streaming over her shoulders.  Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her 
own tears and the chilly dew her only food.  She gazed on the sun when he rose, and as 
he passed through his daily course to his setting; she saw no other object, her face 
turned constantly on him.  At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face 
became a flower, ^* which turns on its stem so as always to face the sun throughout its 
daily course; for it retains to that extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.

	[Footnote *: The Sunflower]

	Hood in his Flowers thus alludes to Clytie: -


     "I will not have the mad Clytie,
     Whose head is turned by the sun;
     The tulip is a courtly quean,
     Whom therefore I will shun;
     The cowslip is a country wench,
     The violet is a nun; -
     But I will woo the dainty rose,
     The queen of every one."

	The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy.  Thus Moore uses it: -


     "The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
     But as truly loves on to the close;
     As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
     The same look that she turned when he rose."

Hero And Leander. 

	Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the strait which 
separates Asia and Europe.  On the opposite shore in the town of Sestos lived the 
maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus.  Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait 
nightly to enjoy the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she reared upon 
the tower, for the purpose.  But one night a tempest arose and the sea was rough; his 
strength failed, and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, 
where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the 
tower into the sea and perished.

	The following sonnet is by Keats: -


     On A Picture Of Leander.

     Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
     Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
     Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
     And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
     As if so gentle that ye could not see,
     Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
     Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
     Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
     'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
     Nigh swooning he doth purse his weary lips
     For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile
     O horrid dream!  see how his body dips
     Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
     He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!

	The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as fabulous, 
and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron proved its possibility by performing it 
himself.  In the Bride of Abydos he says, -

	"These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne."

	The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is a constant 
current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the Archipelago. Since Byron's time the 
feat has been achieved by others; but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the art 
of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity to any one of our readers who 
may dare to make the attempt and succeed in accomplishing it.

	In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron thus alludes to 
this story: -

     "The winds are high on Helle's wave,
     As on that night of stormiest water,
     When Love, who sent, forgot to save
     The young, the beautiful, the brave,
     The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
     O, when alone along the sky
     The turret-torch was blazing high,
     Though rising gale and breaking foam,
     And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
     And clouds aloft and tides below,
     With signs and sounds forbade to go,
     He could not see, he would not hear
     Or sound or sight foreboding fear.
     His eye but saw that light of love,
     The only star it hailed above;
     His ear but rang with Hero's song,
     'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.'
     That tale is old, but love anew
     May nerve young hearts to prove as true."



Chapter XIV: Minerva - Niobe

Minerva. 
	Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter.  She was said to 
have leaped forth from his brain, mature, and in complete armor.  She presided over 
the useful and ornamental arts, both those of men, - such as agriculture and navigation 
- and those of women, - spinning, weaving, and needle-work.  She was also a warlike 
divinity; but it was defensive war only that she patronized, and she had no sympathy 
with Mars's savage love of violence and bloodshed.  Athens was her chosen seat, her 
own city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it.  
The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities 
contended for the possession of the city.  The gods decreed that it should be awarded 
to that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals.  Neptune gave the horse; 
Minerva produced the olive.  The gods gave judgment that the olive was the more 
useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess; and it was named after her, 
Athens, her name in Greek being Athene.

	There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in competition with 
Minerva.  That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such skill in the arts of 
weaving and embroidery that the Nymphs themselves would leave their groves and 
fountains to come and gaze upon her work.  It was not only beautiful when it was 
done, but beautiful also in the doing.  To watch her, as she took the wool in its rude 
state and formed it into rolls, or separated it with her fingers and carded it till it looked 
as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove the web, 
or, after it was woven, adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva 
herself had taught her.  But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil 
even of a goddess.  "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if beaten, I will pay 
the penalty." Minerva heard this and was displeased.  She assumed the form of an old 
woman, and went and gave Arachne some friendly advice.  "I have had much 
experience," said she, "and I hope you will not despise my counsel.  Challenge your 
fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess.  On the contrary, I 
advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you have said, and as she is merciful, 
perhaps she will pardon you." Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old 
dame with anger in her countenance.  "Keep your counsel," said she, "for your 
daughters or hand-maids; for my part, I know what I say, and I stand to it.  I am not 
afraid of the goddess; let her try her skill, if she dare venture." "She comes," said 
Minerva; and dropping her disguise, stood confessed.  The Nymphs bent low in 
homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence.  Arachne alone was unterrified.  She 
blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale.  But she 
stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate.  
Minerva forbore no longer, nor interposed any further advice.  They proceed to the 
contest.  Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam.  Then the slender 
shuttle is passed in and out among the threads.  The reed with its fine teeth strikes up 
the woof into its place and compacts the web.  Both work with speed; their skilful 
hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor light.  Wool of 
Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so 
adroitly that the joining deceives the eye.  Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the 
heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower, ^* in which, where the colors 
meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are wholly 
different.

	[Footnote *: This correct description of the rainbow is literally translated from 
Ovid.]

	Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve of 
the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with august gravity, sitting in the midst.  
Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the 
earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted herself with helmed 
head, her Aegis covering her breast. Such was the central circle; and in the four 
corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such 
presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them.  These were meant as 
warnings to her rival to give up the contest before it was too late.

	Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the failings and 
errors of the gods.  One scene represented Leda caressing the swan, under which 
form Jupiter had disguised himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which 
her father had imprisoned her, but where the god effected his entrance in the form of a 
golden shower.  Still another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise 
of a bull.  Encouraged by the tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to mount his 
back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea, and swam with her to Crete.  You 
would have thought it was a real bull, so naturally was it wrought, and so natural the 
water in which it swam.  She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the shore 
she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help.  She appeared to shudder 
with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from the water.

	Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done, but 
strongly marking her presumption and impiety.  Minerva could not forbear to admire, 
yet felt indignant at the insult.  She struck the web with her shuttle, and rent it in 
pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne, and made her feel her guilt and 
shame.  She could not endure it, and went and hanged herself Minerva pitied her as 
she saw her suspended by a rope. "Live," she said, "guilty woman - and that you may 
preserve the memory of this lesson continue to hang, both you and your descendants, 
to all future times." She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her 
hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise.  Her form shrank up, and her head grew 
smaller yet; her fingers cleaved to her side, and served for legs. All the rest of her is 
body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same 
attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.

	Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his Muiopotmos, adhering very closely to his 
master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of the story.  The two stanzas 
which follow tell what was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the 
olive tree: -

     "Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
     With excellent device and wondrous slight,
     Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
     That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
     The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
     The silken down with which his back is dight,
     His broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs,
     His glorious colors, and his glistening eyes." ^*

	[Footnote *: Sir James Mackintosh says of this, "Do you think that even a 
Chinese could paint the gay colors of a butterfly with more minute exactness than the 
following lines - 'The velvet nap, &c.'?" Life. - Vol. II. 246]

     "Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
     And mastered with workmanship so rare,
     She stood astonied long, ne aught gainsaid;
     And with fast-fixed eyes on her did stare,
     And by her silence, sign of one dismayed,
     The victory did yield her as her share:
     Yet did she inly fret and felly burn,
     And all her blood to poisonous rancor turn."

	And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification and 
vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess.

	The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick: -

	Upon a Lady's Embroidery.


     "Arachne once, as poets tell,
     A goddess at her art defied,
     And soon the daring mortal fell
     The hapless victim of her pride.

     O, then beware Arachne's fate;
     Be prudent, Chloe, and submit,
     For you'll most surely meet her hate,
     Who rival both her art and wit."

	Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describing the works of art with which the palace 
was adorned, thus alludes to Europa: -

     " - sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasped
     From off her shoulder, backward borne,
     From one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped
     The mild bull's golden horn."

	In his Princess there is this allusion to Danae: -


     "Now lies the earth all Danae to the stars,
     And all thy heart lies open unto me."

Niobe. 

	The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and served as a 
warning to all presumptuous mortals not to compare themselves with the divinities.  But 
one, and she a matron too, failed to learn the lesson of humility.  It was Niobe, the queen 
of Thebes.  She had indeed much to be proud of; but it was not her husband's fame, nor 
her own beauty, nor their great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her.  
It was her children; and truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been, if only she 
had not claimed to be so.  It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honor of 
Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana, - when the people of Thebes were 
assembled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and 
paying their vows, - that Niobe appeared among the crowd.  Her attire was splendid with 
gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be.  She 
stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks.  "What folly," said she, "is this! - to 
prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes!  Why should 
Latona be honored with worship, and none be paid to me?  My father was Tantalus, who 
was received as a guest at the table of the gods; my mother was a goddess.  My 
husband built and rules this city, Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance.  
Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power; nor is my form and 
presence unworthy of a goddess.  To all this let me add, I have seven sons and seven 
daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my 
alliance.  Have I not cause for pride?  Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's 
daughter, with her two children?  I have seven times as many. Fortunate indeed am I, 
and fortunate I shall remain!  Will any one deny this? My abundance is my security.  I 
feel myself too strong for Fortune to subdue. She may take from me much; I shall still 
have much left.  Were I to lose some of my children, I should hardly be left as poor as 
Latona with her two only. Away with you from these solemnities, - put off the laurel from 
your brows, - have done with this worship!" The people obeyed, and left the sacred 
services uncompleted.

	The goddess was indignant.  On the Cynthian mountain top, where she dwelt, 
she thus addressed her son and daughter: "My children, I who have been so proud of 
you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except 
Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of 
my worship altogether unless you protect me." She was proceeding in this strain, but 
Apollo interrupted her.  "Say no more," said he; "speech only delays punishment." So 
said Diana also.  Darting through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of 
the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain, where the youth of the city 
pursued their warlike sports.  The sons of Niobe were there with the rest, - some 
mounted on spirited horses richly caparisoned, some driving gay chariots.  Ismenos, the 
first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, 
"Ah me!" - dropped the reins and fell lifeless.  Another, hearing the sound of the bow, - 
like a boatman who sees the storm gathering and makes all sail for the port, - gave the 
rein to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he 
fled.  Two others, younger boys, just from their tasks, had gone to the playground to 
have a game of wrestling.  As they stood breast to breast, one arrow pierced them both.  
They uttered a cry together, together cast a parting look around them, and together 
breathed their last.  Alphenor, an elder brother, seeing them fall hastened to the spot to 
render assistance, and fell stricken in the act of brotherly duty.  One only was left, 
Ilioneus. He raised his arms to heaven to try whether prayer might not avail.  "Spare me, 
ye gods!" he cried, addressing all, in his ignorance that all needed not his intercessions; 
and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string, and it was 
too late.

	The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Niobe acquainted 
with what had taken place.  She could hardly think it possible; she was indignant that the 
gods had dared and amazed that they had been able to do it.  Her husband, Amphion, 
overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas!  how different was this Niobe from 
her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately 
course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes! She knelt 
over the lifeless bodies, and kissed, now one, now another of her dead sons.  Raising 
her pallid arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "feed full your rage with my anguish!  
Satiate your hard heart, while I follow to the grave my seven sons.  Yet where is your 
triumph?  Bereaved as I am, I am still richer than you, my conqueror." Scarce had she 
spoken, when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone.  
She was brave from excess of grief.  The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the 
biers of their dead brothers.  One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she 
was bewailing.  Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, 
and sank lifeless to the earth.  A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment, 
another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only 
one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with 
her whole body.  "Spare me one, and that the youngest!  O, spare me one of so many!" 
she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead.  Desolate she sat, among sons, 
daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief.  The breeze moved not her 
hair, no color was on her cheek, her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign 
of life about her.  Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her veins 
ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot 
no step.  She was changed to stone, within and without.  Yet tears continued to flow; 
and, borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from 
which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief.

	The story of Niobe has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the fallen 
condition of modern Rome: -

     "The Niobe of nations!  there she stands,
     Childless and crownless in her voiceless woe;
     An empty urn within her withered hands,
     Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
     The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now:
     The very sepulchres lie tenantless
     Of their heroic dwellers; dost thou flow,
     Old Tiber!  through a marble wilderness?
     Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

     Childe Harold, IV. 79.

	Our illustration of this story is a copy of a celebrated statue in the imperial gallery 
of Florence.  It is the principal figure of a group supposed to have been originally 
arranged in the pediment of a temple.  The figure of the mother clasped by the arm of 
her terrified child, is one of the most admired of the ancient statues.  It ranks with the 
Laocoon and the Apollo among the masterpieces of art.  The following is a translation of 
a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue: -

     "To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain;
     The sculptor's art has made her breathe again."

	Tragic as is the story of Niobe we cannot forbear to smile at the use Moore has 
made of it in Rhymes on the Road: -

     "'Twas in his carriage the sublime
     Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme,
     And, if the wits don't do him wrong,
     'Twixt death and epics passed his time,
     Scribbling and killing all day long;
     Like Phoebus in his car at ease,
     Now warbling forth a lofty song,
     Now murdering the young Niobes."

	Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very prolific and 
very tasteless post, whose works are now forgotten, unless when recalled by some wit 
like Moore for the sake of a joke.


Chapter XV: Graeae Or Gray-Maids - Perseus - Medusa - Atlas - 
Andromeda

The Graeae And Gorgons. 
	The Graeae were three sisters who were gray-haired from their birth, whence 
their name.  The Gorgons were monstrous females with huge teeth like those of swine, 
brazen claws, and snaky hair.  None of these beings make much figure in mythology 
except Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we shall next advert to.  We mention them 
chiefly to introduce an ingenious theory of some modern writers, namely, that the 
Gorgons and Graeae were only personifications of the terrors of the sea, the former 
denoting the strong billows of the wide open main, and the latter the white-crested 
waves that dash against the rocks of the coast.  Their names in Greek signify the 
above epithets.

Perseus And Medusa. 

	Perseus was the son of Jupiter and Danae.  His grandfather Acrisius alarmed by 
an oracle which had told him that his daughter's child would be the instrument of his 
death, caused the mother and child to be shut up in a chest and set adrift on the sea.  
The chest floated towards Seriphus, where it was found by a fisherman who conveyed 
the mother and infant to Polydectes, king of the country, by whom they were treated 
with kindness.  When Perseus was grown up Polydectes sent him to attempt the 
conquest of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid waste the country.  She was 
once a beautiful maiden whose hair was her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in 
beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms and changed her 
beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents.  She became a cruel monster of so frightful an 
aspect that no living thing could behold her without being turned into stone.  All around 
the cavern where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and animals which 
had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified with the sight.  Perseus, 
favored by Minerva and Mercury, the former of whom lent him her shield and the latter 
his winged shoes, approached Medusa while she slept, and taking care not to look 
directly at her, but guided by her image reflected in the bright shield which he bore, he 
cut off her head, and gave it to Minerva, who fixed it in the middle of her Aegis.

	Milton in his Comus thus alludes to the Aegis: -


     "What was that snaky-headed Gorgon-shield
     That wise Minerva wore, unconquered virgin,
     Wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone,
     But rigid looks of chaste austerity,
     And noble grace that dashed brute violence
     With sudden adoration and blank awe!"

	Armstrong, the poet of the Art of Preserving Health, thus describes the effect of 
frost upon the waters: -

     "Now blows the surly North and chills throughout
     The stiffening regions, while by stronger charms
     Than Circe e'er or fell Medea brewed.
     Each brook that wont to prattle to its banks
     Lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks,
     Nor moves the withered reeds. . .
     The surges baited by the fierce North-east,
     Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads,
     E'en in the foam of all their madness struck
     To monumental ice.

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Such execution,
     So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
     Of terrible Medusa,
     When wandering through the woods she turned to stone
     Their savage tenants; just as the foaming Lion
     Sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power
     Outran his haste,
     And fixed in that fierce attitude he stands
     Like Rage in marble!"

     Imitations of Shakspeare.

Perseus And Atlas. 

	After the slaughter of Medusa, Perseus, bearing with him the head of the 
Gorgon, flew far and wide, over land and sea.  As night came on, he reached the 
western limit of the earth, where the sun goes down.  Here he would gladly have rested 
till morning.  It was the realm of King Atlas, whose bulk surpassed that of all other men.  
He was rich in flocks and herds and had no neighbor or rival to dispute his state.  But his 
chief pride was in his gardens, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden branches, 
half hid with golden leaves.  Perseus said to him, "I come as a guest.  If you honor 
illustrious descent, I claim Jupiter for my father; if mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of 
the Gorgon.  I seek rest and food." But Atlas remembered that an ancient prophecy had 
warned him that a son of Jove should one day rob him of his golden apples.  So he 
answered, "Begone!  or neither your false claims of glory or parentage shall protect you;" 
and he attempted to thrust him out. Perseus, finding the giant too strong for him, said, 
"Since you value my friendship so little, deign to accept a present;" and turning his face 
away, he held up the Gorgon's head.  Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into stone.  
His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, 
and his bones rocks.  Each part increased in bulk till he became a mountain, and (such 
was the pleasure of the gods) heaven with all its stars rests upon his shoulders.

	Perseus, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the Aethiopians, of which 
Cepheus was king.  Cassiopeia his queen, proud of her beauty, had dared to compare 
herself to the Sea-Nymphs, which roused their indignation to such a degree that they 
sent a prodigious sea-monster to ravage the coast.  To appease the deities, Cepheus 
was directed by the oracle to expose his daughter Andromeda to be devoured by the 
monster.  As Perseus looked down from his aerial height he beheld the virgin chained to 
a rock, and waiting the approach of the serpent.  She was so pale and motionless that if 
it had not been for her flowing tears and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would 
have taken her for a marble statue.  He was so startled at the sight that he almost forgot 
to wave his wings.  As he hovered over her he said, "O virgin, undeserving of those 
chains, but rather of such as bind fond lovers together, tell me, I beseech you, your 
name and the name of your country, and why you are thus bound." At first she was silent 
from modesty, and, if she could, would have hid her face with her hands; but when he 
repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of some fault which she 
dared not tell, she disclosed her name and that of her country, and her mother's pride of 
beauty.  Before she had done speaking, a sound was heard off upon the water, and the 
sea-monster appeared, with his head raised above the surface, cleaving the waves with 
his broad breast.  The virgin shrieked, the father and mother who had now arrived at the 
scene, wretched both, but the mother more justly so, stood by, not able to afford 
protection, but only to pour forth lamentations and to embrace the victim.  Then spoke 
Perseus: "There will be time enough for tears; this hour is all we have for rescue.  My 
rank as the son of Jove and my renown as the slayer of the Gorgon might make me 
acceptable as a suitor; but I will try to win her by services rendered, if the gods will only 
be propitious.  If she be rescued by my valor, I demand that she be my reward." The 
parents consent, (how could they hesitate?) and promise a royal dowry with her.

	And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by a skilful slinger, 
when with a sudden bound the youth soared into the air.  As an eagle, when from his 
lofty flight he sees a serpent basking in the sun, pounces upon him and seizes him by 
the neck to prevent him from turning his head round and using his fangs, so the youth 
darted down upon the back of the monster and plunged his sword into its shoulder.  
Irritated by the wound the monster raised himself into the air, then plunged into the 
depth; then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking dogs, turned swiftly from 
side to side, while the youth eluded its attacks by means of his wings.  Wherever he can 
find a passage for his sword between the scales he makes a wound, piercing now the 
side, now the flank, as it slopes towards the tail.  The brute spouts from his nostrils water 
mixed with blood.  The wings of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no longer trust to 
them.  Alighting on a rock which rose above the waves, and holding on by a projecting 
fragment, as the monster floated near he gave him a death stroke.  The people who had 
gathered on the shore shouted so that the hills reechoed the sound.  The parents, 
transported with joy, embraced their future son-in-law, calling him their deliverer and the 
savior of their house, and the virgin, both cause and reward of the contest, descended 
from the rock.

	Cassiopeia was an Aethiopian, and consequently, in spite of her boasted beauty, 
black; at least so Milton seems to have thought, who alludes to this story in his 
Penseroso, where he addresses Melancholy as the

     " - goddess, sage and holy,
     Whose saintly visage is too bright
     To hit the sense of human sight,
     And, therefore, to our weaker view
     O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue.
     Black, but such as in esteem
     Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,
     Or that starred Aethiop queen that strove
     To set her beauty's praise above
     The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended."

	Cassiopeia is called "the starred Aethiop queen" because after her death she 
was placed among the stars, forming the constellation of that name. Though she 
attained this honor, yet the Sea-Nymphs, her old enemies, prevailed so far as to cause 
her to be placed in that part of the heaven near the pole, where every night she is half 
the time held with her head downward, to give her a lesson of humility.

	Memnon was an Aethiopian prince, of whom we shall tell in a future chapter.

The Wedding Feast. 

	The joyful parents, with Perseus and Andromeda, repaired to the palace, where a 
banquet was spread for them, and all was joy and festivity.  But suddenly a noise was 
heard of warlike clamor, and Phineus, the betrothed of the virgin, with a party of his 
adherents, burst in, demanding the maiden as his own.  It was in vain that Cepheus 
remonstrated, - "You should have claimed her when she lay bound to the rock, the 
monster's victim.  The sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all 
engagements, as death itself would have done." Phineus made no reply, but hurled his 
javelin at Perseus, but it missed its mark and fell harmless.  Perseus would have thrown 
his in turn, but the cowardly assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar.  But his act 
was a signal for an onset by his band upon the guests of Cepheus. They defended 
themselves and a general conflict ensued, the old king retreating from the scene after 
fruitless expostulations, calling the gods to witness that he was guiltless of this outrage 
on the rights of hospitality.

	Perseus and his friends maintained for some time the unequal contest; but the 
numbers of the assailants were too great for them, and destruction seemed inevitable, 
when a sudden thought struck Perseus, - "I will make my enemy defend me." Then with 
a loud voice he exclaimed, "If I have any friend here let him turn away his eyes!" and 
held aloft the Gorgon's head.  "Seek not to frighten us with your jugglery," said 
Thescelus, and raised his javelin in act to throw, and became stone in the very attitude.  
Ampyx was about to plunge his sword into the body of a prostrate foe, but his arm 
stiffened and he could neither thrust forward nor withdraw it.  Another, in the midst of a 
vociferous challenge, stopped, his mouth open, but no sound issuing.  One of Perseus's 
friends, Aconteus, caught sight of the Gorgon and stiffened like the rest. Astyages struck 
him with his sword, but instead of wounding, it recoiled with a ringing noise.

	Phineus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression, and felt confounded.  
He called aloud to his friends, but got no answer; he touched them and found them 
stone.  Falling on his knees and stretching out his hands to Perseus, but turning his 
head away, he begged for mercy.  "Take all," said he, "give me but my life." "Base 
coward," said Perseus, "thus much I will grant you; no weapon shall touch you; 
moreover you shall be preserved in my house as a memorial of these events." So 
saying, he held the Gorgon's head to the side where Phineus was looking, and in the 
very form in which he knelt, with his hands outstretched and face averted he became 
fixed immovably, a mass of stone!

	The following allusion to Perseus is from Milman's Samor: -


     "As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood
     Perseus in stern tranquility of wrath,
     Half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes
     Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield
     Looked into stone the raging fray; so rose,
     But with no magic arms, wearing alone
     Th' appalling and control of his firm look,
     The Briton Samor; at his rising awe
     Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute."




Chapter XVI: Monsters

Giants, Sphinx, Pegasus And Chimaera, Centaurs Griffin, And Pygmies. 
	Monsters, in the language of mythology, were beings of unnatural proportions or 
parts, usually regarded with terror, as possessing immense strength and ferocity, 
which they employed for the injury and annoyance of men.  Some of them were 
supposed to combine the members of different animals; such were the Sphinx and 
Chimaera; and to these all the terrible qualities of wild beasts were attributed, together 
with human sagacity and faculties. Others, as the giants, differed from men chiefly in 
their size; and in this particular we must recognize a wide distinction among them.  The 
human giants, if so they may be called, such as the Cyclopes, Antaeus, Orion and 
others, must be supposed not to be altogether disproportioned to human beings, for 
they mingled in love and strife with them.  But the superhuman giants, who warred with 
the gods, were of vastly larger dimensions.  Tityus, we are told, when stretched on the 
plain, covered nine acres, and Enceladus required the whole of Mount Aetna to be laid 
upon him to keep him down.

	We have already spoken of the war which the giants waged against the gods, 
and of its result.  While this war lasted the giants proved a formidable enemy.  Some of 
them, like Briareus, had a hundred arms; others, like Typhon, breathed out fire.  At one 
time they put the gods to such fear that they fled into Egypt, and hid themselves under 
various forms.  Jupiter took the form of a ram, whence he was afterwards worshipped 
in Egypt as the god Ammon, with curved horns.  Apollo became a crow, Bacchus a 
goat, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a bird.  At another time the giants 
attempted to climb up into heaven, and for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa 
and piled it on Pelion. ^* They were at last subdued by thunderbolts, which Minerva 
invented, and taught Vulcan and his Cyclopes to make for Jupiter.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 477.]

The Sphinx. 

	Laius, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was danger to his 
throne and life if his new-born son should be suffered to grow up.  He therefore 
committed the child to the care of a herdsman, with orders to destroy him; but the 
herdsman, moved with pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the child by the 
feet, and left him hanging to the branch of a tree.  In this condition the infant was found 
by a peasant, who carried him to his master and mistress, by whom he was adopted 
and called Oedipus, or Swollen-foot.

	Many years afterwards Laius being on his way to Delphi, accompanied only by 
one attendant, met in a narrow road a young man also driving in a chariot. On his 
refusal to leave the way at their command, the attendant killed one of his horses, and 
the stranger, filled with rage, slew both Laius and his attendant.  The young man was 
Oedipus, who thus unknowingly became the slayer of his own father.

	Shortly after this event, the city of Thebes was afflicted with a monster which 
infested the high-road.  It was called the Sphinx.  It had the body of a lion, and the 
upper part of a woman.  It lay crouched on the top of a rock, and arrested all travellers 
who came that way, proposing to them a riddle, with the condition that those who could 
solve it should pass safe, but those who failed should be killed.  Not one had yet 
succeeded in solving it, and all had been slain.  Oedipus was not daunted by these 
alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial.  The Sphinx asked him, "What 
animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the 
evening upon three?" Oedipus replied, "Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and 
knees, in manhood walks erect, and in old age with the aid of a staff." The Sphinx was 
so mortified at the solving of her riddle that she cast her self down from the rock and 
perished.

	The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so great that they made 
Oedipus their king, giving him in marriage their queen Jocasta. Oedipus, ignorant of 
his parentage, had already become the slayer of his father; in marrying the queen he 
became the husband of his mother.  These horrors remained undiscovered, till at 
length Thebes was afflicted with famine and pestilence, and the oracle being 
consulted, the double crime of Oedipus came to light.  Jocasta put an end to her own 
life, and Oedipus, seized with madness, tore out his eyes, and wandered away from 
Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all, except his daughters, who faithfully adhered 
to him; till after a tedious period of miserable wandering, he found the termination of 
his wretched life.

Pegasus And The Chimaera. 

	When Perseus cut off Medusa's head, the blood sinking into the earth produced 
the winged horse Pegasus.  Minerva caught and tamed him, and presented him to the 
Muses.  The fountain Hippocrene, on the Muses' mountain Helicon, was opened by a 
kick from his hoof.

	The Chimaera was a fearful monster, breathing fire.  The fore part of its body 
was a compound of the lion and the goat, and the hind part a dragon's. It made great 
havoc in Lycia, so that the king Iobates sought for some hero to destroy it.  At that time 
there arrived at his court a gallant young warrior, whose name was Bellerophon.  He 
brought letters from Proetus, the son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Bellerophon in 
the warmest terms as an unconquerable hero, but added at the close a request to his 
father-in-law to put him to death.  The reason was that Proetus was jealous of him, 
suspecting that his wife Antea looked with too much admiration on the young warrior.  
From this instance of Bellerophon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death-
warrant, the expression "Bellerophontic letters" arose, to describe any species of 
communication which a person is made the bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to 
himself.

	Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not willing to violate the 
claims of hospitality, yet wishing to oblige his son-in-law.  A lucky thought occurred to 
him, to send Bellerophon to combat with the Chimaera.  Bellerophon accepted the 
proposal, but before proceeding to the combat consulted the soothsayer Polyidus, who 
advised him to procure if possible the horse Pegasus for the conflict.  For this purpose 
he directed him to pass the night in the temple of Minerva.  He did so, and as he slept 
Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle.  When he awoke the bridle 
remained in his hand.  Minerva also showed him Pegasus drinking at the well of 
Pirene, and at sight of the bridle, the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself 
to be taken.  Bellerophon mounted him, rose with him into the air, soon found the 
Chimaera, and gained an easy victory over the monster.

	After the conquest of the Chimaera, Bellerophon was exposed to further trials 
and labors by his unfriendly host, but by the aid of Pegasus he triumphed in them all; 
till at length Iobates, seeing that the hero was a special favorite of the gods, gave him 
his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the throne.  At last 
Bellerophon by his pride and presumption drew upon himself the anger of the gods; it 
is said he even attempted to fly up into heaven on his winged steed; but Jupiter sent a 
gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who became lame and 
blind in consequence.  After this Bellerophon wandered lonely through the Aleian field, 
avoiding the paths of men, and died miserably.

	Milton alludes to Bellerophon in the beginning of the seventh book of Paradise 
Lost: -

     "Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
     If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
     Following above the Olympian hill I soar,
     Above the flight of Pegasean wing.
     Upled by thee,

     Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
     An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
     (Thy tempering;) with like safety guided down
     Return me to my native element;

     Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once
     Bellerophon, though from a lower sphere,)
     Dismounted on the Aleian field I fall,
     Erroneous there to wander and forlorn."

	Young in his Night Thoughts, speaking of the sceptic, says, -


     "He whose blind though futurity denies,
     Unconscious bears, Bellerophon, like thee
     His own indictment; he condemns himself.
     Who reads his bosom reads immortal life,
     Or nature there, imposing on her sons,
     Has written fables; man was made a lie."

     Vol. II. p. 12.

	Pegasus, being the horse of the Muses, has always been at the service of the 
poets.  Schiller tells a pretty story of his having been sold by a needy poet, and put to the 
cart and the plough.  He was not fit for such service, and his clownish master could 
make nothing of him.  But a youth stepped forth and asked leave to try him.  As soon as 
he was seated on his back, the horse, which had appeared at first vicious, and 
afterwards spirit-broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god; unfolded the splendor of his wings 
and soared towards heaven.  Our own poet Longfellow also records an adventure of this 
famous steed in his Pegasus in Pound.

	Shakespeare alludes to Pegasus in Henry IV, where Vernon describes Prince 
Henry: -

     "I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
     His cuishes on his thighs, gallantly armed,
     Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
     And vaulted with such ease into his seat,
     As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
     To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,
     And witch the world with noble horsemanship."

The Centaurs. 

	These monsters were represented as men from the head to the loins while the 
remainder of the body was that of a horse.  The ancients were too fond of a horse to 
consider the union of his nature with man's as forming a very degraded compound, and 
accordingly the Centaur is the only one of the fancied monsters of antiquity to which any 
good traits are assigned.  The Centaurs were admitted to the companionship of man, 
and at the marriage of Pirithous with Hippodamia, they were among the guests.  At the 
feast, Eurytion, one of the Centaurs, becoming intoxicated with the wine, attempted to 
offer violence to the bride; the other Centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful 
conflict arose in which several of them were slain.  This is the celebrated battle of the 
Lapithae and Centaurs, a favorite subject with the sculptors and poets of antiquity.

	But not all the Centaurs were like the rude guests of Pirithous.  Chiron was 
instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was renowned for his skill in hunting, medicine, 
music, and the art of prophecy.  The most distinguished heroes of Grecian story were his 
pupils.  Among the rest the infant Aesculapius was intrusted to his charge, by Apollo, his 
father.  When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter Ocyroe 
came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst forth into a prophetic strain, (for 
she was a prophetess,) foretelling the glory that he was to achieve. Aesculapius when 
grown up became a renowned physician, and even in one instance succeeded in 
restoring the dead to life.  Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request, struck the bold 
physician with lightning, and killed him, but after his death received him into the number 
of the gods.

	Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the Centaurs, and at his death Jupiter 
placed him among the stars as the constellation Sagittarius.

The Pygmies. 

	The Pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word which means 
the cubit or measure of about thirteen inches, which was said to be the height of these 
people.  They lived near the sources of the Nile, or according to others, in India.  Homer 
tells us that the cranes used to migrate every winter to the Pygmies' country, and their 
appearance was the signal of bloody warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take up 
arms to defend their cornfields against the rapacious strangers.  The Pygmies and their 
enemies the Cranes form the subject of several works of art.

	Later writers tell of an army of Pygmies which finding Hercules asleep made 
preparations to attack him, as if they were about to attack a city.  But the hero awaking 
laughed at the little warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's-skin, and carried 
them to Eurystheus.

	Milton uses the Pygmies for a simile, P. L. Book I.: -


     " - like that Pygmaean race
     Beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves
     Whose midnight revels by a forest side,
     Or fountain, some belated peasant sees,
     (Or dreams he sees,) while overhead the moon
     Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
     Wheels her pale course; they on their mirth and dance
     Intent, with jocund music charm his ear.
     At once with joy and fear his heart rebounds."

The Griffin, Or Gryphon. 

	The Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, 
and back covered with feathers.  Like birds it builds its nest, and instead of an egg lays 
an agate therein.  It has long claws and talons of such a size that the people of that 
country make them into drinking-cups. India was assigned as the native country of the 
Griffins.  They found gold in the mountains and built their nests of it, for which reason 
their nests were very tempting to the hunters and they were forced to keep vigilant guard 
over them. Their instinct led them to know where buried treasures lay, and they did their 
best to keep plunderers at a distance.  The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins 
flourished, were a one-eyed people of Scythia.

	Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, P. L. Book II.: -


     "As when a Gryphon through the wilderness,
     With winged course, o'er hill and moory dale,
     Pursues the Arimaspian who by stealth
     Hath from his wakeful custody purloined
     His guarded gold," &c.






Chapter XVII: The Golden Fleece - Medea

The Golden Fleece. 
	In very ancient times there lived in Thessaly a king and queen named Athamas 
and Nephele.  They had two children, a boy and a girl.  After a time Athamas grew 
indifferent to his wife, put her away, and took another. Nephele suspected danger to 
her children from the influence of the step- mother, and took measures to send them 
out of her reach.  Mercury assisted her, and gave her a ram, with a golden fleece, on 
which she set the two children, trusting that the ram would convey them to a place of 
safety.  The ram vaulted into the air with the children on his back, taking his course to 
the East, till when crossing the strait that divides Europe and Asia, the girl, whose 
name was Helle, fell from his back into the sea, which from her was called the 
Hellespont, - now the Dardanelles.  The ram continued his career till he reached the 
kingdom of Colchis, on the eastern shore of the Black Sea, where he safely landed the 
boy Phryxus, who was hospitably received by Aeetes, the king of the country.  Phryxus 
sacrificed the ram to Jupiter, and gave the golden fleece to Aeetes, who placed it in a 
consecrated grove, under the care of a sleepless dragon.

	There was another kingdom in Thessaly near to that of Athamas, and ruled over 
by a relative of his.  The king Aeson, being tired of the cares of government, 
surrendered his crown to his brother Pelias, on condition that he should hold it only 
during the minority of Jason, the son of Aeson.  When Jason was grown up and came 
to demand the crown from his uncle, Pelias pretended to be willing to yield it, but at the 
same time suggested to the young man the glorious adventure of going in quest of the 
golden fleece, which it was well known was in the kingdom of Colchis, and was, as 
Pelias pretended, the rightful property of their family.  Jason was pleased with the 
thought, and forthwith made preparations for the expedition.  At that time the only 
species of navigation known to the Greeks consisted of small boats or canoes 
hollowed out from trunks of trees, so that when Jason employed Argus to build him a 
vessel capable of containing fifty men, it was considered a gigantic undertaking.  It was 
accomplished, however, and the vessel named Argo, from the name of the builder.  
Jason sent his invitation to all the adventurous young men of Greece, and soon found 
himself at the head of a band of bold youths, many of whom afterwards were 
renowned among the heroes and demigods of Greece.  Hercules, Theseus, Orpheus, 
and Nestor were among them.  They are called the Argonauts, from the name of their 
vessel.



	The Argo with her crew of heroes left the shores of Thessaly and having touched 
at the Island of Lemnos, thence crossed to Mysia and thence to Thrace. Here they 
found the sage Phineus, and from him received instruction as to their future course.  It 
seems the entrance of the Euxine Sea was impeded by two small rocky islands, which 
floated on the surface, and in their tossings and heavings occasionally came together, 
crushing and grinding to atoms any object that might be caught between them.  They 
were called the Symplegades, or Clashing Islands.  Phineus instructed the Argonauts 
how to pass this dangerous strait.  When they reached the islands they let go a dove, 
which took her way between the rocks, and passed in safety, only losing some 
feathers of her tail.  Jason and his men seized the favorable moment of the rebound, 
plied their oars with vigor, and passed safe through, though the islands closed behind 
them, and actually grazed their stern.  They now rowed along the shore till they arrived 
at the eastern end of the sea, and landed at the kingdom of Colchis.

	Jason made known his message to the Colchian king, Aeetes, who consented to 
give up the golden fleece if Jason would yoke to the plough two fire- breathing bulls 
with brazen feet, and sow the teeth of the dragon, which Cadmus had slain, and from 
which it was well known that a crop of armed men would spring up, who would turn 
their weapons against their producer.  Jason accepted the conditions, and a time was 
set for making the experiment. Previously, however, he found means to plead his 
cause to Medea, daughter of the king.  He promised her marriage, and as they stood 
before the altar of Hecate, called the goddess to witness his oath.  Medea yielded - 
and by her aid, for she was a potent sorceress, he was furnished with a charm, by 
which he could encounter safely the breath of the fire-breathing bulls and the weapons 
of the armed men.

	At the time appointed, the people assembled at the grove of Mars, and the king 
assumed his royal seat, while the multitude covered the hill sides. The brazen-footed 
bulls rushed in, breathing fire from their nostrils, that burned up the herbage as they 
passed.  The sound was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke like that of water 
upon quick-lime.  Jason advanced boldly to meet them.  His friends, the chosen 
heroes of Greece, trembled to behold him. Regardless of the burning breath, he 
soothed their rage with his voice, patted their necks with fearless hand, and adroitly 
slipped over them the yoke, and compelled them to drag the plough.  The Colchians 
were amazed; the Greeks shouted for joy.  Jason next proceeded to sow the dragon's 
teeth and plough them in.  And soon the crop of armed men sprang up, and wonderful 
to relate! no sooner had they reached the surface than they began to brandish their 
weapons and rush upon Jason.  The Greeks trembled for their hero, and even she 
who had provided him a way of safety and taught him how to use it, Medea herself, 
grew pale with fear.  Jason for a time kept his assailants at bay with his sword and 
shield, till finding their numbers overwhelming, he resorted to the charm which Medea 
had taught him, seized a stone and threw it in the midst of his foes.  They immediately 
turned their arms against one another, and soon there was not one of the dragon's 
brood left alive.  The Greeks embraced their hero, and Medea, if she dared, would 
have embraced him, too.

	It remained to lull to sleep the dragon that guarded the fleece, and this was done 
by scattering over him a few drops of a preparation, which Medea had supplied.  At the 
smell he relaxed his rage, stood for a moment motionless, then shut those great round 
eyes, that had never been known to shut before, and turned over on his side, fast 
asleep.  Jason seized the fleece, and with his friends and Medea accompanying, 
hastened to their vessel, before Aeetes, the king, could arrest their departure, and 
made the best of their way back to Thessaly, where they arrived safe, and Jason 
delivered the fleece to Pelias, and dedicated the Argo to Neptune.  What became of 
the fleece afterwards we do not know, but perhaps it was found after all, like many 
other golden prizes, not worth the trouble it had cost to procure it.

	This is one of those mythological tales, says a late writer, in which there is 
reason to believe that a substratum of truth exists, though overlaid by a mass of fiction 
It probably was the first important maritime expedition, and like the first attempts of the 
kind of all nations, as we know from history, was probably of a half-piratical character.  
If rich spoils were the result, it was enough to give rise to the idea of the golden fleece.

	Another suggestion of a learned mythologist, Bryant, is that it is a corrupt 
tradition of the story of Noah and the ark.  The name Argo seems to countenance this, 
and the incident of the dove is another confirmation.

	Pope, in his Ode on St. Cecilia's day, thus celebrates the launching of the ship 
Argo, and the power of the music of Orpheus, whom he calls the Thracian: -

     "So when the first bold vessel dared the seas,
     High on the stern the Thracian raised his strain,
     While Argo saw her kindred trees
     Descend from Pelion to the main.
     Transported demigods stood round,
     And men grew heroes at the sound."

	In Dyer's poem of The Fleece there is an account of the ship Argo and her crew, 
which gives a good picture of this primitive maritime adventure: -

     "From every region of Aegea's shore
     The brave assembled; those illustrious twins
     Castor and Pollux; Orpheus, tuneful bard;
     Zetes and Calais, as the wind in speed;
     Strong Hercules and many a chief renowned.
     On deep Iolcos' sandy shore they thronged,
     Gleaming in armor, ardent of exploits;
     And soon, the laurel cord and the huge stone
     Uplifting to the deck, unmoored the bark;
     Whose keel of wondrous length the skilful hand
     Of Argus fashioned for the proud attempt;
     And in the extended keel a lofty mast
     Upraised, and sails full swelling; to the chiefs
     Unwonted objects.  Now first, now they learned
     Their bolder steerage over ocean wave,
     Led by the golden stars, as Chiron's art
     Had marked the sphere celestial," &c.

	Hercules left the expedition at Mysia, for Hylas, a youth beloved by him, having 
gone for water, was laid hold of and kept by the nymphs of the spring, who were 
fascinated by his beauty.  Hercules went in quest of the lad, and while he was absent the 
Argo put to sea and left him.  Moore, in one of his songs, makes a beautiful allusion to 
this incident: -

     "When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
     Through fields full of light and with heart full of play,
     Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
     And neglected his task for the flowers in the way.

     "Thus many like me, who in youth should have tasted
     The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
     Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
     And left their light urns all as empty as mine."

Medea, And Aeson. 

	Amid the rejoicings for the recovery of the Golden Fleece, Jason felt that one 
thing was wanting, the presence of Aeson, his father, who was prevented by his age and 
infirmities from taking part in them.  Jason said to Medea, "My spouse, would that your 
arts, whose power I have seen so mighty for my aid, could do me one further service, 
take some years from my life and add them to my father's." Medea replied, "Not at such 
a cost shall it be done, but if my art avails me, his life shall be lengthened without 
abridging yours." The next full moon she issued forth alone, while all creatures slept; not 
a breath stirred the foliage, and all was still.  To the stars she addressed her 
incantations, and to the moon; to Hecate, ^* the goddess of the underworld, and to 
Tellus the goddess of the earth, by whose power plants potent for enchantments are 
produced.  She invoked the gods of the woods and caverns, of mountains and valleys, of 
lakes and rivers, of winds and vapors. While she spoke the stars shone brighter, and 
presently a chariot descended through the air, drawn by flying serpents.  She ascended 
it, and borne aloft made her way to distant regions, where potent plants grew which she 
knew how to select for her purpose Nine nights she employed in her search, and during 
that time came not within the doors of her palace nor under any roof, and shunned all 
intercourse with mortals.

	[Footnote *: Hecate was a mysterious divinity sometimes identified with Diana 
and sometimes with Proserpine.  As Diana represents the moonlight splendor of night, 
so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors.  She was the goddess of sorcery and 
witchcraft, and was believed to wander by night along the earth seen only by the dogs, 
whose barking told her approach.]

	She next erected two altars, the one to Hecate, the other to Hebe, the goddess of 
youth, and sacrificed a black sheep, pouring libations of milk and wine.  She implored 
Pluto and his stolen bride that they would not hasten to take the old man's life.  Then she 
directed that Aeson should be led forth, and having thrown him into a deep sleep by a 
charm, had him laid on a bed of herbs, like one dead.  Jason and all others were kept 
away from the place, that no profane eyes might look upon her mysteries.  Then with 
streaming hair, she thrice moved round the altars, dipped flaming twigs in the blood, and 
laid them thereon to burn.  Meanwhile the caldron with its contents was got ready. In it 
she put magic herbs, with seeds and flowers of acrid juice, stones from the distant east, 
and sand from the shore of all-surrounding ocean; hoar frost, gathered by moonlight, a 
screech owl's head and wings, and the entrails of a wolf.  She added fragments of the 
shells of tortoises, and the liver of stags, - animals tenacious of life, - and the head and 
beak of a crow, that outlives nine generations of men.  These with many other things 
"without a name" she boiled together for her purposed work, stirring them up with a dry 
olive branch; and behold!  the branch when taken out instantly became green, and 
before long was covered with leaves and a plentiful growth of young olives; and as the 
liquor boiled and bubbled, and sometimes ran over, the grass wherever the sprinklings 
fell shot forth with a verdure like that of spring.

	Seeing that all was ready, Medea cut the throat of the old man and let out all his 
blood, and poured into his mouth and into his wound the juices of her caldron.  As soon 
as he had completely imbibed them, his hair and beard laid by their whiteness and 
assumed the blackness of youth; his paleness and emaciation were gone; his veins 
were full of blood, his limbs of vigor and robustness.  Aeson is amazed at himself, and 
remembers that such as he now is, he was in his youthful days, forty years before.

	Medea used her arts here for a good purpose, but not so in another instance 
where she made them the instruments of revenge.  Pelias, our readers will recollect, was 
the usurping uncle of Jason, and had kept him out of his kingdom.  Yet he must have 
had some good qualities, for his daughters loved him, and when they saw what Medea 
had done for Aeson, they wished her to do the same for their father.  Medea pretended 
to consent, and prepared her caldron as before.  At her request an old sheep was 
brought and plunged into the caldron.  Very soon a bleating was heard in the kettle, and 
when the cover was removed, a lamb jumped forth and ran frisking away into the 
meadow. The daughters of Pelias saw the experiment with delight, and appointed a time 
for their father to undergo the same operation.  But Medea prepared her caldron for him 
in a very different way.  She put in only water and a few simple herbs.  In the night she 
with the sisters entered the bed chamber of the old king, while he and his guards slept 
soundly under the influence of a spell cast upon them by Medea.  The daughters stood 
by the bedside with their weapons drawn, but hesitated to strike till Medea chid their 
irresolution. Then, turning away their faces, and giving random blows, they smote him 
with their weapons.  He starting from this his sleep cried out, "My daughters, what are 
you doing?  Will you kill your father?" Their hearts failed them and the weapons fell from 
their hands, but Medea struck him a fatal blow, and prevented his saying more.

	Then they placed him in the caldron, and Medea hastened to depart in her 
serpent-drawn chariot before they discovered her treachery, or their vengeance would 
have been terrible.  She escaped, however, but had little enjoyment of the fruits of her 
crime.  Jason, for whom she had done so much, wishing to marry Creusa, princess of 
Corinth, put away Medea.  She, enraged at his ingratitude, called on the gods for 
vengeance, sent a poisoned robe as a gift to the bride, and then killing her own children, 
and setting fire to the palace, mounted her serpent-drawn chariot and fled to Athens, 
where she married King Aegeus, the father of Theseus, and we shall meet her again 
when we come to the adventures of that hero.

	The incantations of Medea will remind the reader of those of the witches in 
Macbeth.  The following lines are those which seem most strikingly to recall the ancient 
model: -

     "Round about the caldron go;
     In the poisoned entrails throw.

     * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * *

     Fillet of a fenny snake
     In the caldron boil and bake;
     Eye of newt and toe of frog,
     Wool of bat and tongue of dog.
     Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
     Lizard's leg and howlet's wing:

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     Maw of ravening salt-sea shark,
     Root of hemlock digged in the dark," &c.
     Macbeth, Act IV.  Scene I.

	And again: -


     Macbeth. - What is't you do?
     Witches. - A deed without a name.

	There is another story of Medea almost too revolting for record even of a 
sorceress, a class of persons to whom both ancient and modern poets have been 
accustomed to attribute every degree of atrocity.  In her flight from Colchis she had 
taken her young brother Absyrtus with her.  Finding the pursuing vessels of Aeetes 
gaining upon the Argonauts, she caused the lad to be killed and his limbs to be strewn 
over the sea.  Aeetes on reaching the place found these sorrowful traces of his 
murdered son; but while he tarried to collect the scattered fragments and bestow upon 
the man honorable interment, the Argonauts escaped.

	In the poems of Campbell will be found a translation of one of the choruses of the 
tragedy of Medea, where the poet Euripides has taken advantage of the occasion to pay 
a glowing tribute to Athens, his native city.  It begins thus: -

     "O haggard queen!  to Athens dost thou guide
     Thy glowing chariot, steeped in kindred gore;
     Or seek to hide thy damned parricide
     Where Peace and Justice dwell for evermore?"


Chapter XVIII: Meleager And Atalanta

	One of the heroes of the Argonautic expedition was Meleager, son of Oeneus 
and Althea, king and queen of Calydon.  Althea, when her son was born, beheld the 
three Destinies, who, as they spun their fatal thread, foretold that the life of the child 
should last no longer than a brand then burning upon the hearth.  Althea seized and 
quenched the brand, and carefully preserved it for years, while Meleager grew to 
boyhood, youth, and manhood. It chanced, then, that Oeneus, as he offered sacrifices 
to the gods, omitted to pay due honors to Diana; and she, indignant at the neglect, 
sent a wild boar of enormous size to lay waste the fields of Calydon.  Its eyes shone 
with blood and fire, its bristles stood like threatening spears, its tusks were like those of 
Indian elephants.  The growing corn was trampled, the vines and olive trees laid 
waste, the flocks and herds were driven in wild confusion by the slaughtering foe.  All 
common aid seemed vain; but Meleager called on the heroes of Greece to join in a 
bold hunt for the ravenous monster.  Theseus and his friend Pirithous, Jason, Peleus 
afterwards the father of Achilles, Telamon the father of Ajax, Nestor, then a youth, but 
who in his age bore arms with Achilles and Ajax in the Trojan war, - these and many 
more joined in the enterprise.  With them came Atalanta, the daughter of Iasius, king of 
Arcadia. A buckle of polished gold confined her vest, an ivory quiver hung on her left 
shoulder, and her left hand bore the bow.  Her face blent feminine beauty with the best 
graces of martial youth.  Meleager saw and loved.

	But now already they were near the monster's lair.  They stretched strong nets 
from tree to tree; they uncoupled their dogs, they tried to find the footprints of their 
quarry in the grass.  From the wood was a descent to marshy ground.  Here the boar, 
as he lay among the reeds, heard the shouts of his pursuers, and rushed forth against 
them.  One and another is thrown down and slain.  Jason throws his spear, with a 
prayer to Diana for success; and the favoring goddess allows the weapon to touch, but 
not to wound, removing the steel point of the spear even in its flight.  Nestor, assailed, 
seeks and finds safety in the branches of a tree.  Telamon rushes on, but stumbling at 
a projecting root, falls prone.  But an arrow from Atalanta at length for the first time 
tastes the monster's blood.  It is a slight wound, but Meleager sees and joyfully 
proclaims it.  Anceus, excited to envy by the praise given to a female, loudly proclaims 
his own valor, and defies alike the boar and the goddess who had sent it; but as he 
rushes on, the infuriated beast lays him low with a mortal wound.  Theseus throws his 
lance, but it is turned aside by a projecting bough.  The dart of Jason misses its object, 
and kills instead one of their own dogs.  But Meleager, after one unsuccessful stroke, 
drives his spear into the monster's side, then rushes on and despatches him with 
repeated blows.

	Then rose a shout from those around; they congratulated the conqueror, 
crowding to touch his hand.  He, placing his foot upon the head of the slain boar, 
turned to Atalanta and bestowed on her the head and the rough hide which were the 
trophies of his success.  But at this, envy excited the rest to strife.  Plexippus and 
Toxeus, the brothers of Meleager's mother, beyond the rest opposed the gift, and 
snatched from the maiden the trophy she had received.  Meleager, kindling with rage 
at the wrong done to himself, and still more at the insult offered to her whom he loved, 
forgot the claims of kindred, and plunged his sword into the offenders' hearts.

	As Althea bore gifts of thankfulness to the temples for the victory of her son, the 
bodies of her murdered brothers met her sight.  She shrieks,and beats her breast, and 
hastens to change the garments of rejoicing for those of mourning.  But when the 
author of the deed is known, grief gives way to the stern desire of vengeance on her 
son.  The fatal brand, which once she rescued from the flames, the brand which the 
Destinies had linked with Meleager's life, she brings forth, and commands a fire to be 
prepared.  Then four times she essays to place the brand upon the pile; four times 
draws back, shuddering at the thought of bringing destruction on her son.  The feelings 
of the mother and the sister contend within her.  Now she is pale at the thought of the 
purposed deed, now flushed again with anger at the act of her son.  As a vessel, 
driven in one direction by the wind, and in the opposite by the tide, the mind of Althea 
hangs suspended in uncertainty.  But now the sister prevails above the mother, and 
she begins as she holds the fatal wood: "Turn, ye Furies, goddesses of punishment!  
turn to behold the sacrifice I bring! Crime must atone for crime.  Shall Oeneus rejoice 
in his victor son, while the house of Thestius is desolate?  But, alas! to what deed am I 
borne along? Brothers, forgive a mother's weakness!  my hand fails me. He deserves 
death, but not that I should destroy him.  But shall he then live, and triumph, and reign 
over Calydon, while you, my brothers, wander unavenged among the shades? No! 
thou hast lived by my gift; die, now, for thine own crime.  Return the life which twice I 
gave thee, first at thy birth, again when I snatched this brand from the flames.  O that 
thou hadst then died!  Alas!  evil is the conquest; but, brothers, ye have conquered." 
And, turning away her face, she threw the fatal wood upon the burning pile.

	It gave, or seemed to give, a deadly groan.  Meleager, absent and unknowing of 
the cause, felt a sudden pang.  He burns, and only by courageous pride conquers the 
pain which destroys him.  He mourns only that he perishes by a bloodless and 
unhonored death.  With his last breath he calls upon his aged father, his brother, and 
his fond sisters, upon his beloved Atalanta, and upon his mother, the unknown cause 
of his fate.  The flames increase, and with them the pain of the hero.  Now both 
subside; now both are quenched. The brand is ashes, and the life of Meleager is 
breathed forth to the wandering winds.

	Althea, when the deed was done, laid violent hands upon herself.  The sisters of 
Meleager mourned their brother with uncontrollable grief; till Diana, pitying the sorrows 
of the house that once had aroused her anger, turned them into birds.

Atalanta. 

	The innocent cause of so much sorrow was a maiden whose face you might truly 
say was boyish for a girl, yet too girlish for a boy.  Her fortune had been told, and it 
was to this effect: "Atalanta, do not marry; marriage will be your ruin." Terrified by this 
oracle, she fled the society of men, and devoted herself to the sports of the chase.  To 
all suitors (for she had many) she imposed a condition which was generally effectual in 
relieving her of their persecutions, - I will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in 
the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and fail." In spite of this hard 
condition some would try.  Hippomenes was to be judge of he race. "Can it be possible 
that any will be so rash as to risk so much for a wife?" said he. But when he saw her 
lay aside her robe for the race, he changed his mind, and said, "Pardon me, youths, I 
knew not the prize you were competing for." As he surveyed them he wished them all 
to be beaten, and swelled with envy of any one that seemed at all likely to win.  While 
such were his thoughts, the virgin darted forward.  As she ran she looked more 
beautiful than ever.  The breezes seemed to give wings to her feet; her hair flew over 
her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her.  A ruddy hue 
tinged the whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. All 
her competitors were distanced, and were put to death without mercy. Hippomenes, 
not daunted by this result, fixing his eyes on the virgin, said, "Why boast of beating 
those laggards?  I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at him with a pitying 
countenance, and hardly knew whether she would rather conquer him or not.  "What 
god can tempt one so young and handsome to throw himself away?  I pity him, not for 
his beauty, (yet he is beautiful,) but for his youth.  I wish he would give up the race, or 
if he will be so mad, I hope he may outrun me." While she hesitates, revolving these 
thoughts, the spectators grow impatient for the race, and her father prompts her to 
prepare.  Then Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Venus: "Help me, Venus, for you 
have led me on." Venus heard, and was propitious.

	In the garden of her temple, in her own island of Cyprus, is a tree with yellow 
leaves and yellow branches, and golden fruit.  Hence she gathered three golden 
apples, and, unseen by any one else, gave them to Hippomenes, and told him how to 
use them.  The signal is given; each starts from the goal, and skims over the sand.  So 
light their tread, you would almost have thought they might run over the river surface or 
over the waving grain without sinking. The cries of the spectators cheered 
Hippomenes - "Now, now do your best! haste, haste!, you again on her!  relax not!  
one more effort!" It was doubtful whether the youth or the maiden heard these cries 
with the greater pleasure.  But his breath began to fail him, his throat was dry, the goal 
yet far off.  At that moment he threw down one of the golden apples.  The virgin was all 
amazement.  She stopped to pick it up. Hippomenes shot ahead.  Shouts burst forth 
from all sides.  She redoubled her efforts, and soon overtook him. Again he threw an 
apple.  She stopped again, but again came up with him.  The goal was near; one 
chance only remained. "Now, goddess," said he, "prosper your gift!" and threw the last 
apple off at one side.  She looked at it, and hesitated; Venus impelled her to turn aside 
for it.  She did so, and was vanquished.  The youth carried off his prize.

	But the lovers were so full of their own happiness that they forgot to pay due 
honor to Venus; and the goddess was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them 
to give offence to Cybele.  That powerful goddess was not to be insulted with impunity.  
She took from them their human form and turned them into animals of characters 
resembling their own: of the huntress- heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, 
she made a lioness, and of her lord and master a lion, and yoked them to her car, 
where they are still to be seen in all representations, in statuary or painting, of the 
goddess Cybele.

	Cybele is the Latin name of the goddess called by the Greeks Rhea and Ops.  
She was the wife of Cronos and mother of Zeus.  In works of art, she exhibits the 
matronly air which distinguishes Juno and Ceres.  Sometimes she is veiled, and 
seated on a throne with lions at her side, at other times riding in a chariot drawn by 
lions.  She wears a mural crown, that is, a crown whose rim is carved in the form of 
towers and battlements.  Her priests were called Corybantes.

	Byron in describing the city of Venice, which is built on a low island in the Adriatic 
Sea, borrows an illustration from Cybele: -

     "She looks a sea-Cybele fresh from ocean,
     Rising with her tiara of proud towers
     At airy distance, with majestic motion,
     A ruler of the waters and their powers.

     Childe Harold, IV.

	In Moore's Rhymes on the Road, the poet, speaking of Alpine scenery, alludes to 
the story of Atalanta and Hippomenes, thus: -

     "Even here, in this region of wonders, I find
     That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind,
     Or at least, like Hippomenes, turns her astray
     By the golden illusions he flings in her way."



Chapter XIX: Hercules - Hebe And Ganymede

Hercules. 
	Hercules was the son of Jupiter and Alcmena.  As Juno was always hostile to the 
offspring of her husband by mortal mothers, she declared war against Hercules from 
his birth.  She sent two serpents to destroy him as he lay in his cradle, but the 
precocious infant strangled them with his own hands.  He was however by the arts of 
Juno rendered subject to Eurystheus and compelled to perform all his commands.  
Eurystheus enjoined upon him a succession of desperate adventures, which are called 
the twelve "Labors of Hercules." The first was the fight with the Nemean lion.  The 
valley of Nemea was infested by a terrible lion.  Eurystheus ordered Hercules to bring 
him the skin of this monster.  After using in vain his club and arrows against the lion, 
Hercules strangled the animal with his hands.  He returned carrying the dead lion on 
his shoulders; but Eurystheus was so frightened at the sight of it and at this proof of 
the prodigious strength of the hero, that he ordered him to deliver the account of his 
exploits in future outside the town.

	His next labor was the slaughter of the Hydra.  This monster ravaged the country 
of Argos, and dwelt in a swamp near the well of Amymone.  This well had been 
discovered by Amymone when the country was suffering from drought, and the story 
was, that Neptune, who loved her, had permitted her to touch the rock with his trident, 
and a spring of three outlets burst forth.  Here the Hydra took up his position, and 
Hercules was sent to destroy him.  The Hydra had nine heads, of which the middle one 
was immortal.  Hercules struck off its heads with his club, but in the place of the head 
knocked off, two new ones grew forth each time.  At length with the assistance of his 
faithful servant Iolaus, he burned away the heads of the Hydra, and buried the ninth or 
immortal one under a huge rock.

	Another labor was the cleaning of the Augean stables.  Augeas, king of Elis, had 
a herd of three thousand oxen, whose stalls had not been cleansed for thirty years.  
Hercules brought the rivers Alpheus and Peneus through them, and cleansed them 
thoroughly in one day.

	His next labor was of a more delicate kind.  Admeta, the daughter of Eurystheus, 
longed to obtain the girdle of the queen of the Amazons, and Eurystheus ordered 
Hercules to go and get it.  The Amazons were a nation of women.  They were very 
warlike and held several flourishing cities.  It was their custom to bring up only the 
female children; the boys were either sent away to the neighboring nations or put to 
death.  Hercules was accompanied by a number of volunteers, and after various 
adventures at last reached the country of the Amazons.  Hippolyta, the queen, 
received him kindly, and consented to yield him her girdle, but Juno, taking the form of 
an Amazon, went and persuaded the rest that the strangers were carrying off their 
queen. They instantly armed and came in great numbers down to the ship.  Hercules, 
thinking that Hippolyta had acted treacherously, slew her, and taking her girdle made 
sail homewards.

	Another task enjoined him was to bring to Eurystheus the oxen of Geryon, a 
monster with three bodies, who dwelt in the island Erytheia, (the red,) so called 
because it lay at the west, under the rays of the setting sun.  This description is 
thought to apply to Spain, of which Geryon was king.  After traversing various 
countries, Hercules reached at length the frontiers of Libya and Europe, where he 
raised the two mountains of Calpe and Abyla, as monuments of his progress, or 
according to another account rent one mountain into two and left half on each side, 
forming the Straits of Gibraltar, the two mountains being called the Pillars of Hercules.  
The oxen were guarded by the giant Eurytion and his two-headed dog, but Hercules 
killed the giant and his dog and brought away the oxen in safety to Eurystheus.

	The most difficult labor of all was getting the golden apples of the Hesperides, for 
Hercules did not know where to find them.  These were the apples which Juno had 
received at her wedding from the goddess of the Earth, and which she had intrusted to 
the keeping of the daughters of Hesperides, assisted by a watchful dragon.  After 
various adventures Hercules arrived at Mount Atlas in Africa.  Atlas was one of the 
Titans who had warred against the gods, and after they were subdued, Atlas was 
condemned to bear on his shoulders the weight of the heavens.  He was the father of 
the Hesperides, and Hercules thought, might, if any one could, find the apples and 
bring them to him.  But how to send Atlas away from his post, or bear up the heavens 
while he was gone?  Hercules took the burden on his own shoulders, and sent Atlas to 
seek the apples.  He returned with them, and though somewhat reluctantly, took his 
burden upon his shoulders again, and let Hercules return with the apples to 
Eurystheus.

	Milton in his Comus makes the Hesperides the daughters of Hesperus, and 
nieces of Atlas: -

     " - amidst the gardens fair
     Of Hesperus and his daughters three,
     That sing about the golden tree.

	The poets, led by the analogy of the lovely appearance of the western sky at 
sunset, viewed the west as a region of brightness and glory.  Hence they placed in it the 
Isles of the blest, the ruddy isle Erytheia, on which the bright oxen of Geryon were 
pastured, and the isle of the Hesperides.  The apples are supposed by some to be the 
oranges of Spain, of which the Greeks had heard some obscure accounts.

	A celebrated exploit of Hercules was his victory over Antaeus.  Antaeus, the son 
of Terra, the Earth, was a mighty giant and wrestler, whose strength was invincible so 
long as he remained in contact with his mother Earth.  He compelled all strangers who 
came to his country to wrestle with him, on condition that if conquered (as they all were) 
they should be put to death. Hercules encountered him, and finding that it was of no 
avail to throw him, for he always rose with renewed strength from every fall, he lifted him 
up from the earth and strangled him in the air.

	Cacus was a huge giant, who inhabited a cave on Mount Aventine, and 
plundered the surrounding country.  When Hercules was driving home the oxen of 
Geryon, Cacus stole part of the cattle, while the hero slept.  That their foot-prints might 
not serve to show where they had been driven, he dragged them backward by their tails 
to his cave; so their tracks all seemed to show that they had gone in the opposite 
direction.  Hercules was deceived by this stratagem, and would have failed to find his 
oxen, if it had not happened that in driving the remainder of the herd past the cave 
where the stolen ones were concealed those within began to low, and were thus 
discovered.  Cacus was slain by Hercules.

	The last exploit we shall record was bringing Cerberus from the lower world.  
Hercules descended into Hades, accompanied by Mercury and Minerva. He obtained 
permission from Pluto to carry Cerberus to the upper air provided he could do it without 
the use of weapons; and in spite of the monster's struggling, he seized him, held him 
fast, and carried him to Eurystheus, and afterwards brought him back again.  When he 
was in Hades he obtained the liberty of Theseus, his admirer and imitator, who had been 
detained a prisoner there for an unsuccessful attempt to marry off Proserpine.

	Hercules in a fit of madness killed his friend Iphitus and was condemned for this 
offence to become the slave of Queen Omphale for three years.  While in this service 
the hero's nature seemed changed.  He lived effeminately wearing at times the dress of 
a woman, and spinning wool with the hand- maidens of Omphale, while the queen wore 
his lion's skin.  When this service was ended he married Dejanira and lived in peace with 
her three years.  On one occasion as he was travelling with his wife, they came to a 
river, across which the Centaur Nessus carried travellers for a stated fee.  Hercules 
himself forded the river, but gave Dejanira to Nessus to be carried across. Nessus 
attempted to run away with her, but Hercules heard her cries, and shot an arrow into the 
heart of Nessus.  The dying Centaur told Dejanira to take a portion of his blood and keep 
it, as might be used as a charm to preserve the love of her husband.

	Dejanira did so, and before long fancied she had occasion to use it. Hercules in 
one of his conquests had taken prisoner a fair maiden, named Iole, of whom he seemed 
more fond than Dejanira approved.  When Hercules was about to offer sacrifices to the 
gods in honor of his victory he sent to his wife for a white robe to use on the occasion.  
Dejanira, thinking it a good opportunity to try her lovespell, steeped the garment in the 
blood of Nessus. We are to suppose she took care to wash out all traces of it, but the 
magic power remained, and as soon as the garment became warm on the body of 
Hercules, the poison penetrated into all his limbs and caused him the most intense 
agony.  In his frenzy he seized Lichas, who had brought him the fatal robe, and hurled 
him into the sea.  He wrenched off the garment, but it stuck to his flesh, and with it he 
tore away whole pieces of his body.  In this state he embarked on board a ship and was 
conveyed home.  Dejanira on seeing what she had unwittingly done, hung herself.  
Hercules, prepared to die, ascended Mount Ceta, where he built a funeral pile of trees, 
gave his bow and arrows to Philoctetes, and laid himself down on the pile, his head 
resting on his club, and his lion's skin spread over him.  With a countenance as serene 
as if he were taking his place at a festal board, he commanded Philoctetes to apply the 
torch.  The flames spread apace and soon invested the whole mass.

	Milton thus alludes to the frenzy of Hercules: -


     "As when Alcides, ^* from Cechalia crowned
     With conquest, felt the envenomed robe, and tore,
     Through pain, up by the roots Thessalian pines
     And Lichas from the top of Ceta threw
     Into the Euboic Sea."

	[Footnote *: Alcides, a name of Hercules.]

	The gods themselves felt troubled at seeing the champion of the earth so brought 
to his end.  But Jupiter with cheerful countenance thus addressed them: "I am pleased to 
see your concern, my princes, and am gratified to perceive that I am the ruler of a loyal 
people, and that my son enjoys your favor.  For although your interest your interest in 
him arises from his noble deeds, yet it is not the less gratifying to me.  But now I say to 
you, Fear not.  He who conquered all else is not to be conquered by those flames which 
you see blazing on Mount CEta.  Only his mother's share in him can perish; what he 
derived from me is immortal.  I shall take him, dead to earth, to the heavenly shores, and 
I require of you all to receive him kindly.  If any of you feel grieved at his attaining this 
honor, yet no one can deny that he has deserved it." The gods all gave their assent; 
Juno only heard the closing words with some displeasure that she should be so 
particularly pointed at, yet not enough to make her regret the determination of her 
husband.  So when the flames had consumed the mother's share of Hercules, the 
diviner part, instead of being injured thereby, seemed to start forth with new vigor, to 
assume a more lofty port and a more awful dignity.  Jupiter enveloped him in a cloud, 
and took him up in a four-horse chariot to dwell among the stars. As he took his place in 
heaven, Atlas felt the added weight.

	Juno, now reconciled to him, gave him her daughter Hebe in marriage.

	The poet Schiller, in one of his pieces called the Ideal and Life, illustrates the 
contrast between the practical and the imaginative in some beautiful stanzas, of which 
the last two may be thus translated: -

     "Deep degraded to a coward's slave,
     Endless contests bore Alcides brave,
     Through the thorny path of suffering led;
     Slew the Hydra, crushed the lion's might,
     Threw himself, to bring his friend to light,
     Living, in the skiff that bears the dead.
     All the torments, every toil of earth
     Juno's hatred on him could impose,
     Well he bore them, from his fated birth
     To life's grandly mournful close.

     "Till the god, the earthly part forsaken,
     From the man in flames asunder taken,
     Drank the heavenly ether's purer breath.
     Joyous in the new unwonted lightness,
     Soared he upwards to celestial brightness,
     Earth's dark heavy burden lost in death.
     High Olympus gives harmonious greeting
     To the hall where reigns his sire adored;
     Youth's bright goddess, with a blush at meeting,
     Gives the nectar to her lord." S. G. B.

Hebe And Ganymede. 

	Hebe, the daughter of Juno, and goddess of youth, was cup-bearer to the gods.  
The usual story is, that she resigned her office on becoming the wife of Hercules.  But 
there is another statement which our countryman Crawford, the sculptor, has adopted in 
his group of Hebe and Ganymede, now in the Athenaeum gallery.  According to this, 
Hebe was dismissed from her office in consequence of a fall which she met with one day 
when in attendance on the gods.  Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan boy whom 
Jupiter, in the disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off from the midst of his 
playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to heaven, and installed in the vacant place.

	Tennyson, in his Palace of Art, describes among the decorations on the walls, a 
picture representing this legend: -

     "There, too, flushed Ganymede, his rosy thigh
     Half buried in the eagle's down,
     Sole as a flying star shot through the sky
     Above the pillared town."

	And in Shelley's Prometheus, Jupiter calls to his cupbearer thus: -


     "Pour forth heaven's wine, Idaean Ganymede,
     And let it fill the Daedal cups like fire."

	The beautiful legend of the Choice of Hercules may be found in the Tatler, No. 
97.



Chapter XX: Theseus - Daedalus - Castor And Pollux

Theseus. 
	Theseus was the son of Aegeus, king of Athens, and of Aethra, daughter of the 
king of Troezen.  He was brought up at Troezen, and when arrived at manhood, was to 
proceed to Athens and present himself to his father.  Aegeus, on parting from Aethra, 
before the birth of his son, placed his sword and shoes under a large stone, and 
directed her to send his son to him when he became strong enough to roll away the 
stone and take them from under it. When she thought the time had come, his mother 
led Theseus to the stone, and he removed it with ease, and took the sword and shoes.  
As the roads were infested with robbers, his grandfather pressed him earnestly to take 
the shorter and safer way to his father's country, by sea; but the youth, feeling in 
himself the spirit and the soul of a hero, and eager to signalize himself like Hercules, 
with whose fame all Greece then rang, by destroying the evildoers and monsters that 
oppressed the country, determined on the more perilous and adventurous journey by 
land.

	His first day's journey brought him to Epidaurus, where dwelt a man named 
Periphetes, a son of Vulcan.  This ferocious savage always went armed with a club of 
iron, and all travellers stood in terror of his violence. When he saw Theseus approach, 
he assailed him, but speedily fell beneath the blows of the young hero, who took 
possession of his club, and bore it ever afterwards as a memorial of his first victory.

	Several similar contests with the petty tyrants and marauders of the country 
followed, in all of which Theseus was victorious.  One of these evil-doers was called 
Procrustes, or the Stretcher.  He had an iron bedstead, on which he used to tie all 
travellers who fell into his hands.  If they were shorter than the bed, he stretched their 
limbs to make them fit it; if they were longer than the bed, he lopped off a portion.  
Theseus served him as he had served others.

	Having overcome all the perils of the road, Theseus at length reached Athens, 
where new dangers awaited him.  Medea, the sorceress, who had fled from Corinth 
after her separation from Jason, had become the wife of Aegeus, the father of 
Theseus.  Knowing by her arts who he was, and fearing the loss of her influence with 
her husband, if Theseus should be acknowledged as his son, she filled the mind of 
Aegeus with suspicions of the young stranger, and induced him to present him a cup 
of poison; but at the moment when Theseus stepped forward to take it, the sight of the 
sword which he wore discovered to his father who he was, and prevented the fatal 
draught.  Medea, detected in her arts, fled once more from deserved punishment, and 
arrived in Asia, where the country afterwards called Media received its name from her. 
Theseus was acknowledged by his father, and declared his successor.

	The Athenians were at that time in deep affliction, on account of the tribute which 
they were forced to pay to Minos, king of Crete.  This tribute consisted of seven youths 
and seven maidens, who were sent every year to be devoured by the Minotaur, a 
monster with a bull's body and a human head.  It was exceedingly strong and fierce, 
and was kept in a labyrinth constructed by Daedalus, so artfully contrived that whoever 
was enclosed in it could by no means find his way out unassisted.  Here the Minotaur 
roamed, and was fed with human victims.

	Theseus resolved to deliver his countrymen from this calamity, or to die in the 
attempt.  Accordingly, when the time of sending off the tribute came, and the youths 
and maidens were, according to custom, drawn by lot to be sent, he offered himself as 
one of the victims, in spite of the entreaties of his father.  The ship departed under 
black sails, as usual, which Theseus promised his father to change for white, in case 
of his returning victorious. When they arrived in Crete, the youths and maidens were 
exhibited before Minos; and Ariadne, the daughter of the king, being present, became 
deeply enamoured of Theseus, by whom her love was readily returned.  She furnished 
him with a sword, with which to encounter the Minotaur, and with a clew of thread by 
which he might find his way out of the labyrinth.  He was successful, slew the 
Minotaur, escaped from the labyrinth, and taking Ariadne as the companion of his way, 
with his rescued companions sailed for Athens. On their way they stopped at the island 
of Naxos, where Theseus abandoned Ariadne, leaving her asleep. ^* His excuse for 
this ungrateful treatment of his benefactress was, that Minerva appeared to him in a 
dream and commanded him to do so.

	[Footnote *: One of the finest pieces of sculpture in Italy, the recumbent Ariadne 
of the Vatican, represents this incident.  A copy is in the Athenaeum gallery, Boston.]

	On approaching the coast of Attica, Theseus forgot the signal appointed by his 
father, and neglected to raise the white sails, and the old king, thinking his son had 
perished, put an end to his own life.  Theseus thus became king of Athens.

	One of the most celebrated of the adventures of Theseus is his expedition 
against the Amazons.  He assailed them before they had recovered from the attack of 
Hercules, and carried off their queen Antiope.  The Amazons in their turn invaded the 
country of Athens and penetrated into the city itself; and the final battle in which 
Theseus overcame them was fought in the very midst of the city.  This battle was one 
of the favorite subjects of the ancient sculptors, and is commemorated in several 
works of art that are still extant.

	The friendship between Theseus and Pirithous was of a most intimate nature, yet 
it originated in the midst of arms.  Pirithous had made an irruption into the plain of 
Marathon, and carried off the herds of the king of Athens.  Theseus went to repel the 
plunderers.  The moment Pirithous beheld him, he was seized with admiration; he 
stretched out his hand as a token of peace, and cried, "Be judge thyself, - what 
satisfaction dost thou require?" "Thy friendship," replied the Athenian, and they swore 
inviolable fidelity. Their deeds corresponded to their professions, and they ever 
continued true brothers in arms.  Each of them aspired to espouse a daughter of 
Jupiter. Theseus fixed his choice on Helen, then but a child, afterwards so celebrated 
as the cause of the Trojan war, and with the aid of his friend he carried her off.  
Pirithous aspired to the wife of the monarch of Erebus; and Theseus, though aware of 
the danger, accompanied the ambitious lover in his descent to the under world.  But 
Pluto seized and set them on an enchanted rock at his palace gate, where they 
remained till Hercules arrived and liberated Theseus, leaving Pirithous to his fate.

	After the death of Antiope, Theseus married Phaedra, daughter of Minos, king of 
Crete.  Phaedra saw in Hippolytus, the son of Theseus, a youth endowed with all the 
graces and virtues of his father, and of an age corresponding to her own.  She loved 
him, but he repulsed her advances, and her love was changed to hate.  She used her 
influence over her infatuated husband to cause him to be jealous of his son, and he 
imprecated the vengeance of Neptune upon him.  As Hippolytus was one day driving 
his chariot along the shore, a sea-monster raised himself above the waters, and 
frightened the horses so that they ran away and dashed the chariot to pieces. 
Hippolytus was killed, but by Diana's assistance Aesculapius restored him to life.  
Diana removed Hippolytus from the power of his deluded father and false step-mother, 
and placed him in Italy under the protection of the nymph Egeria.

	Theseus at length lost the favor of his people, and retired to the court of 
Lycomedes, king of Scyros, who at first received him kindly, but afterwards 
treacherously slew him.  In a later age the Athenian general Cimon discovered the 
place where his remains were laid, and caused them to be removed to Athens, where 
they were deposited in a temple called the Theseum, erected in honor of the hero.

	The queen of the Amazons whom Theseus espoused is by some called 
Hippolyta.  That is the name she bears in Shakspeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, - 
the subject of which is the festivities attending the nuptials of Theseus and Hippolyta.

	Mrs. Hemans has a poem on the ancient Greek tradition that the "Shade of 
Theseus" appeared strengthening his countrymen at the battle of Marathon.

	Theseus is a semi-historical personage.  It is recorded of him that he united the 
several tribes by whom the territory of Attica was then possessed into one state, of 
which Athens was the capital.  In commemoration of this important event, he instituted 
the festival of Panathenaea, in honor of Minerva, the patron deity of Athens.  This 
festival differed from the other Grecian games chiefly in two particulars.  It was peculiar 
to the Athenians, and its chief feature was a solemn procession in which the Peplus or 
sacred robe of Minerva was carried to the Parthenon, and suspended before the 
statue of the goddess.  The Peplus was covered with embroidery, worked by select 
virgins of the noblest families in Athens.  The procession consisted of persons of all 
ages and both sexes.  The old men carried olive branches in their hands, and the 
young men bore arms.  The young women carried baskets on their heads, containing 
the sacred utensils, cakes, and all things necessary for the sacrifices.  The procession 
formed the subject of the bas-reliefs which embellished the outside of the temple of the 
Parthenon.  A considerable portion of these sculptures is now in the British Museum 
among those known as the "Elgin marbles."

Olympic And Other Games. 

	It seems not inappropriate to mention here the other celebrated national games 
of the Greeks.  The first and most distinguished were the Olympic, founded it was said 
by Jupiter himself.  They were celebrated at Olympia in Elis.  Vast numbers of 
spectators flocked to them from every part of Greece, and from Asia, Africa, and Sicily.  
They were repeated every fifth year in midsummer, and continued five days.  They 
gave rise to the custom of reckoning time and dating events by Olympiads.  The first 
Olympiad is generally considered as corresponding with the year 776 B. C.  The 
Pythian games were celebrated in the vicinity of Delphi, the Isthmian on the Corinthian 
isthmus, the Nemean at Nemea, a city of Argolis.

	The exercises in these games were of five sorts, running, leaping, wrestling, 
throwing the quoit, and hurling the javelin, or boxing.  Besides these exercises of 
bodily strength and agility, there were contests in music, poetry, and eloquence.  Thus 
these games furnished poets, musicians, and authors the best opportunities to present 
their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.

Daedalus. 

	The labyrinth from which Theseus escaped by means of the clew of Ariadne was 
built by Daedalus, a most skilful artificer.  It was an edifice with numberless winding 
passages and turnings opening into one another, and seeming to have neither 
beginning nor end, like the river Maeander, which returns on itself, and flows now 
onward, now backward, in its course to the sea. Daedalus built the labyrinth for King 
Minos, but afterwards lost the favor of the king, and was shut up in a tower.  He 
contrived to make his escape from his prison, but could not leave the island by sea, as 
the king kept strict watch on all the vessels, and permitted none to sail without being 
carefully searched.  "Minos may control the land and sea," said Daedalus, "but not the 
regions of the air.  I will try that way." So he set to work to fabricate wings for himself 
and his young son Icarus.  He wrought feathers together beginning with the smallest 
and adding larger, so as to form an increasing surface.  The larger ones he secured 
with thread and the smaller with wax, and gave the whole a gentle curvature like the 
wings of a bird.  Icarus, the boy, stood and looked on, sometimes running to gather up 
the feathers which the wind had blown away, and then handling the wax and working it 
over with his fingers, by his play impeding his father in his labors.  When at last the 
work was done, the artist, waving his wings, found himself buoyed upwards and hung 
suspended, poising himself on the beaten air. He next equipped his son in the same 
manner, and taught him how to fly, as a bird tempts her young ones from the lofty nest 
into the air.  When all was prepared for flight he said, "Icarus, my son, I charge you to 
keep at a moderate height, for if you fly too low the damp will clog your wings, and if 
too high the heat will melt them. Keep near me and you will be safe." While he gave 
him these instructions and fitted the wings to his shoulders, the face of the father was 
wet with tears, and his hands trembled.  He kissed the boy, not knowing that it was for 
the last time.  Then rising on his wings he flew off, encouraging him to follow, and 
looked back from his own flight to see how his son managed his wings.  As they flew 
the ploughman stopped his work to gaze, and the shepherd leaned on his staff and 
watched them, astonished at the sight, and thinking they were gods who could thus 
cleave the air.

	They passed Samos and Delos on the left and Lebynthos on the right, when the 
boy, exulting in his career, began to leave the guidance of his companion and soar 
upward as if to reach heaven.  The nearness of the blazing sun softened the wax 
which held the feathers together, and they came off.  He fluttered with his arms, but no 
feathers remained to hold the air.  While his mouth uttered cries to his father it was 
submerged in the blue waters of the sea, which thenceforth was called by his name.  
His father cried, "Icarus, Icarus, where are you?" At last he saw the feathers floating on 
the water, and bitterly lamenting his own arts, he buried the body and called the land 
Icaria in memory of his child.  Daedalus arrived safe in Sicily, where he built a temple 
to Apollo, and hung up his wings, an offering to the god.

	Daedalus was so proud of his achievements that he could not bear the idea of a 
rival.  His sister had placed her son Perdix under his charge to be taught the 
mechanical arts.  He was an apt scholar and gave striking evidences of ingenuity.  
Walking on the seashore he picked up the spine of a fish. Imitating it, he took a piece 
of iron and notched it on the edge, and thus invented the saw.  He put two pieces of 
iron together, connecting them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening the other ends, 
and made a pair of compasses. Daedalus was so envious of his nephew's 
performances that he took an opportunity, when they were together one day on the top 
of a high tower, to push him off.  But Minerva, who favors ingenuity, saw him falling, 
and arrested his fate by changing him into a bird called after his name, the Partridge.  
This bird does not build his nest in the trees, nor take lofty flights, but nestles in the 
hedges, and mindful of his fall, avoids high places.

	The death of Icarus is told in the following lines by Darwin: -


     " - with melting wax and loosened strings
     Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings;
     Headlong he rushed through the affrighted air,
     With limbs distorted and dishevelled hair;
     His scattered plumage danced upon the wave,
     And sorrowing Nereids decked his watery grave;
     O'er his pale corse their pearly sea-flowers shed,
     And strewed with crimson moss his marble bed;
     Struck in their coral towers the passing bell,
     And wide in ocean tolled his echoing knell."

Castor And Pollux. 

	Castor and Pollux were the offspring of Leda and the Swan, under which 
disguise Jupiter had concealed himself.  Leda gave birth to an egg, from which sprang 
the twins.  Helen, so famous afterwards as the cause of the Trojan war, was their sister.

	When Theseus and his friend Pirithous had carried off Helen from Sparta, the 
youthful heroes Castor and Pollux, with their followers, hasted to her rescue.  Theseus 
was absent from Attica and the brothers were successful in recovering their sister.

	Castor was famous for taming and managing horses, and Pollux for skill in 
boxing.  They were united by the warmest affection and inseparable in all their 
enterprises.  They accompanied the Argonautic expedition.  During the voyage a storm 
arose, and Orpheus prayed to the Samothracian gods, and played on his harp, 
whereupon the storm ceased and stars appeared on the heads of the brothers.  From 
this incident, Castor and Pollux came afterwards to be considered the patron deities of 
seamen and voyagers, and the lambent flames, which in certain states of the 
atmosphere play round the sails and masts of vessels, were called by their names.

	After the Argonautic expedition, we find Castor and Pollux engaged in a war with 
Idas and Lynceus.  Castor was slain, and Pollux, inconsolable for the loss of his brother, 
besought Jupiter to be permitted to give his own life as a ransom for him.  Jupiter so far 
consented as to allow the two brothers to enjoy the boon of life alternately, passing one 
day under the earth and the next in the heavenly abodes.  According to another form of 
the story Jupiter rewarded the attachment of the brothers by placing them among the 
stars as Gemini, the Twins.

	They received divine honors under the name of Dioscuri, (sons of Jove.) They 
were believed to have appeared occasionally in later times, taking part with one side or 
the other, in hard-fought fields, and were said on such occasions to be mounted on 
magnificent white steeds.  Thus in the early history of Rome they are said to have 
assisted the Romans at the battle of Lake Regillus, and after the victory a temple was 
erected in their honor on the spot where they appeared.

	Macaulay in his Lays of Ancient Rome thus alludes to the legend: -


     "So like they were, no mortal
     Might one from other know;
     White as snow their armor was,
     Their steeds were white as snow.
     Never on earthly anvil
     Did such rare armor gleam,
     And never did such gallant steeds
     Drink of an earthly stream.

     *  *  *  *

     "Back comes the chief in triumph
     Who in the hour of fight
     Hath seen the great Twin Brethren
     In harness on his right.
     Safe comes the ship to haven,
     Through billows and through gales
     If once the great Twin Brethren
     Sit shining on the sails."




Chapter XXI: Bacchus - Ariadne

Bacchus. 
	Bacchus was the son of Jupiter and Semele.  Juno to gratify her resentment 
against Semele contrived a plan for her destruction.  Assuming the form of Beroe, her 
aged nurse, she insinuated doubts whether it was indeed Jove himself who came as a 
lover.  Heaving a sigh, she said, "I hope it will turn out so, but I can't help being afraid.  
People are not always what they pretend to be.  If he is indeed Jove, make him give 
some proof of it.  Ask him to come arrayed in all his splendors, such as he wears in 
heaven.  That will put the matter beyond a doubt." Semele was persuaded to try the 
experiment. She asks a favor, without naming what it is.  Jove gives his promise, and 
confirms it with the irrevocable oath, attesting the river Styx, terrible to the gods 
themselves.  Then she made known her request.  The god would have stopped her as 
she spake, but she was too quick for him.  The words escaped, and he could neither 
unsay his promise nor her request.  In deep distress he left her and returned to the 
upper regions.  There he clothed himself in his splendors, not putting on all his terrors, 
as when he overthrew the giants, but what is known among the gods as his lesser 
panoply. Arrayed in this he entered the chamber of Semele.  Her mortal frame could 
not endure the splendors of the immortal radiance.  She was consumed to ashes.

	Jove took the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the Nysaean nymphs, 
who nourished his infancy and childhood, and for their care were rewarded by Jupiter 
by being placed, as the Hyades, among the stars.  When Bacchus grew up he 
discovered the culture of the vine and the mode of extracting its precious juice; but 
Juno struck him with madness, and drove him forth a wanderer through various parts 
of the earth.  In Phrygia the goddess Rhea cured him and taught him her religious 
rites, and he set out on a progress through Asia teaching the people the cultivation of 
the vine.  The most famous part of his wanderings is his expedition to India, which is 
said to have lasted several years.  Returning in triumph he undertook to introduce his 
worship into Greece, but was opposed by some princes who dreaded its introduction 
on account of the disorders and madness it brought with it.

	As he approached his native city Thebes, Pentheus the king, who had no respect 
for the new worship, forbade its rites to be performed.  But when it was known that 
Bacchus was advancing, men and women, but chiefly the latter, young and old poured 
forth to meet him and to join his triumphal march.

	Mr. Longfellow in his Drinking Song thus describes the march of Bacchus: -

     "Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
     Ivy crowns that brow, supernal
     As the forehead of Apollo,
     And possessing youth eternal.

     "Round about him fair Bacchantes,
     Bearing cymbals, flutes and thyrses,
     Wild from Naxian groves or Zante's
     Vineyards, sing delirious verses."

	It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened.  "Go," said 
he to his attendants, "seize this vagabond leader of the rout and bring him to me.  I will 
soon make him confess his false claim of heavenly parentage and renounce his 
counterfeit worship." It was in vain his nearest friends and wisest counsellors 
remonstrated and begged him not to oppose the god.  Their remonstrances only made 
him more violent.

	But now the attendants returned whom he had despatched to seize Bacchus. 
They had been driven away by the Bacchanals, but had succeeded in taking one of 
them prisoner, whom, with his hands tied behind him, they brought before the king.  
Pentheus beholding him with wrathful countenance said, "Fellow! you shall speedily be 
put to death, that your fate may be a warning to others; but though I grudge the delay of 
your punishment, speak, tell us who you are, and what are these new rites you presume 
to celebrate."

	The prisoner unterrified responded, "My name is Acetes; my country is Maeonia; 
my parents were poor people, who had no fields or flocks to leave me, but they left me 
their fishing rods and nets and their fisherman's trade. This I followed for some time, till 
growing weary of remaining in one place, I learned the pilot's art and how to guide my 
course by the stars.  It happened as I was sailing for Delos, we touched at the island of 
Dia and went ashore. Next morning I sent the men for fresh water and myself mounted 
the hill to observe the wind; when my men returned bringing with them a prize, as they 
thought, a boy of delicate appearance, whom they had found asleep.  They judged he 
was a noble youth, perhaps a king's son, and they might get a liberal ransom for him.  I 
observed his dress, his walk, his face.  There was something in them which I felt sure 
was more than mortal.  I said to my men, 'What god there is concealed in that form I 
know not, but some one there certainly is.  Pardon us, gentle deity, for the violence we 
have done you, and give success to our undertakings.' Dictys, one of my best hands for 
climbing the mast and coming down by the ropes, and Melanthus my steersman, and 
Epopeus the leader of the sailors' cry, one and all exclaimed, 'Spare your prayers for us.' 
So blind is the lust of gain!  When they proceeded to put him on board I resisted them.  
'This ship shall not be profaned by such impiety,' said I.  'I have a greater share in her 
than any of you.' But Lycabas, a turbulent fellow, seized me by the throat and attempted 
to throw me overboard, and I scarcely saved myself by clinging to the ropes.  The rest 
approved the deed.

	"Then Bacchus (for it was indeed he) as if shaking off his drowsiness exclaimed, 
'What are you doing with me?  What is this fighting about?  Who brought me here?  
Where are you going to carry me?' One of them replied, 'Fear nothing; tell us where you 
wish to go and we will take you there.' 'Naxos is my home,' said Bacchus; 'take me there 
and you shall be well rewarded.' They promised so to do, and told me to pilot the ship to 
Naxos. Naxos lay to the right, and I was trimming the sails to carry us there, when some 
by signs and others by whispers signified to me their will that I should sail in the opposite 
direction, and take the boy to Egypt to sell him for a slave.  I was confounded and said, 
'Let some one else pilot the ship;' withdrawing myself from any further agency in their 
wickedness.  They cursed me, and one of them exclaiming, 'Don't flatter yourself that we 
depend on you for our safety,' took my place as pilot, and bore away from Naxos.

	"Then the god, pretending that he had just become aware of their treachery, 
looked out over the sea and said in a voice of weeping, 'Sailors, these are not the shores 
you promised to take me to; yonder island is not my home.  What have I done that you 
should treat me so?  It is small glory you will gain by cheating a poor boy.' I wept to hear 
him, but the crew laughed at both of us, and sped the vessel fast over the sea.  All at 
once - strange as it may seem, it is true, - the vessel stopped, in the mid sea, as fast as 
if it was fixed on the ground.  The men, astonished, pulled at their oars, and spread more 
sail, trying to make progress by the aid of both, but all in vain. Ivy twined round the oars 
and hindered their motion, and clung to the sails, with heavy clusters of berries.  A vine, 
laden with grapes, ran up the mast, and along the sides of the vessel.  The sound of 
flutes was heard and the odor of fragrant wine spread all around.  The god himself had a 
chaplet of vine leaves, and bore in his hand a spear wreathed with ivy.  Tigers crouched 
at his feet, and forms of lynxes and spotted panthers played around him.  The men were 
seized with terror or madness; some leaped overboard; others preparing to do the same 
beheld their companions in the water undergoing a change, their bodies becoming 
flattened and ending in a crooked tail.  One exclaimed, 'What miracle is this!' and as he 
spoke his mouth widened, his nostrils expanded, and scales covered all his body.  
Another endeavoring to pull the oar felt his hands shrink up and presently to be no 
longer hands but fins; another trying to raise his arms to a rope found he had no arms, 
and curving his mutilated body, jumped into the sea.  What had been his legs became 
the two ends of a crescent-shaped tail.  The whole crew became dolphins and swam 
about the ship, now upon the surface, now under it, scattering the spray, and spouting 
the water from their broad nostrils.  Of twenty men I alone was left.  Trembling with fear, 
the god cheered me.  'Fear not,' said he; 'steer towards Naxos.' I obeyed, and when we 
arrived there, I kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus."

	Pentheus here exclaimed, "We have wasted time enough on this silly story. Take 
him away and have him executed without delay." Acetes was led away by the attendants 
and shut up fast in prison; but while they were getting ready the instruments of 
execution, the prison doors came open of their own accord and the chains fell from his 
limbs, and when they looked for him he was nowhere to be found.

	Pentheus would take no warning, but instead of sending others, determined to go 
himself to the scene of the solemnities.  The mountain Citheron was all alive with 
worshippers, and the cries of the Bacchanals resounded on every side.  The noise 
roused the anger of Pentheus as the sound of a trumpet does the fire of a war-horse.  
He penetrated through the wood and reached an open space where the chief scene of 
the orgies met his eyes. At the same moment the women saw him; and first among them 
his own mother, Agave, blinded by the god, cried out, "See there the wild boar, the 
hugest monster that prowls in these woods!  Come on, sisters!  I will be the first to strike 
the wild boar." The whole band rushed upon him, and while he now talks less arrogantly, 
now excuses himself, and now confesses his crime and implores pardon, they press 
upon and wound him.  In vain he cries to his aunts to protect him from his mother.  
Autonoe seized one arm, Ino the other, and between them he was torn to pieces, while 
his mother shouted, "Victory! Victory!  we have done it; the glory is ours!"

	So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece.

	There is an allusion to the story of Bacchus and the mariners in Milton's Comus, 
at line 46.  The story of Circe will be found in Chapter XXIX.

     "Bacchus that first from out the purple grape
     Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine,
     After the Tuscan mariners transformed,
     Coasting the Tyrrhene shore as the winds listed
     On Circe's island fell; (who knows not Circe,
     The daughter of the Sun?  whose charmed cup
     Whoever tasted lost his upright shape,
     And downward fell into a grovelling swine.)"

Ariadne. 

	We have seen in the story of Theseus how Ariadne, the daughter of King Minos, 
after helping Theseus to escape from the labyrinth, was carried by him to the island of 
Naxos and was left there asleep, while the ungrateful Theseus pursued his way home 
without her.  Ariadne on waking and finding herself deserted abandoned herself to grief.  
But Venus took pity on her, and consoled her with the promise that she should have an 
immortal lover, instead of the mortal one she had lost.

	The island where Ariadne was left was the favorite island of Bacchus, the same 
that he wished the Tyrrhenian mariners to carry him to, when they so treacherously 
attempted to make prize of him.  As Ariadne sat lamenting her fate, Bacchus found her, 
consoled her and made her his wife.  As a marriage present he gave her a golden 
crown, enriched with gems, and when she died, he took her crown and threw it up into 
the sky.  As it mounted the gems grew brighter and were turned into stars, and 
preserving its form Ariadne's crown remains fixed in the heavens as a constellation, 
between the kneeling Hercules and the man who holds the serpent.

	Spenser alludes to Ariadne's crown, though he has made some mistakes in his 
mythology.  It was at the wedding of Pirithous, and not Theseus, that the Centaurs and 
Lapithae quarrelled.

     "Look how the crown which Ariadne wore
     Upon her ivory forehead that same day
     That Theseus her unto his bridal bore,
     When the bold Centaurs made that bloody fray
     With the fierce Lapiths which did them dismay;
     Being now placed in the firmament,
     Through the bright heaven doth her beams display
     And is unto the stars an ornament,
     Which round about her move in order excellent"


Chapter XXII: Rural Deities

The Rural Deities. 
	Pan, the god of woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds, dwelt in grottos, 
wandered on the mountains and in valleys, and amused himself with the chase or in 
leading the dances of the nymphs.  He was fond of music, and, as we have seen, the 
inventor of the syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he himself played in a masterly 
manner.  Pan, like other gods who dwelt in forests, was dreaded by those whose 
occupations caused them to pass through the woods by night, for the gloom and 
loneliness of such scenes dispose the mind to superstitious fears.  Hence sudden 
fright without any visible cause was ascribed to Pan, and called a Panic terror.

	As the name of the god signifies all, Pan came to be considered a symbol of the 
universe and personification of Nature; and later still to be regarded as a 
representative of all the gods and of heathenism itself.

	Sylvanus and Faunus were Latin divinities, whose characteristics are so nearly 
the same as those of Pan that we may safely consider them as the same personage 
under different names.

	The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one class of nymphs.  
There were beside them the Naiads, who presided over brooks and fountains, the 
Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottos, and the Nereids, sea-nymphs.  The three 
last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or Hamadryads, were 
believed to perish with the trees which had been their abode, and with which they had 
come into existence.  It was therefore an impious act wantonly to destroy a tree, and in 
some aggravated cases was severely punished, as in the instance of Erisichthon, 
which we are about to record.

	Milton, in his glowing description of the early creation, thus alludes to Pan as the 
personification of Nature: -

     ". . . Universal Pan,
     Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
     Led on the eternal spring."

	And describing Eve's abode: -


     ". . . In shadier bower,
     More sacred or sequestered, though but feigned,
     Pan or Sylvanus never slept, nor Nymph
     Nor Faunus haunted."

     Paradise Lost, B. IV.

	It was a pleasing trait in the old Paganism that it loved to trace in every operation 
of nature the agency of deity.  The imagination of the Greeks peopled all the regions of 
earth and sea with divinities, to whose agency it attributed those phenomena which our 
philosophy ascribes to the operation of the laws of nature.  Sometimes in our poetical 
moods we feel disposed to regret the change, and to think that the heart has lost as 
much as the head has gained by the substitution.  The poet Wordsworth thus strongly 
expresses this sentiment: -

     ". . . Great God, I'd rather be
     A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn.
     So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
     Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
     Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
     And hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."

	Schiller, in his poem Die Gotter Griechenlands, expresses his regret for the 
overthrow of the beautiful mythology of ancient times in a way which has called forth an 
answer from a Christian poet, Mrs. E. Barrett Browning, in her poem called The Dead 
Pan.  The two following verses are a specimen: -

     "By your beauty which confesses
     Some chief Beauty conquering you,
     By our grand heroic guesses
     Through your falsehood at the True,
     We will weep not!  earth shall roll
     Heir to each god's aureole,
     And Pan is dead.

     "Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
     Sung beside her in her youth;
     And those debonaire romances
     Sound but dull beside the truth.
     Phoebus' chariot course is run!
     Look up, poets, to the sun!
     Pan, Pan is dead."

	These lines are founded on an early Christian tradition that when the heavenly 
host told the shepherds at Bethlehem of the birth of Christ, a deep groan, heard through 
all the isles of Greece, told that the great Pan was dead, and that all the royalty of 
Olympus was dethroned, and the several deities were sent wandering in cold and 
darkness.  So Milton in his Hymn to the Nativity: -

     "The lonely mountains o'er,
     And the resounding shore,
     A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
     From haunted spring and dale,
     Edged with poplar pale,
     The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
     With flower-enwoven tresses torn,
     The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn."

Erisichthon. 

	Erisichthon was a profane person and a despiser of the gods.  On one occasion 
he presumed to violate with the axe a grove sacred to Ceres.  There stood in this grove 
a venerable oak, so large that it seemed a wood in itself, its ancient trunk towering aloft, 
whereon votive garlands were often hung and inscriptions carved expressing the 
gratitude of suppliants to the nymph of the tree.  Often had the Dryads danced round it 
hand in hand.  Its trunk measured fifteen cubits round, and it overtopped the other trees 
as they overtopped the shrubbery.  But for all that, Erisichthon saw no reason why he 
should spare it, and he ordered his servants to cut it down.  When he saw them hesitate, 
he snatched an axe from one, and thus impiously exclaimed: "I care not whether it be a 
tree beloved of the goddess or not; were it the goddess herself it should come down, if it 
stood in my way." So saying he lifted the axe, and the oak seemed to shudder and utter 
a groan.  When the first blow fell upon the trunk, blood flowed from the wound.  All the 
bystanders were horror-struck, and one of them ventured to remonstrate and hold back 
the fatal axe.  Erisichthon, with a scornful look, said to him, "Receive the reward of your 
piety;" and turned against him the weapon which he had held aside from the tree, 
gashed his body with many wounds and cut off his head.  Then from the midst of the oak 
came a voice, "I who dwell in this tree am a nymph beloved of Ceres, and dying by your 
hands, forewarn you that punishment awaits you." He desisted not from his crime, and at 
last the tree, sundered by repeated blows and drawn by ropes, fell with a crash, and 
prostrated a great part of the grove in its fall.

	The Dryads in dismay at the loss of their companion, and at seeing the pride of 
the forest laid low, went in a body to Ceres, all clad in garments of mourning, and 
invoked punishment upon Erisichthon.  She nodded her assent, and as she bowed her 
head the grain ripe for harvest in the laden fields bowed also.  She planned a 
punishment so dire that one would pity him, if such a culprit as he could be pitied, - to 
deliver him over to Famine.  As Ceres herself could not approach Famine, for the Fates 
have ordained that these two goddesses shall never come together, she called an Oread 
from her mountain and spoke to her in these words: "There is a place in the farthest part 
of ice-clad Scythia, a sad and sterile region without trees and without crops. Cold dwells 
there, and Fear, and Shuddering, and Famine.  Go and tell the last to take possession of 
the bowels of Erisichthon.  Let not abundance subdue her, nor the power of my gifts 
drive her away.  Be not alarmed at the distance," (for Famine dwells very far from 
Ceres,) "but take my chariot. The dragons are fleet and obey the rein, and will take you 
through the air in a short time." So she gave her the reins, and she drove away and soon 
reached Scythia.  On arriving at Mount Caucasus she stopped the dragons and found 
Famine in a stony field, pulling up with teeth and claws the scanty herbage. Her hair was 
rough, her eyes sunk, her face pale, her lips blanched, her jaws covered with dust, and 
her skin drawn tight, so as to show all her bones.  As the Oread saw her afar off, (for she 
did not dare to come near,) she delivered the commands of Ceres; and, though she 
stopped as short a time as possible, and kept her distance as well as she could, yet she 
began to feel hungry, and turned the dragons' heads and drove back to Thessaly.

	Famine obeyed the commands of Ceres and sped through the air to the dwelling 
of Erisichthon, entered the bed-chamber of the guilty man, and found him asleep.  She 
enfolded him with her wings and breathed herself into him, infusing her poison into his 
veins.  Having discharged her task, she hastened to leave the land of plenty and 
returned to her accustomed haunts. Erisichthon still slept, and in his dreams craved 
food, and moved his jaws as if eating. When he awoke his hunger was raging.  Without a 
moment's delay he would have food set before him, of whatever kind earth, sea or air 
produces; and complained of hunger even while he ate.  What would have sufficed for a 
city or a nation, was not enough for him.  The more he ate the more he craved.  His 
hunger was like the sea, which receives all the rivers, yet is never filled; or like fire that 
burns all the fuel that is heaped upon it, yet is still voracious for more.

	His property rapidly diminished under the unceasing demands of his appetite, but 
his hunger continued unabated.  At length he had spent all, and had only his daughter 
left, a daughter worthy of a better parent.  Her too he sold.  She scorned to be the slave 
of a purchaser, and as she stood by the sea side, raised her hands in prayer to Neptune.  
He heard her prayer, and, though her new master was not far off, and had his eye upon 
her a moment before, Neptune changed her form, and made her assume that of a 
fisherman busy at his occupation.  Her master, looking for her and seeing her in her 
altered form, addressed her and said, "Good fisherman, whither went the maiden whom I 
saw just now, with hair dishevelled and in humble garb, standing about where you 
stand?  Tell me truly; so may your luck be good, and not a fish nibble at your hook and 
get away." She perceived that her prayer was answered, and rejoiced inwardly at 
hearing herself inquired of about herself.  She replied, "Pardon me, stranger, but I have 
been so intent upon my line, that I have seen nothing else; but I wish I may never catch 
another fish if I believe any woman or other person except myself to have been 
hereabouts for some time." He was deceived and went his way, thinking his slave had 
escaped.  Then she resumed her own form.  Her father was well pleased to find her still 
with him, and the money too that he got by the sale of her; so he sold her again.  But she 
was changed by the favor of Neptune as often as she was sold, now into a horse, now a 
bird, now an ox, and now a stag, - got away from her purchasers and came home.  By 
this base method the starving father procured food; but not enough for his wants, and at 
last hunger compelled him to devour his limbs, and he strove to nourish his body by 
eating his body, till death relieved him from the vengeance of Ceres.

Rhoecus. 

	The Hamadryads could appreciate services as well as punish injuries. The story 
of Rhoecus proves this.  Rhoecus, happening to see an oak just ready to fall, ordered 
his servants to prop it up.  The nymph, who had been on the point of perishing with the 
tree, came and expressed her gratitude to him for having saved her life, and bade him 
ask what reward he would. Rhoecus boldly asked her love, and the nymph yielded to his 
desire.  She at the same time charged him to be constant, and told him that a bee 
should be her messenger, and let him know when she would admit his society.  One 
time the bee came to Rhoecus when he was playing at draughts, and he carelessly 
brushed it away. This so incensed the nymph that she deprived him of sight.

	Our countryman J. R. Lowell has taken this story for the subject of one of his 
shorter poems.  He introduces it thus: -

     "Hear now this fairy legend of old Greece,
     As full of freedom, youth and beauty still,
     As the immortal freshness of that grace
     Carved for all ages on some Attic frieze."

The Water Deities. 

	Oceanus and Tethys were the Titans who ruled over the watery element. When 
Jove and his brothers overthrew the Titans and assumed their power, Neptune and 
Amphitrite succeeded to the dominion of the waters in place of Oceanus and Tethys.

Neptune. 

	Neptune was the chief of the water deities.  The symbol of his power was the 
trident, or spear with three points, with which he used to shatter rocks, to call forth or 
subdue storms, to shake the shores, and the like.  He created the horse and was the 
patron of horse races.  His own horses had brazen hoofs and golden manes.  They drew 
his chariot over the sea, which became smooth before him, while the monsters of the 
deep gambolled about his path.

Amphitrite. 

	Amphitrite was the wife of Neptune.  She was the daughter of Nereus and Doris, 
and the mother of Triton.  Neptune, to pay his court to Amphitrite, came riding on a 
dolphin.  Having won her, he rewarded the dolphin by placing him among the stars.

Nereus And Doris. 

	Nereus and Doris were the parents of the Nereids, the most celebrated of whom 
were Amphitrite, Thetis, the mother of Achilles, and Galatea, who was loved by the 
Cyclops Polyphemus.  Nereus was distinguished for his knowledge and his love of truth 
and justice, whence he was termed an elder; the gift of prophecy was also assigned to 
him.

Triton And Proteus. 

	Triton was the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, and the poets make him his 
father's trumpeter.  Proteus was also a son of Neptune.  He, like Nereus, is styled a sea-
elder for his wisdom and knowledge of future events.  His peculiar power was that of 
changing his shape at will.

Thetis. 

	Thetis, the daughter of Nereus and Doris, was so beautiful that Jupiter himself 
sought her in marriage; but having learned from Prometheus the Titan, that Thetis 
should bear a son who should be greater than his father, Jupiter desisted from his suit 
and decreed that Thetis should be the wife of a mortal. By the aid of Chiron the Centaur, 
Peleus succeeded in winning the goddess for his bride, and their son was the renowned 
Achilles.  In our chapter on the Trojan war it will appear that Thetis was a faithful mother 
to him, aiding him in all difficulties, and watching over his interests from the first to the 
last.

Leucothea And Palaemon. 

	Ino, the daughter of Cadmus and wife of Athamas, flying from her frantic 
husband with her little son Melicertes in her arms, sprang from a cliff into the sea.  The 
gods, out of compassion, made her a goddess of the sea, under the name of Leucothea, 
and him a god under that of Palaemon.  Both were held powerful to save from shipwreck 
and were invoked by sailors.  Palaemon was usually represented riding on a dolphin.  
The Isthmian games were celebrated in his honor.  He was called Portunus by the 
Romans, and believed to have jurisdiction of the ports and shores.

	Milton alludes to all these deities in the song at the conclusion of Comus.

     ". . . Sabrina fair,
     Listen and appear to us,
     In name of great Oceanus;
     By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
     And Tethys' grave, majestic pace,
     By hoary Nereus' wrinkled look,
     And the Carpathian wizard's hook, ^*
     By scaly Triton's winding shell,
     And old soothsaying Glaucus' spell,
     By Leucothea's lovely hands,
     And her son who rules the strands
     By Thetis' tinsel-slippered feet,
     And the songs of Sirens sweet;" &c.

	[Footnote *: Proteus.]

	Armstrong, the poet of the Art of preserving Health, under the inspiration of 
Hygeia, the goddess of health, thus celebrates the Naiads. Paeon is a name both of 
Apollo and Aesculapius

     "Come, ye Naiads!  to the fountains lead!
     Propitious maids!  the task remains to sing
     Your gifts, (so Paeon, so the powers of Health
     Command,) to praise your crystal element.
     O comfortable streams!  with eager lips
     And trembling hands the languid thirsty quaff
     New life in you; fresh vigor fills their veins.
     No warmer cups the rural ages knew,
     None warmer sought the sires of humankind;
     Happy in temperate peace their equal days
     Felt not the alternate fits of feverish mirth
     And sick dejection; still serene and pleased,
     Blessed with divine immunity from ills,
     Long centuries they lived; their only fate
     Was ripe old age, and rather sleep than death."

The Camenae. 

	By this name the Latins designated the Muses, but included under it also some 
other deities, principally nymphs of fountains.  Egeria was one of them, whose fountain 
and grotto are still shown.  It was said that Numa, the second king of Rome, was favored 
by this nymph with secret interviews, in which she taught him those lessons of wisdom 
and of law which he imbodied in the institutions of his rising nation.  After the death of 
Numa the nymph pined away and was changed into a fountain.

	Byron in Childe Harold, Canto IV., thus alludes to Egeria and her grotto: -

     "Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover,
     Egeria!  all thy heavenly bosom beating
     For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover;
     The purple midnight veiled that mystic meeting
     With her most starry canopy;" &c.

	Tennyson, also, in his Palace of Art, gives us a glimpse of the royal lover 
expecting the interview.

     "Holding one hand against his ear,
     To list a footfall ere he saw
     The wood-nymph, stayed the Tuscan king to hear
     Of wisdom and of law."

The Winds. 

	When so many less active agencies were personified, it is not to be supposed 
that the winds failed to be so.  They were Boreas or Aquilo, the north wind, Zephyrus or 
Favonius, the west, Notus or Auster, the south, and Eurus, the east.  The first two have 
been chiefly celebrated by the poets, the former as the type of rudeness, the latter of 
gentleness.  Boreas loved the nymph Orithyia, and tried to play the lover's part, but met 
with poor success. It was hard for him to breathe gently, and sighing was out of the 
question. Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he acted out his true character, seized the 
maiden and carried her off.  Their children were Zetes and Calais, winged warriors, who 
accompanied the Argonautic expedition, and did good service in an encounter with those 
monstrous birds the Harpies.

	Zephyrus was the lover of Flora.  Milton alludes to them in Paradise Lost, where 
he describes Adam waking and contemplating Eve still asleep.

     ". . . He on his side
     Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love,
     Hung over her enamored, and beheld
     Beauty which, whether waking or asleep,
     Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice,
     Mild as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
     Her hand soft touching, whispered thus: 'Awake!
     My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
     Heaven's last, best gift, my ever-new delight.'"

	Dr. Young, the poet of the Night Thoughts, addressing the idle and luxurious, 
says, -

     "Ye delicate!  who nothing can support,
     (Yourselves most insupportable,) for whom
     The winter rose must blow, . . .
     . . . and silky soft
     Favonius breathe still softer or be child!"


Chapter XXIII: Achelous - Hercules, Admetus - Alcestis, Antigone, 
Penelope

Achelous And Hercules. 
	The river-god Achelous told the story of Erisichthon to Theseus and his 
companions, whom he was entertaining at his hospitable board, while they were 
delayed on their journey by the overflow of his waters.  Having finished his story he 
added, "But why should I tell of other persons' transformations, when I myself am an 
instance of the possession of this power.  Sometimes I become a serpent, and 
sometimes a bull, with horns on my head.  Or I should say, I once could do so; but now 
I have but one horn, having lost one." And here he groaned and was silent.

	Theseus asked him the cause of his grief, and how he lost his horn.  To which 
question the river-god replied as follows: "Who likes to tell of his defeats?  Yet I will not 
hesitate to relate mine, comforting myself with the thought of the greatness of my 
conqueror, for it was Hercules.  Perhaps you have heard of the fame of Dejanira, the 
fairest of maidens, whom a host of suitors strove to win.  Hercules and myself were of 
the number, and the rest yielded to us two.  He urged in his behalf his descent from 
Jove, and his labors by which he had exceeded the exactions of Juno, his step-
mother.  I, on the other hand, said to the father of the maiden.  'Behold me, the king of 
the waters that flow through your land.  I am no stranger from a foreign shore, but 
belong to the country, a part of your realm.  Let it not stand in my way that royal Juno 
owes me no enmity, nor punishes me with heavy tasks. As for this man, who boasts 
himself the son of Jove, it is either a false pretence, or disgraceful to him if true, for it 
cannot be true except by his mother's shame.' As I said this Hercules scowled upon 
me, and with difficulty restrained his rage.  'My hand will answer better than my 
tongue,' said he. 'I yield you the victory in words, but trust my cause to the strife of 
deeds.' With that he advanced towards me, and I was ashamed, after what I had said, 
to yield.  I threw off my green vesture, and presented myself for the struggle. He tried 
to throw me, now attacking my head, now my body.  My bulk was my protection, and 
he assailed me in vain.  For a time we stopped, then returned to the conflict.  We each 
kept our position, determined not to yield, foot to foot, I bending over him, clinching his 
hands in mine, with my forehead almost touching his.  Thrice Hercules tried to throw 
me off, and the fourth time he succeeded, brought me to the ground and himself upon 
my back. I tell you the truth, it was as if a mountain had fallen on me.  I struggled to get 
my arms at liberty, panting and reeking with perspiration.  He gave me no chance to 
recover, but seized my throat.  My knees were on the earth and my mouth in the dust.

	"Finding that I was no match for him in the warrior's art, I resorted to others, and 
glided away in the form of a serpent.  I curled my body in a coil, and hissed at him with 
my forked tongue.  He smiled scornfully at this, and said, 'It was the labor of my 
infancy to conquer snakes.  So saying he clasped my neck with his hands.  I was 
almost choked, and struggled to get my neck out of his grasp.  Vanquished in this 
form, I tried what alone remained to me, and assumed the form of a bull.  He grasped 
my neck with his arm, and dragging my head down to the ground, overthrew me on the 
sand.  Nor was this enough.  His ruthless hand rent my horn from my head.  The 
Naiades took it, consecrated it, and filled it with fragrant flowers.  Plenty adopted my 
horn and made it her own, and called it Cornucopia."

	The ancients were fond of finding a hidden meaning in their mythological tales.  
They explain this fight of Achelous with Hercules by saying, Achelous was a river that 
in seasons of rain overflowed its banks.  When the fable says that Achelous loved 
Dejanira, and sought a union with her, the meaning is, that the river in its windings 
flowed through part of Dejanira's kingdom. It was said to take the form of a snake 
because of its winding, and of a bull because it made a brawling or roaring in its 
course.  When the river swelled, it made itself another channel.  Thus its head was 
horned.  Hercules prevented the return of these periodical overflows, by embankments 
and canals; and therefore he was said to have vanquished the river-god and cut off his 
horn. Finally, the lands formerly subject to overflow, but now redeemed, became very 
fertile, and this is meant by the horn of plenty.

	There is another account of the origin of the Cornucopia.  Jupiter at his birth was 
committed by his mother Rhea to the care of the daughters of Melisseus, a Cretan 
king.  They fed the infant deity with the milk of the goat Amalthea.  Jupiter broke off 
one of the horns of the goat and gave it to his nurses, and endowed it with the 
wonderful power of becoming filled with whatever the possessor might wish.

	The name of Amalthea is also given by some writers to the mother of Bacchus.  It 
is thus used by Milton, P. L., Book IV.: -

     ". . . That Nyseian isle,
     Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
     Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,
     Hid Amalthea and her florid son,
     Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea's eye."

Admetus And Alcestis. 

	Aesculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with such skill in the 
healing art that he even restored the dead to life.  At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed 
on Jupiter to launch a thunderbolt at Aesculapius. Apollo was indignant at the 
destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had 
made the thunderbolt.  These were the Cyclopes, who have their workshop under Mount 
Aetna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing.  Apollo 
shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, which so incensed Jupiter that he condemned him as a 
punishment to become the servant of a mortal for the space of one year. Accordingly 
Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for 
him on the verdant banks of the river Amphrysos.

	Admetus was a suitor, with others, for the hand of Alcestis, the daughter of 
Pelias, who promised her to him who should come for her in a chariot drawn by lions and 
boars.  This task Admetus performed by the assistance of his divine herdsman, and was 
made happy in the possession of Alcestis.  But Admetus fell ill, and being near to death, 
Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one would consent to 
die in his stead. Admetus in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the ransom, and 
perhaps remembering the declarations of attachment which he had often heard from his 
courtiers and dependents, fancied that it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was 
not so.  Brave warriors, who would willingly have perilled their lives for their prince, 
shrunk from the thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness; and old servants who 
had experienced his bounty and that of his house from their childhood up, were not 
willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show their gratitude.  Men asked, 
- "Why does not one of his parents do it?  They cannot in the course of nature live much 
longer, and who can feel like them the call to rescue the life they gave, from an untimely 
end?" But the parents distressed though they were at the thought of losing him, shrunk 
from the call.  Then Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the 
substitute.  Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to receive it at 
such a cost; but there was no remedy.  The condition imposed by the Fates had been 
met, and the decree was irrevocable. Alcestis sickened as Admetus revived, and she 
was rapidly sinking to the grave.

	Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and found all the 
inmates in great distress for the impending loss of the devoted wife and beloved 
mistress.  Hercules, to whom no labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue.  
He went and lay in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying queen, and when Death 
came for his prey, he seized him and forced him to resign his victim.  Alcestis recovered, 
and was restored to her husband.

	Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet "on his deceased wife."

     "Methought I saw my late espoused saint
     Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
     Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
     Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint."

	J. R. Lowell has chosen the "Shepherd of King Admetus" for the subject of a 
short poem.  He makes that event the first introduction of poetry to men.

     "Men called him but a shiftless youth,
     In whom no good they saw,
     And yet unwittingly, in truth,
     They made his careless words their law.
     "And day by day more holy grew
     Each spot where he had trod,
     Till after-poets only knew
     Their first-born brother was a god."

Antigone. 

	A large proportion, both of the interesting persons and of the exalted acts of 
legendary Greece belongs to the female sex.  Antigone was as bright an example of filial 
and sisterly fidelity as was Alcestis of connubial devotion. She was the daughter of 
Oedipus and Jocasta, who with all their descendants were the victims of an unrelenting 
fate, dooming them to destruction.  Oedipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and 
was driven forth from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all men, as an 
object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone shared his wanderings and 
remained with him till he died, and then returned to Thebes.

	Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the kingdom between 
them, and reign alternately year by year.  The first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, 
when his time expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother.  Polynices fled to 
Adrastus king of Argos, who gave him his daughter in marriage, and aided him with an 
army to enforce his claim to the kingdom.  This led to the celebrated expedition of the 
"Seven against Thebes," which furnished ample materials for the epic and tragic poets of 
Greece.

	Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the enterprise, for he was a 
soothsayer, and knew by his aet that no one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to 
return.  But Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king's sister, had agreed that 
whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion, the decision should be left to 
Eriphyle.  Polynices, knowing this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby 
gained her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a present which Vulcan had given 
to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and Polynices had taken it with him on his 
flight from Thebes.  Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her decision the 
war wau resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his certain fate. He bore his part bravely 
in the contest, but could not avert his destiny. Pursued by the enemy he fled along the 
river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground, and he, his chariot 
and his charioteer were swallowed up.

	It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism or atrocity which 
marked the contest; but we must not omit to record the fidelity of Evadne as an offset to 
the weakness of Eriphyle.  Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the fight 
declared that he would force his way into the city in spite of Jove himself.  Placing a 
ladder against the wall he mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious language struck 
him with a thunderbolt.  When his obsequies were celebrated, Evadne cast herself on 
his funeral pile and perished.

	Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as to the issue.  
Tiresias in his youth had by chance seen Minerva bathing.  The goddess in her wrath 
deprived him of his sight, but afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the 
knowledge of future events When consulted by Eteocles, he declared that victory should 
fall to Thebes if Menoeceus the son of Creon gave himself a voluntary victim.  The 
heroic youth learning the response threw away his life in the first encounter

	The siege continued long, with various success.  At length both hosts agreed that 
the brothers should decide their quarrel by single combat.  They fought and fell by each 
other's hands.  The armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were forced 
to yield, and fled leaving their dead unburied.  Creon, the uncle of the fallen princes, now 
become king, caused Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the 
body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one on pain of death to give it 
burial.

	Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the revolting edict which 
consigned her brother's body to the dogs and vultures, depriving it of those rites which 
were considered essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading 
counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to procure assistance, she 
determined to brave the hazard and to bury the body with her own hands.  She was 
detected in the act, and Creon gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having 
deliberately set at nought the solemn edict of the city.  Her lover, Haemon, the son of 
Creon, unable to avert her fate, would not survive her, and fell by his own hand.

	Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian poet Sophocles.  
Mrs. Jameson, in her Characteristics of Women, has compared her character with that of 
Cordelia, in Shakspeare's King Lear.  The perusal of her remarks cannot fail to gratify 
our readers.

	The following is the lamentation of Antigone over Oedipus, when death has at 
last relieved him from his sufferings: -

     "Alas!  I only wished I might have died
     With my poor father: wherefore should I ask
     For longer life?
     O, I was fond of misery with him;
     E'en what was most unlovely grew beloved
     When he was with me.  O my dearest father
     Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
     Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
     Wast dear, and shalt be ever."

     Francklin's Sophocles.

Penelope. 

	Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were rather those 
of character and conduct than of person.  She was the daughter of Icarius, a Spartan 
prince.  Ulysses, king of Ithaca, sought her in marriage, and won her, over all 
competitors.  When the moment came for the bride to leave her father's house, Icarius, 
unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain 
with him, and not accompany her husband to Ithaca.  Ulysses gave Penelope her 
choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped her veil over her 
face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty 
on the spot where they parted.

	Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year when it was 
interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the Trojan war. During his long 
absence, and when it was doubtful whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he 
would ever return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom there 
seemed no refuge but in choosing one of them for her husband.  Penelope, however, 
employed every art to gain time, still hoping for Ulysses' return.  One of her arts of delay 
was engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of Laertes, her 
husband's father.  She pledged herself to make her choice among the suitors when the 
robe was finished. During the day she worked at the robe, but in the night she undid the 
work of the day.  This is the famous Penelope's web, which is used as a proverbial 
expression for any thing which is perpetually doing but never done.  The rest of 
Penelope's history will be told when we give an account of her husband's adventures.


Chapter XXIV: Orpheus, Eurydice, Aristaeus, Amphion, Linus, Thamyris, 
et al.

Orpheus And Eurydice. 
	Orpheus was the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope He was presented by his 
father with a Lyre and taught to play upon it, which he did to such perfection that 
nothing could withstand the charm of his music.  Not only his fellow-mortals but wild 
beasts were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by their fierceness, 
and stood entranced with his lay.  Nay, the very trees and rocks were sensible to the 
charm.  The former crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their 
hardness, softened by his notes.

	Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus with 
Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no happy omens with him. His very torch 
smoked and brought tears into their eyes.  In coincidence with such prognostics 
Eurydice, shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her 
companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristaeus, who was struck with her beauty, 
and made advances to her.  She fled, and in flying trod upon a snake in the grass, was 
bitten in the foot and died.  Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, 
both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing resolved to seek his wife in the regions 
of the dead.  He descended by a cave situated on the side of the promontory of 
Taenarus and arrived at the Stygian realm.  He passed through crowds of ghosts and 
presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying the words 
with the lyre, he sung, "O deities of the under world, to whom all we who live must 
come, hear my words, for they are true.  I come not to spy out the secrets of Tartarus, 
nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog with snaky hair who guards the 
entrance.  I come to seek my wife, whose opening years the poisonous viper's fang 
has brought to an untimely end.  Love has led me here, Love, a god all powerful with 
us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here.  I implore 
you by these abodes full of terror, these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite 
again the thread of Eurydice's life.  We all are destined to you, and sooner or later 
must pass to your domain.  She too, when she shall have filled her term of life, will 
rightly be yours.  But till then grant her to me, I beseech you.  If you deny me, I cannot 
return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both."

	As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears.  Tantalus, in spite of 
his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts for water, Ixion's wheel stood still, the 
vulture ceased to tear the giant's liver, the daughters of Danaus rested from their task 
of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen.  Then for the first 
time, it is said, the cheeks of the Furies were wet with tears.  Proserpine could not 
resist, and Pluto himself gave way.  Eurydice was called.  She came from among the 
new- arrived ghosts, limping with her wounded foot.  Orpheus was permitted to take 
her away with him on one condition, that he should not turn round to look at her till they 
should have reached the upper air.  Under this condition they proceeded on their way, 
he leading, she following, through passages dark and steep, in total silence, till they 
had nearly reached the outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a 
moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following, cast a glance 
behind him, when instantly she was borne away.  Stretching out their arms to embrace 
one another they grasped only the air!  Dying now a second time she yet cannot 
reproach her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her! 
"Farewell," she said, "a last farewell," - and was hurried away, so fast that the sound 
hardly reached his ears.

	Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to return and try 
once more for her release; but the stern ferryman repulsed him and refused passage.  
Seven days he lingered about the brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of 
cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks and mountains, 
melting the hearts of tigers and moving the oaks from their stations.  He held himself 
aloof from womankind, dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance.  
The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their advances. 
They bore with him as long as they could; but finding him insensible, one day, excited 
by the rites of Bacchus, one of them exclaimed, "See yonder our despiser!" and threw 
at him her javelin.  The weapon, as soon as it came within the sound of his lyre, fell 
harmless at his feet.  So did also the stones that they threw at him. But the women 
raised a scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles reached 
him and soon were stained with his blood.  The maniacs tore him limb from limb, and 
threw his head and his lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring 
sad music, to which the shores responded a plaintive symphony.  The Muses gathered 
up the fragments of his body and buried them at Libethra, where the nightingale is said 
to sing over his grave more sweetly than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was 
placed by Jupiter among the stars.  His shade passed a second time to Tartarus, 
where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced her, with eager arms.  They roam the 
happy fields together now, sometimes he leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes 
as much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a thoughtless glance.

	The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of the power of 
music, for his Ode for St. Cecilia's Day.  The following stanza relates the conclusion of 
the story: -

     "But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;
     Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
     How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
     No crime was thine, if 'tis no crime to love.

     Now under hanging mountains,
     Beside the falls of fountains,
     Or where Hebrus wanders,
     Rolling in meanders,

     All alone,
     He makes his moan,
     And calls her ghost,
     Forever, ever, ever lost!

     Now with furies surrounded,
     Despairing, confounded,
     He trembles, he glows,
     Amidst Rhodope's snows.

     See, wild as the winds o'er the desert he flies;
     Hark!  Haemus resounds with the Bacchanals' cries.
     Ah, see, he dies!
     Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
     Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:
     Eurydice the woods
     Eurydice the floods
     Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung."

	The superior melody of the nightingale's song over the grave of Orpheus is 
alluded to by Southey in his Thalaba: -

     "Then on his ear what sounds
     Of harmony arose!
     Far music and the distance-mellowed song
     From bowers of merriment;
     The waterfall remote;
     The murmuring of the leafy groves;
     The single nightingale
     Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,
     That never from that most melodious bird
     Singing a love song to his brooding mate,
     Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
     Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
     Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
     All his own power infuse, to swell
     The incense that he loves."

Aristaeus, The Bee-Keeper. 

	Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for his own advantage.  
Hence sprang the art of keeping bees.  Honey must first have been known as a wild 
product, the bees building their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any 
similar cavity that chance offered.  Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal 
would be occupied by the bees for that purpose.  It was no doubt from some such 
incident that the superstition arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying flesh 
of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story, shows how this supposed fact may be 
turned to account for renewing the swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident.

	Aristaeus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of the water-
nymph Cyrene.  His bees had perished, and he resorted for aid to his mother.  He stood 
at the river side and thus addressed her: "O mother, the pride of my life is taken from 
me!  I have lost my precious bees.  My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you 
my mother have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune." His mother heard these 
complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river with her attendant nymphs 
around her. They were engaged in female occupations, spinning and weaving, while one 
told stories to amuse the rest.  The sad voice of Aristaeus interrupting their occupation, 
one of them put her head above the water and seeing him, returned and gave 
information to his mother, who ordered that he should be brought into her presence.  
The river at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled like a 
mountain on either side.  He descended to the region where the fountains of the great 
rivers lie; he saw the enormous receptacles of waters and was almost deafened with the 
roar, while he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to water the face of the 
earth. Arriving at his mother's apartment he was hospitably received by Cyrene and her 
nymphs, who spread their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out libations 
to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast, and after that Cyrene thus 
addressed him: "There is an old prophet named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a 
favorite of Neptune whose herd of sea-calves he pastures.  We nymphs hold him in 
great respect, for he is a learned sage and knows all things, past, present, and to come.  
He can tell you, my son, the cause of the mortality among your bees, and how you may 
remedy it.  But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat him. You must 
compel him by force.  If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your questions in 
order to get released, for he cannot by all his arts get away if you hold fast the chains.  I 
will carry you to his cave, where he comes at noon to take his midday repose.  Then you 
may easily secure him. But when he finds himself captured, his resort is to a power he 
possesses of changing himself into various forms.  He will become a wild boar or a fierce 
tiger, a scaly dragon or lion with yellow name.  Or he will make a noise like the crackling 
of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt you to let go the chain, when he will make 
his escape.  But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds all his 
arts unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your commands." So saying she 
sprinkled her son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and immediately an 
unusual vigor filled his frame and courage his heart, while perfume breathed all around 
him.

	The nymph led her son to the prophet's cave and concealed him among the 
recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place behind the clouds. When noon 
came and the hour when men and herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet 
slumber, Proteus issued from the water, followed by his herd of sea-calves which spread 
themselves along the shore.  He sat on the rock and counted his herd; then stretched 
himself on the floor of the cave and went to sleep.  Aristaeus hardly allowed him to get 
fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted aloud.  Proteus waking and 
finding himself captured immediately resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a 
flood, then a horrible wild beast, in rapid succession.  But finding all would not do, he at 
last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in angry accents: "Who are you, 
bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do you want with me?" Aristaeus 
replied, "Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to attempt to deceive 
you.  And do you also cease your efforts to elude me.  I am led hither by divine 
assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it." At 
these words the prophet fixing on him his gray eyes, with a piercing look, thus spoke: 
"You receive the merited reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death, for in 
flying from you she trod upon a serpent, of whose bite she died.  To avenge her death, 
the nymphs her companions have sent this destruction to your bees.  You have to 
appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect form and 
size, and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the 
animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove.  To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall 
pay such funeral honors as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine days you 
will examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall." Aristaeus faithfully 
obeyed these directions.  He sacrificed the cattle, he left their bodies in the grove, he 
offered funeral honors to the shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the 
ninth day he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate!  a swarm of 
bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses and were pursuing their labors there 
as in a hive.

	In the Task, Cowper alludes to the story of Aristaeus, when speaking of the ice-
palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia.  He has been describing the fantastic forms 
which ice assumes in connection with waterfalls, &c.: -

     "Less worthy of applause though more admired
     Because a novelty, the work of man,
     Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
     Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
     The wonder of the north.  No forest fell
     When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
     T'enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
     And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
     In such a palace Aristaeus found
     Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
     Of his lost bees to her maternal ear."

	Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in his mind 
when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river Severn, in the Guardian-spirit's 
Song in Comus: -

     "Sabrina fair!
     Listen where thou art sitting
     Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
     In twisted braids of lilies knitting
     The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
     Listen for dear honor's sake,
     Goddess of the silver lake!
     Listen and save."

	The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians, some of whom 
were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself: -

Amphion. 

	Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes.  With his twin 
brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount Cithaeron, where they grew up among 
the shepherds, not knowing their parentage.  Mercury gave Amphion a lyre and taught 
him to play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks.  
Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the 
usurping king of Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her children of 
their rights and to summon them to her assistance.  With a band of their fellow- 
herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a 
bull, let him drag her till she was dead. ^* Amphion having become king of Thebes 
fortified the city with a wall.  It is said that when he played on his lyre the stones moved 
of their own accord and took their places in the wall.

	[Footnote *: The punishment of Dirce is the subject of a celebrated group of 
statuary now in the Musaeum at Naples.]

	See Tennyson's poem of Amphion for an amusing use made of this story.

Linus. 

	Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day reproved his 
pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and 
killed him.

Thamyris. 

	An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the Muses to a trial 
of skill, and being overcome in the contest was deprived by them of his sight.  Milton 
alludes to him with other blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness, P. L. Book III. 
35.

Marsyas. 

	Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of all the celestial 
auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid having dared to laugh at the queer face 
which the goddess made while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, 
and it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas.  He blew upon it, and drew from it 
such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical 
contest.  The god of course triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.

Melampus. 

	Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers.  Before his house 
there stood an oak tree containing a serpent's nest.  The old serpents were killed by the 
servants, but Melampus took care of the young ones and fed them carefully.  One day 
when he was asleep under the oak, the serpents licked his ears with their tongues.  On 
awaking he was astonished to find that he now understood the language of birds and 
creeping things.  This knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a 
renowned soothsayer.  At one time his enemies took him captive and kept him strictly 
imprisoned.  Melampus in the silence of the night heard the woodworms in the timbers 
talking together, and found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten 
through and the roof would soon fall in.  He told his captors and demanded to be let out, 
warning them also.  They took his warning, and thus escaped destruction, and rewarded 
Melampus and held him in high honor.

Musaeus. 

	A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one tradition to be the 
son of Orpheus.  He is said to have written sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples 
his name with that of Orpheus in his Il Penseroso: -

     "But O, said virgin, that thy power
     Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
     Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
     Such notes as warbled to the string,
     Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
     And made Hell grant what love did seek."



Chapter XXV: Arion - Ibycus - Simonides - Sappho

	The poets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons some of 
whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who succeeded them is yet 
more important than their poetical remains.  The adventures recorded of them in the 
following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives of the Age of Fable, 
that is, of the poets who have told them.  In their present form, the first two are 
translated from the German, Arion from Schlegel and Ibycus from Schiller.

Arion. 

	Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt at the court of Periander, king of 
Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite.  There was to be a musical contest in 
Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for the prize.  He told his wish to Periander, who 
besought him like a brother to give up the thought. "Pray stay with me," he said, "and 
be contented.  He who strives to win may lose." Arion answered, "A wandering life best 
suits the free heart of a poet. The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain 
make a source of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the enjoyment of it 
be increased by the consciousness of my wide-spread fame!" He went, won the prize, 
and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship for home.  On the second morning 
after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair.  "O Periander," he exclaimed, 
"dismiss your fears!  Soon shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish 
offerings will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at the 
festal board!" The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a cloud dimmed the 
firmament.  He had not trusted too much to the ocean, - but he had to man.  He 
overheard the seamen exchanging hints with one another, and found they were 
plotting to possess themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud 
and mutinous, and said, "Arion, you must die!  If you would have a grave on shore, 
yield yourself to die on this spot; but if otherwise, cast yourself into the sea." "Will 
nothing satisfy you but my life?" said he.  "Take my gold, and welcome.  I willingly buy 
my life at that price." "No, no; we cannot spare you.  Your life would be too dangerous 
to us. Where could we go to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had 
been robbed by us?  Your gold would be of little use to us, if, on returning home, we 
could never more be free from fear." "Grant me, then," said he, "a last request, since 
nought will avail to save my life, that I may die as I have lived, as becomes a bard.  
When I shall have sung my death song, and my harp-strings shall have ceased to 
vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate." This prayer, 
like the others, would have been unheeded, - they thought only of their booty, - but to 
hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts.  "Suffer me," he added, "to 
arrange my dress.  Apollo will not favor me unless I be clad in my minstrel garb."

	He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell 
around him in graceful folds jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a 
golden wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors.  
His left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords.  
Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air and glitter in the morning ray.  
The seamen gazed with admiration.  He strode forward to the vessel's side and looked 
down into the blue sea.  Addressing his lyre, he sang, "Companion of my voice, come 
with me to the realm of shades.  Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of 
song can tame his rage.  Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood, - 
ye happy souls, soon shall I join your band.  Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I leave 
my friend behind me.  Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon 
as found; when she had vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light!  
I must away, but I will not fear.  The gods look down upon us.  Ye who slay me 
unoffending, when I am no more, your time of trembling shall come.  Ye Nereids, 
receive your guest, who throws himself upon your mercy!" So saying, he sprang into 
the deep sea.  The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way, fancying 
themselves safe from all danger of detection.

	But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants of the deep to 
listen, and Dolphins followed the ship as if chained by a spell. While he struggled in the 
waves, a Dolphin offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to 
shore.  At the spot where he landed, a monument of brass was afterwards erected 
upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory of the event.

	When Arion and the Dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion thus poured 
forth his tanks.  "Farewell thou faithful, friendly fish!  Would that I could reward thee; 
but thou canst not wend with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have.  
May Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou, proud of the burden, 
draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of the deep."

	Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers of Corinth.  
He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went, full of love and happiness, for 
getting his losses, and mindful only of what remained, his friend and his lyre.  He 
entered the hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of Periander.  "I 
come back to thee, my friend," he said. "The talent which a god bestowed has been 
the delight of thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned 
treasure; yet I retain the consciousness of wide-spread fame." Then he told Periander 
all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who heard him with amazement.  "Shall 
such wickedness triumph?" said he.  "Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That 
we may discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and so they will 
approach without suspicion." When the ship arrived in the harbor, he summoned the 
mariners before him.  "Have you heard any thing of Arion?" he inquired.  "I anxiously 
look for his return." They replied, "We left him well and prosperous in Tarentum." As 
they said these words, Arion stepped forth and faced them.  His well-proportioned 
limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful 
folds, jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over 
his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors; his left hand held the lyre, 
his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, 
as if a lightning bolt had struck them.  "We meant to murder him, and he has become a 
god.  O Earth, open and receive us!" Then Periander spoke.  "He lives, the master of 
the lay!  Kind Heaven protects the poet's life.  As for you, I invoke not the spirit of 
vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood.  Ye slaves of avarice, begone!  Seek some 
barbarous land, and never may aught beautiful delight your souls!"

	Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the train of 
Neptune and Amphitrite: -

     "Then was there heard a most celestial sound
     Of dainty music which did next ensue,
     And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
     Arion with his harp unto him drew
     The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
     Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
     Through the Aegean Seas from pirates' view,
     Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,
     And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar."

	Byron, in his Childe Harold, Canto II., alludes to the story of Arion, when, 
describing his voyage, he represents one of the seamen making music to entertain the 
rest: -

     "The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
     Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand;
     Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
     Such be our fate when we return to land!
     Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand
     Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
     A circle there of merry listeners stand,
     Or to some well-known measure featly move
     Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove."

Ibycus. 

	In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is necessary to 
remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients were immense fabrics capable of 
containing from ten to thirty thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festal 
occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually filled.  They were without 
roofs and open to the sky, and the performances were in the daytime.  Secondly, the 
appalling representation of the Furies is not exaggerated in the story.  It is recorded that 
Aeschylus, the tragic poet, having on one occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of 
fifty performers, the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were thrown 
into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like representation for the future.

	Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and musical 
competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted all of Grecian lineage.  
Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he 
pursued his way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of Corinth 
crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the sacred 
grove of Neptune.  No living object was in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead 
taking the same course as himself in their migration to a southern clime.  "Good luck to 
you, ye friendly squadrons," he exclaimed, "my companions from across the sea.  I take 
your company for a good omen.  We come from far and fly in search of hospitality. May 
both of us meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!"

	He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood.  There suddenly, 
at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his way.  He must yield or fight.  
But his hand, accustomed to the lyre, and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless.  He 
called for help on men and gods, but his cry reached no defender's ear.  "Then here 
must I die," said he, "in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and 
see none to avenge my cause." Sore wounded he sank to the earth, when hoarse 
screamed the cranes overhead.  "Take up my cause, ye cranes," he said, "since no 
voice but yours answers to my cry." So saying he closed his eyes in death.

	The body despoiled and mangled was found, and though disfigured with wounds, 
was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had expected him as a guest.  "Is it thus I 
find you restored to me?" he exclaimed; "I who hoped to entwine your temples with the 
wreath of triumph in the strife of song!"

	The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with dismay.  All Greece 
felt the wound, every heart owned its loss.  They crowded round the tribunal of the 
magistrates, and demanded vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.

	But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst the vast 
multitude attracted by the splendor of the feast?  Did he fall by the hands of robbers or 
did some private enemy slay him?  The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye 
beheld it.  Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, 
and enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain.  Perhaps in 
their own temple's enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this throng of men 
that now presses into the amphitheatre.

	For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats till it seems as 
if the very fabric would give way.  The murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, 
while the circles widening in their ascent rise, tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.

	And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus 
personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured step, and moves 
around the circuit of the theatre.  Can they be mortal women who compose that awful 
group, and can that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings!

	The Choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches blazing with a 
pitchy flame.  Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place of hair, writhing and swelling 
serpents curled around their brows.  Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their 
hymn, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their faculties.  It rose and 
swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the 
heart, curdling the blood.

	"Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime!  Him we 
avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us.  But woe! woe! to him who 
has done the deed of secret murder.  We the fearful family of Night fasten ourselves 
upon his whole being.  Thinks he by flight to escape us?  We fly still faster in pursuit, 
twine our snakes around his feet and bring him to the ground.  Unwearied we pursue; no 
pity checks our course; still on and on to the end of life, we give him no peace nor rest." 
Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence, while stillness like the 
stillness of death sat over the whole assembly as if in the presence of superhuman 
beings; and then in solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed out 
at the back of the stage.

	Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every breast panted with 
undefined terror, quailing before the awful power that watches secret crimes and winds 
unseen the skein of destiny.  At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the uppermost 
benches - "Look!  look!  comrade, yonder are the cranes of Ibycus!" And suddenly there 
appeared sailing across the sky a dark object which a moment's inspection showed to be 
a flock of cranes flying directly over the theatre.  "Of Ibycus!  did he say?" The beloved 
name revived the sorrow in every breast.  As wave follows wave over the face of the 
sea, so ran from mouth to mouth the words, "Of Ibycus!  him whom we all lament, whom 
some murderer's hand laid low!  What have the cranes to do with him?" And louder grew 
the swell of voices, while like a lightning's flash the thought sped through every heart, 
"Observe the power of the Eumenides!  The pious poet shall be avenged!  the murderer 
has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry and the other to whom 
he spoke!"

	The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too late. The faces of 
the murderers pale with terror betrayed their guilt.  The people took them before the 
judge, they confessed their crime and suffered the punishment they deserved.

Simonides. 

	Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece, but only a 
few fragments of his compositions have descended to us.  He wrote hymns, triumphal 
odes, and elegies.  In the last species of composition he particularly excelled.  His 
genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with truer effect the chords of 
human sympathy.  The Lamentation of Danae, the most important of the fragments 
which remain of his poetry is based upon the tradition that Danae and her infant son 
were confined by order of her father Acrisius in a chest and set adrift on the sea.  The 
chest floated towards the island of Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a 
fisherman, and carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and protected 
them.  The child Perseus when grown up became a famous hero, whose adventures 
have been recorded in a previous chapter.

	Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes and often employed 
his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving his reward from the munificence of 
those whose exploits he celebrated.  This employment was not derogatory, but closely 
resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described by Homer, or of 
Homer himself as recorded by tradition.

	On one occasion when residing at the court of Scopas, king of Thessaly, the 
prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration of his exploits, to be recited at a 
banquet.  In order to diversify his theme, Simonides who was celebrated for his piety 
introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux.  Such digressions were not 
unusual with the poets on similar occasions, and one might suppose an ordinary mortal 
might have been content to share the praises of the sons of Leda.  But vanity is 
exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his courtiers and sycophants, he 
grudged every verse that did not rehearse his own praises.  When Simonides 
approached to receive the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected 
sum, saying, "Here is payment for my portion of thy performance, Castor and Pollux will 
doubtless compensate thee for so much as relates to them.' The disconcerted poet 
returned to his seat amidst the laughter which followed the great man's jest.  In a little 
time he received a message that two young men on horseback were waiting without and 
anxious to see him.  Simonides hastened to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors.  
Scarcely however had he left the banquetting hall when the roof fell in with a loud crash, 
burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the ruins.  On inquiring as to the appearance 
of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other 
than Castor and Pollux themselves.

Sappho. 

	Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek literature.  Of 
her works few fragments remain, but they are enough to establish her claim to eminent 
poetical genius.  The story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately 
in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of affection she 
threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that 
those who should take that 'Lover's-leap' would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love.

	Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in Childe Harold.  Canto Il.: -


     "Childe Harold sailed and passed the barren spot
     Where sad Penelope o'erlooked the wave,
     And onward viewed the mount, not yet forgot,
     The lover's refuge and the Lesbian's grave.
     Dark Sappho!  could not verse immortal save
     That breast imbued with such immortal fire?

     "'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve
     Childe Harold hailed Leucadia's cape afar;" &c.

	Those who wish to know more of Sappho and her leap,' are referred to the 
Spectator, Nos. 223 and 229.  See also Moore's Evenings in Greece.


Chapter XXVI: Endymion - Orion - Aurora And Tithonus - Acis And 
Galatea

Diana And Endymion. 
	Endymion was a beautiful youth who fed his flock on Mount Latmos.  One calm, 
clear night, Diana, the Moon, looked down and saw him sleeping.  The cold heart of 
the virgin goddess was warmed by his surpassing beauty, and she came down to him, 
kissed him, and watched over him while he slept.

	Another story was that Jupiter bestowed on him the gift of perpetual youth united 
with perpetual sleep.  Of one so gifted we can have but few adventures to record 
Diana it was said took care that his fortunes should not suffer by his inactive life, for 
she made his flock increase, and guarded his sheep and lambs from the wild beasts.

	The story of Endymion has a peculiar charm from the human meaning which it so 
thinly veils.  We see in Endymion the young poet, his fancy and his heart seeking in 
vain for that which can satisfy them, finding his favorite hour in the quiet moonlight, 
and nursing there beneath the beams of the bright and silent witness the melancholy 
and the ardor which consumes him. The story suggests aspiring and poetic love, a life 
spent more in dreams than in reality, and an early and welcome death.  S. G. B.

	The Endymion of Keats is a wild and fanciful poem, containing some exquisite 
poetry, as this, to the moon: -

     ". . . The sleeping kine
     Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine.
     Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,
     Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes,
     And yet thy benediction passeth not
     One obscure hiding-place, one little spot
     Where pleasure may be sent; the nested wren
     Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken;" &c., &c.

	Dr. Young in the Night Thoughts alludes to Endymion thus: -


     ". . . These thoughts, O Night, are thine;
     From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs,
     While others slept.  So Cynthia, poets feign,
     In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere,
     Her shepherd cheered, of her enamoured less
     Than I of thee."

	Fletcher, in the Faithful Shepherdess, tells, -


     "How the pale Phoebe, hunting in a grove,
     First saw the boy Endymion, from whose eyes
     She took eternal fire that never dies,
     How she conveyed him softly in a sleep,
     His temples bound with poppy, to the steep
     Head of old Latmos, where she stoops each night,
     Gilding the mountain with her brother's light,
     To kiss her sweetest."

Orion. 

	Orion was the son of Neptune.  He was a handsome giant and a mighty hunter.  
His father gave him the power of wading through the depths of the sea, or as others say 
of walking on its surface.

	Orion loved Merope, the daughter of Oenopion, king of Chios, and sought her in 
marriage.  He cleared the island of wild beasts, and brought the spoils of the chase as 
presents to his beloved; but as Oenopion constantly deferred his consent, Orion 
attempted to gain possession of the maiden by violence. Her father, incensed at this 
conduct, having made Orion drunk, deprived him of his sight and cast him out on the sea 
shore.  The blinded hero followed the sound of a Cyclops' hammer till he reached 
Lemnos, and came to the forge of Vulcan, who, taking pity on him, gave him Kedalion, 
one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun.  Placing Kedalion on his 
shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there meeting the sun-god, was restored to 
sight by his beam.

	After this he dwelt as a hunter with Diana, with whom he was a favorite, and it is 
even said she was about to marry him.  Her brother was highly displeased and often 
chid her, but no to purpose.  One day, observing Orion wading through the sea with his 
head just above the water, Apollo pointed it out to his sister and maintained that she 
could not hit that black thing on the sea.  The archer-goddess discharged a shaft with 
fatal aim.  The waves rolled the dead body of Orion to the land, and bewailing her fatal 
error with many tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he appears as a giant, 
with a girdle, sword, lion's skin, and club.  Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly 
before him.

	The Pleiads were daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train.  One day 
Orion saw them and became enamoured and pursued them.  In their distress they 
prayed to the gods to change their form, and Jupiter in pity turned them into pigeons, 
and then made them a constellation in the sky.  Though their number was seven, only 
six stars are visible, for Electra, one of them, it is said left her place that she might not 
behold the ruin of Troy, for that city was founded by her son Dardanus.  The sight had 
such an effect on her sisters that they have looked pale ever since.

	Mr. Longfellow has a poem on the "Occultation of Orion." The following lines are 
those in which he alludes to the mythic story.  We must premise that on the celestial 
globe Orion is represented as robed in a lion's skin, and wielding a club.  At the moment 
the stars of the constellation one by one were quenched in the light of the moon, the 
poet tells us -

     "Down fell the red skin of the lion
     Into the river at his feet.
     His mighty club no longer beat
     The forehead of the bull; but he
     Reeled as of yore beside the sea,
     When blinded by Oenopion

     He sought the blacksmith at his forge,
     And climbing up the narrow gorge,
     Fixed his blank eyes upon the sun."

	Tennyson has a different theory of the Pleiads


     Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,
     Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid."

     Locksley Hall

	Byron alludes to the lost Pleiad:

	"Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below."

	See also Mrs. Hemans's verses on the same subject.

Aurora And Tithonus. 

	The goddess of the Dawn, like her sister the Moon, was at times inspired with the 
love of mortals.  Her greatest favorite was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy.  She 
stole him away, and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting to have 
youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern, to her great mortification, 
that he was growing old.  When his hair was quite white she left his society; but he still 
had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food and was clad in celestial raiment.  
At length he lost the power of using his limbs, and then she shut him up in his chamber, 
whence his feeble voice might at times be heard. Finally she turned him into a 
grasshopper.

	Memnon was the son of Aurora and Tithonus.  He was king of the Aethiopians 
and dwelt in the extreme east, on the shore of Ocean.  He came with his warriors to 
assist the kindred of his father in the war of Troy King Priam received him with great 
honors, and listened with admiration to his narrative of the wonders of the ocean shore.

	The very day after his arrival, Memnon impatient of repose led his troops to the 
field.  Antilochus, the brave son of Nestor, fell by his hand, and the Greeks were put to 
flight, when Achilles appeared and restored the battle.  A long and doubtful contest 
ensued between him and the son of Aurora; at length victory declared for Achilles, 
Memnon fell, and the Trojans fled in dismay.

	Aurora, who from her station in the sky had viewed with apprehension the danger 
of her son, when she saw him fall directed his brothers the Winds to convey his body to 
the banks of the river Esepus in Paphlagonia.  In the evening, Aurora came, 
accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, and wept and lamented over her son.  
Night, in sympathy with her grief, spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for 
the offspring of the Dawn.  The Aethiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream 
in the grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his funeral pile 
to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought over the pile till they fell into 
the flame.  Every year at the anniversary of his death they return and celebrate his 
obsequies in like manner.  Aurora remains inconsolable for the loss of her son.  Her 
tears still flow, and may be seen at early morning in the form of dew-drops on the grass.

	Unlike most of the marvels of ancient mythology, there still exist some memorials 
of this.  On the banks of the river Nile, in Egypt, are two colossal statues, one of which is 
said to be the statue of Memnon.  Ancient writers record that when the first rays of the 
rising sun fall upon this statue, a sound is heard to issue from it which they compare to 
the snapping of a harpstring.  There is some doubt about the identification of the existing 
statue with the one described by the ancients, and the mysterious sounds are still more 
doubtful.  Yet there are not wanting some modern testimonies to their being still audible.  
It has been suggested that sounds produced by confined air making its escape from 
crevices or caverns in the rocks may have given some ground for the story.  Sir Gardner 
Wilkinson, a late traveller, of the highest authority, examined the statue itself, and 
discovered that it was hollow, and that "in the lap of the statue is a stone, which on being 
struck emits a metallic sound, that might still be made use of to deceive a visitor who 
was predisposed to believe its powers."

	The vocal statue of Memnon is a favorite subject of allusion with the poets.  
Darwin in his Botanic Garden says -

     "So to the sacred Sun in Memnon's fane
     Spontaneous concords choired the matin strain;
     Touched by his orient beam responsive rings
     The living lyre and vibrates all its strings;
     Accordant aisles the tender tones prolong,
     And holy echoes swell the adoring song."

     B. I., l. 182.

Acis And Galatea. 

	Scylla was a fair virgin of Sicily, a favorite of the Sea-Nymphs.  She had many 
suitors, but repelled them all, and would go to the grotto of Galatea, and tell her how she 
was persecuted.  One day the goddess, while Scylla dressed her hair, listened to the 
story, and then replied, "Yet, maiden, your persecutors are of the not ungentle race of 
men, whom if you will you can repel; but I, the daughter of Nereus, and protected by 
such a band of sisters, found no escape form the passion of the Cyclops but in the 
depths of the sea;" and tears stopped her utterance, which when the pitying maiden had 
wiped away with her delicate finger, and soothed the goddess, "Tell me, dearest," said 
she, "the cause of your grief." Galatea then said, "Acis was the son of Faunus and a 
Naiad.  His father and mother loved him dearly, but their love was not equal to mine.  For 
the beautiful youth attached himself to me alone, and he was just sixteen years old, the 
down just beginning to darken his cheeks.  As much as I sought his society, so much did 
the Cyclops seek mine; and if you ask me whether my love for Acis or my hatred of 
Polyphemus was the stronger, I cannot tell you; they were in equal measure.  O Venus, 
how great is thy power!  this fierce giant, the terror of the woods, whom no hapless 
stranger escaped unharmed, who defied even Jove himself, learned to feel what love 
was, and, touched with a passion for me, forgot his flocks and his well-stored caverns.  
Then for the first time he began to take some care of his appearance, and to try to make 
himself agreeable; he harrowed those coarse locks of his with a comb, and mowed his 
beard with a sickle, looked at his harsh features in the water and composed his 
countenance.  His love of slaughter, his fierceness and thirst of blood prevailed no more, 
and ships that touched at his island went away in safety. He paced up and down the sea 
shore, imprinting huge tracks with his heavy tread, and, when weary, lay tranquilly in his 
cave.

	"There is a cliff which projects into the sea, which washes it on either side.  
Thither one day the huge Cyclops ascended, and sat down while his flocks spread 
themselves around.  Laying down his staff which would have served for a mast to hold a 
vessel's sail, and taking his instrument compacted of numerous pipes, he made the hills 
and the waters echo the music of his song.  I lay hid under a rock by the side of my 
beloved Acis, and listened to the distant strain.  It was full of extravagant praises of my 
beauty, mingled with passionate reproaches of my coldness and cruelty.

	"When he had finished, he rose up and like a raging bull, that cannot stand still, 
wandered off into the woods.  Acis and I thought no more of him, till on a sudden he 
came to a spot which gave him a view of us as we sat.  'I see you,' he exclaimed, 'and I 
will make this the last of your love-meetings.' His voice was a roar such as an angry 
Cyclops alone could utter. Aetna trembled at the sound.  I, overcome with terror, plunged 
into the water.  Acis turned and fled, crying, 'Save me, Galatea, save me, my parents!' 
The Cyclops pursued him, and tearing a rock from the side of the mountain hurled it at 
him.  Though only a corner of it touched him it overwhelmed him."

	"All that fate left in my power I did for Acis.  I endowed him with the honors of his 
grandfather the river-god.  The purple blood flowed out from under the rock, but by 
degrees grew paler and looked like the stream of a river rendered turbid by rains, and in 
time it became clear.  The rock cleaved open, and the water, as it gushed from the 
chasm, uttered a pleasing murmur."

	Thus Acis was changed into a river, and the river retains the name of Acis.

	Dryden, in his Cymon and Iphigenia, has told the story of a clown converted into 
a gentleman by the power of love, in a way that shows traces of kindred to the old story 
of Galatea and the Cyclops.

     "What not his father's care nor tutor's art
     Could plant with pains in his unpolished heart,
     The best instructor, Love, at once inspired,
     As barren grounds to fruitfulness are fired.
     Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife
     Soon taught the sweet civilities of life"


Chapter XXVII: The Trojan War

	Minerva was the goddess of wisdom, but on one occasion she did a very foolish 
thing; she entered into competition with Juno and Venus for the prize of beauty.  It 
happened thus: At the nuptials of Peleus and Thetis all the gods were invited with the 
exception of Eris, or Discord.  Enraged at her exclusion, the goddess threw a golden 
apple among the guests, with the inscription, "For the fairest." Thereupon Juno, Venus, 
and Minerva each claimed the apple.  Jupiter, not willing to decide in so delicate a 
matter, sent the goddesses to Mount Ida, where the beautiful shepherd Paris was 
tending his flocks, and to him was committed the decision.  The goddesses 
accordingly appeared before him.  Juno promised him power and riches, Minerva glory 
and renown in war, and Venus the fairest of women for his wife, each attempting to 
bias his decision in her own favor.  Paris decided in favor of Venus and gave her the 
golden apple, thus making the two other goddesses his enemies.  Under the protection 
of Venus, Paris sailed to Greece, and was hospitably received by Menelaus, king of 
Sparta.  Now Helen, the wife of Menelaus, was the very woman whom Venus had 
destined for Paris, the fairest of her sex.  She had been sought as a bride by 
numerous suitors, and before her decision was made known, they all, at the 
suggestion of Ulysses, one of their number, took an oath that they would defend her 
from all injury and avenge her cause if necessary.  She chose Menelaus, and was 
living with him happily when Paris became their guest.  Paris, aided by Venus, 
persuaded her to elope with him, and carried her to Troy, whence arose the famous 
Trojan war, the theme of the greatest poems of antiquity, those of Homer and Virgil.

	Menelaus called upon his brother chieftains of Greece to fulfil their pledge, and 
join him in his efforts to recover his wife.  They generally came forward, but Ulysses, 
who had married Penelope and was very happy in his wife and child, had no 
disposition to embark in such a troublesome affair.  He therefore hung back and 
Palamedes was sent to urge him.  When Palamedes arrived at Ithaca, Ulysses 
pretended to be mad.  He yoked an ass and an ox together to the plough and began to 
sow salt.  Palamedes, to try him, placed the infant Telemachus before the plough, 
whereupon the father turned the plough aside, showing plainly that he was no 
madman, and after that could no longer refuse to fulfil his promise.  Being now himself 
gained for the undertaking he lent his aid to bring in other reluctant chiefs, especially 
Achilles.  This hero was the son of that Thetis at whose marriage the apple of Discord 
had been thrown among the goddesses.  Thetis was herself one of the immortals, a 
sea-nymph, and knowing that her son was fated to perish before Troy if he went on the 
expedition, she endeavored to prevent his going.  She sent him away to the court of 
King Lycomedes, and induced him to conceal himself in the disguise of a maiden 
among the daughters of the king. Ulysses, hearing he was there, went disguised as a 
merchant to the palace and offered for sale female ornaments, among which he had 
placed some arms. While the king's daughters were engrossed with the other contents 
of the merchant's pack, Achilles handled the weapons and thereby betrayed himself to 
the keen eye of Ulysses, who found no great difficulty in persuading him to disregard 
his mother's prudent counsels and join his countrymen in the war.

	Priam was king of Troy, and Paris, the shepherd and seducer of Helen, was his 
son.  Paris had been brought up in obscurity, because there were certain ominous 
forebodings connected with him from his infancy that he would be the ruin of the state.  
These forebodings seemed at length likely to be realized, for the Grecian armament 
now in preparation was the greatest that had ever been fitted out.  Agamemnon, king 
of Mycenae, and brother of the injured Menelaus, was chosen commander-in-chief.  
Achilles was their most illustrious warrior.  After him ranked Ajax, gigantic in size and 
of great courage, but dull of intellect, Diomede, second only to Achilles in all the 
qualities of a hero, Ulysses, famous for his sagacity, and Nestor, the oldest of the 
Grecian chiefs, and one to whom they all looked up for counsel.  But Troy was no 
feeble enemy.  Priam the king was now old, but he had been a wise prince and had 
strengthened his state by good government at home and numerous alliances with his 
neighbors.  But the principal stay and support of his throne was his son Hector, one of 
the noblest characters painted by heathen antiquity.  He felt, from the first, a 
presentiment of the fall of his country, but still persevered in his heroic resistance, yet 
by no means justified the wrong which brought this danger upon her.  He was united in 
marriage with Andromache, and as a husband and father his character was not less 
admirable than as a warrior.  The principal leaders on the side of the Trojans, besides 
Hector, were Aeneas and Deiphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon.


	After two years of preparation the Greek fleet and army assembled in the port of 
Aulis in Boeotia.  Here Agamemnon in hunting killed a stag which was sacred to 
Diana, and the goddess in return visited the army with pestilence, and produced a 
calm which prevented the ships from leaving the port.  Calchas the soothsayer 
thereupon announced that the wrath of the virgin goddess could only be appeased by 
the sacrifice of a virgin on her altar, and that none other but the daughter of the 
offender would be acceptable.  Agamemnon, however reluctant, yielded his consent, 
and the maiden Iphigenia was sent for under the pretence that she was to be married 
to Achilles.  When she was about to be sacrificed the goddess relented and snatched 
her away, leaving a hind in her place, and Iphigenia enveloped in a cloud was carried 
to Tauris, where Diana made her priestess of her temple.

	Tennyson, in his Dream of Fair Women, makes Iphigenia thus describe her 
feelings at the moment of sacrifice the moment represented in our engraving: -

     "I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
     Which yet to name my spirit loathes and fears;
     My father held his hand upon his face;
     I, blinded by my tears,

     "Still strove to speak; my voice was thick with sighs,
     As in a dream.  Dimly I could descry
     The stern black-bearded kings, with wolfish eyes,
     Waiting to see me die.

     "The tall masts quivered as they lay afloat,
     The temples and the people and the shore;
     One drew a sharp knife through my tender throat
     Slowly, - and - nothing more."

	The wind now proving fair the fleet made sail and brought the forces to the coast 
of Troy.  The Trojans came to oppose their landing, and at the first onset Protesilaus fell 
by the hand of Hector.  Protesilaus had left at home his wife Laodamia, who was most 
tenderly attached to him.  When the news of his death reached her she implored the 
gods to be allowed to converse with him only three hours.  The request was granted.  
Mercury led Protesilaus back to the upper world, and when he died a second time 
Laodamia died with him. There was a story that the nymphs planted elm trees round his 
grave which grew very well till they were high enough to command a view of Troy, and 
then withered away, while fresh branches sprang from the roots.

	Wordsworth has taken the story of Protesilaus and Laodamia for the subject of a 
poem.  It seems the oracle had declared that victory should be the lot of that party from 
which should fall the first victim to the war. The poet represents Protesilaus, on his brief 
return to earth, as relating to Laodamia the story of his fate: -

     "The wished-for wind was given; I then revolved
     The oracle, upon the silent sea;
     And if no worthier led the way, resolved
     That of a thousand vessels mine should be
     The foremost prow impressing to the strand, -
     Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand.

     "Yet bitter, ofttimes bitter was the pang
     When of thy loss I thought, beloved wife!
     On thee too fondly did my memory hang,
     And on the joys we shared in mortal life,
     The paths which we had trod, - these fountains, flowers;
     My new planned cities and unfinished towers.

     'But should suspense permit the foe to cry,
     'Behold they tremble!  haughty their array,
     Yet of their number no one dares to die?'
     In soul I swept the indignity away:
     Old frailties then recurred: but lofty thought
     In act imbodied my deliverance wrought.

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     ". . . upon the side
     Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained)
     A knot of spiry trees for ages grew
     From out the tomb of him for whom she died;
     And ever when such stature they had gained
     That Ilium's walls were subject to their view,
     The trees' tall summits withered at the sight,
     A constant interchange of growth and blight!"

The Iliad. 

	The war continued without decisive results for nine years.  Then an event 
occurred which seemed likely to be fatal to the cause of the Greeks, and that was a 
quarrel between Achilles and Agamemnon.  It is at this point that the great poem of 
Homer, the Iliad, begins.  The Greeks though unsuccessful against Troy, had taken the 
neighboring and allied cities, and in the division of the spoil a female captive, by name 
Chryseis, daughter of Chryses, priest of Apollo, had fallen to the share of Agamemnon.  
Chryses came bearing the sacred emblems of his office, and begged the release of his 
daughter. Agamemnon refused.  Thereupon Chryses implored Apollo to afflict the 
Greeks till they should be forced to yield their prey.  Apollo granted the prayer of his 
priest, and sent pestilence into the Grecian camp.  Then a council was called to 
deliberate how to allay the wrath of the gods and avert the plague. Achilles boldly 
charged their misfortunes upon Agamemnon as caused by his withholding Chryseis.  
Agamemnon enraged consented to relinquish his captive, but demanded that Achilles 
should yield to him in her stead Briseis, a maiden who had fallen to Achilles' share in the 
division of the spoil.  Achilles submitted, but forthwith declared that he would take no 
further part in the war.  He withdrew his forces from the general camp and openly 
avowed his intention of returning home to Greece.

	The gods and goddesses interested themselves as much in this famous war as 
the parties themselves.  It was well known to them that fate had decreed that Troy 
should fall, at last, if her enemies should persevere and not voluntarily abandon the 
enterprise.  Yet there was room enough left for chance to excite by turns the hopes and 
fears of the powers above who took part with either side.  Juno and Minerva, in 
consequence of the slight put upon their charms by Paris, were hostile to the Trojans; 
Venus for the opposite cause favored them.  Venus enlisted her admirer Mars on the 
same side, but Neptune favored the Greeks.  Apollo was neutral, sometimes taking one 
side, sometimes the other, and Jove himself, though he loved the good King Priam, yet 
exercised a degree of impartiality; not however without exceptions.

	Thetis, the mother of Achilles, warmly resented the injury done to her son.  She 
repaired immediately to Jove's palace and besought him to make the Greeks repent of 
their injustice to Achilles by granting success to the Trojan arms.  Jupiter consented; and 
in the battle which ensued the Trojans were completely successful.  The Greeks were 
driven from the field and took refuge in their ships.

	Then Agamemnon called a council of his wisest and bravest chiefs. Nestor 
advised that an embassy should be sent to Achilles to persuade him to return to the 
field; that Agamemnon should yield the maiden, the cause of the dispute, with ample 
gifts to atone for the wrong he had done.  Agamemnon consented, and Ulysses, Ajax, 
and Phoenix were sent to carry to Achilles the penitent message.  They performed that 
duty, but Achilles was deaf to their entreaties.  He positively refused to return to the field, 
and persisted in his resolution to embark for Greece without delay.

	The Greeks had constructed a rampart around their ships, and now instead of 
besieging Troy they were in a manner besieged themselves, within their rampart.  The 
next day after the unsuccessful embassy to Achilles, a battle was fought, and the 
Trojans, favored by Jove, were successful, and succeeded in forcing a passage through 
the Grecian rampart, and were about to set fire to the ships.  Neptune, seeing the 
Greeks so pressed, came to their rescue. He appeared in the form of Calchas the 
prophet encouraged the warriors with his shouts and appealed to each individually till he 
raised their ardor to such a pitch that they forced the Trojans to give way.  Ajax 
performed prodigies of valor, and at length encountered Hector.  Ajax shouted defiance, 
to which Hector replied, and hurled his lance at the huge warrior.  It was well aimed and 
struck Ajax where the belts that bore his sword and shield crossed each other on the 
breast.  The double guard prevented its penetrating and it fell harmless.  Then Ajax 
seizing a huge stone, one of those that served to prop the ships, hurled it at Hector.  It 
struck him in the neck and stretched him on the plain.  His followers instantly seized him 
and bore him off stunned and wounded.


	While Neptune was thus aiding the Greeks and driving back the Trojans, Jupiter 
saw nothing of what was going on, for his attention had been drawn from the field by the 
wiles of Juno.  That goddess had arrayed herself in all her charms, and to crown all had 
borrowed of Venus her girdle called Cestus, which had the effect to heighten the 
wearer's charms to such a degree that they were quite irresistible.  So prepared, Juno 
went to join her husband, who sat on Olympus watching the battle.  When he beheld her 
she looked so charming that the fondness of his early love revived, and, forgetting the 
contending armies and all other affairs of state, he thought only of her and let the battle 
go as it would.

	But this absorption did not continue long, and when, upon turning his eyes 
downward, he beheld Hector stretched on the plain almost lifeless from pain and 
bruises, he dismissed Juno in a rage, commanding her to send Iris and Apollo to him.  
When Iris came he sent her with a stern message to Neptune, ordering him instantly to 
quit the field.  Apollo was despatched to heal Hector's bruises and to inspirit his heart.  
These orders were obeyed with such speed that while the battle still raged, Hector 
returned to the field and Neptune betook himself to his own dominions.

	An arrow from Paris's bow wounded Machaon, son of Aesculapius, who inherited 
his father's art of healing, and was therefore of great value to the Greeks as their 
surgeon, besides being one of their bravest warriors. Nestor took Machaon in his chariot 
and conveyed him from the field.  As they passed the ships of Achilles, that hero, looking 
out over the field, saw the chariot of Nestor and recognized the old chief, but could not 
discern who the wounded chief was.  So calling Patroclus, his companion and dearest 
friend, he sent him to Nestor's tent to inquire.

	Patroclus, arriving at Nestor's tent, saw Machaon wounded, and having told the 
cause of his coming would have hastened away, but Nestor detained him, to tell him the 
extent of the Grecian calamities.  He reminded him also how, at the time of departing for 
Troy, Achilles and himself had been charged by their respective fathers with different 
advice; Achilles to aspire to the highest pitch of glory, Patroclus, as the elder, to keep 
watch over his friend, and to guide his inexperience.  "Now," said Nestor, "is the time for 
such influence.  If the gods so please, thou mayest win him back to the common cause; 
but if not let him at least send his soldiers to the field, and come thou Patroclus clad in 
his armor, and perhaps the very sight of it may drive back the Trojans."

	Patroclus was strongly moved with this address, and hastened back to Achilles 
revolving in his mind all he had seen and heard.  He told the prince the sad condition of 
affairs at the camp of their late associates; Diomede, Ulysses, Agamemnon, Machaon, 
all wounded, the rampart broken down, the enemy among the ships preparing to burn 
them, and thus to cut off all means of return to Greece.  While they spoke the flames 
burst forth from one of the ships.  Achilles, at the sight, relented so far as to grant 
Patroclus his request to lead the Myrmidons (for so were Achilles' soldiers called) to the 
field, and to lend him his armor that he might thereby strike more terror into the minds of 
the Trojans.  Without delay the soldiers were marshalled, Patroclus put on the radiant 
armor and mounted the chariot of Achilles, and led forth the men ardent for battle.  But 
before he went, Achilles strictly charged him that he should be content with repelling the 
foe.  "Seek not," said he, "to press the Trojans without me, lest thou add still more to the 
disgrace already mine.' Then exhorting the troops to do their best he dismissed them full 
of ardor to the fight.

	Patroclus and his Myrmidons at once plunged into the contest where it raged 
hottest; at the sight of which the joyful Grecians shouted and the ships reechoed the 
acclaim.  The Trojans, at the sight of the well-known armor, struck with terror, looked 
every where for refuge.  First those who had got possession of the ship and set it on fire 
left and allowed the Grecians to retake it and extinguish the flames.  Then the rest of the 
Trojans fled in dismay.  Ajax, Menelaus, and the two sons of Nestor performed prodigies 
of valor.  Hector was forced to turn his horses' heads and retire from the enclosure, 
leaving his men entangled in the fosse to escape as they could. Patroclus drove them 
before him, slaying many, none daring to make a stand against him.

	At last Sarpedon, son of Jove, ventured to oppose himself in fight to Patroclus.  
Jupiter looked down upon him and would have snatched him from the fate which awaited 
him, but Juno hinted that if he did so it would induce all others of the inhabitants of 
heaven to interpose in like manner whenever any of their offspring were endangered; to 
which reason Jove yielded.  Sarpedon threw his spear but missed Patroclus, but 
Patroclus threw his with better success.  It pierced Sarpedon's breast and he fell, and, 
calling to his friends to save his body from the foe, expired.  Then a furious contest arose 
for the possession of the corpse.  The Greeks succeeded and stripped Sarpedon of his 
armor; but Jove would not allow the remains of his son to be dishonored, and by his 
command Apollo snatched from the midst of the combatants the body of Sarpedon and 
committed it to the care of the twin brothers Death and Sleep, by whom it was 
transported to Lycia, the native land of Sarpedon, where it received due funeral rites.

	Thus far Patroclus had succeeded to his utmost wish in repelling the Trojans and 
relieving his countrymen, but now came a change of fortune. Hector, borne in his chariot, 
confronted him.  Patroclus threw a vast stone at Hector, which missed its aim, but smote 
Cebriones, the charioteer, and knocked him from the car.  Hector leaped from the chariot 
to rescue his friend, and Patroclus also descended to complete his victory.  Thus the two 
heroes met face to face.  At this decisive moment the poet, as if reluctant to give Hector 
the glory, records that Phoebus took part against Patroclus. He struck the helmet from 
his head and the lance from his hand.  At the same moment an obscure Trojan wounded 
him in the back, and Hector pressing forward pierced him with his spear.  He fell mortally 
wounded.

	Then arose a tremendous conflict for the body of Patroclus, but his armor was at 
once taken possession of by Hector, who retiring a short distance divested himself of his 
own armor and put on that of Achilles, then returned to the fight.  Ajax and Menelaus 
defended the body, and Hector and his bravest warriors struggled to capture it.  The 
battle raged with equal fortunes, when Jove enveloped the whole face of heaven with a 
dark cloud. The lightning flashed, the thunder roared, and Ajax, looking round for some 
one whom he might despatch to Achilles to tell him of the death of his friend and of the 
imminent danger that his remains would fall into the hands of the enemy, could see no 
suitable messenger.  It was then that he exclaimed in those famous lines so often 
quoted, -

     "Father of heaven and earth!  deliver thou
     Achaia's host from darkness; clear the skies;
     Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,
     Destruction with it; but, O, give us day."

     Cowper.

	Or, as rendered by Pope, -


     ". . . Lord of earth and air!
     O king!  O father!  hear my humble prayer!
     Dispel this cloud, the light of heaven restore;
     Give me to see and Ajax asks no more;
     If Greece must perish we thy will obey,
     But let us perish in the face of day."

	Jupiter heard the prayer and dispersed the clouds.  Then Ajax sent Antilochus to 
Achilles with the intelligence of Patroclus's death, and of the conflict raging for his 
remains.  The Greeks at last succeeded in bearing off the body to the ships, closely 
pursued by Hector and Aeneas and the rest of the Trojans.

	Achilles heard the fate of his friend with such distress that Antilochus feared for a 
while that he would destroy himself.  His groans reached the ears of his mother Thetis, 
far down in the deeps of ocean where she abode, and she hastened to him to inquire the 
cause.  She found him overwhelmed with self-reproach that he had indulged his 
resentment so far, and suffered his friend to fall a victim to it.  But his only consolation 
was the hope of revenge.  He would fly instantly in search of Hector.  But his mother 
reminded him that he was now without armor, and promised him, if he would but wait till 
the morrow, she would procure for him a suit of armor from Vulcan more than equal to 
that he had lost.  He consented, and Thetis immediately repaired to Vulcan's palace.  
She found him busy at his forge making tripods for his own use, so artfully constructed 
that they moved forward of their own accord when wanted, and retired again when 
dismissed.  On hearing the request of Thetis, Vulcan immediately laid aside his work and 
hastened to comply with her wishes. He fabricated a splendid suit of armor for Achilles, 
first a shield adorned with elaborate devices, then a helmet crested with gold, then a 
corselet and greaves of impenetrable temper, all perfectly adapted to his form and of 
consummate workmanship.  It was all done in one night, and Thetis, receiving it, 
descended with it to earth and laid it down at Achilles' feet at the dawn of day.

	The first glow of pleasure that Achilles had felt since the death of Patroclus was 
at the sight of this splendid armor.  And now arrayed in it, he went forth into the camp 
calling all the chiefs to council.  When they were all assembled he addressed them.  
Renouncing his displeasure against Agamemnon and bitterly lamenting the miseries that 
had resulted from it, he called on them to proceed at once to the field.  Agamemnon 
made a suitable reply, laying all the blame on Ate, the goddess of discord and thereupon 
complete reconcilement took place between the heroes.

	Then Achilles went forth to battle inspired with a rage and thirst for vengeance 
that made him irresistible.  The bravest warriors fled before him or fell by his lance.  
Hector, cautioned by Apollo, kept aloof; but the god, assuming the form of one of Priam's 
sons, Lycaon, urged Aeneas to encounter the terrible warrior.  Aeneas, though he felt 
himself unequal, did not decline the combat.  He hurled his spear with all his force 
against the shield the work of Vulcan.  It was formed of five metal plates; two were of 
brass, two of tin, and one of gold.  The spear pierced two thicknesses, but was stopped 
in the third.  Achilles threw his with better success.  It pierced through the shield of 
Aeneas, but glanced near his shoulder and made no wound.  Then Aeneas seized a 
stone, such as two men of modern times could hardly lift,and was about to throw it, and 
Achilles, with sword drawn, was about to rush upon him, when Neptune, who looked out 
upon the contest, moved with pity for Aeneas, who he saw would surely fall a victim if 
not speedily rescued, spread a cloud between the combatants, and lifting Aeneas from 
the ground, bore him over the heads of warriors and steeds to the rear of the battle.  
Achilles, when the mist cleared away, looked round in vain for his adversary, and 
acknowledging the prodigy, turned his arms against other champions.  But none dared 
stand before him, and Priam looking down from his city walls beheld his whole army in 
full flight towards the city.  He gave command to open wide the gates to receive the 
fugitives, and to shut them as soon as the Trojans should have passed, lest the enemy 
should enter likewise. But Achilles was so close in pursuit that that would have been im-
possible if Apollo had not, in the form of Agenor, Priam's son, encountered Achilles for a 
while, then turned to fly, and taken the way apart from the city.  Achilles pursued and 
had chased his supposed victim far from the walls, when Apollo disclosed himself, and 
Achilles, perceiving how he had been deluded, gave up the chase.

	But when the rest had escaped into the town Hector stood without determined to 
await the combat.  His old father called to him from the walls and begged him to retire 
nor tempt the encounter.  His mother, Hecuba, also besought him to the same effect, but 
all in vain.  "How can I," said he to himself, "by whose command the people went to this 
day's contest, where so many have fallen, seek safety for myself against a single foe?  
But what if I offer him to yield up Helen and all her treasures and ample of our own 
beside? Ah no!  it is too late.  He would not even hear me through, but slay me while I 
spoke." While he thus ruminated, Achilles approached, terrible as Mars, his armor 
flashing lightning as he moved.  At that sight Hector's heart failed him and he fled.  
Achilles swiftly pursued.  They ran, still keeping near the walls, till they had thrice 
encircled the city.  As often as Hector approached the walls Achilles intercepted him and 
forced him to keep out in a wider circle.  But Apollo sustained Hector's strength and 
would not let him sink in weariness.  Then Pallas assuming the form of Deiphobus, 
Hector's bravest brother, appeared suddenly at his side.  Hector saw him with delight, 
and thus strengthened stopped his flight and turned to meet Achilles.  Hector threw his 
spear, which struck the shield of Achilles and bounded back.  He turned to receive 
another from the hand of Deiphobus, but Deiphobus was gone. Then Hector understood 
his doom and said, "Alas!  it is plain this is my hour to die!  I thought Deiphobus at hand, 
but Pallas deceived me, and he is still in Troy.  But I will not fall inglorious." So saying he 
drew his falchion from his side and rushed at once to combat.  Achilles secured behind 
his shield waited the approach of Hector.  When he came within reach of his spear, 
Achilles choosing with his eye a vulnerable part where the armor leaves the neck 
uncovered, aimed his spear at that part, and Hector fell, death-wounded, and feebly 
said, "Spare my body!  Let my parents ransom it, and let me receive funeral rites from 
the sons and daughters of Troy." To which Achilles replied. "Dog, name not ransom nor 
pity to me, on whom you have brought such dire distress.  No!  trust me, nought shall 
save thy carcass from the dogs.  Though twenty ransoms and thy weight in gold were 
offered, I would refuse it all."

	So saying he stripped the body of its armor, and fastening cords to the feet tied 
them behind his chariot, leaving the body to trail along the ground. Then mounting the 
chariot he lashed the steeds and so dragged the body to and fro before the city.  What 
words can tell the grief of King Priam and Queen Hecuba at this sight!  His people could 
scarce restrain the old king from rushing forth He threw himself in the dust and besought 
them each by name to give him way.  Hecuba's distress was not less violent.  The 
citizens stood round them weeping.  The sound of the mourning reached the ears of 
Andromache, the wife of Hector, as she sat among her maidens at work, and 
anticipating evil she went forth to the wall.  When she saw the sight there presented, she 
would have thrown herself headlong from the wall, but fainted and fell into the arms of 
her maidens.  Recovering she bewailed her fate, picturing to herself her country ruined, 
herself a captive, and her son dependent for his bread on the charity of strangers.

	When Achilles and the Greeks had taken their revenge on the killer of Patroclus 
they busied themselves in paying due funeral rites to their friend. A pile was erected, and 
the body burned with due solemnity; and then ensued games of strength and skill, 
chariot races, wrestling, boxing, and archery. Then the chiefs sat down to the funeral 
banquet and after that retired to rest.  But Achilles neither partook of the feast nor of 
sleep.  The recollection of his lost friend kept him awake, remembering their 
companionship in toil and dangers, in battle or on the perilous deep.  Before the earliest 
dawn he left his tent, and joining to his chariot his swift steeds, he fastened Hector's 
body to be dragged behind.  Twice he dragged him round the tomb of Patroclus, leaving 
him at length stretched in the dust. But Apollo would not permit the body to be torn or 
disfigured with all this abuse, but preserved it free from all taint or defilement.

	While Achilles indulged his wrath in thus disgracing brave Hector, Jupiter in pity 
summoned Thetis to his presence.  He told her to go to her son and prevail on him to 
restore the body of Hector to his friends.  Then Jupiter sent Iris to King Priam to 
encourage him to go to Achilles and beg the body of his son.  Iris delivered her 
message, and Priam immediately prepared to obey. He opened his treasuries and took 
out rich garments and cloths, with ten talents in gold and two splendid tripods and a 
golden cup of matchless workmanship.  Then he called to his sons and bade them draw 
forth his litter and place in it the various articles designed for a ransom to Achilles.  
When all was ready, the old king with a single companion as aged as himself, the herald 
Idaeus, drove forth from the gates, parting there with Hecuba his queen and all his 
friends, who lamented him as going to certain death.

	But Jupiter, beholding with compassion the venerable king, sent Mercury to be 
his guide and protector.  Mercury, assuming the form of a young warrior, presented 
himself to the aged couple, and while at the sight of him they hesitated whether to fly or 
yield, the god approached, and grasping Priam's hand, offered to be their guide to 
Achilles' tent.  Priam gladly accepted his offered service, and he mounting the carriage 
assumed the reins and soon conveyed them to the tent of Achilles.  Mercury's wand put 
to sleep all the guards, and without hinderance he introduced Priam into the tent where 
Achilles sat, attended by two of his warriors.  The old king threw himself at the feet of 
Achilles and kissed those terrible hands which had destroyed so many of his sons.  
"Think, O Achilles," he said, "of thy own father, full of days like me, and trembling on the 
gloomy verge of life. Perhaps even now some neighbor chief oppresses him and there is 
none at hand to succor him in his distress.  Yet doubtless knowing that Achilles lives he 
still rejoices, hoping that one day he shall see thy face again.  But no comfort cheers me, 
whose bravest sons, so late the flower of Ilium, all have fallen.  Yet one I had, one more 
than all the rest the strength of my age whom fighting for his country thou hast slain.  I 
come to redeem his body, bringing inestimable ransom with me.  Achilles!  reverence the 
gods! recollect thy father!  for his sake show compassion to me!" These words moved 
Achilles and he wept; remembering by turns his absent father and his lost friend.  Moved 
with pity of Priam's silver locks and beard, he raised him from the earth and thus spake: 
"Priam, I know that thou hast reached this place conducted by some god, for without aid 
divine no mortal even in his prime of youth had dared the attempt.  I grant thy request; 
moved thereto by the evident will of Jove." So saying he arose, and went forth with his 
two friends, and unloaded of its charge the litter, leaving two mantles and a robe for the 
covering of the body, which they placed on the litter, and spread the garments over it, 
that not unveiled it should be borne back to Troy.  Then Achilles dismissed the old king 
with his attendants, having first pledged himself to allow a truce of twelve days for the 
funeral solemnities.

	As the litter approached the city and was descried from the walls, the people 
poured forth to gaze once more on the face of their hero.  Foremost of all, the mother 
and the wife of Hector came, and at the sight of the lifeless body renewed their 
lamentations.  The people all wept with them, and to the going down of the sun there 
was no pause or abatement of their grief.

	The next day, preparations were made for the funeral solemnities.  For nine days 
the people brought wood and built the pile, and on the tenth they placed the body on the 
summit and applied the torch; while all Troy thronging forth encompassed the pile.  
When it had completely burned, they quenched the cinders with wine, collected the 
bones and placed them in a golden urn, which they buried in the earth, and reared a pile 
of stones over the spot.

     "Such honors Ilium to her hero paid,
     And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade.

     Pope.


Chapter XXVIII: Fall Of Troy - Return Of The Greeks - Orestes And Electra

The Fall Of Troy. 
	The story of the Iliad ends with the death of Hector and it is from the Odyssey 
and later poems that we learn the fate of the other heroes.  After the death of Hector, 
Troy did not immediately fall, but receiving aid from new allies still continued its 
resistance.  One of these allies was Memnon, the Aethiopian prince, whose story we 
have already told.  Another was Penthesilea, queen of the Amazons, who came with a 
band of female warriors. All the authorities attest their valor and the fearful effect of 
their war cry. Penthesilea slew many of the bravest warriors, but was at last slain by 
Achilles.  But when the hero bent over his fallen foe, and contemplated her beauty, 
youth and valor, he bitterly regretted his victory.  Thersites, an insolent brawler and 
demagogue, ridiculed his grief, and was in consequence slain by the hero.

	Achilles by chance had seen Polyxena, daughter of King Priam, perhaps on 
occasion of the truce which was allowed the Trojans for the burial of Hector. He was 
captivated with her charms, and to win her in marriage agreed to use his influence with 
the Greeks to grant peace to Troy.  While in the temple of Apollo, negotiating the 
marriage, Paris discharged at him a poisoned arrow, which guided by Apollo, wounded 
Achilles in the heel, the only vulnerable part about him.  For Thetis his mother had 
dipped him when an infant in the river Styx, which made every part of him invulnerable 
except the heel by which she held him. ^*

	[Footnote *: The story of the invulnerability of Achilles is not found in Homer, and 
is inconsistent with his account.  For how could Achilles require the aid of celestial 
armor if he were invulnerable?]

	The body of Achilles so treacherously slain was rescued by Ajax and Ulysses.  
Thetis directed the Greeks to bestow her son's armor on the hero who of all the 
survivors should be judged most deserving of it.  Ajax and Ulysses were the only 
claimants; a select number of the other chiefs were appointed to award the prize.  It 
was awarded to Ulysses, thus placing wisdom before valor; whereupon Ajax slew 
himself.  On the spot where his blood sank into the earth a flower sprang up, called the 
hyacinth, bearing on its leaves the first two letters of the name of Ajax, Ai, the Greek 
for "woe." Thus Ajax is a claimant with the boy Hyacinthus for the honor of giving birth 
to this flower.  There is a species of Larkspur which represents the hyacinth of the 
poets in preserving the memory of this event, the Delphinium Ajacis - Ajax's Larkspur.

	It was now discovered that Troy could not be taken but by the aid of the arrows of 
Hercules.  They were in possession of Philoctetes, the friend who had been with 
Hercules at the last and lighted his funeral pyre.  Philoctetes had joined the Grecian 
expedition against Troy, but had accidentally wounded his foot with one of the 
poisoned arrows, and the smell from his wound proved so offensive that his 
companions carried him to the isle of Lemnos and left him there.  Diomed was now 
sent to induce him to rejoin the army.  He succeeded.  Philoctetes was cured of his 
wound by Machaon, and Paris was the first victim of the fatal arrows.  In his distress 
Paris bethought him of one whom in his prosperity he had forgotten.  This was the 
nymph Oenone, whom he had married when a youth, and had abandoned for the fatal 
beauty Helen. Oenone, remembering the wrongs she had suffered, refused to heal the 
wound, and Paris went back to Troy and died.  Oenone quickly repented, and 
hastened after him with remedies, but came too late, and in her grief hung herself. ^*

	[Footnote *: Tennyson has chosen Oenone as the subject of a short poem; out 
he has omitted the most poetical part of the story, the return of Paris wounded, her 
cruelty and subsequent repentance.]

	There was in Troy a celebrated statue of Minerva called the Palladium. It was 
said to have fallen from heaven, and the belief was that the city could not be taken so 
long as this statue remained within it.  Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in disguise 
and succeeded in obtaining the Palladium, which they carried off to the Grecian camp.


	But Troy still held out, and the Greeks began to despair of ever subduing it by 
force, and by advice of Ulysses resolved to resort to stratagem.  They pretended to be 
making preparations to abandon the siege, and a portion of the ships were withdrawn 
and lay hid behind a neighboring island.  The Greeks then constructed an immense 
wooden horse, which they gave out was intended as a propitiatory offering to Minerva, 
but in fact was filled with armed men.  The remaining Greeks then betook themselves 
to their ships and sailed away, as if for a final departure.  The Trojans seeing the 
encampment broken up, and the fleet gone, concluded the enemy to have abandoned 
the siege.  The gates were thrown open, and the whole population issued forth 
rejoicing at the long-prohibited liberty of passing freely over the scene of the late 
encampment.  The great horse was the chief object of curiosity.  All wondered what it 
could be for.  Some recommended to take it into the city as a trophy; others felt afraid 
of it.

	While they hesitate, Laocoon, the priest of Neptune, exclaims, "What madness, 
citizens, is this!  Have you not learned enough of Grecian fraud to be on your guard 
against it?  For my part I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts." ^* So saying he 
threw his lance at the horse's side.  It struck, and a hollow sound reverberated like a 
groan.  Then perhaps the people might have taken his advice and destroyed the fatal 
horse and all its contents; but just at that moment a group of people appeared 
dragging forward one who seemed a prisoner and a Greek.  Stupefied with terror he 
was brought before the chiefs, who reassured him, promising that his life should be 
spared on condition of his returning true answers to the questions asked him. He 
informed them that he was a Greek.  Sinon by name, and that in consequence of the 
malice of Ulysses he had been left behind by his country men at their departure.  With 
regard to the wooden horse, he told them that it was a propitiatory offering to Minerva, 
and made so huge for the express purpose of preventing its being carried within the 
city; for Calchas the prophet had told them that if the Trojans took possession of it, 
they would assuredly triumph over the Greeks.  This language turned the tide of the 
people's feelings and they began to think how they might best secure the monstrous 
horse and the favorable auguries connected with it, when suddenly a prodigy occurred 
which left no room to doubt.  There appeared advancing over the sea two immense 
serpents.  They came upon the land, and the crowd fled in all directions.  The serpents 
advanced directly to the spot where Laocoon stood with his two sons. They first 
attacked the children, winding round their bodies and breathing their pestilential breath 
in their faces.  The father attempting to rescue them is next seized and involved in the 
serpents' coils. He struggles to tear them away, but they overpower all his efforts and 
strangle him and the children in their poisonous folds.  This event was regarded as a 
clear indication of the displeasure of the gods at Laocoon's irreverent treatment of the 
wooden horse, which they no longer hesitated to regard as a sacred object and 
prepared to introduce with due solemnity into the city.  This was done with songs and 
triumphal acclamations, and the day closed with festivity.  In the night the armed men 
who were enclosed in the body of the horse, being let out by the traitor Sinon, opened 
the gates of the city to their friends who had returned under cover of the night.  The 
city was set on fire; the people, overcome with feasting and sleep, put to the sword, 
and Troy completely subdued.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 478]

	One of the most celebrated groups of statuary in existence is that of Laocoon 
and his children in the embrace of the serpents.  There is a cast of it in the Boston 
Athenaeum; the original is in the Vatican at Rome.  The following lines are from the 
Childe Harold of Byron: -

     "Now turning to the Vatican go see
     Laocoon's torture dignifying pain:
     A father's love and mortal's agony
     With an immortal's patience blending; - vain
     The struggle!  vain against the coiling strain
     And gripe and deepening of the dragon's grasp
     The old man's clinch; the long envenomed chain
     Rivets the living links; the enormous asp
     forces pang on pang and stifles gasp on gasp."

	The comic poets will also occasionally borrow a classical allusion.  The following 
is from Swift's Description of a City Shower: -

     "Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
     While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits,
     And ever and anon with frightful din
     The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
     So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed
     Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
     (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
     Instead of paying chairmen, run them through;)
     Laocoon struck the outside with a spear,
     And each imprisoned champion quaked with fear."

	King Priam lived to see the downfall of his kingdom, and was slain at last on the 
fatal night when the Greeks took the city.  He had armed himself and was about to 
mingle with the combatants, but was prevailed on by Hecuba, his aged queen, to take 
refuge with herself and his daughters as a suppliant at the altar of Jupiter.  While there, 
his youngest son Polites, pursued by Pyrrhus, the son of Achilles, rushed in wounded, 
and expired at the feet of his father; whereupon Priam, overcome with indignation, 
hurled his spear with feeble hand against Pyrrhus, ^* and was forthwith slain by him.

	[Footnote *: Pyrrhus's exclamation, "Not such aid nor such defenders does the 
time require," has become proverbial See Prov. Exp. page 478.]

	Queen Hecuba and her daughter Cassandra were carried captives to Greece. 
Cassandra had been loved by Apollo, and he gave her the gift of prophecy; but 
afterwards offended with her, he rendered the gift unavailing by ordaining that her 
predictions should never be believed.  Polyxena, another daughter, who had been loved 
by Achilles, was demanded by the ghost of that warrior, and was sacrificed by the 
Greeks upon his tomb.

Menelaus And Helen. 

	Our readers will be anxious to know the fate of Helen, the fair but guilty occasion 
of so much slaughter.  On the fall of Troy Menelaus recovered possession of his wife, 
who had not ceased to love him, though she had yielded to the might of Venus and 
deserted him for another.  After the death of Paris she aided the Greeks secretly on 
several occasions, and in particular when Ulysses and Diomed entered the city in 
disguise to carry off the Palladium. She saw and recognized Ulysses, but kept the 
secret, and even assisted them in obtaining the image.  Thus she became reconciled to 
her husband, and they were among the first to leave the shores of Troy for their native 
land.  But having incurred the displeasure of the gods they were driven by storms from 
shore to shore of the Mediterranean, visiting Cyprus, Phoenicia and Egypt.  In Egypt 
they were kindly treated and presented with rich gifts, of which Helen's share was a 
golden spindle and a basket on wheels.  The basket was to hold the wool and spools for 
the queen's work.

	Dyer, in his poem of the Fleece, thus alludes to this incident: -


     ". . . many yet adhere
     To the ancient distaff, at the bosom fixed
     Casting the whirling spindle as they walk

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     This was of old, in no inglorious days,
     The mode of spinning, when the Egyptian prince
     A golden distaff gave that beauteous nymph,
     Too beauteous Helen; no uncourtly gift."

	Milton also alludes to a famous recipe for an invigorating draught, called 
Nepenthe, which the Egyptian queen gave to Helen: -

     "Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone
     In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena,
     Is of such power to stir up joy as this,
     To life so friendly or so cool to thirst."

     Comus.

	Menelaus and Helen at length arrived in safety at Sparta, resumed their royal 
dignity and lived and reigned in splendor; and when Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, in 
search of his father, arrived at Sparta, he found Menelaus and Helen celebrating the 
marriage of their daughter Hermione to Neoptolemus, son of Achilles.

Agamemnon, Orestes, And Electra. 

	Agamemnon, the general-in-chief of the Greeks, the brother of Menelaus, and 
who had been drawn into the quarrel to avenge his brother's wrongs, not his own, was 
not so fortunate in the issue.  During his absence his wife Clytemnestra had been false 
to him, and when his return was expected, she with her paramour, Aegisthus, laid a plan 
for his destruction, and at the banquet given to celebrate his return, murdered him.

	It was intended by the conspirators to slay his son Orestes also, a lad not yet old 
enough to be an object of apprehension, but from whom, if he should be suffered to 
grow up, there might be danger.  Electra, the sister of Orestes, saved her brother's life 
by sending him secretly away to his uncle Strophius, King of Phocis.  In the palace of 
Strophius Orestes grew up with the king's son Pylades, and formed with him that ardent 
friendship which has become proverbial.  Electra frequently reminded her brother by 
messengers of the duty of avenging his father's death, and when grown up he consulted 
the oracle of Delphi, which confirmed him in his design.  He therefore repaired in 
disguise to Argos, pretending to be a messenger from Strophius, who had come to 
announce the death of Orestes, and brought the ashes of the deceased in a funeral urn.  
After visiting his father's tomb and sacrificing upon it, according to the rites of the 
ancients, he made himself known to his sister Electra, and soon after slew both 
Aegisthus and Clytemnestra.

	This revolting act, the slaughter of a mother by her son, though alleviated by the 
guilt of the victim and the express command of the gods, did not fail to awaken in the 
breasts of the ancients the same abhorrence that it does in ours.  The Eumenides, 
avenging deities, seized upon Orestes, and drove him frantic from land to land.  Pylades 
accompanied him in his wanderings and watched over him.  At length in answer to a 
second appeal to the oracle, he was directed to go to Tauris in Scythia, and to bring 
thence a statue of Diana which was believed to have fallen from heaven.  Accordingly 
Orestes and Pylades went to Tauris, where the barbarous people were accustomed to 
sacrifice to the goddess all strangers who fell into their hands.  The two friends were 
seized and carried bound to the temple to be made victims.  But the priestess of Diana 
was no other than Iphigenia, the sister of Orestes, who, our readers will remember, was 
snatched away by Diana, at the moment when she was about to be sacrificed.  
Ascertaining from the prisoners who they were, Iphigenia disclosed herself to them, and 
the three made their escape with the statue of the goddess, and returned to Mycenae.

	But Orestes was not yet relieved from the vengeance of the Erinyes.  At length 
he took refuge with Minerva at Athens.  The goddess afforded him protection, and 
appointed the court of Areopagus to decide his fate.  The Erinyes brought forward their 
accusation, and Orestes made the command of the Delphic oracle his excuse.  When 
the court voted and the voices were equally divided, Orestes was acquitted by the 
command of Minerva.

	Byron, in Childe Harold, Canto IV., alludes to the story of Orestes: -


     "O thou who never yet of human wrong
     Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis!
     Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss,
     And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss,
     For that unnatural retribution, - just,
     Had it but been from hands less near, - in this,
     Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust!"

	One of the most pathetic scenes in the ancient drama is that in which Sophocles 
represents the meeting of Orestes and Electra, on his return from Phocis.  Orestes 
mistaking Electra for one of the domestics, and desirous of keeping his arrival a secret 
till the hour of vengeance should arrive, produces the urn in which his ashes are 
supposed to rest.  Electra, believing him to be really dead, takes the urn and embracing 
it, pours forth her grief in language full of tenderness and despair.

	Milton, in one of his sonnets, says, -


     ". . . The repeated air
     Of sad Electra's poet had the power
     To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare."

	This alludes to the story that when, on one occasion, the city of Athens was at 
the mercy of her Spartan foes, and it was proposed to destroy it, the thought was 
rejected upon the accidental quotation, by some one, of a chorus of Euripides.

Troy. 

	After hearing so much about the city of Troy and its heroes, the reader will 
perhaps be surprised to learn that the exact site of that famous city is still a matter of 
dispute.  There are some vestiges of tombs on the plain which most nearly answers to 
the description given by Homer and the ancient geographers, but no other evidence of 
the former existence of a great city. Byron thus describes the present appearance of the 
scene: -

     "The winds are high, and Helle's tide
     Rolls darkly heaving to the main;
     And night's descending shadows hide
     That field with blood bedewed in vain,
     The desert of old Priam's pride,
     The tombs, sole relics of his reign,
     All - save immortal dreams that could beguile
     The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle."

     Bride of Abydos


Chapter XXIX: Adventures Of Ulysses

The Lotus-Eaters - Cyclopes - Circe - Sirens - Scylla And Charybdis - 
Calypso. 
Return Of Ulysses. 
	The romantic poem of the Odyssey is now to engage our attention.  It narrates 
the wanderings of Ulysses (Odysseus in the Greek language) in his return from Troy to 
his own kingdom Ithaca.

	From Troy the vessels first made land at Ismarus, city of the Ciconians, where, in 
a skirmish with the inhabitants, Ulysses lost six men from each ship.  Sailing thence 
they were overtaken by a storm which drove them for nine days along the sea till they 
reached the country of the Lotus-eaters. Here, after watering, Ulysses sent three of his 
men to discover who the inhabitants were.  These men on coming among the Lotus-
eaters were kindly entertained by them, and were given some of their own food, the 
lotus-plant, to eat.  The effect of this food was such that those who partook of it lost all 
thoughts of home and wished to remain in that country.  It was by main force that 
Ulysses dragged these men away, and he was even obliged to tie them under the 
benches of his ship. ^*

	[Footnote *: Tennyson in the Lotus-eaters has charmingly expressed the dreamy, 
languid feeling which the lotus-food is said to have produced.

     "How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream
     With half-shut eyes ever to seem
     Falling asleep in a half-dream!
     To dream and dream, like yonder amber light
     Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
     To hear each others' whispered speech;
     Eating the Lotos, day by day,
     To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
     And tender curving lines of creamy spray:
     To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
     To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
     To muse and brood and live again in memory,
     With those old faces of our infancy
     Heaped over with a mound of grass,
     Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass.]

	They next arrived at the country of the Cyclopes.  The Cyclopes were giants, who 
inhabited an island of which they were the only possessors.  The name means "round 
eye," and these giants were so called because they had but one eye, and that placed in 
the middle of the forehead.  They dwelt in caves and fed on the wild productions of the 
island and on what their flocks yielded, for they were shepherds.  Ulysses left the main 
body of his ships at anchor, and with one vessel went to the Cyclopes' island to explore 
for supplies.  He landed with his companions, carrying with them a jar of wine for a 
present, and coming to a large cave they entered it, and finding no one within examined 
its contents.  They found it stored with the riches of the flock, quantities of cheese, pails 
and bowls of milk, lambs and kids in their pens, all in nice order.  Presently arrived the 
master of the cave, Polyphemus, bearing an immense bundle of firewood, which he 
threw down before the cavern's mouth.  He then drove into the cave the sheep and 
goats to be milked, and, entering, rolled to the cave's mouth an enormous rock, that 
twenty oxen could not draw.  Next he sat down and milked his ewes, preparing a part for 
cheese, and setting the rest aside for his customary drink.  Then turning round his great 
eye he discerned the strangers, and growled out to them, demanding who they were, 
and where from.  Ulysses replied most humbly, stating that they were Greeks, from the 
great expedition that had lately won so much glory in the conquest of Troy; that they 
were now on their way home, and finished by imploring his hospitality in the name of the 
gods. Polyphemus deigned no answer, but reaching out his hand seized two of the 
Greeks, whom he hurled against the side of the cave, and dashed out their brains.  He 
proceeded to devour them with great relish, and having made a hearty meal, stretched 
himself out on the floor to sleep.  Ulysses was tempted to seize the opportunity and 
plunge his sword into him as he slept, but recollected that it would only expose them all 
to certain destruction, as the rock with which the giant had closed up the door was far 
beyond their power to remove, and they would therefore be in hopeless imprisonment.  
Next morning the giant seized two more of the Greeks, and despatched them in the 
same manner as their companions, feasting on their flesh till no fragment was left.  He 
then moved away the rock from the door, drove out his flocks, and went out, carefully 
replacing the barrier after him.  When he was gone Ulysses planned how he might take 
vengeance for his murdered friends, and effect his escape with his surviving 
companions.  He made his men prepare a massive bar of wood cut by the Cyclops for a 
staff, which they found in the cave.  They sharpened the end of it and seasoned it in the 
fire, and hid it under the straw on the cavern floor.  Then four of the boldest were 
selected, with whom Ulysses joined himself as a fifth.  The Cyclops came home at 
evening, rolled away the stone and drove in his flock as usual.  After milking them and 
making his arrangements as before, he seized two more of Ulysses' companions and 
dashed their brains out, and made his evening meal upon them as he had on the others. 
After he had supped, Ulysses approaching him handed him a bowl of wine, saying, 
"Cyclops, this is wine; taste and drink after thy meal of man's flesh." He took and drank 
it, and was hugely delighted with it, and called for more.  Ulysses supplied him once and 
again, which pleased the giant so much that he promised him as a favor that he should 
be the last of the party devoured.  He asked his name, to which Ulysses replied, "My 
name is Noman."

	After his supper the giant lay down to repose, and was soon sound asleep. Then 
Ulysses with his four select friends thrust the end of the stake into the fire till it was all 
one burning coal, then poising it exactly above the giant's only eye, they buried it deeply 
into the socket, twirling it round as a carpenter does his auger.  The howling monster 
with his outcry filled the cavern, and Ulysses with his aids nimbly got out of his way and 
concealed themselves in the cave.  He, bellowing, called aloud on all the Cyclopes 
dwelling in the caves around him, far and near.  They on his cry flocked round the den, 
and inquired what grievous hurt had caused him to sound such an alarm and break their 
slumbers.  He replied, "O friends, I die, and Noman gives the blow." They answered, "If 
no man hurts thee it is the stroke of Jove, and thou must bear it." So saying, they left him 
groaning.

	Next morning the Cyclops rolled away the stone to let his flock out to pasture, but 
planted himself in the door of the cave to feel of all as they went out, that Ulysses and 
his men should not escape with them.  But Ulysses had made his men harness the rams 
of the flock three abreast, with osiers which they found on the floor of the cave.  To the 
middle ram of the three one of the Greeks suspended himself, so protected by the 
exterior rams on either side.  As they passed, the giant felt of the animals' backs and 
sides, but never thought of their bellies; so the men all passed safe, Ulysses himself 
being on the last one that passed.  When they had got a few paces from the cavern, 
Ulysses and his friends released themselves from their rams, and drove a good part of 
the flock down to the shore to their boat.  They put them aboard with all haste, then 
pushed off from the shore, and when at a safe distance Ulysses shouted out, "Cyclops, 
the gods have well requited thee for thy atrocious deeds.  Know it is Ulysses to whom 
thou owest thy shameful loss of sight." The Cyclops, hearing this, seized a rock that 
projected from the side of the mountain, and rending it from its bed he lifted it high in the 
air, then exerting all his force, hurled it in the direction of the voice. Down came the 
mass, just clearing the vessel's stern.  The ocean, at the plunge of the huge rock, 
heaved the ship towards the land, so that it barely escaped being swamped by the 
waves.  When they had with the utmost difficulty pulled off shore, Ulysses was about to 
hail the giant again, but his friends besought him not to do so.  He could not forbear, 
however, letting the giant know that they had escaped his missile, but waited till they had 
reached a safer distance than before.  The giant answered them with curses, but 
Ulysses and his friends plied their oars vigorously, and soon regained their companions.

	Ulysses next arrived at the island of Aeolus.  To this monarch Jupiter had 
intrusted the government of the winds, to send them forth or retain them at his will.  He 
treated Ulysses hospitably, and at his departure gave him, tied up in a leathern bag with 
a silver string, such winds as might be hurtful and dangerous, commanding fair winds to 
blow the barks towards their country. Nine days they sped before the wind, and all that 
time Ulysses had stood at the helm, without sleep.  At last quite exhausted he lay down 
to sleep.  While he slept, the crew conferred together about the mysterious bag, and 
concluded it must contain treasures given by the hospitable King Aeolus to their 
commander.  Tempted to secure some portion for themselves they loosed the string, 
when immediately the winds rushed forth.  The ships were driven far from their course, 
and back again to the island they had just left.  Aeolus was so indignant at their folly that 
he refused to assist them further, and they were obliged to labor over their course once 
more by means of their oars.

The Laestrygonians. 

	Their next adventure was with the barbarous tribe of Laestrygonians. The 
vessels all pushed into the harbor, tempted by the secure appearance of the cove, 
completely land-locked; only Ulysses moored his vessel without.  As soon as the 
Laestrygonians found the ships completely in their power they attacked them, heaving 
huge stones which broke and overturned them, and with their spears despatched the 
seamen as they struggled in the water.  All the vessels with their crews were destroyed, 
except Ulysses' own ship which had remained outside, and finding no safety but in flight, 
he exhorted his men to ply their oars vigorously, and they escaped.

	With grief for their slain companions mixed with joy at their own escape, they 
pursued their way till they arrived at the Aeaean isle, where Circe dwelt, the daughter of 
the sun.  Landing here Ulysses climbed a hill, and gazing round saw no signs of 
habitation except in one spot at the centre of the island, where he perceived a palace 
embowered with trees.  He sent forward one half of his crew, under the command of 
Eurylochus, to see what prospect of hospitality they might find.  As they approached the 
palace, they found themselves surrounded by lions, tigers and wolves, not fierce, but 
tamed by Circe's art, for she was a powerful magician.  All these animals had once been 
men, but had been changed by Circe's enchantments into the forms of beasts. The 
sounds of soft music were heard from within, and a sweet female voice singing.  
Eurylochus called aloud and the goddess came forth and invited them in; they all gladly 
entered except Eurylochus, who suspected danger.  The goddess conducted her guests 
to a seat, and had them served with wine and other delicacies.  When they had feasted 
heartily, she touched them one by one with her wand, and they became immediately 
changed into swine, in "head, body, voice and bristles," yet with their intellects as before.  
She shut them in her sties and supplied them with acorns and such other things as 
swine love.

	Eurylochus hurried back to the ship and told the tale.  Ulysses thereupon 
determined to go himself, and try if by any means he might deliver his companions.  As 
he strode onward alone, he met a youth who addressed him familiarly, appearing to be 
acquainted with his adventures.  He announced himself as Mercury, and informed 
Ulysses of the arts of Circe, and of the danger of approaching her.  As Ulysses was not 
to be dissuaded from his attempt, Mercury provided him with a sprig of the plant Moly, of 
wonderful power to resist sorceries, and instructed him how to act.  Ulysses proceeded, 
and reaching the palace was courteously received by Circe, who entertained him as she 
had done his companions, and after he had eaten and drank, touched him with her 
wand, saying, "Hence, seek the sty and wallow with thy friends." But he, instead of 
obeying, drew his sword and rushed upon her with fury in his countenance.  She fell on 
her knees and begged for mercy.  He dictated a solemn oath that she would release his 
companions and practise no further harm against him or them; and she repeated it, at 
the same time promising to dismiss them all in safety after hospitably entertaining them.  
She was as good as her word.  The men were restored to their shapes, the rest of the 
crew summoned from the shore, and the whole magnificently entertained day after day, 
till Ulysses seemed to have forgotten his native land, and to have reconciled himself to 
an inglorious life of ease and pleasure.

	At length his companions recalled him to nobler sentiments, and he received 
their admonition gratefully.  Circe aided their departure, and instructed them how to pass 
safely by the coast of the Sirens.  The Sirens were seanymphs who had the power of 
charming by their song all who heard them, so that the unhappy mariners were 
irresistibly impelled to cast themselves into the sea to their destruction.  Circe directed 
Ulysses to fill the ears of his seamen with wax, so that they should not hear the strain; 
and to cause himself to be bound to the mast, and his people to be strictly enjoined, 
whatever he might say or do, by no means to release him till they should have passed 
the Sirens' island.  Ulysses obeyed these directions.  He filled the ears of his people with 
wax, and suffered them to bind him with cords firmly to the mast.  As they approached 
the Sirens' island, the sea was calm, and over the waters came the notes of music so 
ravishing and attractive, that Ulysses struggled to get loose, and by cries and signs to 
his people, begged to be released; but they, obedient to his previous orders, sprang 
forward and bound him still faster.  They held on their course, and the music grew fainter 
till it ceased to be heard, when with joy Ulysses gave his companions the signal to 
unseal their ears, and they relieved him from his bonds.

	The imagination of a modern poet, Keats, has discovered for us the thoughts that 
passed through the brains of the victims of Circe, after their transformation.  In his 
Endymion he represents one of them, a monarch in the guise of an elephant, addressing 
the sorceress in human language thus: -

     "I sue not for my happy crown again;
     I sue not for my phalanx on the plain;
     I sue not for my lone, my widowed wife;
     I sue not for my ruddy drops of life,
     My children fair, my lovely girls and boys;
     I will forget them; I will pass these joys,
     Ask nought so heavenward; so too - too high;
     Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die;
     To be delivered from this cumbrous flesh,
     From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh,
     And merely given to the cold, bleak air.
     Have mercy, goddess!  Circe, feel my prayer!"

Scylla And Charybdis. 

	Ulysses had been warned by Circe of the two monsters Scylla and Charybdis.  
We have already met with Scylla in the story of Glaucus, and remember that she was 
once a beautiful maiden and was changed into a snaky monster by Circe.  She dwelt in 
a cave high up on the cliff, from whence she was accustomed to thrust forth her long 
necks, (for she had six heads,) and in each of her mouths to seize one of the crew of 
every vessel passing within reach.  The other terror, Charybdis, was a gulf, nearly on a 
level with the water.  Thrice each day the water rushed into a frightful chasm, and thrice 
was disgorged.  Any vessel coming near the whirlpool when the tide was rushing in must 
inevitably be ingulphed; not Neptune himself could save it.

	On approaching the haunt of the dread monsters, Ulysses kept strict watch to 
discover them.  The roar of the waters as Charybdis ingulphed them, gave warning at a 
distance, but Scylla could nowhere be discerned.  While Ulysses and his men watched 
with anxious eyes the dreadful whirlpool, they were not equally on their guard from the 
attack of Scylla, and the monster darting forth her snaky heads, caught six of his men, 
and bore them away shrieking to her den.  It was the saddest sight Ulysses had yet 
seen; to behold his friends thus sacrificed and hear their cries, unable to afford them any 
assistance.

	Circe had warned him of another danger.  After passing Scylla and Charybdis the 
next land he would make was Thrinakia, an island whereon were pastured the cattle of 
Hyperion, the Sun, tended by his daughters Lampetia, and Phaethusa.  These flocks 
must not be violated, whatever the wants of the voyagers might be.  If this injunction 
were transgressed, destruction was sure to fall on the offenders.

	Ulysses would willingly have passed the island of the Sun without stopping, but 
his companions so urgently pleaded for the rest and refreshment that would be derived 
from anchoring and passing the night on shore, that Ulysses yielded.  He bound them 
however with an oath that they would not touch one of the animals of the sacred flocks 
and herds, but content themselves with what provision they yet had left of the supply 
which Circe had put on board. So long as this supply lasted the people kept their oath, 
but contrary winds detained them at the island for a month, and after consuming all their 
stock of provisions, they were forced to rely upon the birds and fishes they could catch.  
Famine pressed them, and at length one day, in the absence of Ulysses, they slew some 
of the cattle, vainly attempting to make amends for the deed by offering from them a 
portion to the offended powers.  Ulysses, on his return to the shore, was horror-struck at 
perceiving what they had done, and the more so on account of the portentous signs 
which followed.  The skins crept on the ground, and the joints of meat lowed on the spits 
while roasting.

	The wind becoming fair they sailed from the island.  They had not gone far when 
the weather changed, and a storm of thunder and lightning ensued. A stroke of lightning 
shattered their mast, which in its fall killed the pilot. At last the vessel itself came to 
pieces.  The keel and mast floating side by side.  Ulysses formed of them a raft, to which 
he clung, and, the wind changing, the waves bore him to Calypso's island.  All the rest of 
the crew perished.

	The following allusion to the topics we have just been considering is from Milton's 
Comus, line 252.

     ". . . I have often heard
     My mother Circe and the Sirens three,
     Amidst the flowery-kirtled Naiades,
     Culling their potent herbs and baneful drugs,
     Who as they sung would take the prisoned sou
     And lap it in Elysium.  Scylla wept,
     And child her barking waves into attention,
     And fell Charybdis murmured soft applause."

	Scylla and Charybdis have become proverbial, to denote opposite dangers which 
beset one's course. - See Proverbial Expressions, p. 478.

Calypso. 

	Calypso was a sea-nymph, which name denotes a numerous class of female 
divinities of lower rank, yet sharing many of the attributes of the gods. Calypso received 
Ulysses hospitably, entertained him magnificently, became enamoured of him, and 
wished to retain him forever, conferring on him immortality.  But he persisted in his 
resolution to return to his country and his wife and son.  Calypso at last received the 
command of Jove to dismiss him.  Mercury brought the message to her, and found her in 
her grotto, which is thus described by Homer: -

     "A garden vine, luxuriant on all sides,
     Mantled the spacious cavern, cluster-hung
     Profuse; four fountains of serenest lymph,
     Their sinuous course pursuing side by side,
     Strayed all around, and every where appeared
     Meadows of softest verdure, purpled o'er
     With violets; it was a scene to fill
     A god from heaven with wonder and delight."

	Calypso with much reluctance proceeded to obey the commands of Jupiter. She 
supplied Ulysses with the means of constructing a raft, provisioned it well for him, and 
gave him a favoring gale.  He sped on his course prosperously for many days, till at 
length, when in sight of land, a storm arose that broke his mast, and threatened to rend 
the raft asunder.  In this crisis he was seen by a compassionate sea-nymph, who in the 
form of a cormorant alighted on the raft, and presented him a girdle, directing him to bind 
it beneath his breast, and if he should be compelled to trust himself to the waves, it 
would buoy him up and enable him by swimming to reach the land.

	Fenelon, in his romance of Telemachus, has given us the adventures of the son 
of Ulysses in search of his father.  Among other places at which he arrived, following on 
his father's footsteps, was Calypso's isle, and, as in the former case, the goddess tried 
every art to keep him with her, and offered to share her immortality with him.  But 
Minerva, who in the shape of Mentor accompanied him and governed all his movements, 
made him repel her allurements, and when no other means of escape could be found, 
the two friends leaped from a cliff into the sea, and swam to a vessel which lay 
becalmed off shore.  Byron alludes to this leap of Telemachus and Mentor in the 
following stanza: -

     "But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,
     The sister tenants of the middle deep;
     There for the weary still a haven smiles,
     Though the fair goddess long has ceased to weep,
     And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep
     For him who dared prefer a mortal bride.
     Here too his boy essayed the dreadful leap,
     Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide;
     While thus of both bereft the nymph-queen doubly sighed."




Chapter XXX: The Phaeacians - Fate Of The Suitors

The Phaeacians. 
	Ulysses clung to the raft while any of its timbers kept together, and when it no 
longer yielded him support, binding the girdle around him, he swam. Minerva 
smoothed the billows before him and sent him a wind that rolled the waves towards the 
shore.  The surf beat high on the rocks and seemed to forbid approach; but at length 
finding calm water at the mouth of a gentle stream, he landed, spent with toil, 
breathless and speechless and almost dead.  After some time reviving he kissed the 
soil, rejoicing, yet at a loss what course to take.  At a short distance he perceived a 
wood, to which he turned his steps. There finding a covert sheltered by intermingling 
branches alike from the sun and the rain, he collected a pile of leaves and formed a 
bed, on which he stretched himself, and heaping the leaves over him, fell asleep.

	The land where he was thrown was Scheria, the country of the Phaeacians. 
These people dwelt originally near the Cyclopes; but being oppressed by that savage 
race, they migrated to the isle of Scheria, under the conduct of Nausithous their king.  
They were, the poet tells us, a people akin to the gods, who appeared manifestly and 
feasted among them when they offered sacrifices, and did not conceal themselves 
from solitary wayfarers when they met them.  They had abundance of wealth and lived 
in the enjoyment of it undisturbed by the alarms of war, for as they dwelt remote from 
gain-seeking man, no enemy ever approached their shores, and they did not even 
require to make use of bows and quivers.  Their chief employment was navigation.  
Their ships, which went with the velocity of birds, were endued with intelligence; they 
knew every port and needed no pilot.  Alcinous, the son of Nausithous, was now their 
king, a wise and just sovereign, beloved by his people.

	Now it happened that the very night on which Ulysses was cast ashore on the 
Phaeacian island, and while he lay sleeping on his bed of leaves, Nausicaa, the 
daughter of the king, had a dream sent by Minerva, reminding her that her wedding 
day was not far distant, and that it would be but a prudent preparation for that event to 
have a general washing of the clothes of the family.  This was no slight affair, for the 
fountains were at some distance and the garments must be carried thither.  On 
awaking, the princess hastened to her parents to tell them what was on her mind; not 
alluding to her wedding day, but finding other reasons equally good.  Her father readily 
assented and ordered the grooms to furnish forth a wagon for the purpose. The 
clothes were put therein, and the queen mother placed in the wagon likewise an 
abundant supply of food and wine.  The princess took her seat and plied the lash, her 
attendant virgins following her on foot.  Arrived at the river side they turned out the 
mules to graze, and unlading the carriage, bore the garments down to the water, and 
working with cheerfulness and alacrity soon despatched their labor.  Then having 
spread the garments on the shore to dry, and having themselves bathed, they sat 
down to enjoy their meal; after which they rose and amused themselves with a game 
of ball, the princess singing to them while they played.  But when they had refolded the 
apparel and were about to resume their way to the town, Minerva caused the ball 
thrown by the princess to fall into the water, whereat they all screamed and Ulysses 
awaked at the sound.

	Now we must picture to ourselves Ulysses, a shipwrecked mariner, but a few 
hours escaped from the waves, and utterly destitute of clothing, awaking and 
discovering that only a few bushes were interposed between him and a group of young 
maidens whom by their deportment and attire he discovered to be not mere peasant 
girls, but of a higher class.  Sadly needing help, how could he yet venture naked as he 
was to discover himself and make his wants known?  It certainly was a case worthy of 
the interposition of his patron goddess Minerva, who never failed him at a crisis.  
Breaking off a leafy branch from a tree he held it before him and stepped out from the 
thicket. The virgins at sight of him fled in all directions, Nausicaa alone excepted, for 
her Minerva aided and endowed with courage and discernment.  Ulysses, standing 
respectfully aloof, told his sad case, and besought the fair object (whether queen or 
goddess he professed he knew not) for food and clothing. The princess replied 
courteously, promising present relief and her father's hospitality when he should 
become acquainted with the facts.  She called back her scattered maidens, chiding 
their alarm, and reminding them that the Phaeacians had no enemies to fear.  This 
man, she told them, was an unhappy wanderer, whom it was a duty to cherish, for the 
poor and stranger are from Jove.  She bade them bring food and clothing, for some of 
her brothers' garments were among the contents of the wagon.  When this was done, 
and Ulysses retiring to a sheltered place had washed his body free from the sea- foam, 
clothed and refreshed himself with food, Pallas dilated his form and diffused grace 
over his ample chest and manly brows.

	The princess seeing him was filled with admiration, and scrupled not to say to her 
damsels that she wished the gods would send her such a husband. To Ulysses she 
recommended that he should repair to the city, following herself and train so far as the 
way lay through the fields; but when they should approach the city she desired that he 
would no longer be seen in her company, for she feared the remarks which rude and 
vulgar people might make on seeing her return accompanied by such a gallant 
stranger.  To avoid which she directed him to stop at a grove adjoining the city, in 
which were a farm and garden belonging to the king.  After allowing time for the 
princess and her companions to reach the city, he was then to pursue his way thither, 
and would be easily guided by any he might meet to the royal abode.

	Ulysses obeyed the directions and in due time proceeded to the city, on 
approaching which he met a young woman bearing a pitcher forth for water.  It was 
Minerva who had assumed that form.  Ulysses accosted her and desired to be directed 
to the palace of Alcinous the king.  The maiden replied respectfully, offering to be his 
guide; for the palace she informed him stood near her father's dwelling.  Under the 
guidance of the goddess and by her power enveloped in a cloud which shielded him 
from observation, Ulysses passed among the busy crowd, and with wonder observed 
their harbor, their ships, their forum, (the resort of heroes,) and their battlements, till 
they came to the palace, where the goddess, having first given him some information 
of the country, king, and people he was about to meet, left him. Ulysses, before 
entering the court-yard of the palace, stood and surveyed the scene.  Its splendor 
astonished him.  Brazen walls stretched from the entrance to the interior house, of 
which the doors were gold, the doorposts silver, the lintels silver ornamented with gold.  
On either side were figures of mastiffs wrought in gold.  On either side were figures of 
mastiffs wrought in gold and silver, standing in rows as if to guard the approach.  Along 
the walls were seats spread through all their length with mantles of finest texture, the 
work of Phaeacian maidens.  On these seats the princes sat and feasted, while golden 
statues of graceful youths held in their hands lighted torches which shed radiance over 
the scene.  Full fifty female menials served in household offices, some employed to 
grind the corn, others to wind off the purple wool or ply the loom.  For the Phaeacian 
women as far exceeded all other women in household arts as the mariners of that 
country did the rest of mankind in the management of ships.  Without the court a 
spacious garden lay, four acres in extent.  In it grew many a lofty tree, pomegranate, 
pear, apple, fig, and olive.  Neither winter's cold nor summer's drought arrested their 
growth, but they flourished in constant succession, some budding while others were 
maturing.  The vineyard was equally prolific.  In one quarter you might see the vines, 
some in blossom, some loaded with ripe grapes, and in another observe the vintagers 
treading the wine press.  On the garden's borders flowers of all hues bloomed all the 
year round, arranged with neatest art.  In the midst two fountains poured forth their 
waters, one flowing by artificial channels over all the garden, the other conducted 
through the court-yard of the palace, whence every citizen might draw his supplies.

	Ulysses stood gazing in admiration, unobserved himself, for the cloud which 
Minerva spread around him still shielded him.  At length having sufficiently observed 
the scene, he advanced with rapid step into the hall where the chiefs and senators 
were assembled, pouring libation to Mercury, whose worship followed the evening 
meal.  Just then Minerva dissolved the cloud and disclosed him to the assembled 
chiefs.  Advancing to the place where the queen sat, he knelt at her feet and implored 
her favor and assistance to enable him to return to his native country.  Then 
withdrawing, he seated himself in the manner of suppliants, at the hearth side.

	For a time none spoke.  At last an aged statesman, addressing the king, said, "It 
is not fit that a stranger who asks our hospitality should be kept waiting in suppliant 
guise, none welcoming him.  Let him therefore be led to a seat among us and supplied 
with food and wine." At these words the king rising gave his hand to Ulysses and led 
him to a seat, displacing thence his own son to make room for the stranger.  Food and 
wine were set before him and he ate and refreshed himself.

	The king then dismissed his guests, notifying them that the next day he would 
call them to council to consider what had best be done for the stranger.

	When the guests had departed and Ulysses was left alone with the king and 
queen asked him who he was and whence he came, and (recognizing the clothes 
which he wore as those which her maidens and herself had made) from whom he 
received those garments.  He told them of his residence in Calypso's isle and his 
departure thence; of the wreck of his raft, his escape by swimming, and of the relief 
afforded by the princess.  The parents heard approvingly, and the king promised to 
furnish a ship in which his guest might return to his own land.

	The next day the assembled chiefs confirmed the promise of the king.  A bark 
was prepared and a crew of stout rowers selected, and all betook themselves to the 
palace, where a bounteous repast was provided.  After the feast the king proposed 
that the young men should show their guest their proficiency in manly sports, and all 
went forth to the arena for games of running, wrestling, and other exercises.  After all 
had done their best, Ulysses being challenged to show what he could do, at first 
declined, but being taunted by one of the youths, seized a quoit of weight far heavier 
than any the Phaeacians had thrown, and sent it farther than the utmost throw of 
theirs.  All were astonished, and viewed their guest with greatly increased respect.

	After the games they returned to the hall, and the herald led in Demodocus, the 
blind bard, -

     ". . . Dear to the Muse,
     Who yet appointed him both good and ill,
     Took from him sight, but gave him strains divine."

	He took for his theme the Wooden Horse, by means of which the Greeks found 
entrance into Troy.  Apollo inspired him, and he sang so feelingly the terrors and the 
exploits of that eventful time that all were delighted, but Ulysses was moved to tears.  
Observing which, Alcinous, when the song was done, demanded of him why at the 
mention of Troy his sorrows awaked.  Had he lost there a father or brother, or any dear 
friend?  Ulysses replied by announcing himself by his true name, and at their request, 
recounted the adventures which had befallen him since his departure from Troy.  This 
narrative raised the sympathy and admiration of the Phaeacians for their guest to the 
highest pitch.  The king proposed that all the chiefs should present him with a gift, 
himself setting the example.  They obeyed, and vied with one another in loading the 
illustrious stranger with costly gifts.

	The next day Ulysses set sail in the Phaeacian vessel, and in a short time arrived 
safe at Ithaca, his own island.  When the vessel touched the strand he was asleep.  The 
mariners, without waking him, carried him on shore, and landed with him the chest 
containing his presents, and then sailed away.

	Neptune was so displeased at the conduct of the Phaeacians in thus rescuing 
Ulysses from his hands that on the return of the vessel to port he transformed it into a 
rock, right opposite the mouth of the harbor.

	Homer's description of the ships of the Phaeacians has been thought to look like 
an anticipation of the wonders of modern steam navigation. Alcinous says to Ulysses, -

     "Say from what city, from what regions tossed,
     And what inhabitants those regions boast?
     So shalt thou quickly reach the realm assigned,
     In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind;
     No helm secures their course, no pilot guides;
     Like man intelligent they plough the tides,
     Conscious of every coast and every bay
     That lies beneath the sun's all-seeing ray."

     Odyssey, Book VIII.

	Lord Carlisle, in his Diary in the Turkish and Greek Waters, thus speaks of Corfu, 
which he considers to be the ancient Phaeacian island: -

	"The sites explain the Odyssey.  The temple of the sea-god could not have been 
more fitly placed, upon a grassy platform of the most elastic turf, on the brow of a crag 
commanding harbor, and channel, and ocean.  Just at the entrance of the inner harbor 
there is a picturesque rock with a small convent perched upon it, which by one legend is 
the transformed pinnace of Ulysses."

	"Almost the only river in the island is just at the proper distance from the probable 
site of the city and palace of the king, to justify the princess Nausicaa having had resort 
to her chariot and to luncheon when she went with the maidens of the court to wash their 
garments."

Fate Of The Suitors. 

	Ulysses had now been away from Ithaca for twenty years, and when he awoke 
he did not recognize his native land.  Minerva appeared to him in the form of a young 
shepherd, informed him where he was, and told him the state of things at his palace. 
More than a hundred nobles of Ithaca and of the neighboring islands had been for years 
suing for the hand of Penelope, his wife, imagining him dead, and lording it over his 
palace and people, as if they were owners of both.  That he might be able to take 
vengeance upon them, it was important that he should not be recognized.  Minerva 
accordingly metamorphosed him into an unsightly beggar, and as such he was kindly 
received by Eumaeus, the swine-herd, a faithful servant of his house.

	Telemachus, his son, was absent in quest of his father.  He had gone to the 
courts of the other kings, who had returned from the Trojan expedition. While on the 
search, he received counsel from Minerva to return home.  He arrived and sought 
Eumaeus to learn something of the state of affairs at the palace before presenting 
himself among the suitors.  Finding a stranger with Eumaeus, he treated him 
courteously, though in the garb of a beggar and promised him assistance.  Eumaeus 
was sent to the palace to inform Penelope privately of her son's arrival, for caution was 
necessary with regard to the suitors, who, as Telemachus had learned, were plotting to 
intercept and kill him.  When Eumaeus was gone, Minerva presented herself to Ulysses, 
and directed him to make himself known to his son.  At the same time she touched him, 
removed at once from him the appearance of age and penury, and gave him the aspect 
of vigorous manhood that belonged to him.  Telemachus viewed him with astonishment, 
and at first thought he must be more than mortal.  But Ulysses announced himself as his 
father, and accounted for the change of appearance, by explaining that it was Minerva's 
doing.

     ". . . Then threw Telemachus
     His arms around his father's neck and wept.
     Desire intense of lamentation seized
     On both; soft murmurs uttering, each indulged
     His grief."

	The father and son took counsel together how they should get the better of the 
suitors and punish them for their outrages.  It was arranged that Telemachus should 
proceed to the palace and mingle with the suitors as formerly; that Ulysses should also 
go as a beggar, a character which in the rude old times had different privileges from 
what we concede to it now.  As traveller and storyteller, the beggar was admitted in the 
halls of chieftains, and often treated like a guest; though sometimes, also, no doubt, with 
contumely.  Ulysses charged his son not to betray, by any display of unusual interest in 
him, that he knew him to be other than he seemed, and even if he saw him insulted, or 
beaten, not to interpose otherwise than he might do for any stranger.  At the palace they 
found the usual scene of feasting and riot going on.  The suitors pretended to receive 
Telemachus with joy at his return, though secretly mortified at the failure of their plots to 
take his life.  The old beggar was permitted to enter, and provided with a portion from the 
table. A touching incident occurred as Ulysses entered the court-yard of the palace. An 
old dog lay in the yard almost dead with age and seeing a stranger enter, raised his 
head, with ears erect.  It was Argus, Ulysses' own dog, that he had in other days often 
led to the chase.

     ". . . Soon as he perceived
     Long-lost Ulysses nigh, down fell his ears
     Clapped close, and with his tail glad sign he gave
     Of gratulation, impotent to rise,
     And to approach his master as of old.
     Ulysses, noting him, wiped off a tear
     Unmarked.
     . . . Then his destiny released
     Old Argus, soon as he had lived to see
     Ulysses in the twentieth year restored."

	As Ulysses sat eating his portion in the hall, the suitors soon began to exhibit 
their insolence to him.  When he mildly remonstrated, one of them raised a stool and 
with it gave him a blow.  Telemachus had hard work to restrain his indignation at seeing 
his father so treated in his own hall, but remembering his father's injunctions, said no 
more than what became him as master of the house, though young, and protector of his 
guests.

	Penelope had protracted her decision in favor of either of her suitors so long, that 
there seemed to be no further pretence for delay.  The continued absence of her 
husband seemed to prove that his return was no longer to be expected.  Meanwhile her 
son had grown up, and was able to manage his own affairs.  She therefore consented to 
submit the question of her choice to a trial of skill among the suitors.  The test selected 
was shooting with the bow.  Twelve rings were arranged in a line, and he whose arrow 
was sent through the whole twelve, was to have the queen for his prize. A bow that one 
of his brother heroes had given to Ulysses in former times, was brought from the armory, 
and with its quiver full of arrows was laid in the hall. Telemachus had taken care that all 
other weapons should be removed, under pretence that in the heat of competition, there 
was danger, in some rash moment, of putting them to an improper use.

	All things being prepared for the trial, the first thing to be done was to bend the 
bow in order to attach the string.  Telemachus endeavored to do it, but found all his 
efforts fruitless; and modestly confessing that he had attempted a task beyond his 
strength, he yielded the bow to another.  He tried it with no better success, and, amidst 
the laughter and jeers of his companions, gave it up.  Another tried it and another; they 
rubbed the bow with tallow, but all to no purpose; it would not bend.  Then spoke 
Ulysses, humbly suggesting that he should be permitted to try; for, said he, "beggar as I 
am, I was once a soldier, and there is still some strength in these old limbs of mine." The 
suitors hooted with derision, and commanded to turn him out of the hall for his insolence.  
But Telemachus spoke up for him, and merely to gratify the old man, bade him try.  
Ulysses took the bow, and handled it with the hand of a master.  With ease he adjusted 
the cord to its notch, then fitting an arrow to the bow he drew the string and sped the 
arrow unerring through the rings.

	Without allowing them time to express their astonishment, he said, "Now for 
another mark!" and aimed direct at the most insolent one of the suitors. The arrow 
pierced through his throat and he fell dead.  Telemachus, Eumaeus and another faithful 
follower, well armed, now sprang to the side of Ulysses. The suitors, in amazement, 
looked round for arms, but found none, neither was there any way of escape, for 
Eumaeus had secured the door.  Ulysses left them not long in uncertainty; he 
announced himself as the long-lost chief, whose house they had invaded, whose 
substance they had squandered, whose wife and son they had persecuted for ten long 
years; and told them he meant to have ample vengeance.  All were slain, and Ulysses 
was left master of his palace and possessor of his kingdom and his wife.

	Tennyson's poem of Ulysses represents the old hero, after his dangers past and 
nothing left but to stay at home and be happy, growing tired of inaction and resolving to 
set forth again in quest of new adventures.

     ". . . Come, my friends,
     'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
     Push off, and sitting well in order smite
     The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
     Of all the western stars, until I die.
     It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
     It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
     And see the great Achilles whom we knew;" &c.

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Chapter XXXI: Adventures Of Aeneas - The Harpies - Dido - Palinurus

Adventures Of Aeneas. 
	We have followed one of the Grecian heroes, Ulysses, in his wanderings, on his 
return home from Troy, and now we propose to share the fortunes of the remnant of 
the conquered people, under their chief Aeneas, in their search for a new home, after 
the ruin of their native city.  On that fatal night when the wooden horse disgorged its 
contents of armed men, and the capture and conflagration of the city were the result, 
Aeneas made his escape from the scene of destruction, with his father, and his wife, 
and young son.  The father, Anchises, was too old to walk with the speed required, 
and Aeneas took him upon his shoulders.  Thus burdened, leading his son and 
followed by his wife, he made the best of his way out of the burning city; but, in the 
confusion, his wife was swept away and lost.

	On arriving at the place of rendezvous, numerous fugitives, of both sexes, were 
found, who put themselves under the guidance of Aeneas.  Some months were spent 
in preparation, and at length they embarked.  They first landed on the neighboring 
shores of Thrace, and were preparing to build a city, but Aeneas was deterred by a 
prodigy.  Preparing to offer sacrifice, he tore some twigs from one of the bushes.  To 
his dismay the wounded par dropped blood.  When he repeated the act, a voice from 
the ground cried out to him, "Spare me, Aeneas; I am your kinsman, Polydore, here 
murdered with many arrows, from which a bush has grown, nourished with my blood." 
These words recalled to the recollection of Aeneas that Polydore was a young prince 
of Troy, whom his father had sent with ample treasures to the neighboring land of 
Thrace, to be there brought up, at a distance from the horrors of war.  The king to 
whom he was sent had murdered him, and seized his treasures.  Aeneas and his 
companions, considering the land accursed by the stain of such a crime, hastened 
away.

	They next landed on the island of Delos, which was once a floating island, till 
Jupiter fastened it by adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea.  Apollo and Diana 
were born there, and the island was sacred to Apollo. Here Aeneas consulted the 
oracle of Apollo, and received an answer, ambiguous as usual, - "Seek your ancient 
mother; there the race of Aeneas shall dwell, and reduce all other nations to their 
sway." The Trojans heard with joy, and immediately began to ask one another, "Where 
is the spot intended by the oracle?" Anchises remembered that there was a tradition 
that their forefathers came from Crete, and thither they resolved to steer.  They arrived 
at Crete, and began to build their city, but sickness broke out among them, and the 
fields that they had planted, failed to yield a crop.  In this gloomy aspect of affairs, 
Aeneas was warned in a dream to leave the country, and seek a western land, called 
Hesperia, whence Dardanus, the true founder of the Trojan race, had originally 
migrated.  To Hesperia, now called Italy, therefore, they directed their future course, 
and not till after many adventures and the lapse of time sufficient to carry a modern 
navigator several times round the world, did they arrive there.

	Their first landing was at the island of the Harpies.  These were disgusting birds, 
with the heads of maidens, with long claws and faces pale with hunger.  They were 
sent by the gods to torment a certain Phineus, whom Jupiter had deprived of his sight, 
in punishment of his cruelty; and whenever a meal was placed before him, the Harpies 
darted down from the air and carried it off.  They were driven away from Phineus by 
the heroes of the Argonautic expedition, and took refuge in the island where Aeneas 
now found them.

	When they entered the port the Trojans saw herds of cattle roaming over the 
plain.  They slew as many as they wished, and prepared for a feast.  But no sooner 
had they seated themselves at the table, than a horrible clamor was heard in the air, 
and a flock of these odious harpies came rushing down upon them, seizing in their 
talons the meat from the dishes, and flying away with it Aeneas and his companions 
drew their swords and dealt vigorous blows among the monsters, but to no purpose, 
for they were so nimble it was almost impossible to hit them, and their feathers were 
like armor impenetrable to steel.  One of them, perched on a neighboring cliff, 
screamed out, "Is it thus, Trojans, you treat us innocent birds, first slaughter our cattle, 
and then make war on ourselves?" She then predicted dire sufferings to them in their 
future course, and having vented her wrath flew away.  The Trojans made haste to 
leave the country, and next found themselves coasting along the shore of Epirus.  
Here they landed, and to their astonishment learned that certain Trojan exiles, who 
had been carried there as prisoners, had become rulers of the country.  Andromache, 
the widow of Hector, became the wife of one of the victorious Grecian chiefs, to whom 
she bore a son.  Her husband dying, she was left regent of the country, as guardian of 
her son, and had married a fellow-captive, Helenus, of the royal race of Troy.  Helenus 
and Andromache treated the exiles with the utmost hospitality, and dismissed them 
loaded with gifts.

	From hence Aeneas coasted along the shore of Sicily, and passed the country of 
the Cyclopes.  Here they were hailed from the shore by a miserable object, whom by 
his garments, tattered as they were, they perceived to be a Greek.  He told them he 
was one of Ulysses's companions, left behind by that chief in his hurried departure.  
He related the story of Ulysses's adventure with Polyphemus, and besought them to 
take him off with them, as he had no means of sustaining his existence where he was, 
but wild berries and roots, and lived in constant fear of the Cyclopes.  While he spoke 
Polyphemus made his appearance; a terrible monster, shapeless, vast, whose only 
eye had been put out. ^* He walked with cautious steps, feeling his way with a staff, 
down to the sea-side, to wash his eye-socket in the waves.  When he reached the 
water he waded out towards them, and his immense height enabled him to advance 
far into the sea, so that the Trojans, in terror, took to their oars to get out of his way.  
Hearing the oars, Polyphemus shouted after them, so that the shores resounded, and 
at the noise the other Cyclopes came forth from their caves and woods, and lined the 
shore, like a row of lofty pine trees.  The Trojans plied their oars, and soon left them 
out of sight.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 478]

	Aeneas had been cautioned by Helenus to avoid the strait guarded by the 
monsters Scylla and Charybdis.  There Ulysses, the reader will remember, had lost six 
of his men, seized by Scylla, while the navigators were wholly intent upon avoiding 
Charybdis.  Aeneas following the advice of Helenus shunned the dangerous pass and 
coasted along the island of Sicily.

	Juno, seeing the Trojans speeding their way prosperously towards their destined 
shore, felt her old grudge against them revive, for she could not forget the slight that 
Paris had put upon her, in awarding the prize of beauty to another.  In heavenly minds 
can such resentments dwell! ^* Accordingly she hastened to Aeolus, the ruler of the 
winds, - the same who supplied Ulysses with favoring gales, giving him the contrary 
ones tied up in a bag.  Aeolus obeyed the goddess and sent forth his sons, Boreas, 
Typhon and the other winds, to toss the ocean.  A terrible storm ensued, and the 
Trojan ships were driven out of their course towards the coast of Africa.  They were in 
imminent danger of being wrecked, and were separated, so that Aeneas thought that 
all were lost except his own.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 478]

	At this crisis, Neptune, hearing the storm raging, and knowing that he had given 
no orders for one, raised his head above the waves, and saw the fleet of Aeneas 
driving before the gale.  Knowing the hostility of Juno, he was at no loss to account for 
it, but his anger was not the less at this interference in his province.  He called the 
winds, and dismissed them with a severe reprimand.  He then soothed the waves, and 
brushed away the clouds from before the face of the sun.  Some of the ships which 
had got on the rocks, he pried off with his own trident, while Triton and a sea-nymph, 
putting their shoulders under others, set them afloat again.  The Trojans, when the sea 
became calm, sought the nearest shore, which was the coast of Carthage, where 
Aeneas was so happy as to find that one by one the ships all arrived safe, though 
badly shaken.

	Waller, in his Panegyric to the Lord Protector, (Cromwell,) alludes to this stilling 
of the storm by Neptune: -

     "Above the waves, as Neptune showed his face,
     To chide the winds and save the Trojan race,
     So has your Highness, raised above the rest,
     Storms of ambition tossing us repressed."

Dido. 

	Carthage, where the exiles had now arrived, was a spot on the coast of Africa 
opposite Sicily, where at that time a Tyrian colony under Dido their queen, were laying 
the foundations of a state destined in later ages to be the rival of Rome itself.  Dido was 
the daughter of Belus, king of Tyre, and sister of Pygmalion who succeeded his father on 
the throne.  Her husband was Sichaeus, a man of immense wealth, but Pygmalion, who 
coveted his treasures, caused him to be put to death.  Dido, with a numerous body of 
friends and followers, both men and women, succeeded in effecting their escape from 
Tyre, in several vessels, carrying with them the treasures of Sichaeus.  On arriving at the 
spot which they selected as the seat of their future home, they asked of the natives only 
so much land as they could enclose with a bull's hide. When this was readily granted, 
she caused the hide to be cut into strips, and with them enclosed a spot on which she 
built a citadel, and called it Byrsa, (a hide.) Around this fort the city of Carthage rose, and 
soon became a powerful and flourishing place.

	Such was the state of affairs when Aeneas with his Trojans arrived there. Dido 
received the illustrious exiles with friendliness and hospitality. "Not unacquainted with 
distress," she said, "I have learned to succor the unfortunate." ^* The queen's hospitality 
displayed itself in festivities at which games of strength and skill were exhibited.  The 
strangers contended for the palm with her own subjects, on equal terms, the queen 
declaring that whether the victor were "Trojan or Tyrian should make no difference to 
her."* At the feast which followed the games, Aeneas gave at her request a recital of the 
closing events of the Trojan history and his own adventures after the fall of the city.  Dido 
was charmed with his discourse and filled with admiration of his exploits.  She conceived 
an ardent passion for him, and he for his part seemed well content to accept the 
fortunate chance which appeared to offer him at once a happy termination of his 
wanderings, a home, a kingdom, and a bride. Months rolled away in the enjoyment of 
pleasant intercourse, and it seemed as if Italy and the empire destined to be founded on 
its shores were alike forgotten.  Seeing which, Jupiter despatched Mercury with a 
message to Aeneas recalling him to a sense of his high destiny, and commanding him to 
resume his voyage.


	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, pp. 478, 479.]

	Aeneas parted from Dido, though she tried every allurement and persuasion to 
detain him.  The blow to her affection and her pride was too much for her to endure, and 
when she found that he was gone, she mounted a funeral pile which she had caused to 
be prepared, and having stabbed herself was consumed with the pile.  The flames rising 
over the city were seen by the departing Trojans, and though the cause was unknown, 
gave to Aeneas some intimation of the fatal event.

	The following epigram we find in Elegant Extracts: -

	From the Latin.


     "Unhappy, Dido, was thy fate
     In first and second married state!
     One husband caused thy flight by dying,
     Thy death the other caused by flying."

Palinurus. 

	After touching at the island of Sicily, where Acestes, a prince of Trojan lineage, 
bore sway, who gave them a hospitable reception, the Trojans reembarked, and held on 
their course for Italy.  Venus now interceded with Neptune to allow her son at last to 
attain the wished-for goal and find an end of his perils on the deep.  Neptune consented 
stipulating only for one life as a ransom for the rest.  The victim was Palinurus, the pilot.  
As he sat watching the stars, with his hand on the helm, Somnus sent by Neptune 
approached in the guise of Phorbas and said, "Palinurus, the breeze is fair, the water 
smooth, and the ship sails steadily on her course.  Lie down a while and take needful 
rest.  I will stand at the helm in your place." Palinurus replied, "Tell me not of smooth 
seas or favoring winds, - me who have seen so much of their treachery.  Shall I trust 
Aeneas to the chances of the weather and the winds?" And he continued to grasp the 
helm and to keep his eyes fixed on the stars.  But Somnus waved over him a branch 
moistened with Lethaean dew, and his eyes closed in spite of all his efforts.  Then 
Somnus pushed him overboard and he fell; but keeping his hold upon the helm, it came 
away with him.  Neptune was mindful of his promise and kept the ship on her track 
without helm or pilot, till Aeneas discovered his loss, and sorrowing deeply for his faithful 
steersman took charge of the ship himself.

	There is a beautiful allusion to the story of Palinurus in Scott's Marmion, 
Introduction to Canto I., where the poet, speaking of the recent death of William Pitt, 
says, -

     "O, think how, to his latest day,
     When death just hovering claimed his prey,
     With Palinure's unaltered mood,
     Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
     Each call for needful rest repelled,
     With dying hand the rudder held,
     Till in his fall, with fateful sway,
     The steerage of the realm gave way."

	The ships at last reached the shores of Italy, and joyfully did the adventures leap 
to land.  While his people were employed in making their encampment Aeneas sought 
the abode of the Sibyl.  It was a cave connected with a temple and grove, sacred to 
Apollo and Diana.  While Aeneas contemplated the scene, the Sibyl accosted him. She 
seemed to know his errand, and under the influence of the deity of the place, burst forth 
in a prophetic strain, giving dark intimations of labors and perils through which he was 
destined to make his way to final success.  She closed with the encouraging words 
which have become proverbial: - "Yield not to disasters, but press onward the more 
bravely." ^* Aeneas replied that he had prepared himself for whatever might await him.  
He had but one request to make.  Having been directed in a dream to seek the abode of 
the dead in order to confer with his father Anchises to receive from him a revelation of 
his future fortunes and those of his race, he asked her assistance to enable him to 
accomplish the task.  The Sibyl replied, "The descent to Avernus is easy; the gate of 
Pluto stands open night and day; but to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air, 
that is the toil, that the difficulty.* She instructed him to seek in the forest a tree on which 
grew a golden branch.  This branch was to be plucked off and borne as a gift to 
Proserpine, and if fate was propitious it would yield to the hand and quit its parent trunk, 
but otherwise no force could rend it away.  If torn away another would succeed.*

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 479.]

	Aeneas followed the directions of the Sibyl.  His mother Venus sent two of her 
doves to fly before him and show him the way, and by their assistance he found the tree, 
plucked the branch, and hastened back with it to the Sibyl.



Chapter XXXII: The Infernal Regions - The Sibyl

The Infernal Regions. 
	As at the commencement of our series we have given the pagan account of the 
creation of the world, so as we approach its conclusion, we present a view of the 
regions of the dead, depicted by one of their most enlightened poets, who drew his 
doctrines from their most esteemed philosophers.  The region where Virgil locates the 
entrance into this abode, is perhaps the most strikingly adapted to excite ideas of the 
terrific and preternatural of any on the face of the earth.  It is the volcanic region near 
Vesuvius, where the whole country is cleft with chasms from which sulphurous flames 
arise, while the ground is shaken with pent-up vapors, and mysterious sounds issue 
from the bowels of the earth.  The lake Avernus is supposed to fill the crater of an 
extinct volcano.  It is circular, half a mile wide, and very deep, surrounded by high 
banks, which in Virgil's time were covered with a gloomy forest. Mephitic vapors rise 
from its waters, so that no life is found on its banks, and no birds fly over it.  Here, 
according to the poet, was the cave which afforded access to the infernal regions, and 
here Aeneas offered sacrifices to the infernal deities, Proserpine, Hecate, and the 
Furies.  Then a roaring was heard in the earth, the woods on the hill-tops were shaken, 
and the howling of dogs announced the approach of the deities.  "Now," said the Sibyl, 
"summon up your courage, for you will need it." She descended into the cave, and 
Aeneas followed.  Before the threshold of hell they passed through a group of beings 
who are enumerated as Griefs and avenging Cares, pale Diseases and melancholy 
Age, Fear and Hunger that tempt to crime, Toil, Poverty, and Death, forms horrible to 
view.  The Furies spread their couches there, and Discord, whose hair was of vipers 
tied up with a bloody fillet. Here also were the monsters, Briareus with his hundred 
arms, Hydras hissing, and Chimaeras breathing fire. Aeneas shuddered at the sight, 
drew his sword and would have struck, but the Sibyl restrained him.  They then came 
to the black river Cocytus, where they found the ferryman, Charon, old and squalid, but 
strong and vigorous, who was receiving passengers of all kinds into his boat, 
magnanimous heroes, boys and unmarried girls, as numerous as the leaves that fall at 
autumn, or the flocks that fly southward at the approach of winter.  They stood 
pressing for a passage and longing to touch the opposite shore.  But the stern 
ferryman took in only such as he chose, driving the rest back.  Aeneas, wondering at 
the sight, asked the Sibyl, "Why this discrimination?" She answered, "Those who are 
taken on board the bark are the souls of those who have received due burial rites; the 
host of others who have remained unburied, are not permitted to pass the flood, but 
wander a hundred years, and flit to and fro about the shore, till at last they are taken 
over." Aeneas grieved at recollecting some of his own companions who had perished 
in the storm.  At that moment he beheld Palinurus, his pilot, who fell overboard and 
was drowned.  He addressed him and asked him the cause of his misfortune.  
Palinurus replied that the rudder was carried away, and he clinging to it was swept 
away with it.  He besought Aeneas most urgently to extend to him his hand and take 
him in company to the opposite shore.  But the Sibyl rebuked him for the wish thus to 
transgress the laws of Pluto; but consoled him by informing him that the people of the 
shore where his body had been wafted by the waves, should be stirred up by prodigies 
to give it due burial, and that the promontory should bear the name of Cape Palinurus, 
which it does to this day.  Leaving Palinurus consoled by these words, they 
approached the boat.  Charon, fixing his eyes sternly upon the advancing warrior, 
demanded by what right he, living and armed, approached that shore. To which the 
Sibyl replied that they would commit no violence, that Aeneas's only object was to see 
his father, and finally exhibited the golden branch, at sight of which Charon's wrath 
relaxed, and he made haste to turn his bark to the shore, and receive them on board.  
The boat, adapted only to the light freight of bodiless spirits, groaned under the weight 
of the hero.  They were soon conveyed to the opposite shore.  There they were 
encountered by the three-headed dog Cerberus, with his necks bristling with snakes.  
He barked with all his-three throats till the Sibyl threw him a medicated cake, which he 
eagerly devoured, and then stretched himself out in his den and fell asleep.  Aeneas 
and the Sibyl sprang to land.  The first sound that struck their ears was the wailing of 
young children, who had died on the threshold of life, and near to these were they who 
had perished under false charges. Minos presides over them as judge, and examines 
the deeds of each.  The next class was of those who had died by their own hand, 
hating life and seeking refuge in death.  O, how willingly would they now endure 
poverty, labor, and any other infliction, if they might but return to life!  Next were 
situated the regions of sadness, divided off into retired paths, leading through groves 
of myrtle.  Here roamed those who had fallen victims to unrequited love, not freed from 
pain even by death itself.  Among these, Aeneas thought he descried the form of Dido, 
with a wound still recent.  In the dim light he was for a moment uncertain, but 
approaching, perceived it was indeed herself. Tears fell from his eyes, and he 
addressed her in the accents of love. "Unhappy Dido! was then the rumor true that you 
had perished? and was I, alas! the cause?  I call the gods to witness that my departure 
from you was reluctant, and in obedience to the commands of Jove; nor could I believe 
that my absence would have cost you so dear.  Stop, I beseech you, and refuse me 
not a last farewell." She stood for a moment with averted countenance, and eyes fixed 
on the ground, and then silently passed on, as insensible to his pleadings as a rock.  
Aeneas followed for some distance; then, with a heavy heart, rejoined his companion 
and resumed his route.

	They next entered the fields where roam the heroes who have fallen in battle.  
Here they saw many shades of Grecian and Trojan warriors.  The Trojans thronged 
around him, and could not be satisfied with the sight.  They asked the cause of his 
coming, and plied him with innumerable questions.  But the Greeks, at the sight of his 
armor glittering through the murky atmosphere, recognized the hero, and filled with 
terror turned their backs and fled, as they used to do on the plains of Troy.

	Aeneas would have lingered long with his Trojan friends, but the Sibyl hurried 
him away.  They next came to a place where the road divided, the one leading to 
Elysium, the other to the regions of the condemned.  Aeneas beheld on one side the 
walls of a mighty city, around which Phlegethon rolled its fiery waters.  Before him was 
the gate of adamant that neither gods nor men can break through.  An iron tower stood 
by the gate, on which Tisiphone, the avenging Fury, kept guard.  From the city were 
heard groans, and the sound of the scourge, the creaking of iron, and the clanking of 
chains.  Aeneas, horror-struck, inquired of his guide what crimes were those whose 
punishments produced the sounds he heard?  The Sibyl answered, "Here is the 
judgment hall of Rhadamanthus, who brings to light crimes done in life, which the 
perpetrator vainly thought impenetrably hid.  Tisiphone applies her whip of scorpions, 
and delivers the offender over to her sister Furies.  At this moment with horrid clang 
the brazen gates unfolded, and Aeneas saw within, a Hydra with fifty heads, guarding 
the entrance.  The Sibyl told him that the gulf of Tartarus descended deep, so that its 
recesses were as far beneath their feet as heaven was high above their heads.  In the 
bottom of this pit, the Titan race, who warred against the gods, lie prostrate; 
Salmoneus, also, who presumed to vie with Jupiter, and built a bridge of brass over 
which he drove his chariot that the sound might resemble thunder, launching flaming 
brands at his people in imitation of lightning, till Jupiter struck him with a real 
thunderbolt, and taught him the difference between mortal weapons and divine.  Here, 
also, is Tityus, the giant, whose form is so immense that as he lies, he stretches over 
nine acres, while a vulture preys upon his liver, which as fast as it is devoured grows 
again, so that his punishment will have no end.

	Aeneas saw groups seated at tables loaded with dainties, while near by stood a 
Fury who snatched away the viands from their lips, as fast as they prepared to taste 
them.  Others beheld suspended over their heads huge rocks, threatening to fall, 
keeping them in a state of constant alarm.  These were they who had hated their 
brothers, or struck their parents, or defrauded the friends who trusted them, or who, 
having grown rich, kept their money to themselves, and gave no share to others; the 
last being the most numerous class.  Here also were those who had violated the 
marriage vow, or fought in a bad cause, or failed in fidelity to their employers.  Here 
was one who had sold his country for gold, another who perverted the laws, making 
them say one thing to-day and another tomorrow.

	Ixion was there, fastened to the circumference of a wheel ceaselessly revolving; 
and Sisyphus, whose task was to roll a huge stone up to a hill- top, but when the steep 
was well-nigh gained, the rock, repulsed by some sudden force, rushed again 
headlong down to the plain.  Again he toiled at it, while the sweat bathed all his weary 
limbs, but all to no effect.  There was Tantalus, who stood in a pool, his chin level with 
the water, yet he was parched with thirst, and found nothing to assuage it; for when he 
bowed his hoary head, eager to quaff, the water fled away, leaving the ground at his 
feet all dry.  Tall trees laden with fruit stooped their heads to him, pears, 
pomegranates, apples, and luscious figs; but when with a sudden grasp he tried to 
seize them, winds whirled them high above his reach.

	The Sibyl now warned Aeneas that it was time to turn from these melancholy 
regions and seek the city of the blessed.  They passed through a middle tract of 
darkness, and came upon the Elysian fields, the groves where the happy reside.  They 
breathed a freer air, and saw all objects clothed in a purple light.  The region has a sun 
and stars of its own.  The inhabitants were enjoying themselves in various ways, some 
in sports on the grassy turf, in games of strength or skill, others dancing or singing.  
Orpheus struck the chords of his lyre, and called forth ravishing sounds.  Here Aeneas 
saw the founders of the Trojan state, magnanimous heroes who lived in happier times. 
He gazed with admiration on the war chariots and glittering arms now reposing in 
disuse.  Spears stood fixed in the ground, and the horses, unharnessed, roamed over 
the plain.  The same pride in splendid armor and generous steeds which the old 
heroes felt in life, accompanied them here.  He saw another group feasting, and 
listening to the strains of music.  They were in a laurel grove, whence the great river 
Po has its origin, and flows out among men. Here dwelt those who fell by wounds 
received in their country's cause, holy priests also, and poets who have uttered 
thoughts worthy of Apollo, and others who have contributed to cheer and adorn life by 
their discoveries in the useful arts, and have made their memory blessed by rendering 
service to mankind. They wore snow-white fillets about their brows.  The Sibyl 
addressed a group of these, and inquired where Anchises was to be found. They were 
directed where to seek him, and soon found him in a verdant valley, where he was 
contemplating the ranks of his posterity, their destinies and worthy deeds to be 
achieved in coming times.  When he recognized Aeneas approaching, he stretched out 
both hands to him, while tears flowed freely. "Have you come at last," said he, "long 
expected, and do I behold you after such perils past?  O my son, how have I trembled 
for you as I have watched your career!" To which Aeneas replied, "O father!  your 
image was always before me to guide and guard me." Then he endeavored to enfold 
his father in his embrace, but his arms enclosed only an unsubstantial image.

	Aeneas perceived before him a spacious valley, with trees gently waving to the 
wind, a tranquil landscape, through which the river Lethe flowed. Along the banks of 
the stream wandered a countless multitude, numerous as insects in the summer air.  
Aeneas, with surprise, inquired who were these. Anchises answered, "They are souls 
to which bodies are to be given in due time. Meanwhile they dwell on Lethe's bank, 
and drink oblivion of their former lives." "O, father!" said Aeneas, "is it possible that any 
can be so in love with life, as to wish to leave these tranquil seats for the upper world?" 
Anchises replied by explaining the plan of creation.  The Creator, he told him, originally 
made the material of which souls are composed, of the four elements, fire, air, earth, 
and water, all which when united took the form of the most excellent part, fire, and 
became flame.  This material was scattered like seed among the heavenly bodies, the 
sun, moon, and stars.  Of this seed the inferior gods created man and all other 
animals, mingling it with various proportions of earth, by which its purity was alloyed 
and reduced.  Thus the more earth predominates in the composition, the less pure is 
the individual; and we see men and women with their full-grown bodies have not the 
purity of childhood.  So in proportion to the time which the union of body and soul has 
lasted, is the impurity contracted by the spiritual part. This impurity must be purged 
away after death, which is done by ventilating the souls in the current of winds, or 
merging them in water, or burning out their impurities by fire.  Some few, of whom 
Anchises intimates that he is one, are admitted at once to Elysium, there to remain.  
But the rest, after the impurities of earth are purged away, are sent back to life 
endowed with new bodies, having had the remembrance of their former lives 
effectually washed away by the waters of Lethe.  Some, however, there still are, so 
thoroughly corrupted, that they are not fit to be intrusted with human bodies, and these 
are made into brute animals, lions, tigers, cats, dogs, monkeys, &c.  This is what the 
ancients called Metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls; a doctrine which is still 
held by the natives of India, who scruple to destroy the life, even of the most 
insignificant animal, not knowing but it may be one of their relations in an altered form.

	Anchises, having explained so much, proceeded to point out to Aeneas 
individuals of his race, who were hereafter to be born, and to relate to him the exploits 
they should perform in the world.  After this he reverted to the present, and told his son 
of the events that remained to him to be accomplished before the complete 
establishment of himself and his followers in Italy.  Wars were to be waged, battles 
fought, a bride to be won, and in the result a Trojan state founded, from which should 
rise the Roman power, to be in time the sovereign of the world.

	Aeneas and the Sibyl then took leave of Anchises, and returned by some short 
cut, which the poet does not explain, to the upper world.

Elysium. 

	Virgil, we have seen, places his Elysium under the earth, and assigns it for a 
residence to the spirits of the blessed.  But in Homer Elysium forms no part of the 
realms of the dead.  He places it on the west of the earth, near Ocean, and describes it 
as a happy land, where there is neither snow, nor cold, nor rain, and always fanned by 
the delightful breezes of Zephyrus. Hither favored heroes pass without dying and live 
happy under the rule of Rhadamanthus.  The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is in the 
Isles of the Blessed, or Fortunate Islands, in the Western Ocean.  From these sprang 
the legend of the happy island Atlantis.  This blissful region may have been wholly 
imaginary, but possibly may have sprung from the reports of some storm-driven 
mariners who had caught a glimpse of the coast of America.

	J. R. Lowell, in one of his shorter poems, claims for the present age some of the 
privileges of that happy realm Addressing the Past, he says, -

     "Whatever of true life there was in thee,
     Leaps in our age's veins."

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     "Here, 'mid the bleak waves of our strife and care,
     Float the green 'Fortunate Isles,'
     Where all thy hero-spirits dwell and share
     Our martyrdoms and toils.
     The present moves attended
     With all of brave and excellent and fair
     That made the old time splendid."

	Milton also alludes to the same fable in P. L., Book III., l. 568.


     "Like those Hesperian gardens famed of old,
     Fortunate fields and groves and flowery vales,
     Thrice happy isles."

	And in Book II. he characterizes the rivers of Erebus according to the meaning of 
their names in the Greek language: -

     "Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
     Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
     Cocytus named of lamentation loud
     Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
     Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.
     Far off from these a slow and silent stream,
     Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
     Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
     Forthwith his former state and being forgets,
     Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain."

The Sibyl. 

	As Aeneas and the Sibyl pursued their way back to earth, he said to her, 
"Whether thou be a goddess or a mortal beloved of the gods, by me thou shalt always 
be held in reverence.  When I reach the upper air, I will cause a temple to be built to thy 
honor, and will myself bring offerings." "I am no goddess," said the Sibyl; "I have no 
claim to sacrifice or offering.  I am mortal; yet if I could have accepted the love of Apollo, 
I might have been immortal. He promised me the fulfilment of my wish, if I would consent 
to be his.  I took a handful of sand, and holding it forth, said, 'Grant me to see as many 
birthdays as there are sand grains in my hand.' Unluckily I forgot to ask for enduring 
youth.  This also he would have granted, could I have accepted his love, but offended at 
my refusal, he allowed me to grow old.  My youth and youthful strength fled long ago.  I 
have lived seven hundred years, and to equal the number of the sand-grains, I have still 
to see three hundred springs and three hundred harvests.  My body shrinks up as years 
increase, and in time, I shall be lost to sight, but my voice will remain, and future ages 
will respect my sayings.


	These concluding words of the Sibyl alluded to her prophetic power.  In her cave 
she was accustomed to inscribe on leaves gathered from the trees the names and fates 
of individuals.  The leaves thus inscribed were arranged in order within the cave, and 
might be consulted by her votaries.  But if perchance at the opening of the door the wind 
rushed in and dispersed the leaves, the Sibyl gave no aid to restoring them again, and 
the oracle was irreparably lost.

	The following legend of the Sibyl is fixed at a later date.  In the reign of one of the 
Tarquins there appeared before the king a woman who offered him nine books for sale.  
The king refused to purchase them, whereupon the woman went away and burned three 
of the books, and returning offered the remaining books for the same price she had 
asked for the nine. The king again rejected them; but when the woman, after burning 
three books more, returned and asked for the three remaining the same price which she 
had before asked for the nine, his curiosity was excited, and he purchased the books.  
They were found to contain the destinies of the Roman state.  They were kept in the 
temple of Jupiter Capitolinus, preserved in a stone chest, and allowed to be inspected 
only by especial officers appointed for that duty, who on great occasions consulted them 
and interpreted their oracles to the people.

	There were various Sibyls; but the Cumaean Sibyl, of whom Ovid and Virgil write, 
is the most celebrated of them. Ovid's story of her life protracted to one thousand years 
may be intended to represent the various Sibyls as being only reappearances of one and 
the same individual.

	Young, in the Night Thoughts, alludes to the Sibyl Speaking of Worldly Wisdom, 
he says,

     "If future fate she plans 'tis all in leaves,
     Like Sibyl, unsubstantial, fleeting bliss;
     At the first blast it vanishes in air.

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     As worldly schemes resemble Sibyl's leaves,
     The good man's days to Sibyl's books compare,
     The price still rising as in number less."


Chapter XXXIII: Camilla - Evander - Nisus And Euryalus - Mezentius - 
Turnus

	Aeneas, having parted from the Sibyl and rejoined his fleet, coasted along the 
shores of Italy and cast anchor in the mouth of the Tiber.  The poet, having brought his 
hero to this spot, the destined termination of his wanderings, invokes his Muse to tell 
him the situation of things at that eventful moment.  Latinus, third in descent from 
Saturn, ruled the country. He was now old and had no male descendant, but had one 
charming daughter, Lavinia, who was sought in marriage by many neighboring chiefs, 
one of whom, Turnus, king of the Rutulians, was favored by the wishes of her parents.  
But Latinus had been warned in a dream by his father Faunus, that the destined 
husband of Lavinia should come from a foreign land.  From that union should spring a 
race destined to subdue the world.

	Our readers will remember that in the conflict with the Harpies, one of those half-
human birds had threatened the Trojans with dire sufferings.  In particular she 
predicted that before their wanderings ceased they should be pressed by hunger to 
devour their tables.  This portent now came true; for as they took their scanty meal, 
seated on the grass, the men placed their hard biscuit on their laps, and put thereon 
whatever their gleanings in the woods supplied.  Having despatched the latter they 
finished by eating the crusts. Seeing which, the boy Iulus said playfully, "See, we are 
eating our tables." Aeneas caught the words and accepted the omen.  "All hail, 
promised land!" he exclaimed, "this is our home, this our country!" He then took 
measures to find out who were the present inhabitants of the land, and who their 
rulers. A hundred chosen men were sent to the village of Latinus, bearing presents 
and a request for friendship and alliance.  They went and were favorably received. 
Latinus immediately concluded that the Trojan hero was no other than the promised 
son-in-law announced by the oracle.  He cheerfully granted his alliance and sent back 
the messengers mounted on steeds from his stables, and loaded with gifts and friendly 
messages.

	Juno, seeing things go thus prosperously for the Trojans, felt her old animosity 
revive, summoned Alecto from Erebus, and sent her to stir up discord.  The Fury first 
took possession of the queen, Amata, and roused her to oppose in every way the new 
alliance.  Alecto then speeded to the city of Turnus, and assuming the form of an old 
priestess, informed him of the arrival of the foreigners and of the attempts of their 
prince to rob him of his bride. Next she turned her attention to the camp of the Trojans.  
There she saw the boy Iulus and his companions amusing themselves with hunting. 
She sharpened the scent of the dogs, and led them to rouse up from the thicket a tame 
stag, the favorite of Silvia, the daughter of Tyrrheus, the king's herdsman.  A javelin 
from the hand of Iulus wounded the animal, and he had only strength left to run 
homewards, and died at his mistress's feet. Her cries and tears roused her brothers 
and the herdsmen, and they, seizing whatever weapons came to hand, furiously 
assaulted the hunting party.  These were protected by their friends, and the herdsmen 
were finally driven back with the loss of two of their number.

	These things were enough to rouse the storm of war, and the queen, Turnus, and 
the peasants all urged the old king to drive the strangers from the country.  He resisted 
as long as he could, but finding his opposition unavailing, finally gave way and 
retreated to his retirement.

Opening The Gates Of Janus. 

	It was the custom of the country, when war was to be undertaken, for the chief 
magistrate, clad in his robes of office, with solemn pomp to open the gates of the 
temple of Janus, which were kept shut as long as peace endured. His people now 
urged the old king to perform that solemn office, but he refused to do so.  While they 
contested, Juno herself, descending from the skies, smote the doors with irresistible 
force, and burst them open. Immediately the whole country was in a flame.  The 
people rushed from every side breathing nothing but war.

	Turnus was recognized by all as leader; others joined as allies, chief of whom 
was Mezentius, a brave and able soldier, but of detestable cruelty. He had been the 
chief of one of the neighboring cities, but his people drove him out.  With him was 
joined his son Lausus, a generous youth worthy of a better sire.

Camilla. 

	Camilla, the favorite of Diana, a huntress and warrior, after the fashion of the 
Amazons, came with her band of mounted followers, including a select number of her 
own sex, and ranged herself on the side of the Turnus. This maiden had never 
accustomed her fingers to the distaff or the loom, but had learned to endure the toils of 
war, and in speed to outstrip the wind. It seemed as if she might run over the standing 
corn without crushing it, or over the surface of the water without dipping her feet.  
Camilla's history had been singular from the beginning.  Her father, Metabus, driven 
from his city by civil discord, carried with him in his flight his infant daughter. As he fled 
through the woods, his enemies in hot pursuit, he reached the bank of the river 
Amazenus, which, swelled by rains, seemed to debar a passage. He paused for a 
moment, then decided what to do.  He tied the infant to his lance with wrappers of 
bark, and poising the weapon in his upraised hand, thus addressed Diana: "Goddess 
of the woods!  I consecrate this maid to you;" then hurled the weapon with its burden to 
the opposite bank.  The spear flew across the roaring water.  His pursuers were 
already upon him, but he plunged into the river and swam across and found the spear, 
with the infant safe on the other side.  Thenceforth he lived among the shepherds and 
brought up his daughter in woodland arts.  While a child she was taught to use the bow 
and throw the javelin.  With her sling she could bring down the crane or the wild swan.  
Her dress was a tiger's skin.  Many mothers sought her for a daughter-in-law, but she 
continued faithful to Diana and repelled the thought of marriage.

Evander. 

	Such were the formidable allies that ranged themselves against Aeneas. It was 
night and he lay stretched in sleep on the bank of the river, under the open heavens.  
The god of the stream, Father Tiber, seemed to raise his head above the willows and 
to say, "O goddess-born, destined possessor of the Latin realms, this is the promised 
land, here is to be your home, here shall terminate the hostility of the heavenly powers, 
if only you faithfully persevere.  There are friends not far distant.  Prepare your boats 
and row up my stream; I will lead you to Evander the Arcadian chief.  He has long 
been at strife with Turnus and the Rutulians, and is prepared to become an ally of 
yours.  Rise!  offer your vows to Juno, and deprecate her anger.  When you have 
achieved your victory then think of me." Aeneas woke and paid immediate obedience 
to the friendly vision.  He sacrificed to Juno, and invoked the god of the river and all his 
tributary fountains to lend their aid.  Then for the first time a vessel filled with armed 
warriors floated on the stream of the Tiber.  The river smoothed its waves, and bade its 
current flow gently, while, impelled by the vigorous strokes of the rowers, the vessel 
shot rapidly up the stream.

	About the middle of the day they came in sight of the scattered buildings of the 
infant town where in after times the proud city of Rome grew, whose glory reached the 
skies.  By chance the old king, Evander, was that day celebrating annual solemnities in 
honor of Hercules and all the gods.  Pallas, his son, and all the chiefs of the little 
commonwealth stood by.  When they saw the tall ship gliding onward through the 
wood, they were alarmed at the sight, and rose from the tables.  But Pallas forbade the 
solemnities to be interrupted, and seizing a weapon, stepped forward to the river's 
bank.  He called aloud, demanding who they were, and what their object.  Aeneas, 
holding forth an olive-branch, replied, "We are Trojans, friends to you and enemies to 
the Rutulians.  We seek Evander, and offer to join our arms with yours." Pallas, in 
amaze at the sound of so great a name, invited them to land, and when Aeneas 
touched the shore he seized his hand, and held it long in friendly grasp.  Proceeding 
through the wood they joined the king and his party and were most favorably received.  
Seats were provided for them at the tables, and the repast proceeded.

Infant Rome. 

	When the solemnities were ended all moved towards the city.  The king, bending 
with age, walked between his son and Aeneas, taking the arm of one or the other of 
them, and with much variety of pleasing talk shortening the way. Aeneas with delight 
looked and listened, observing all the beauties of the scene, and learning much of 
heroes renowned in ancient times.  Evander said, "These extensive groves were once 
inhabited by fauns and nymphs, and a rude race of men who sprang from the trees 
themselves, and had neither laws nor social culture.  They knew not how to yoke the 
cattle nor raise a harvest, nor provide from present abundance for future want; but 
browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, or fed voraciously on their hunted prey.  
Such were they when Saturn, expelled from Olympus by his sons, came among them 
and drew together the fierce savages, formed them into society, and gave them laws. 
Such peace and plenty ensued that men ever since have called his reign the golden 
age; but by degrees far other times succeeded, and the thirst of gold and the thirst of 
blood prevailed.  The land was a prey to successive tyrants, till fortune and resistless 
destiny brought me hither, an exile from my native land, Arcadia."

	Having thus said, he showed him the Tarpeian rock, and the rude spot then 
overgrown with bushes where in after times the Capitol rose in all its magnificence.  He 
next pointed to some dismantled walls, and said, "Here stood Janiculum, built by 
Janus, and there Saturnia, the town of Saturn." Such discourse brought them to the 
cottage of poor Evander, whence they saw the lowing herds roaming over the plain 
where now the proud and stately Forum stands.  They entered, and a couch was 
spread for Aeneas, well stuffed with leaves and covered with the skin of a Libyan bear.

	Next morning, awakened by the dawn and the shrill song of birds beneath the 
eaves of his low mansion, old Evander rose.  Clad in a tunic, and a panther's skin 
thrown over his shoulders, with sandals on his feet, and his good sword girded to his 
side, he went forth to seek his guest.  Two mastiffs followed him, his whole retinue and 
body guard.  He found the hero attended by his faithful Achates, and, Pallas soon 
joining them, the old king spoke thus: -

	"Illustrious Trojan, it is but little we can do in so great a cause. Our state is feeble, 
hemmed in on one side by the river, on the other by the Rutulians.  But I propose to 
ally you with a people numerous and rich, to whom fate has brought you at the 
propitious moment.  The Etruscans hold the country beyond the river.  Mezentius was 
their king, a monster of cruelty, who invented unheard-of torments to gratify his 
vengeance.  He would fasten the dead to the living, hand to hand and face to face, and 
leave the wretched victims to die in that dreadful embrace.  At length the people cast 
him out, him and his house They burned his palace and slew his friends.  He escaped 
and took refuge with Turnus, who protects him with arms.  The Etruscans demand that 
he shall be given up to deserved punishment, and would ere now have attempted to 
enforce their demand; but their priests restrain them, telling them that it is the will of 
heaven that no native of the land shall guide them to victory, and that their destined 
leader must come from across the sea. They have offered the crown to me, but I am 
too old to undertake such great affairs, and my son is native-born, which precludes him 
from the choice.  You, equally by birth and time of life, and fame in arms, pointed out 
by the gods, have but to appear to be hailed at once as their leader. With you I will join 
Pallas, my son, my only hope and comfort.  Under you he shall learn the art of war, 
and strive to emulate your great exploits."

	Then the king ordered horses to be furnished for the Trojan chiefs, and Aeneas, 
with a chosen band of followers and Pallas accompanying, mounted and took the way 
to the Etruscan city, ^* having sent back the rest of his party in the ships.  Aeneas and 
his band safely arrived at the Etruscan camp and were received with open arms by 
Tarchon and his countrymen.

	[Footnote *: The poet here inserts a famous line which is thought to imitate in its 
sound the galloping of horses.  It may be thus translated: "Then struck the hoofs of the 
steeds on the ground with a four-footed trampling." - See Proverbial Expressions, page 
479.]

Nisus And Euryalus. 

	In the meanwhile Turnus had collected his bands and made all necessary 
preparations for the war.  Juno sent Iris to him with a message inciting him to take 
advantage of the absence of Aeneas and surprise the Trojan camp. Accordingly the 
attempt was made, but the Trojans were found on their guard, and having received 
strict orders from Aeneas not to fight in his absence, they lay still in their 
intrenchments, and resisted all the efforts of the Rutulians to draw them into the field.  
Night coming on the army of Turnus, in high spirits at their fancied superiority, feasted 
and enjoyed themselves, and finally stretched themselves on the field and slept 
secure.

	In the camp of the Trojans things were far otherwise.  There all was watchfulness 
and anxiety, and impatience for Aeneas's return.  Nisus stood guard at the entrance of 
the camp, and Euryalus, a youth distinguished above all in the army for graces of 
person and fine qualities, was with him.  These two were friends and brothers in arms.  
Nisus said to his friend, "Do you perceive what confidence and carelessness the 
enemy display?  Their lights are few and dim, and the men seem all oppressed with 
wine or sleep.  You know how anxiously our chiefs wish to send to Aeneas, and to get 
intelligence from him. Now I am strongly moved to make my way through the enemy's 
camp and to go in search of our chief.  If I succeed, the glory of the deed will be 
reward enough for me, and if they judge the service deserves any thing more, let them 
pay it to you."

	Euryalus, all on fire with the love of adventure, replied, "Would you then, Nisus, 
refuse to share your enterprise with me?  And shall I let you go into such danger 
alone?  Not so my brave father brought me up, nor so have I planned for myself when I 
joined the standard of Aeneas, and resolved to hold my life cheap in comparison with 
honor." Nisus replied, "I doubt it not, my friend; but you know the uncertain event of 
such as undertaking, and whatever may happen to me, I wish you to be safe.  You are 
younger than I and have more of life in prospect.  Nor can I be the cause of such grief 
to your mother, who has chosen to be here in the camp with you rather than stay and 
live in peace with the other matrons in Acestes' city." Euryalus replied, "Say no more.  
In vain you seek arguments to dissuade me.  I am fixed in the resolution to go with 
you.  Let us lose no time." They called the guard, and committing the watch to them, 
sought the general's tent.  They found the chief officers in consultation, deliberating 
how they should send notice to Aeneas of their situation.  The offer of the two friends 
was gladly accepted, themselves loaded with praises and promised the most liberal 
rewards in case of success. Iulus especially addressed Euryalus, assuring him of his 
lasting friendship. Euryalus replied, "I have but one boon to ask.  My aged mother is 
with me in the camp.  For me she left the Trojan soil, and would not stay behind with 
the other matrons at the city of Acestes.  I go now without taking leave of her. I could 
not bear her tears nor set at nought her entreaties.  But do thou, I beseech you, 
comfort her in her distress. Promise me that and I shall go more boldly into whatever 
dangers may present themselves." Iulus and the other chiefs were moved to tears, and 
promised to do all his request.  "Your mother shall be mine," said Iulus, "and all that I 
have promised to you shall be made good to her, if you do not return to receive it."

	The two friends left the camp and plunged at once into the midst of the enemy.  
They found no watch, no sentinels posted, but all about, the sleeping soldiers strewn 
on the grass and among the wagons.  The laws of war at that early day did not forbid a 
brave man to slay a sleeping foe, and the two Trojans slew, as they passed, such of 
the enemy as they could without exciting alarm.  In one tent Euryalus made prize of a 
helmet brilliant with gold and plumes.  They had passed through the enemy's ranks 
without being discovered, but now suddenly appeared a troop directly in front of them, 
which, under Volscens, their leader, were approaching the camp.  The glittering helmet 
of Euryalus caught their attention, and Volscens hailed the two, and demanded who 
and whence they were.  They made no answer, but plunged into the wood.  The 
horsemen scattered in all directions to intercept their flight.  Nisus had eluded pursuit 
and was out of danger, but Euryalus being missing he turned back to seek him.  He 
again entered the wood and soon came within sound of voices.  Looking through the 
thicket he saw the whole band surrounding Euryalus with noisy questions.  What 
should he do!  how extricate the youth! or would it be better to die with him?

	Raising his eyes to the moon which now shone clear, he said, "Goddess! favor 
my effort!" and aiming his javelin at one of the leaders of the troop, struck him in the 
back and stretched him on the plain with a death-blow.  In the midst of their 
amazement another weapon flew and another of the party fell dead.  Volscens, the 
leader, ignorant whence the darts came, rushed sword in hand upon Euryalus.  "You 
shall pay the penalty of both," he said, and would have plunged the sword into his 
bosom, when Nisus, who from his concealment saw the peril of his friend, rushed 
forward exclaiming, "'Twas I, 'twas I; turn your swords against me, Rutulians; I did it; 
he only followed me as a friend." While he spoke the sword fell, and pierced the 
comely bosom of Euryalus.  His head fell over on his shoulder, like a flower cut down 
by the plough Nisus rushed upon Volscens and plunged his sword into his body, and 
was himself slain on the instant by numberless blows.

Mezentius. 

	Aeneas, with his Etrurian allies, arrived on the scene of action in time to rescue 
his beleaguered camp; and now the two armies being nearly equal in strength, the war 
began in good earnest.  We cannot find space for all the details, but must simply 
record the fate of the principal characters whom we have introduced to our readers.  
The tyrant Mezentius, finding himself engaged against his revolted subjects, raged like 
a wild beast.  He slew all who dared to withstand him, and put the multitude to flight 
wherever he appeared.  At last he encountered Aeneas, and the armies stood still to 
see the issue. Mezentius threw his spear, which striking Aeneas's shield glanced off 
and hit Anthor.  He was a Grecian by birth, who had left Argos, his native city, and 
followed Evander into Italy.  The poet says of him with simple pathos which has made 
the words proverbial, "He fell, unhappy, by a wound intended for another, looked up to 
the skies, and dying remembered sweet Argos." ^* Aeneas now in turn hurled his 
lance.  It pierced the shield of Mezentius, and wounded him in the thigh.  Lausus, his 
son, could not bear the sight, but rushed forward and interposed himself, while the 
followers pressed round Mezentius and bore him away.  Aeneas held his sword 
suspended over Lausus and delayed to strike, but the furious youth pressed on and he 
was compelled to deal the fatal blow.  Lausus fell, and Aeneas bent over him in pity.  
"Hapless youth," he said, "what can I do for you worthy of your praise?  Keep those 
arms in which you glory, and fear not but that your body shall be restored to your 
friends, and have due funeral honors." So saying, he called the timid followers and 
delivered the body into their hands.

	[Footnote *: See Proverbial Expressions, page 479.]

	Mezentius meanwhile had been borne to the river-side, and washed his wound.  
Soon the news reached him of Lausus's death, and rage and despair supplied the 
place of strength.  He mounted his horse and dashed into the thickest of the fight, 
seeking Aeneas.  Having found him, he rode round him in a circle, throwing one javelin 
after another, while Aeneas stood fenced with his shield, turning every way to meet 
them.  At last, after Mezentius had three times made the circuit, Aeneas threw his 
lance directly at the horse's head.  It pierced his temples and he fell, while a shout from 
both armies rent the skies.  Mezentius asked no mercy, but only that his body might be 
spared the insults of his revolted subjects, and be buried in the same grave with his 
son.  He received the fatal stroke not unprepared, and poured out his life and his blood 
together.

Pallas, Camilla, Turnus. 

	While these things were doing in one part of the field, in another Turnus 
encountered the youthful Pallas.  The contest between champions so unequally 
matched could not be doubtful.  Pallas bore himself bravely, but fell by the lance of 
Turnus.  The victor almost relented when he saw the brave youth lying dead at his 
feet, and spared to use the privilege of a conqueror in despoiling him of his arms.  The 
belt only, adorned with studs and carvings of gold, he took and clasped round his own 
body.  The rest he remitted to the friends of the slain.

	After the battle there was a cessation of arms for some days to allow both armies 
to bury their dead.  In this interval Aeneas challenged Turnus to decide the contest by 
single combat, but Turnus evaded the challenge. Another battle ensued, in which 
Camilla, the virgin warrior, was chiefly conspicuous. Her deeds of valor surpassed 
those of the bravest warriors, and many Trojans and Etruscans fell pierced with her 
darts or struck down by her battleaxe.  At last an Etruscan named Aruns, who had 
watched her long, seeking for some advantage, observed her pursuing a flying enemy 
whose splendid armor offered a tempting prize.  Intent on the chase she observed not 
her danger, and the javelin of Aruns struck her and inflicted a fatal wound.  She fell 
and breathed her last in the arms of her attendant maidens. But Diana, who beheld her 
fate, suffered not her slaughter to be unavenged. Aruns, as he stole away, glad but 
frightened, was struck by a secret arrow, launched by one of the nymphs of Diana's 
train, and died ignobly and unknown.

	At length the final conflict took place between Aeneas and Turnus. Turnus had 
avoided the contest as long as he could, but at last impelled by the ill success of his 
arms, and by the murmurs of his followers, he braced himself to the conflict.  It could 
not be doubtful.  On the side of Aeneas were the expressed decree of destiny, the aid 
of his goddess-mother at every emergency, and impenetrable armor fabricated by 
Vulcan, at her request, for her son. Turnus, on the other hand, was deserted by his 
celestial allies, Juno having been expressly forbidden by Jupiter to assist him any 
longer. Turnus threw his lance, but it recoiled harmless from the shield of Aeneas. The 
Trojan hero then threw his, which penetrated the shield of Turnus, and pierced his 
thigh. Then Turnus's fortitude forsook him and he begged for mercy; and Aeneas 
would have given him his life, but at the instant his eye fell on the belt of Pallas, which 
Turnus had taken from the slaughtered youth.  Instantly his rage revived, and 
exclaiming, "Pallas immolates thee with this blow," he thrust him through with his 
sword.

	Here the poem of the Aeneid closes, and we are left to infer that Aeneas, having 
triumphed over his foes, obtained Lavinia for his bride. Tradition adds that he founded 
his city, and called it after her name, Lavinium.  His son Iulus founded Alba Longa, 
which was the birthplace of Romulus and Remus, and the cradle of Rome itself.

	There is an allusion to Camilla in those well-known lines of Pope, in which, 
illustrating the rule that "the sound should be an echo to the sense," he says, -

     When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw,
     The line too labors and the words move slow.
     Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
     Flies o'er th' unbending corn or skims along the main."

     Essay on Criticism


Chapter XXXIV: Pythagoras - Egyptian Deities - Oracles

Pythagoras. 
	The teachings of Anchises to Aeneas, respecting the nature of the human soul, 
were in conformity with the doctrines of the Pythagoreans.  Pythagoras (born five 
hundred and forty years B. C.) was a native of the island of Samos, but passed the 
chief portion of his life at Crotona in Italy.  He is therefore sometimes called "the 
Samian," and sometimes "the philosopher of Crotona." When young he travelled 
extensively, and it is said visited Egypt, where he was instructed by the priests in all 
their learning, and afterwards journeyed to the East, and visited the Persian and 
Chaldean Magi, and the Brahmins of India.

	At Crotona, where he finally established himself, his extraordinary qualities 
collected round him a great number of disciples.  The inhabitants were notorious for 
luxury and licentiousness, but the good effects of his influence were soon visible.  
Sobriety and temperance succeeded.  Six hundred of the inhabitants became his 
disciples and enrolled themselves in a society to aid each other in the pursuit of 
wisdom; uniting their property in one common stock, for the benefit of the whole.  They 
were required to practise the greatest purity and simplicity of manners.  The first 
lesson they learned was silence; for a time they were required to be only hearers.  "He 
[Pythagoras] said so," (Ipse dixit,) was to be held by them as sufficient, without any 
proof.  It was only the advanced pupils, after years of patient submission, who were 
allowed to ask questions and to state objections.

	Pythagoras considered numbers as the essence and principle of all things, and 
attributed to them a real and distinct existence; so that in his view, they were the 
elements out of which the universe was constructed.  How he conceived this process 
has never been satisfactorily explained.  He traced the various forms and phenomena 
of the world to numbers as their basis and essence.  The "Monad" or unit he regarded 
as the source of all numbers.  The number Two was imperfect, and the cause of 
increase and division.  Three was called the number of the whole because it had a 
beginning, middle, and end; Four, representing the square, is in the highest degree 
perfect; and Ten, as it contains the sum of the four prime numbers, comprehends all 
musical and arithmetical proportions, and denotes the system of the world.

	As the numbers proceed from the monad, so he regarded the pure and simple 
essence of the Deity, as the source of all the forms of nature.  Gods, demons and 
heroes are emanations of the Supreme, and there is a fourth emanation, the human 
soul.  This is immortal, and when freed from the fetters of the body, passes to the 
habitation of the dead, where it remains till it returns to the world, to dwell in some 
other human or animal body, and at last when sufficiently purified, it returns to the 
source from which it proceeded.  This doctrine of the transmigration of souls, 
(metempsychosis,) which was originally Egyptian and connected with the doctrine of 
reward and punishment of human actions, was the chief cause why the Pythagoreans 
killed no animals. Ovid represents Pythagoras addressing his disciples in these words: 
"Souls never die, but always on quitting one abode, pass to another. I myself can 
remember that in the time of the Trojan war I was Euphorbus, the son of Panthus, and 
fell by the spear of Menelaus.  Lately being in the temple of Juno, at Argos, I 
recognized my shield hung up there among the trophies.  All things change, nothing 
perishes.  The soul passes hither and thither, occupying now this body, now that, 
passing from the body of a beast into that of a man, and thence to a beast's again.  As 
wax is stamped with certain figures, then melted, then stamped anew with others, yet 
is always the same wax, so the soul, being always the same, yet wears, at different 
times, different forms.  Therefore, if the love of kindred is not extinct in your bosoms, 
forbear, I entreat you, to violate the life of those who may haply be your own relatives."

	Shakspeare, in the Merchant of Venice, makes Gratiano allude to the 
metempsychosis, where he says to Shylock, -

     "Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith,
     To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
     That souls of animals infuse themselves
     Into the trunks of men; thy currish spirit
     Governed a wolf; who hanged for human slaughter
     Infused his soul in thee; for thy desires
     Are wolfish, bloody, starved and ravenous."

	The relation of the notes of the musical scale to numbers, whereby harmony 
results from vibrations in equal times, and discord from the reverse, led Pythagoras to 
apply the word "harmony" to the visible creation, meaning by it the just adaptation of 
parts to each other.  This is the idea which Dryden expresses in the beginning of his 
Song for St. Cecilia's Day: -

     "From harmony, from heavenly harmony
     This everlasting frame began;
     From harmony to harmony
     Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
     The Diapason closing full in Man."

	In the centre of the universe (he taught) there was a central fire, the principle of 
life.  The central fire was surrounded by the earth, the moon, the sun, and the five 
planets.  The distances of the various heavenly bodies from one another were conceived 
to correspond to the proportions of the musical scale.  The heavenly bodies, with the 
gods who inhabited them, were supposed to perform a choral dance round the central 
fire, "not without song." It is this doctrine which Shakspeare alludes to when he makes 
Lorenzo teach astronomy to Jessica in this fashion: -

     "Look, Jessica, see how the floor of heaven
     Is thick inlaid with pattens of bright gold!
     There's not the smallest orb that thou behold'st
     But in his motion like an angel sings,
     Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubim;
     Such harmony is in immortal souls!
     But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
     Doth grossly close it in we cannot hear it."

     Merchant of Venice.

	The spheres were conceived to be crystalline or glassy fabrics arranged over one 
another like a nest of bowls reversed.  In the substance of each sphere one or more of 
the heavenly bodies was supposed to be fixed, so as to move with it.  As the spheres 
are transparent we look through them and see the heavenly bodies which they contain 
and carry round with them.  But as these spheres cannot move on one another without 
friction, a sound is thereby produced which is of exquisite harmony, too fine for mortal 
ears to recognize. Milton, in his Hymn to the Nativity, thus alludes to the music of the 
spheres:

     "Ring out, ye crystal spheres!
     Once bless our human ears;
     (If ye have power to charm our senses so;)
     And let your silver chime
     Move in melodious time,
     And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow;
     And with your ninefold harmony
     Make up full concert with the angelic symphony."

	Pythagoras is said to have invented the lyre.  Our own poet Longfellow, in Verses 
to a Child, thus relates the story: -

     "As great Pythagoras of yore,
     Standing beside the blacksmith's door,
     And hearing the hammers as they smote
     The anvils with a different note,
     Stole from the varying tones that hung
     Vibrant on every iron tongue,
     The secret of the sounding wire,
     And formed the seven-chorded lyre."

	See also the same poet's Occultation of Orion.

	"The Samian's great Aeolian lyre."

Sybaris And Crotona. 

	Sybaris, a neighboring city to Crotona, was as celebrated for luxury and 
effeminacy as Crotona for the reverse.  The name has become proverbial.  J. R. Lowell 
uses it in this sense in his charming little poem, - To the Dandelion:

     "Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
     Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment
     In the white lily's breezy tent,
     (His conquered Sybaris) than I when first
     From the dark green thy yellow circles burst."

	A war arose between the two cities, and Sybaris was conquered and destroyed.  
Milo the celebrated athlete led the army of Crotona.  Many stories are told of Milo's vast 
strength, such as his carrying a heifer of four years old upon his shoulders and 
afterwards eating the whole of it in a single day. The mode of his death is thus related.  
As he was passing through a forest he saw the trunk of a tree which had been partially 
split open by wood-cutters, and attempted to rend it further; but the wood closed upon 
his hands and held him fast, in which state he was attacked and devoured by wolves.

	Byron, in his Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte, alludes to the story of Milo: -


     "He who of old would rend the oak
     Deemed not of the rebound;
     Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,
     Alone, how looked he round!"

Egyptian Deities. 

	The Egyptians acknowledged as the highest deity Amun, afterwards called Zeus, 
or Jupiter Ammon.  Amun manifested himself in his word or will, which created Kneph 
and Athor, of different sexes.  From Kneph and Athor proceeded Osiris and Isis.  Osiris 
was worshipped as the god of the sun, the source of warmth, life, and fruitfulness, in 
addition to which he was also regarded as the god of the Nile, who annually visited his 
wife, Isis, (the Earth,) by means of an inundation.  Serapis or Hermes is sometimes 
represented as identical with Osiris, and sometimes as a distinct divinity, the ruler of 
Tartarus and god of medicine.  Anubis is the guardian god, represented with a dog's 
head, emblematic of his character of fidelity and watchfulness. Horus or Harpocrates 
was the son of Osiris.  He is represented seated on a Lotus flower, with his finger on his 
lips, as the god of Silence.

	In one of Moore's Irish Melodies is an allusion to Harpocrates: -


     "Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
     Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip;
     Like him, the boy, who born among
     The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
     Sits ever thus, - his only song
     To Earth and Heaven, "Hush all, hush!"

Myth Of Osiris And Isis. 

	Osiris and Isis were at one time induced to descend to the earth to bestow gifts 
and blessings on its inhabitants Isis showed them first the use of wheat and barley, and 
Osiris made the instruments of agriculture and taught men the use of them, as well as 
how to harness the ox to the plough. He then gave men laws, the institution of marriage, 
a civil organization, and taught them how to worship the gods.  After he had thus made 
the valley of the Nile a happy country, he assembled a host with which he went to 
bestow his blessings upon the rest of the world.  He conquered the nations every where, 
but not with weapons only with music and eloquence.  His brother Typhon saw this, and 
filled with envy and malice sought during his absence to usurp his throne. But Isis, who 
held the reins of government, frustrated his plans.  Still more imbittered, he now resolved 
to kill his brother.  This he did in the following manner.  Having organized a conspiracy of 
seventy-two members he went with them to the feast which was celebrated in honor of 
the king's return.  He then caused a box or chest to be brought in, which had been made 
to fit exactly the size of Osiris, and declared that he would give that chest of precious 
wood to whosoever could get into it.  The rest tried in vain, but no sooner was Osiris in it 
than Typhon and his companions closed the lid and flung the chest into the Nile.  When 
Isis heard of the cruel murder she wept and mourned, and then with her hair shorn, 
clothed in black and beating her breast, she sought diligently for the body of her 
husband. In this search she was materially assisted by Anubis, the son of Osiris and 
Nephthys.  They sought in vain for some time; for when the chest, carried by the waves 
to the shores of Byblos, had become entangled in the reeds that grew at the edge of the 
water, the divine power that dwelt in the body of Osiris imparted such strength to the 
shrub that it grew into a mighty tree, enclosing in its trunk the coffin of the god.  This tree 
with its sacred deposit was shortly after felled, and erected as a column in the palace of 
the king of Phoenicia.  But at length by the aid of Anubis and the sacred birds, Isis 
ascertained these facts, and then went to the royal city.  There she offered herself at the 
palace as a servant, and being admitted, threw off her disguise and appeared as the 
goddess, surrounded with thunder and lightning.  Striking the column with her wand she 
caused it to split open and give up the sacred coffin.  This she seized and returned with 
it, and concealed it in the depth of a forest, but Typhon discovered it, and cutting the 
body into fourteen pieces scattered them hither and thither.  After a tedious search, Isis 
found thirteen pieces, the fishes of the Nile having eaten the other.  This she replaced by 
an imitation of sycamore wood, and buried the body at Philoe, which became ever after 
the great burying place of the nation, and the spot to which pilgrimages were made from 
all parts of the country.  A temple of surpassing magnificence was also erected there in 
honor of the god, and at every place where one of his limbs had been found, minor 
temples and tombs were built to commemorate the event. Osiris became after that the 
tutelar deity of the Egyptians.  His soul was supposed always to inhabit the body of the 
bull Apis, and at his death to transfer itself to his successor.

	Apis, the Bull of Memphis, was worshipped with the greatest reverence by the 
Egyptians.  The individual animal who was held to be Apis was recognized by certain 
signs.  It was requisite that he should be quite black, have a white square mark on the 
forehead, another, in the form of an eagle, on his back, and under his tongue a lump 
somewhat in the shape of a scarabaeus or beetle.  As soon as a bull thus marked was 
found by those sent in search of him. he was placed in a building facing the east, and 
was fed with milk for four months.  At the expiration of this term the priests repaired at 
new moon, with great pomp, to his habitation and saluted him Apis.  He was placed in a 
vessel magnificently decorated and conveyed down the Nile to Memphis, where a 
temple, with two chapels and a court for exercise, was assigned to him. Sacrifices were 
made to him, and once every year, about the time when the Nile began to rise, a golden 
cup was thrown into the river, and a grand festival was held to celebrate his birthday.  
The people believed that during this festival the crocodiles forgot their natural ferocity 
and became harmless. There was however one drawback to his happy lot; he was not 
permitted to live beyond a certain period; and if when he had attained the age of twenty-
five years, he still survived, the priests drowned him in the sacred cistern, and then 
buried him in the temple of Serapis.  On the death of this bull, whether it occurred in the 
course of nature or by violence, the whole land was filled with sorrow and lamentations, 
which lasted until his successor was found.

	We find the following item in one of the newspapers of the day: -

	The Tomb of Apis. - The excavations going on at Memphis bid fair to make that 
buried city as interesting as Pompeii.  The monster tomb of Apis is now open, after 
having lain unknown for centuries.

	Milton, in his Hymn of the Nativity, alludes to the Egyptian deities, not as 
imaginary beings, but as real demons, put to flight by the coming of Christ: -

     "The brutish gods of Nile as fast,
     Isis and Horus and the dog Anubis haste.
     Nor is Osiris seen
     In Memphian grove or green
     Trampling the ^* unshowered grass with lowings loud;
     Nor can he be at rest
     Within his sacred chest;
     Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud.
     In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark
     The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark."

	[Footnote *: There being no rain in Egypt, the grass is "unshowered," and the 
country depends for its fertility upon the overflowings of the Nile The ark alluded to in the 
last line is shown by pictures still remaining on the walls of the Egyptian temples to have 
been borne by the priests in their religious processions.  It probably represented the 
chest in which Osiris was placed.]

	Isis was represented in statuary with the head veiled, a symbol of mystery.  It is 
this which Tennyson alludes to in Maud, IV. 8: -

	"For the drift of the Maker is dark, an Isis hid by the veil," &c.

Oracles. 

	Oracle was the name used to denote the place where answers were supposed to 
be given by any of the divinities to those who consulted them respecting the future.  The 
word was also used to signify the response which was given.

	The most ancient Grecian oracle was that of Jupiter at Dodona. According to one 
account it was established in the following manner.  Two black doves took their flight 
from Thebes in Egypt.  One flew to Dodona in Epirus and alighting in a grove of oaks, it 
proclaimed in human language to the inhabitants of the district that they must establish 
there an oracle of Jupiter.  The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the 
Libyan oasis, and delivered a similar command there.  Another account is, that they 
were not doves, but priestesses, who were carried off from Thebes in Egypt by the 
Phoenicians, and set up oracles at the Oasis and Dodona.  The responses of the oracle 
were given from the trees, by the branches rustling in the wind, the sounds being 
interpreted by the priests.

	But the most celebrated of the Grecian oracles was that of Apollo at Delphi, a city 
built on the slopes of Parnassus in Phocis.

	It had been observed at a very early period that the goats feeding on Parnassus 
were thrown into convulsions when they approached a certain long deep cleft in the side 
of the mountain.  This was owing to a peculiar vapor arising out of the cavern, and one 
of the goatherds was induced to try its effects upon himself.  Inhaling the intoxicating air 
he was affected in the same manner as the cattle had been, and the inhabitants of the 
surrounding country, unable to explain the circumstance, imputed the convulsive ravings 
to which he gave utterance while under the power of the exhalations, to a divine 
inspiration.  The fact was speedily circulated widely, and a temple was erected on the 
spot.  The prophetic influence was at first variously attributed to the goddess Earth, to 
Neptune, Themis, and others, but it was at length assigned to Apollo, and to him alone.  
A priestess was appointed whose office it was to inhale the hallowed air, and who was 
named the Pythia. She was prepared for this duty by previous ablution at the fountain of 
Castalia, and being crowned with laurel was seated upon a tripod similarly adorned, 
which was placed over the chasm whence the divine afflatus proceeded.  Her inspired 
words while thus situated were interpreted by the priests.

Oracle Of Trophonius. 

	Besides the oracles of Jupiter and Apollo, at Dodona and Delphi, that of 
Trophonius in Boeotia was held in high estimation.  Trophonius and Agamedes were 
brothers.  They were distinguished architects, and built the temple of Apollo at Delphi, 
and a treasury for King Hyrieus.  In the wall of the treasury they placed a stone, in such 
a manner that it could be taken out; and by this means from time to time purloined the 
treasure.  This amazed Hyrieus, for his locks and seals were untouched, and yet his 
wealth continually diminished.  At length he set a trap for the thief and Agamedes was 
caught. Trophonius unable to extricate him, and fearing that when found he would be 
compelled by torture to discover his accomplice, cut off his head.  Trophonius himself is 
said to have been shortly afterwards swallowed up by the earth.

	The oracle of Trophonius was at Lebadea in Boeotia.  During a great drought the 
Boeotians, it is said, were directed by the god at Delphi to seek aid of Trophonius at 
Lebadea.  They came thither, but could find no oracle. One of them however, happening 
to see a swarm of bees, followed them to a chasm in the earth, which proved to be the 
place sought.

	Peculiar ceremonies were to be performed by the person who came to consult 
the oracle.  After these preliminaries, he descended into the cave by a narrow passage.  
This place could be entered only in the night.  The person returned from the cave by the 
same narrow passage, but walking backwards.  He appeared melancholy and dejected; 
and hence the proverb which was applied to a person low-spirited and gloomy, "He has 
been consulting the oracle of Trophonius."

Oracle Of Aesculapius. 

	There were numerous oracles of Aesculapius, but the most celebrated one was 
at Epidaurus.  Here the sick sought responses and the recovery of their health by 
sleeping in the temple.  It has been inferred from the accounts that have come down to 
us, that the treatment of the sick resembled what is now called Animal Magnetism or 
Mesmerism.

	Serpents were sacred to Aesculapius, probably because of a superstition that 
those animals have a faculty of renewing their youth by a change of skin. The worship of 
Aesculapius was introduced into Rome in a time of great sickness, and an embassy sent 
to the temple of Epidaurus to entreat the aid of the god.  Aesculapius was propitious, 
and on the return of the ship accompanied it in the form of a serpent.  Arriving in the river 
Tiber, the serpent glided from the vessel and took possession of an island in the river, 
and a temple was there erected to his honor.

Oracle Of Apis. 

	At Memphis the sacred bull Apis gave answer to those who consulted him, by the 
manner in which he received or rejected what was presented to him.  If the bull refused 
food from the hand of the inquirer it was considered an unfavorable sign, and the 
contrary when he received it.

	It has been a question whether oracular responses ought to be ascribed to mere 
human contrivance or to the agency of evil spirits.  The latter opinion has been most 
general in past ages.  A third theory has been advanced since the phenomena of 
Mesmerism have attracted attention, that something like the mesmeric trance was 
induced in the Pythoness, and the faculty of clairvoyance really called into action.

	Another question is as to the time when the Pagan oracles ceased to give 
responses.  Ancient Christian writers assert that they became silent at the birth of Christ, 
and were heard no more after that date.  Milton adopts this view in his Hymn of the 
Nativity, and in lines of solemn and elevated beauty pictures the consternation of the 
heathen idols at the advent of the Savior.

     "The oracles are dumb;
     No voice or hideous hum
     Rings through the arched roof in words deceiving.
     Apollo from his shrine
     Can no more divine,
     With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
     No nightly trance or breathed spell
     Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell."

	In Cowper's poem of Yardley Oak there are some beautiful mythological 
allusions.  The former of the two following is to the fable of Castor and Pollux; the latter 
is more appropriate to our present subject.  Addressing the acorn he says, -

     "Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod,
     Swelling with vegetative force instinct,
     Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins
     Now stars; two lobes protruding, paired exact;
     A leaf succeeded and another leaf,
     And, all the elements thy puny growth
     Fostering propitious, thou becam'st a twig.
     Who lived when thou wast such?  O, couldst thou speak
     As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
     Oracular, I would not curious ask
     The future, best unknown, but at they mouth
     Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past"

	Tennyson in his Talking Oak alludes to the oaks of Dodona in these lines: -

     "And I will work in prose and rhyme,
     And praise thee more in both
     Than bard has honored beech or lime,
     Or that Thessalian growth
     In which the swarthy ring-dove sat
     And mystic sentence spoke;" &c.

	Byron alludes to the oracle of Delphi where speaking of Rousseau, whose 
writings he conceives did much to bring on the French revolution, he says, -

     "For then he was inspired, and from him came,
     As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore,
     Those oracles which set the world in flame,
     Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more."


Chapter XXXV: Origin Of Mythology

Statues Of Gods And Goddesses - Poets Of Mythology. 
Origin Of Mythology. 
	Having reached the close of our series of stories of Pagan mythology, an inquiry 
suggests itself.  "Whence came these stories?  Have they a foundation in truth, or are 
they simply dreams of the imagination?" Philosophers have suggested various theories 
on the subject; and (1) The Scriptural theory; according to which all mythological 
legends are derived from the narratives of Scripture, though the real facts have been 
disguised and altered.  Thus Deucalion is only another name for Noah, Hercules for 
Samson, Arion for Jonah, &c.  Sir Walter Raleigh, in his History of the World, says, 
"Jubal, Tubal, and Tubal-Cain were Mercury, Vulcan, and Apollo, inventors of 
Pasturage, Smithing, and Music.  The Dragon which kept the golden apples was the 
serpent that beguiled Eve.  Nimrod's tower was the attempt of the Giants against 
Heaven." There are doubtless many curious coincidences like these, but the theory 
cannot without extravagance be pushed so far as to account for any great proportion 
of the stories.

	(2) The Historical theory; according to which all the persons mentioned in 
mythology were once real human beings, and the legends and fabulous traditions 
relating to them are merely the additions and embellishments of later times.  Thus the 
story of Aeolus, the king and god of the winds, is supposed to have risen from the fact 
that Aeolus was the ruler of some islands in the Tyrrhenian Sea, where he reigned as 
a just and pious king, and taught the natives the use of sails for ships, and how to tell 
from the signs of the atmosphere the changes of the weather and the winds.  Cadmus, 
who, the legend says, sowed the earth with dragon's teeth, from which sprang a crop 
of armed men, was in fact an emigrant from Phoenicia, and brought with him into 
Greece the knowledge of the letters of the alphabet, which he taught to the natives.  
From these rudiments of learning sprung civilization, which the poets have always 
been prone to describe as a deterioration of man's first estate, the Golden Age of 
innocence and simplicity.

	(3) The Allegorical theory supposes that all the myths of the ancients were 
allegorical and symbolical, and contained some moral, religious, or philosophical truth 
or historical fact, under the form of an allegory, but came in process of time to be 
understood literally.  Thus Saturn, who devours his own children, is the same power 
whom the Greeks called Cronos, (Time,) which may truly be said to destroy whatever it 
has brought into existence. The story of Io is interpreted in a similar manner.  Io is the 
moon, and Argus the starry sky, which, as it were, keeps sleepless watch over her.  
The fabulous wanderings of Io represent the continual revolutions of the moon, which 
also suggested to Milton the same idea.

     "To behold the wandering moon
     Riding near her highest noon,
     Like one that had been led astray
     In the heaven's wide, pathless way."

     Il Penseroso

	(4) The Physical theory; according to which the elements of air, fire, and water 
were originally the objects of religious adoration, and the principal deities were 
personifications of the powers of nature.  The transition was easy from a personification 
of the elements to the notion of supernatural beings presiding over and governing the 
different objects of nature.  The Greeks, whose imagination was lively, peopled all nature 
with invisible beings, and supposed that every object, from the sun and sea to the 
smallest fountain and rivulet, was under the care of some particular divinity. Wordsworth, 
in his Excursion, has beautifully developed this view of Grecian mythology.

     "In that fair clime the lonely herdsman, stretched
     On the soft grass through half a summer's day,
     With music lulled his indolent repose;
     And, in some fit of weariness, if he,
     When his own breath was silent, chanced to hear
     A distant strain far sweeter than the sounds
     Which his poor skill could make, his fancy fetched
     Even from the blazing chariot of the Sun
     A beardless youth who touched a golden lute,
     And filled the illumined groves with ravishment.
     The mighty hunter, lifting up his eyes
     Toward the crescent Moon, with grateful heart
     Called on the lovely Wanderer who bestowed
     That timely light to share his joyous sport;
     And hence a beaming goddess with her nymphs
     Across the lawn and through the darksome grove
     (Not unaccompanied with tuneful notes
     By echo multiplied from rock or cave)
     Swept in the storm of chase, as moon and stars
     Glance rapidly along the clouded heaven
     When winds are blowing strong.  The Traveller slaked
     His thirst from rill or gushing fount, and thanked
     The Naiad.  Sunbeams upon distant hills
     Gliding apace with shadows in their train,
     Might with small help from fancy, be transformed
     Into fleet Oreads sporting visibly.
     The Zephyrs, fanning, as they passed, their wings,
     Lacked not for love fair objects whom they wooed
     With gentle whisper.  Withered boughs grotesque,
     Stripped of their leaves and twigs by hoary age,
     From depth of shaggy covert peeping forth
     In the low vale, or on steep mountain side;
     And sometimes intermixed with stirring horns
     Of the live deer, or goat's depending beard;
     These were the lurking Satyrs, a wild brood
     Of gamesome deities; or Pan himself,
     The simple shepherd's awe-inspiring god."

	All the theories which have been mentioned are true to a certain extent. It would 
therefore be more correct to say that the mythology of a nation has sprung from all these 
sources combined than from any one in particular.  We may add also that there are 
many myths which have arisen from the desire of man to account for those natural 
phenomena which he cannot understand; and not a few have had their rise from a 
similar desire of giving a reason for the names of places and persons.

Statues Of The Gods. 

	To adequately represent to the eye the ideas intended to be conveyed to the 
mind under the several names of deities, was a task which called into exercise the 
highest powers of genius and art.  Of the many attempts four have been most 
celebrated, the first two known to us only by the descriptions of the ancients, the others 
still extant and the acknowledged masterpieces of the sculptor's art.

The Olympian Jupiter. 

	The statue of the Olympian Jupiter by Phidias was considered the highest 
achievement of this department of Grecian art.  It was of colossal dimensions, and was 
what the ancients called "chryselephantine;" that is, composed of ivory and gold; the 
parts representing flesh being of ivory laid on a core of wood or stone, while the drapery 
and other ornaments were of gold.  The height of the figure was forty feet, on a pedestal 
twelve feet high.  The god was represented seated on his throne.  His brows were 
crowned with a wreath of olive, and he held in his right hand a sceptre, and in his left a 
statue of Victory.  The throne was of cedar, adorned with gold and precious stones.

	The idea which the artist essayed to imbody was that of the supreme deity of the 
Hellenic (Grecian) nation, enthroned as a conqueror, in perfect majesty and repose, and 
ruling with a nod the subject world.  Phidias avowed that he took his idea from the 
representation which Homer gives in the first book of the Iliad, in the passage thus 
translated by Pope: -

     "He spoke and awful bends his sable brows,
     Shakes his ambrosial curls and gives the nod,
     The stamp of fate and sanction of the god.
     High heaven with reverence the dread signal took,
     And all Olympus to the centre shook."*

	Cowper's version is less elegant, but truer to the original. -


     "He ceased, and under his dark brows the nod
     Vouchsafed of confirmation.  All around
     The sovereign's everlasting head his curls
     Ambrosial shook, and the huge mountain reeled"

The Minerva Of The Parthenon. 

	This was also the work of Phidias.  It stood in the Parthenon, or temple of 
Minerva at Athens.  The goddess was represented standing.  In one hand she held a 
spear, in the other a statue of Victory.  Her helmet, highly decorated, was surmounted by 
a Sphinx.  The statue was forty feet in height, and, like the Jupiter, composed of ivory 
and gold.  The eyes were of marble, and probably painted to represent the iris and pupil.  
The Parthenon in which this statue stood was also constructed under the direction and 
superintendence of Phidias.  Its exterior was enriched with sculptures, many of them 
from the hand of Phidias.  The Elgin marbles now in the British Museum are a part of 
them.

	Both the Jupiter and Minerva of Phidias are lost, but there is good ground to 
believe that we have, in several extant statues and busts, the artist's conceptions of the 
countenances of both.  They are characterized by grave and dignified beauty, and 
freedom from any transient expression, which in the language of art is called repose.

	It may interest our readers to see how this passage appears in another famous 
version, that which was issued under the name of Tickell, contemporaneously with 
Pope's, and which, being by many attributed to Addison, led to the quarrel which ensued 
between Addison and Pope.

     "This said, his kingly brow the sire inclined;
     The large black curls fell awful from behind,
     Thick shadowing the stern forehead of the god;
     Olympus trembled at the almighty nod."

The Venus De' Medici. 

	The Venus of the Medici is so called from its having been in the possession of 
the princes of that name in Rome when it first attracted attention, about two hundred 
years ago An inscription on the base records it to be the work of Cleomenes, an 
Athenian sculptor of 200 B.C., but the authenticity of the inscription is doubtful.  There is 
a story that the artist was employed by public authority to make a statue exhibiting the 
perfection of female beauty, and to aid him in his task, the most perfect forms the city 
could supply were furnished him for models.  It is this which Thomson alludes to in his 
Summer.

     "So stands the statue that enchants the world;
     So bending tries to veil the matchless boast,
     The mingled beauties of exulting Greece."

	Byron also alludes to this statue.  Speaking of the Florence Museum, he says, -

     "There too the goddess loves in stone, and fills
     The air around with beauty;" &c.

	And in the next stanza,

	"Blood, pulse, and breast confirm the Dardan shepherd a prize.

	See this last allusion explained in Chapter XXVII.

The Apollo Belvedere. 

	The most highly esteemed of all the remains of ancient sculpture is the statue of 
Apollo, called the Belvedere, from the name of the apartment of the Pope's palace at 
Rome in which it is placed.  The artist is unknown. It is supposed to be a work of Roman 
art, of about the first century of our era.  It is a standing figure, in marble, more than 
seven feet high, naked except for the cloak which is fastened around the neck and 
hangs over the extended left arm.  It is supposed to represent the god in the moment 
when he has shot the arrow to destroy the monster Python.  (See Chapter III.) The 
victorious divinity is in the act of stepping forward.  The left arm which seems to have 
held the bow is outstretched, and the head is turned in the same direction. In attitude 
and proportion the graceful majesty of the figure is unsurpassed. The effect is completed 
by the countenance, where, on the perfection of youthful godlike beauty there dwells the 
consciousness of triumphant power.

The Diana A La Biche. 

	The Diana of the Hind, in the palace of the Louvre, may be considered the 
counterpart to the Apollo Belvedere.  The attitude much resembles that of the Apollo, the 
sizes correspond and also the style of execution.  It is a work of the highest order, 
though by no means equal to the Apollo.  The attitude is that of hurried and eager 
motion, the face that of a huntress in the excitement of the chase.  The left hand is 
extended over the forehead of the Hind which runs by her side, the right arm reaches 
backward over the shoulder to draw an arrow from the quiver.

The Poets Of Mythology. 

	Homer, from whose poems of the Iliad and Odyssey we have taken the chief part 
of our chapters of the Trojan war and the return of the Grecians, is almost as mythical a 
personage as the heroes he celebrates. The traditionary story is that he was a 
wandering minstrel, blind and old, who travelled from place to place singing his lays to 
the music of his harp, in the courts of princes or the cottages of peasants, and 
dependent upon the voluntary offerings of his hearers for support.  Byron calls him "The 
blind old man of Scio's rocky isle," and a well-known epigram, alluding to the uncertainty 
of the fact of his birthplace, says, -

     "Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead,
     Through which the living Homer begged his bread."

	These seven were Smyrna, Scio, Rhodes, Colophon, Salamis, Argos, and 
Athens.

	Modern scholars have doubted whether the Homeric poems are the work of any 
single mind.  This arises from the difficulty of believing that poems of such length could 
have been committed to writing at so early an age as that usually assigned to these, an 
age earlier than the date of any remaining inscriptions or coins, and when no materials, 
capable of containing such long productions were yet introduced into use.  On the other 
hand it is asked how poems of such length could have been handed down from age to 
age by means of the memory alone.  This is answered by the statement that there was a 
professional body of men, called Rhapsodists, who recited the poems of others, and 
whose business it was to commit to memory and rehearse for pay the national and 
patriotic legends.

	The prevailing opinion of the learned, at this time, seems to be that the 
framework and much of the structure of the poems belongs to Homer, but that there are 
numerous interpolations and additions by other hands.

	The date assigned to Homer, on the authority of Herodotus, is 850 B. C.

Virgil. 

	Virgil, called also by his surname Maro, from whose poem of the Aeneid we have 
taken the story of Aeneas, was one of the great poets who made the reign of the Roman 
emperor, Augustus, so celebrated, under the name of the Augustan age.  Virgil was born 
in Mantua in the year 70 B. C.  His great poem is ranked next to those of Homer, in the 
highest class of poetical composition, the Epic.  Virgil is far inferior to Homer in originality 
and invention, but superior to him in correctness and elegance.  To critics of English 
lineage Milton alone of modern poets seems worthy to be classed with these illustrious 
ancients.  His poem of Paradise Lost, from which we have borrowed so many 
illustrations, is in many respects equal, in some superior to either of the great works of 
antiquity.  The following epigram of Dryden characterizes the three poets with as much 
truth as it is usual to find in such pointed criticism: -

On Milton. 

     "Three poets in three different ages born,
     Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.
     The first in loftiness of soul surpassed,
     The next in majesty, in both the last.
     The force of nature could no further go;
     To make a third she joined the other two."

	From Cowper's Table Talk: -


     "Ages elapsed ere Homer's lamp appeared,
     And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard.
     To carry nature lengths unknown before,
     To give a Milton birth, asked ages more.
     Thus genius rose and set at ordered times,
     And shot a dayspring into distant climes,
     Ennobling every region that he chose;
     He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose,
     And, tedious years of Gothic darkness past,
     Emerged all splendor in our isle at last.
     Thus lovely Halcyons dive into the main,
     Then show far off their shining plumes again."

Ovid. 

	Often alluded to in poetry by his other name of Naso, was born in the year 43 B. 
C.  He was educated for public life and held some offices of considerable dignity, but 
poetry was his delight, and he early resolved to devote himself to it.  He accordingly 
sought the society of the contemporary poets, and was acquainted with Horace and saw 
Virgil, though the latter died when Ovid was yet too young and undistinguished to have 
formed his acquaintance.  Ovid spent an easy life at Rome in the enjoyment of a 
competent income.  He was intimate with the family of Augustus, the emperor, and it is 
supposed that some serious offence given to some member of that family was the cause 
of an event which reversed the poet's happy circumstances and clouded all the latter 
portion of his life.  At the age of fifty he was banished from Rome, and ordered to betake 
himself to Tomi, on the borders of the Black Sea. Here, among the barbarous people 
and in a severe climate, the poet, who had been accustomed to all the pleasures of a 
luxurious capital and the society of his most distinguished contemporaries, spent the last 
ten years of his life, worn out with grief and anxiety.  His only consolation in exile was to 
address his wife and absent friends, and his letters were all poetical.  Though these 
poems (the Tristia and Letters from Pontus) have no other topic than the poet's sorrows, 
his exquisite taste and fruitful invention have redeemed them from the charge of being 
tedious, and they are read with pleasure and even with sympathy.

	The two great works of Ovid are his Metamorphoses and his Fasti.  They are 
both mythological poems, and from the former we have taken most of our stories of 
Grecian and Roman mythology.  A late writer thus characterizes these poems: -

	"The rich mythology of Greece furnished Ovid, as it may still furnish the poet, the 
painter, and the sculptor, with materials for his art.  With exquisite taste, simplicity, and 
pathos he has narrated the fabulous traditions of early ages, and given to them that 
appearance of reality which only a master-hand could impart.  His pictures of nature are 
striking and true; he selects with care that which is appropriate; he rejects the 
superfluous; and when he has completed his work, it is neither defective nor redundant.  
The Metamorphoses are read with pleasure by youth, and are re-read in more advanced 
age with still greater delight.  The poet ventured to predict that his poem would survive 
him, and be read wherever the Roman name was known."

	The prediction above alluded to is contained in the closing lines of the 
Metamorphoses, of which we give a literal translation below: -

     "And now I close my work, which not the ire
     Of Jove, nor tooth of time, nor sword, nor fire
     Shall bring to nought.  Come when it will that day
     Which o'er the body, not the mind, has sway,
     And snatch the remnant of my life away,
     My better part above the stars shall soar,
     And my renown endure forevermore.
     Where'er the Roman arms and arts shall spread,
     There by the people shall my book be read;
     And, if aught true in poet's visions be,
     My name and fame have immortality."


Chapter XXXVI: Modern Monsters

The Phoenix - Basilisk - Unicorn - Salamander. 
Modern Monsters. 
	There is a set of imaginary beings which seem to have been the successors of 
the "Gorgons, Hydras, and Chimeras dire" of the old superstitions, and, having no 
connection with the false gods of Paganism, to have continued to enjoy an existence in 
the popular belief after Paganism was superseded by Christianity.  They are 
mentioned perhaps by the classical writers, but their chief popularity and currency 
seem to have been in more modern times.  We seek our accounts of them not so 
much in the poetry of the ancients, as in the old natural history books and narrations of 
travellers.  The accounts which we are about to give are taken chiefly from the Penny 
Cyclopedia.

The Phoenix. 

	Ovid tells the story of the Phoenix as follows.  "Most beings spring from other 
individuals; but there is a certain kind which reproduces itself.  The Assyrians call it the 
Phoenix.  It does not live on fruit or flowers, but on frankincense and odoriferous gums.  
When it has lived five hundred years, it builds itself a nest in the branches of an oak, or 
on the top of a palm tree. In this it collects cinnamon, and spikenard, and myrrh, and of 
these materials builds a pile on which it deposits itself, and dying, breathes out its last 
breath amidst odors.  From the body of the parent bird, a young Phoenix issues forth, 
destined to live as long a life as its predecessor.  When this has grown up and gained 
sufficient strength, it lifts its nest from the tree, (its own cradle and its parent's 
sepulchre,) and carries it to the city of Heliopolis in Egypt, and deposits it in the temple 
of the Sun."

	Such is the account given by a poet.  Now let us see that of a philosophic 
historian.  Tacitus says, "In the consulship of Paulus Fabius, (A. D. 34,) the miraculous 
bird known to the world by the name of the Phoenix, after disappearing for a series of 
ages, revisited Egypt.  It was attended in its flight by a group of various birds, all 
attracted by the novelty, and gazing with wonder at so beautiful an appearance." He 
then gives an account of the bird, not varying materially from the preceding, but adding 
some details. "The first care of the young bird as soon as fledged, and able to trust to 
his wings, is, to perform the obsequies of his father.  But this duty is not undertaken 
rashly.  He collects a quantity of myrrh, and to try his strength makes frequent 
excursions with a load on his back.  When he has gained sufficient confidence in his 
own vigor, he takes up the body of his father and flies with it to the altar of the Sun, 
where he leaves it to be consumed in flames of fragrance." Other writers add a few 
particulars.  The myrrh is compacted in the form of an egg, in which the dead Phoenix 
is enclosed.  From the mouldering flesh of the dead bird a worm springs, and this 
worm, when grown large, is transformed into a bird.  Herodotus describes the bird, 
though he says, "I have not seen it myself, except in a picture.  Part of his plumage is 
gold- colored, and part crimson; and he is for the most part very much like an eagle in 
outline and bulk."

	The first writer who disclaimed a belief in the existence of the Phoenix, was Sir 
Thomas Browne, in his "Vulgar Errors," published in 1646. He was replied to a few 
years later by Alexander Ross, who says, in answer to the objection of the Phoenix so 
seldom making his appearance, "His instinct teaches him to keep out of the way of the 
tyrant of the creation, man, for if he were to be got at, some wealthy glutton would 
surely devour him, though there were no more in the world."

	Dryden in one of his early poems has this allusion to the Phoenix: -


     "So when the new-born Phoenix first is seen
     Her feathered subjects all adore their queen,
     And while she makes her progress through the East,
     From every grove her numerous train's increased;
     Each poet of the air her glory sings,
     And round him the pleased audience clap their wings."

	Milton, in Paradise Lost, Book V., compares the angel Raphael descending to 
earth to a Phoenix: -

     ". . . Down thither, prone in flight
     He speeds, and through the vast ethereal sky
     Sails between worlds and worlds, with steady wing,
     Now on the polar winds, then with quick fan
     Winnows the buxom air; till within soar
     Of towering eagles, to all the fowls he seems
     A Phoenix, gazed by all; as that sole bird
     When, to enshrine his relics in the sun's
     Bright temple, to Egyptian Thebes he flies."

The Cockatrice, Or Basilisk. 

	This animal was called the king of the serpents.  In confirmation of his royalty, he 
was said to be endowed with a crest, or comb upon the head, constituting a crown.  He 
was supposed to be produced from the egg of a cock hatched under toads or serpents.  
There were several species of this animal. One species burned up whatever they 
approached; a second were a kind of wandering Medusa's heads, and their look caused 
an instant horror which was immediately followed by death.  In Shakespeare's play of 
Richard the Third, Lady Anne, in answer to Richard's compliment on her eyes, says, 
"Would they were basilisk's, to strike thee dead!"

	The basilisks were called kings of serpents because all other serpents and 
snakes, behaving like good subjects, and wisely not wishing to be burned up or struck 
dead, fled, the moment they heard the distant hiss of their king, although they might be 
in full feed upon the most delicious prey, leaving the sole enjoyment of the banquet to 
the royal monster.

	The Roman naturalist Pliny thus describes him.  "He does not impel his body, like 
other serpents, by a multiplied flexion, but advances lofty and upright.  He kills the 
shrubs, not only by contact but by breathing on them, and splits the rocks, such power of 
evil is there in him." It was formerly believed that if killed by a spear from on horseback 
the power of the poison conducted through the weapon killed not only the rider, but the 
horse also. To this Lucan alludes in these lines: -

     "What though the Moor the basilisk hath slain,
     And pinned him lifeless to the sandy plain,
     Up through the spear the subtle venom flies,
     The hand imbibes it, and the victor dies."

	Such a prodigy was not likely to be passed over in the legends of the saints.  
Accordingly we find it recorded that a certain holy man going to a fountain in the desert 
suddenly beheld a basilisk.  He immediately raised his eyes to heaven, and with a pious 
appeal to the Deity, laid the monster dead at his feet.

	These wonderful powers of the basilisk are attested by a host of learned persons, 
such as Galen, Avicenna, Scaliger, and others. Occasionally one would demur to some 
part of the tale while he admitted the rest.  Jonston, a learned physician, sagely remarks, 
"I would scarcely believe that it kills with its look, for who could have seen it and lived to 
tell the story?" The worthy sage was not aware that those who went to hunt the basilisk 
of this sort, took with them a mirror, which reflected back the deadly glare upon its 
author, and by a kind of poetical justice slew the basilisk with his own weapon.

	But what was to attack this terrible and unapproachable monster? There is an old 
saying that "every thing has its enemy," - and the cockatrice quailed before the weasel.  
The basilisk might look daggers, the weasel cared not, but advanced boldly to the 
conflict.  When bitten, the weasel retired for a moment to eat some rue, which was the 
only plant the basilisks could not wither, returned with renewed strength and soundness 
to the charge, and never left the enemy till he was stretched dead on the plain.  The 
monster, too, as if conscious of the irregular way in which he came into the world, was 
supposed to have a great antipathy to a cock; and well he might, for as soon as he 
heard the cock crow he expired.

	The basilisk was of some use after death.  Thus we read that its carcass was 
suspended in the temple of Apollo, and in private houses, as a sovereign remedy 
against spiders, and that it was also hung up in the temple of Diana, for which reason no 
swallow ever dared enter the sacred place.

	The reader will, we apprehend, by this time have had enough of absurdities, but 
still we can imagine his anxiety to know what a cockatrice was like.  The following is from 
Aldrovandus, a celebrated naturalist of the sixteenth century, whose work on natural 
history, in thirteen folio volumes, contains with much that is valuable a large proportion of 
fables and inutilities.  In particular he is so ample on the subject of the cock and the bull, 
that from his practice, all rambling, gossiping tales of doubtful credibility are called cock 
and bull stories.  The above print is entitled "The Basilisk which lives in the African 
desert.  It will be seen that

     "What seemed its head
     The likeness of a kingly crown had on."

	Shelley, in his Ode to Naples, full of the enthusiasm excited by the intelligence of 
the proclamation of a Constitutional Government at Naples, in 1820, thus uses an 
allusion to the basilisk: -

     What though Cimmerian anarchs dare blaspheme
     Freedom and thee?  a new Actaeon's error
     Shall theirs have been, - devoured by their own hounds!
     Be thou like the imperial basilisk,
     Killing thy foe with unapparent wounds!
     Gaze on oppression, till at that dread risk,
     Aghast she pass from the earth's disk.
     Fear not, but gaze, - for freemen mightier grow,
     And slaves more feeble, gazing on their foe."

The Unicorn. 

	Pliny, the Roman naturalist, out of whose account of the unicorn most of the 
modern unicorns have been described and figured, records it as "a very ferocious beast, 
similar in the rest of its body to a horse, with the head of a deer, the feet of an elephant, 
the tail of a boar, a deep bellowing voice, and a single black horn, two cubits in length, 
standing out in the middle of its forehead." He adds that "it cannot be taken alive;" and 
some such excuse may have been necessary in those days for not producing the living 
animal upon the arena of the amphitheatre.

	The unicorn seems to have been a sad puzzle to the hunters, who hardly knew 
how to come at so valuable a piece of game.  Some described the horn as movable at 
the will of the animal, a kind of small sword in short, with which no hunter who was not 
exceedingly cunning in fence could have a chance. Others maintained that all the 
animal's strength lay in its horn, and that when hard pressed in pursuit, it would throw 
itself from the pinnacle of the highest rocks horn foremost, so as to pitch upon it, and 
then quietly march off not a whit the worse for its fall.

	But it seems they found out how to circumvent the poor unicorn at last. They 
discovered that it was a great lover of purity and innocence, so they took the field with a 
young virgin, who was placed in the unsuspecting admirer's way.  When the unicorn 
spied her, he approached with all reverence, couched beside her, and laying his head in 
her lap, fell asleep.  The treacherous virgin then gave a signal, and the hunters made in 
and captured the simple beast.

	Modern zoologists, disgusted as they well may be with such fables as these, 
disbelieve generally the existence of the unicorn.  Yet there are animals bearing on their 
heads a bony protuberance more or less like a horn, which may have given rise to the 
story.  The rhinoceros horn, as it is called, is such a protuberance, though it does not 
exceed a few inches in height, and is far from agreeing with the descriptions of the horn 
of the unicorn.  The nearest approach to a horn in the middle of the forehead is exhibited 
in the bony protuberance on the forehead of the giraffe; but this also is short and blunt, 
and is not the only horn of the animal, but a third horn, standing in front of the two 
others.  In fine, though it would be presumptuous to deny the existence of a one-horned 
quadruped other than the rhinoceros, it may be safely stated that the insertion of a long 
and solid horn in the living forehead of a horse-like or deer-like animal, is as near an 
impossibility as any thing can be.

The Salamander. 

	The following is from the Life of Benvenuto Cellini an Italian artist of the sixteenth 
century, written by him self.  "When I was about five years of age, my father happening 
to be in a little room in which they had been washing, and where there was a good fire of 
oak burning, looked into the flames and saw a little animal resembling a lizard, which 
could live in the hottest part of that element.  Instantly perceiving what it was he called 
for my sister and me, and after he had shown us the creature, he gave me a box on the 
ear.  I fell a crying, while he, soothing me with caresses, spoke these words: 'My dear 
child, I do not give you that blow for any fault you have committed, but that you may 
recollect that the little creature you see in the fire is a salamander; such a one as never 
was beheld before to my knowledge.' So saying he embraced me, and gave me some 
money."

	It seems unreasonable to doubt a story of which Signor Cellini was both an eye 
and ear witness.  Add to which the authority of numerous sage philosophers, at the head 
of whom are Aristotle and Pliny, affirms this power of the salamander.  According to 
them, the animal not only resists fire, but extinguishes it, and when he sees the flame 
charges it as an enemy which he well knows how to vanquish.

	That the skin of an animal which could resist the action of fire should be 
considered proof against that element, is not to be wondered at. We accordingly find that 
a cloth made of the skins of salamanders (for there really is such an animal, a kind of 
lizard) was incombustible, and very valuable for wrapping up such articles as were too 
precious to be intrusted to any other envelopes.  These fire proof cloths were actually 
produced, said to be made of salamander's wool, though the knowing ones detected that 
the substance of which they were composed was Asbestos, a mineral, which is in fine 
filaments capable of being woven into a flexible cloth.

	The foundation of the above fables is supposed to be the fact that the 
salamander really does secrete from the pores of his body a milky juice, which when he 
is irritated is produced in considerable quantity, and would doubtless, for a few 
moments, defend the body from fire.  Then it is a hibernating animal, and in winter retires 
to some hollow tree or other cavity, where it coils itself up and remains in a torpid state 
till the spring again calls it forth.  It may therefore sometimes be carried with the fuel to 
the fire, and wake up only time enough to put forth all its faculties for its defence.  Its 
viscous juice would do good service, and all who profess to have seen it, acknowledge 
that it got out of the fire as fast as its legs could carry it; indeed too fast for them ever to 
make prize of one, except in one instance, and in that one, the animal's feet and some 
parts of its body were badly burned.

	Dr. Young, in the Night Thoughts, with more quaint ness than good taste, 
compares the sceptic who can remain unmoved in the contemplation of the starry 
heavens, to a salamander unwarmed in the fire:

     "An undevout astronomer is mad!

     * * *

     "O, what a genius must inform the skies!
     And is Lorenzo's salamander-heart
     Cold and untouched amid these sacred fires?"


Chapter XXXVII: Eastern Mythology

Zoroaster - Hindu Mythology - Castes - Buddha - Grand Lama. 
Zoroaster. 
	Our knowledge of the religion of the ancient Persians is principally derived from 
the Zendavesta, or sacred books of that people.  Zoroaster was the founder of their 
religion, or rather the reformer of the religion which preceded him.  The time when he 
lived is doubtful, but it is certain that his system became the dominant religion of 
Western Asia from the time of Cyrus (550 B. C.) to the conquest of Persia by 
Alexander the Great.  Under the Macedonian monarchy the doctrines of Zoroaster 
appear to have been considerably corrupted by the introduction of foreign opinions, but 
they afterwards recovered their ascendency.

	Zoroaster taught the existence of a supreme being, who created two other mighty 
beings and imparted to them as much of his own nature as seemed good to him.  Of 
these, Ormuzd (called by the Greeks Oromasdes) remained faithful to his creator, and 
was regarded as the source of all good, while Ahriman (Arimanes) rebelled, and 
became the author of all evil upon the earth.  Ormuzd created man and supplied him 
with all the materials of happiness; but Ahriman married this happiness by introducing 
evil into the world, and creating savage beasts and poisonous reptiles and plants. In 
consequence of this, evil and good are now mingled together in every part of the 
world, and the followers of good and evil - the adherents of Ormuzd and Ahriman - 
carry on incessant war. But this state of things will not last forever.  The time will come 
when the adherents of Ormuzd shall every where be victorious, and Ahriman and his 
followers be consigned to darkness forever.

	The religious rites of the ancient Persians were exceedingly simple. They used 
neither temples, altars, nor statues, and performed their sacrifices on the tops of 
mountains.  They adored fire, light, and the sun as emblems of Ormuzd, the source of 
all light and purity, but did not regard them as independent deities.  The religious rites 
and ceremonies were regulated by the priests, who were called Magi.  The learning of 
the Magi was connected with astrology and enchantment, in which they were so 
celebrated that their name was applied to all orders of magicians and enchanters.

	Wordsworth thus alludes to the worship of the Persians: -


     ". . . the Persian, - zealous to reject
     Altar and Image, and the inclusive walls
     And roofs of temples built by human hands, -
     The loftiest heights ascending, from their tops,
     With myrtle-wreathed Tiara on his brows,
     Presented sacrifice to Moon and Stars
     And to the Winds and mother Elements,
     And the whole circle of the Heavens, for him
     A sensitive existence and a God."

     Excursion, Book IV.

	In Childe Harold, Byron speaks thus of the Persian worship: -


     "Not vainly did the early Persian make
     His altar the high places and the peak
     Of earth-o'er-gazing mountains, and thus take
     A fit and unwalled temple, there to seek
     The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak,
     Upreared of human hands.  Come and compare
     Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek,
     With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air,
     Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer."

     III. 91.

	The religion of Zoroaster continued to flourish even after the introduction of 
Christianity, and in the third century was the dominant faith of the East, till the rise of the 
Mahometan power and the conquest of Persia by the Arabs in the seventh century, who 
compelled the greater number of the Persians to renounce their ancient faith.  Those 
who refused to abandon the religion of their ancestors fled to the deserts of Kerman and 
to Hindustan, where they still exist under the name of Parsees, a name derived from 
Pars, the ancient name of Persia.  The Arabs call them Guebers, from an Arabic word 
signifying unbelievers.  At Bombay the Parsees are at this day a very active, intelligent, 
and wealthy class.  For purity of life, honesty, and conciliatory manners, they are 
favorably distinguished.  They have numerous temples to Fire, which they adore as the 
symbol of the divinity.

	The Persian religion makes the subject of the finest tale in Moore's Lalla Rookh, 
the Fire Worshippers.  The Gueber chief says, -

     "Yes!  I am of that impious race,
     Those slaves of Fire, that morn and even
     Hail their creator's dwelling-place
     Among the living lights of heaven;
     Yes!  I am of that outcast crew
     To Iran and to vengeance true,
     Who curse the hour your Arabs came
     To desecrate our shrines of flame,
     And swear before God's burning eye,
     To break our country's chains or die"

Hindu Mythology. 

	The religion of the Hindus is professedly founded on the Vedas.  To these books 
of their scripture they attach the greatest sanctity, and state that Brahma himself 
composed them at the creation.  But the present arrangement of the Vedas is attributed 
to the sage Vyasa, about five thousand years ago.

	The Vedas undoubtedly teach the belief of one supreme God.  The name of this 
deity is Brahma.  His attributes are represented by the three personified powers of 
creation, preservation, and destruction, which under the respective names of Brahma, 
Vishnu, and Siva form the Trimurti or triad of principal Hindu gods.  Of the inferior gods 
the most important are, 1. Indra, the god of heaven, of thunder, lightning, storm, and 
rain; 2. Agni, the god of fire; 3. Yama, the god of the infernal regions; 4. Surya, the god 
of the sun.

	Brahma is the creator of the universe, and the source from which all the 
individual deities have sprung, and into which all will ultimately be absorbed.  "As milk 
changes to curd, and water to ice, so is Brahma variously transformed and diversified, 
without aid of exterior means of any sort." The human soul, according to the Vedas, is a 
portion of the supreme ruler as a spark is of the fire.

Vishnu. 

	Vishnu occupies the second place in the triad of the Hindus, and is the 
personification of the preserving principle.  To protect the world in various epochs of 
danger, Vishnu descended to the earth in different incarnations, or bodily forms, which 
descents are called Avatars.  They are very numerous, but ten are more particularly 
specified.  The first Avatar was as Matsya, the Fish, under which form Vishnu preserved 
Manu, the ancestor of the human race, during a universal deluge.  The second Avatar 
was in the form of a Tortoise, which form he assumed to support the earth when the 
gods were churning the sea for the beverage of immortality, Amrita.

	We may omit the other Avatars, which were of the same general character, that 
is, interpositions to protect the right or to punish wrong- doers, and come to the ninth, 
which is the most celebrated of the Avatars of Vishnu, in which he appeared in the 
human form of Krishna, an invincible warrior, who by his exploits relieved the earth from 
the tyrants who oppressed it.

	Buddha is by the followers of the Brahmanical religion regarded as a delusive 
incarnation of Vishnu, assumed by him in order to induce the Asuras, opponents of the 
gods, to abandon the sacred ordinances of the Vedas, by which means they lost their 
strength and supremacy.

	Kalki is the name of the tenth Avatar, in which Vishnu will appear at the end of 
the present age of the world to destroy all vice and wickedness, and to restore mankind 
to virtue and parity.

Siva. 

	Siva is the third person of the Hindu triad.  He is the personification of the 
destroying principle.  Though the third name, he is, in respect to the number of his 
worshippers and the extension of his worship, before either of the others.  In the 
Puranas (the scriptures of the modern Hindu religion) no allusion is made to the original 
power of this god as a destroyer; that power not being to be called into exercise till after 
the expiration of twelve millions of years, or when the universe will come to an end; and 
Mahadeva (another name for Siva) is rather the representative of regeneration than of 
destruction.

	The worshippers of Vishnu and Siva form two sects, each of which proclaims the 
superiority of its favorite deity, denying the claims of the other, and Brahma, the creator, 
having finished his work, seems to be regarded as no longer active, and has now only 
one temple in India, while Mahadeva and Vishnu have many.  The worshippers of 
Vishnu are generally distinguished by a greater tenderness for life and consequent 
abstinence from animal food, and a worship less cruel than that of the followers of Siva.

Juggernaut. 

	Whether the worshippers of Juggernaut are to be reckoned among the followers 
of Vishnu or Siva, our authorities differ.  The temple stands near the shore, about three 
hundred miles south-west of Calcutta.  The idol is a carved block of wood, with a 
hideous face, painted black, and a distended blood-red mouth.  On festival days the 
throne of the image is placed on a tower sixty feet high, moving on wheels.  Six long 
ropes are attached to the tower, by which the people draw it along.  The priests and their 
attendants stand round on the throne on the tower, and occasionally turn to the 
worshippers with songs and gestures.  While the tower moves along numbers of the 
devout worshippers throw themselves on the ground, in order to be crushed by the 
wheels, and the multitude shout in approbation of the act, as a pleasing sacrifice to the 
idol.  Every year, particularly at two great festivals in March and July, pilgrims flock in 
crowds to the temple.  Not less than seventy or eighty thousand people are said to visit 
the place on these occasions, when all castes eat together.

Castes. 

	The division of the Hindus into classes or castes, with fixed occupations, existed 
from the earliest times.  It is supposed by some to have been founded upon conquest, 
the first three castes being composed of a foreign race, who subdued the natives of the 
country and reduced them to an inferior caste.  Others trace it to the fondness of 
perpetuating, by descent from father to son, certain offices or occupations.

	The Hindu tradition gives the following account of the origin of the various castes.  
At the creation Brahma resolved to give the earth inhabitants who should be direct 
emanations from his own body.  Accordingly from his mouth came forth the eldest born, 
Brahma, (the priest,) to whom he confided the four Vedas; from his right arm issued 
Shatriya, (the warrior,) and from his left, the warrior's wife.  His thighs produced 
Vaissyas, male and female, (agriculturists and traders,) and lastly from his feet sprang 
Sudras, (mechanics and laborers.)

	The four sons of Brahma, so significantly brought into the world, became the 
fathers of the human race, and heads of their respective castes. They were commanded 
to regard the four Vedas as containing all the rules of their faith, and all that was 
necessary to guide them in their religious ceremonies.  They were also commanded to 
take rank in the order of their birth, the Brahmans uppermost, as having sprung from the 
head of Brahma.

	A strong line of demarcation is drawn between the first three castes and the 
Sudras.  The former are allowed to receive instruction from the Vedas, which is not 
permitted to the Sudras.  The Brahmans possess the privilege of teaching the Vedas, 
and were in former times in exclusive possession of all knowledge.  Though the 
sovereign of the country was chosen from the Shatriya class, also called Rajputs, the 
Brahmans possessed the real power, and were the royal counsellors, the judges and 
magistrates of the country; their persons and property were inviolable; and though they 
committed the greatest crimes, they could only be banished from the kingdom.  They 
were to be treated by sovereigns with the greatest respect, for "a Brahman, whether 
learned or ignorant, is a powerful divinity."

	When the Brahman arrives at years of maturity it becomes his duty to marry.  He 
ought to be supported by the contributions of the rich, and not to be obliged to gain his 
subsistence by any laborious or productive occupatio. But as all the Brahmans could not 
be maintained by the working classes of the community, it was found necessary to allow 
them to engage in productive employments.

	We need say little of the two intermediate classes, whose rank and privileges 
may be readily inferred from their occupations.  The Sudras or fourth class are bound to 
servile attendance on the higher classes, especially the Brahmans, but they may follow 
mechanical occupations and practical arts, as painting and writing, or become traders or 
husbandmen. Consequently they sometimes grow rich, and it will also sometimes 
happen that Brahmans become poor.  That fact works its usual consequence, and rich 
Sudras sometimes employ poor Brahmans in menial occupations.

	There is another class lower even than the Sudras, for it is not one of the original 
pure classes, but springs from an unauthorized union of individuals of different castes.  
These are the Pariahs, who are employed in the lowest services and treated with the 
utmost severity.  They are compelled to do what no one else can do without pollution.  
They are not only considered unclean themselves, but they render unclean every thing 
they touch.  They are deprived of all civil rights, and stigmatized by particular laws, 
regulating their mode of life, their houses and their furniture.  They are not allowed to 
visit the pagodas or temples of the other castes, but have their own pagodas and 
religious exercises.  They are not suffered to enter the houses of the other castes; if it is 
done incautiously or from necessity, the place must be purified by religious ceremonies.  
They must not appear at public markets, and are confined to the use of particular wells, 
which they are obliged to surround with bones of animals, to warn others against using 
them.  They dwell in miserable hovels, distant from cities and villages, and are under no 
restrictions in regard to food, which last is not a privilege, but a mark of ignominy, as if 
they were so degraded that nothing could pollute them.  The three higher castes are 
prohibited entirely the use of flesh.  The fourth is allowed to eat all kinds except beef, but 
only the lowest caste is allowed every kind of food without restriction.

Buddha. 

	Buddha, whom the Vedas represent as a delusive incarnation of Vishnu, is said 
by his followers to have been a mortal sage, whose name was Gautama, called also by 
the complimentary epithets of Sakyasinha, the Lion, and Buddha, the Sage.

	By a comparison of the various epochs assigned to his birth, it is inferred that he 
lived about one thousand years before Christ.

	He was the son of a king; and when in conformity to the usage of the country he 
was, a few days after his birth, presented before the altar of a deity, the image is said to 
have inclined its head, as a presage of the future greatness of the new-born prophet.  
The child soon developed faculties of the first order, and became equally distinguished 
by the uncommon beauty of his person.  No sooner had he come to years of maturity 
than he began to reflect deeply on the depravity and misery of mankind, and he 
conceived the idea of retiring from society and devoting himself to meditation.  His father 
in vain opposed this design.  Buddha escaped the vigilance of his guards, and having 
found a secure retreat, lived for six years undisturbed in his devout contemplations.  At 
the expiration of that period he came forward at Benares as a religious teacher.  At first 
some who heard him doubted of the soundness of his mind; but his doctrines soon 
gained credit, and were propagated so rapidly that Buddha himself lived to see them 
spread all over India.  He died at the age of eighty years.

	The Buddhists reject entirely the authority of the Vedas, and the religious 
observances prescribed in them and kept by the Hindus.  They also reject the distinction 
of castes, and prohibit all bloody sacrifices, and allow animal food.  Their priests are 
chosen from all classes; they are expected to procure their maintenance by 
perambulation and begging, and among other things it is their duty to endeavor to turn to 
some use things thrown aside as useless by others, and to discover the medicinal power 
of plants. But in Ceylon three orders of priests are recognized those of the highest order 
are usually men of high birth and learning, and are supported at the principal temples, 
most of which have been richly endowed by the former monarchs of the country.

	For several centuries after the appearance of Buddha, his sect seems to have 
been tolerated by the Brahmans, and Buddhism appears to have penetrated the 
peninsula of Hindustan in every direction, and to have been carried to Ceylon, and to the 
eastern peninsula.  But afterwards it had to endure in India a long continued persecution, 
which ultimately had the effect of entirely abolishing it, in the country where it had 
originated but to scatter it widely over adjacent countries.  Buddhism appears to have 
been introduced into China about the year 65 of our era.  From China it was 
subsequently extended to Corea, Japan, and Java.

The Grand Lama. 

	It is a doctrine alike of the Brahminical Hindus and of the Buddhist sect that the 
confinement of the human soul, an emanation of the divine spirit, in a human body, is a 
state of misery, and the consequence of frailties and sins committed during former 
existences.  But they hold that some few individuals have appeared on this earth from 
time to time, not under the necessity of terrestrial existence, but who voluntarily 
descended to the earth to promote the welfare of mankind.  These individuals have 
gradually assumed the character of reappearances of Buddha himself, in which capacity 
the line is continued till the present day, in the several Lamas of Thibet, China, and other 
countries where Buddhism prevails.  In consequence of the victories of Gengis Khan and 
his successors, the Lama residing in Thibet was raised to the dignity of chief pontiff of 
the sect. A separate province was assigned to him as his own territory, and besides his 
spiritual dignity he became to a limited extent a temporal monarch.  He is styled the 
Dalai Lama.

	The first Christian missionaries who proceeded to Thibet were surprised to find 
there in the heart of Asia a pontifical court and several other ecclesiastical institutions 
resembling those of the Roman Catholic church. They found convents for priests and 
nuns; also, processions and forms of religious worship, attended with much pomp and 
splendor; and many were induced by these similarities to consider Lamaism as a sort of 
degenerated Christianity.  It is not improbable that the Lamas derived some of these 
practices from the Nestorian Christians, who were settled in Tartary when Buddhism was 
introduced into Thibet.

Prester John. 

	An early account, communicated probably by travelling merchants, of a Lama or 
spiritual chief among the Tartars, seems to have occasioned in Europe the report of a 
Presbyter or Prester John, a Christian pontiff, resident in Upper Asia.  The Pope sent a 
mission in search of him, as did also Louis IX. of France, some years later, but both 
missions were unsuccessful, though the small communities of Nestorian Christians, 
which they did find, served to keep up the belief in Europe that such a personage did 
exist somewhere in the East. At last in the fifteenth century, a Portuguese traveller, 
Pedro Covilham, happening to hear that there was a Christian prince in the country of 
the Abessines, (Abyssinia,) not far from the Red Sea, concluded that this must be the 
true Prester John.  He accordingly went thither, and penetrated to the court of the king, 
whom he calls Negus.  Milton alludes to him in Paradise Lost, Book XI., where, 
describing Adam's vision of his descendants in their various nations and cities, scattered 
over the face of the earth, he says, -

     ". . . Nor did his eyes not ken
     Th' empire of Negus, to his utmost port,
     Ercoco, and the less maritime kings,
     Mombaza and Quiloa and Melind."

Chapter XXXVIII: Northern Mythology - Valhalla - The Valkyrior

Northern Mythology. 
	The stories which have engaged our attention thus far relate to the mythology of 
southern regions.  But there is another branch of ancient superstitions which ought not 
to be entirely overlooked, especially as it belongs to the nations from which we, 
through our English ancestors, derive our origin.  It is that of the northern nations 
called Scandinavians, who inhabited the countries now known as Sweden, Denmark, 
Norway, and Iceland. These mythological records are contained in two collections 
called the Eddas, of which the oldest is in poetry and dates back to the year 1056, the 
more modern or prose Edda being of the date of 1640.



	According to the Eddas there was once no heaven above nor earth beneath, but 
only a bottomless deep, and a world of mist in which flowed a fountain. Twelve rivers 
issued from this fountain, and when they had flowed far from their source, they froze 
into ice, and one layer accumulating over another, the great deep was filled up.

	Southward from the world of mist was the world of light.  From this flowed a warm 
wind upon the ice and melted it.  The vapors rose in the air and formed clouds, from 
which sprang Ymir, the Frost giant and his progeny, and the cow Audhumbla, whose 
milk afforded nourishment and food to the giant.  The cow got nourishment by licking 
the hoar frost and salt from the ice.  While she was one day licking the salt stones 
there appeared at first the hair of a man, on the second day the whole head, and on 
the third the entire form endowed with beauty, agility, and power.  This new being was 
a god, from whom and his wife, a daughter of the giant race, sprang the three brothers 
Odin, Vili, and Ve.  They slew the giant Ymir, and out of his body formed the earth, of 
his blood the seas, of his bones the mountains, of his hair the trees, of his skull the 
heavens, and of his brain clouds, charged with hail and snow. Of Ymir's eyebrows the 
gods formed Midgard, (mid earth,) destined to become the abode of man.

	Odin then regulated the periods of day and night and the seasons by placing in 
the heavens the sun and moon, and appointing to them their respective courses.  As 
soon as the sun began to shed its rays upon the earth, it caused the vegetable world 
to bud and sprout.  Shortly after the gods had created the world they walked by the 
side of the sea, pleased with their new work, but found that it was still incomplete, for it 
was without human beings. They therefore took an ash tree and made a man out of it, 
and they made a woman out of an alder, and called the man Aske and the woman 
Embla.  Odin then gave them life and soul, Vili reason and motion, and Ve bestowed 
upon them the senses, expressive features, and speech. Midgard was then given them 
as their residence, and they became the progenitors of the human race.

	The mighty ash tree Ygdrasill was supposed to support the whole universe. It 
sprang from the body of Ymir, and had three immense roots, extending one into 
Asgard, (the dwelling of the gods,) the other into Jotunheim, (the abode of the giants,) 
and the third to Niffleheim, (the regions of darkness and cold.) By the side of each of 
these roots is a spring, from which it is watered.  The root that extends into Asgard is 
carefully tended by the three Norns, goddesses, who are regarded as the dispensers 
of fate.  They are Urdur, (the past,) Verdandi, (the present,) Skuld, (the future.) The 
spring at the Jotunheim side is Ymir's well, in which wisdom and wit lie hidden, but that 
of Niffleheim feeds the adder, Nidhogge, (darkness,) which perpetually gnaws at the 
root.  Four harts run across the branches of the tree and bite the buds; they represent 
the four winds.  Under the tree lies Ymir, and when he tries to shake off its weight the 
earth quakes.

	Asgard is the name of the abode of the gods, access to which is only gained by 
crossing the bridge, Bifrost, (the rainbow.) Asgard consists of golden and silver 
palaces, the dwellings of the gods, but the most beautiful of these is Valhalla, the 
residence of Odin.  When seated on his throne he overlooks all heaven and earth.  
Upon his shoulders are the ravens Hugin and Munin, who fly every day over the whole 
world, and on their return report to him all they have seen and heard.  At his feet lie his 
two wolves, Geri and Freki, to whom Odin gives all the meat that is set before him, for 
he himself stands in no need of food.  Mead is for him both food and drink.  He 
invented the Runic characters, and it is the business of the Norns to engrave the runes 
of fate upon a metal shield.  From Odin's name, spelt Woden, as it sometimes is, came 
Wednesday, the name of the fourth day of the week.

	Odin is frequently called Alfadur, (All-father,) but this name is sometimes used in 
a way that shows that the Scandinavians had an idea of a deity superior to Odin, 
uncreated and eternal.

Of The Joys Of Valhalla. 

	Valhalla is the great hall of Odin, wherein he feasts, with his chosen heroes, all 
those who have fallen bravely in battle, for all who die a peaceful death are excluded.  
The flesh of the boar Schrimnir is served up to them, and is abundant for all.  For 
although this boar is cooked every morning, he becomes whole again every night.  For 
drink the heroes are supplied abundantly with mead from the she-goat Heidrun.  When 
the heroes are not feasting they amuse themselves with fighting.  Every day they ride 
out into the court or field and fight until they cut each other in pieces. This is their 
pastime; but when meal time comes, they recover from their wounds and return to 
feast in Valhalla.

The Valkyrior. 

	The Valkyrior are warlike virgins, mounted upon horses and armed with helmets, 
shields, and spears.  Odin, who is desirous to collect a great many heroes in Valhalla, 
to be able to meet the giants in a day when the final contest must come, sends down 
to every battle-field to make choice of those who shall be slain.  The Valkyrior are his 
messengers, and their name means "Choosers of the slain." When they ride forth on 
their errand, their armor sheds a strange flickering light, which flashes up over the 
northern skies, making what men call the "Aurora Borealis," or "Northern Lights." ^*


	[Footnote *: Gray's ode, The Fatal Sisters, is founded on this superstition.]

Of Thor And The Other Gods. 

	Thor, the thunderer, Odin's eldest son, is the strongest of gods and men, and 
possesses three very precious things.  The first is a hammer, which both the Frost and 
the Mountain giants know to their cost, when they see it hurled against them in the air, 
for it has split many a skull of their fathers and kindred.  When thrown, it returns to his 
hand of its own accord.  The second rare thing he possesses is called the belt of 
strength. When he girds it about him his divine might is doubled.  The third, also very 
precious, is his iron gloves, which he puts on whenever he would use his mallet 
efficiently.  From Thor's name is derived our word Thursday.

	Frey is one of the most celebrated of the gods.  He presides over rain and 
sunshine and all the fruits of the earth.  His sister Freya is the most propitious of the 
goddesses.  She loves music, spring, and flowers, and is particularly fond of the Elves, 
(fairies.) She is very fond of love ditties, and all lovers would do well to invoke her.

	Bragi is the god of poetry, and his song records the deeds of warriors. His wife, 
Iduna, keeps in a box the apples which the gods, when they feel old age approaching, 
have only to taste of to become young again.

	Heimdall is the watchman of the gods, and is therefore placed on the borders of 
heaven to prevent the giants from forcing their way over the bridge Bifrost (the 
rainbow.) He requires less sleep than a bird, and sees by night as well as by day a 
hundred miles around him.  So acute is his ear that no sound escapes him, for he can 
ever hear the grass grow and the wool on a sheep's back.

Of Loki And His Progeny. 

	There is another deity who is described as the calumniator of the gods and the 
contriver of all fraud and mischief.  His name is Loki.  He is handsome and well made, 
but of a very fickle mood and most evil disposition.  He is of the giant race, but forced 
himself into the company of the gods, and seems to take pleasure in bringing them into 
difficulties, and in extricating them out of the danger by his cunning, wit, and skill. Loki 
has three children.  The first is the wolf Fenris, the second the Midgard serpent, the 
third Hela, (Death.) The gods were not ignorant that these monsters were growing up, 
and that they would one day bring much evil upon gods and men.  So Odin deemed it 
advisable to send one to bring them to him.  When they came he threw the serpent 
into that deep ocean by which the earth is surrounded.  But the monster has grown to 
such an enormous size that holding his tail in his mouth he encircles the whole earth.  
Hela he cast into Niffleheim, and gave her power over nine worlds or regions, into 
which she distributes those who are sent to her; that is, all who die of sickness or old 
age.  Her hall is called Elvidnir.  Hunger is her table, Starvation her knife, Delay her 
man, Slowness her maid, Precipice her threshold, Care her bed, and Burning-anguish 
forms the hangings of her apartments.  She may easily be recognized, for her body is 
half flesh color and half blue, and she has a dreadfully stern and forbidding 
countenance.

	The wolf Fenris gave the gods a great deal of trouble before they succeeded in 
chaining him.  He broke the strongest fetters as if they were made of cobwebs.  Finally 
the gods sent a messenger to the mountain spirits, who made for them the chain 
called Gleipnir.  It is fashioned of six things, viz., the noise made by the footfall of a cat, 
the beards of women, the roots of stones, the breath of fishes, the nerves 
(sensibilities) of bears, and the spittle of birds.  When finished it was as smooth and 
soft as a silken string. But when the gods asked the wolf to suffer himself to be bound 
with this apparently slight ribbon, he suspected their design, fearing that it was made 
by enchantment.  He therefore only consented to be bound with it upon condition that 
one of the gods put his hand in his (Fenris's) mouth as a pledge that the band was to 
be removed again.  Tyr (the god of battles) alone had courage enough to do this.  But 
when the wolf found that he could not break his fetters, and that the gods would not 
release him, he bit off Tyr's hand, and he has ever since remained one-handed.

How Thor Paid The Mountain Giant His Wages. 

	Once on a time, when the gods were constructing their abodes and had already 
finished Midgard and Valhalla, a certain artificer came and offered to build them a 
residence so well fortified that they should be perfectly safe from the incursions of the 
Frost giants and the giants of the mountains.  But he demanded for his reward the 
goddess Freya, together with the sun and moon. The gods yielded to his terms, 
provided he would finish the whole work himself without any one's assistance, and all 
within the space of one winter.  But if any thing remained unfinished on the first day of 
summer he should forfeit the recompense agreed on.  On being told these terms the 
artificer stipulated that he should be allowed the use of his horse Svadilfari, and this by 
the advice of Loki was granted to him.  He accordingly set to work on the first day of 
winter, and during the night let his horse draw stone for the building.  The enormous 
size of the stones struck the gods with astonishment, and they saw clearly that the 
horse did one half more of the toilsome work than his master. Their bargain however 
had been concluded, and confirmed by solemn oaths, for without these precautions a 
giant would not have thought himself safe among the gods, especially when Thor 
should return from an expedition he had then undertaken against the evil demons.

	As the winter drew to a close, the building was far advanced, and the bulwarks 
were sufficiently high and massive to render the place impregnable. In short when it 
wanted but three days to summer the only part that remained to be finished was the 
gateway.  Then sat the gods on their seats of justice and entered into consultation, 
inquiring of one another who among them could have advised to give it away, or to 
plunge the heavens in darkness by permitting the giant to carry away the sun and the 
moon.

	They all agreed that no one but Loki, the author of so many evil deeds, could 
have given such bad counsel, and that he should be put to a cruel death if he did not 
contrive some way to prevent the artificer from completing his task and obtaining the 
stipulated recompense.  They proceeded to lay hands on Loki, who in his fright 
promised upon oath that, let it cost him what it would, he would so manage matters 
that the man should lose his reward.  That very night when the man went with 
Svadilfari for building stone, a mare suddenly ran out of a forest and began to neigh. 
The horse thereat broke loose and ran after the mare into the forest, which obliged the 
man also to run after his horse, and thus between one and another the whole night 
was lost, so that at dawn the work had not made the usual progress.  The man seeing 
that he must fail of completing his task, resumed his own gigantic stature, and the 
gods now clearly perceived that it was in reality a mountain giant who had come 
amongst them.  Feeling no longer bound by their oaths, they called on Thor, who 
immediately ran to their assistance, and lifting up his mallet, paid the workman his 
wages, not with the sun and moon, and not even by sending him back to Jotunheim, 
for with the first blow he shattered the giant's skull to pieces and hurled him headlong 
into Niffleheim.

The Recovery Of The Hammer. 

	Once upon a time it happened that Thor's hammer fell into the possession of the 
giant Thrym, who buried it eight fathoms deep under the rocks of Jotunheim.  Thor 
sent Loki to negotiate with Thrym, but he could only prevail so far as to get the giant's 
promise to restore the weapon if Freya would consent to be his bride.  Loki returned 
and reported the result of his mission, but the goddess of love was quite horrified at 
the idea of bestowing her charms on the king of the Frost giants.  In this emergency 
Loki persuaded Thor to dress himself in Freya's clothes and accompany him to 
Jotunheim. Thrym received his veiled bride with due courtesy, but was greatly 
surprised at seeing her eat for her supper eight salmons and a full grown ox besides 
other delicacies, washing the whole down with three tuns of mead.  Loki however 
assured him that she had not tasted any thing for eight long nights, so great was her 
desire to see her lover, the renowned ruler of Jotunheim. Thrym had at length the 
curiosity to peep under his bride's veil, but started back in affright and demanded why 
Freya's eyeballs glistened with fire.  Loki repeated the same excuse and the giant was 
satisfied.  He ordered the hammer to be brought in and laid on the maiden's lap 
Thereupon Thor threw off his disguise, grasped his redoubted weapon and 
slaughtered Thrym and all his followers.

	Frey also possessed a wonderful weapon, a sword which would of itself spread a 
field with carnage whenever the owner desired it.  Frey parted with this sword, but was 
less fortunate than Thor and never recovered it. It happened in this way: Frey once 
mounted Odin's throne, from whence one can see over the whole universe, and 
looking round saw far off in the giant's kingdom a beautiful maid, at the sight of whom 
he was struck with sudden sadness, insomuch that from that moment he could neither 
sleep, nor drink, nor speak. At last Skirnir, his messenger drew his secret from him, 
and undertook to get him the maiden for his bride, if he would give him his sword as a 
reward. Frey consented and gave him the sword, and Skirnir set off on his journey and 
obtained the maiden's promise that within nine nights she would come to a certain 
place and there wed Frey. Skirnir having reported the success of his errand, Frey 
exclaimed. -

     "Long is one night,
     Long are two nights,
     But how shall I hold out three?
     Shorter hath seemed
     A month to me oft
     Than of this longing time the half."

	So Frey obtained Gerda, the most beautiful of all women, for his wife, but he lost 
his sword.

	This story, entitled Skirnir For, and the one immediately preceding it, Thrym's 
Quida, will be found poetically told in Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of Europe.


Chapter XXXIX: Thor's Visit To Jotunheim

Thor's Visit To Jotunheim, The Giant's Country. 
	One day the god Thor, with his servant Thialfi, and accompanied by Loki, set out 
on a journey to the giant's country.  Thialfi was of all men the swiftest of foot.  He bore 
Thor's wallet, containing their provisions. When night came on they found themselves 
in an immense forest, and searched on all sides for a place where they might pass the 
night, and at last came to a very large hall, with an entrance that took the whole 
breadth of one end of the building.  Here they lay down to sleep, but towards midnight 
were alarmed by an earthquake which shook the whole edifice.  Thor rising up called 
on his companion to seek with him a place of safety.  On the right they found an 
adjoining chamber, into which the others entered, but Thor remained at the doorway 
with his mallet in his hand, prepared to defend himself, whatever might happen.  A 
terrible groaning was heard during the night, and a dawn of day Thor went out and 
found lying near him a huge giant, who slept and snored in the way that had alarmed 
them so.  It is said that for once Thor was afraid to use his mallet, and as the giant 
soon waked up, Thor contended himself with simply asking his name.

	"My name is Skrymir," said the giant, "but I need not ask thy name, for I know 
that thou art the god Thor.  But what has become of my glove?" Thor then perceived 
that what they had taken overnight for a hall was the giant's glove, and the chamber 
where his two companions had sought refuge was the thumb. Skrymir then proposed 
that they should travel in company, and Thor consenting, they sat down to eat their 
breakfast, and when they had done, Skrymir packed all the provisions into one wallet, 
threw it over his shoulder, and strode on before them, taking such tremendous strides 
that they were hard put to it to keep up with him.  So they travelled the whole day, and 
at dusk, Skrymir chose a place for them to pass the night in under a large oak tree.  
Skrymir then told them he would lie down to sleep. "But take ye the wallet," he added, 
"and prepare your supper."

	Skrymir soon fell asleep and began to snore strongly but when Thor tried to open 
the wallet, he found the giant had tied it up so tight he could not untie a single knot.  At 
last Thor became a wroth, and grasping his mallet with both hands he struck a furious 
blow on the giant's head Skrymir awakening merely asked whether a leaf had not 
fallen on his head, and whether they had supped and were ready to go to sleep.  Thor 
answered that they were just going to sleep, and so saying went and laid himself down 
under another tree.  But sleep came not that night to Thor, and when Skrymir snored 
again so loud that the forest re-echoed with the noise, he arose, and grasping his 
mallet launched it with such force at the giant's skull that it made a deep dint in it.  
Skrymir awakening cried out, "What's the matter?  are there any birds perched on this 
tree?  I felt some moss from the branches fall on my head. How fares it with thee, 
Thor?" But Thor went away hastily, saying that he had just then awoke, and that as it 
was only midnight, there was still time for sleep.  He however resolved that if he had 
an opportunity of striking a third blow, it should settle all matters between them.  A little 
before daybreak he perceived that Skrymir was again fast asleep, and again grasping 
his mallet, he dashed it with such violence that it forced its way into the giant's skull up 
to the handle.  But Skrymir sat up, and stroking his cheek said, "An acorn fell on my 
head.  What! Art thou awake, Thor?  Methinks it is time for us to get up and dress 
ourselves; but you have not now a long way before you to the city called Utgard.  I 
have heard you whispering to one another that I am not a man of small dimensions; 
but if you come to Utgard you will see there many men much taller than I.  Wherefore I 
advise you, when you come there, not to make too much of yourselves, for the 
followers of Utgard-Loki will not brook the boasting of such little fellows as you are.  
You must take the road that leads eastward, mine lies northward, so we must part 
here."

	Hereupon he threw his wallet over his shoulders, and turned away from them into 
the forest, and Thor had no wish to stop him or to ask for any more of his company.

	Thor and his companions proceeded on their way, and towards noon descried a 
city standing in the middle of a plain.  It was so lofty that they were obliged to bend 
their necks quite back on their shoulders in order to see to the top of it.  On arriving 
they entered the city, and seeing a large palace before them with the door wide open, 
they went in, and found a number of men of prodigious stature, sitting on benches in 
the hall.  Going further, they came before the king Utgard-Loki, whom they saluted with 
great respect.  The king, regarding them with a scornful smile, said, "If I do not mistake 
me, that stripling yonder must be the god Thor." Then addressing himself to Thor, he 
said, "Perhaps thou mayst be more than thou appearest to be.  What are the feats that 
thou and thy fellows deem yourselves skilled in, for no one is permitted to remain here 
who does not, in some feat or other, excel all other men?"

	"The feat that I know," said Loki, "is to eat quicker than any one else, and in this I 
am ready to give a proof against any one here who may choose to compete with me."

	"That will indeed be a feat," said Utgard-Loki, "if thou performest what thou 
promisest, and it shall be tried forthwith."

	He then ordered one of his men who was sitting at the farther end of the bench, 
and whose name was Logi, to come forward and try his skill with Loki. A trough filled 
with meat having been set on the hall floor, Loki placed himself at one end, and Logi at 
the other, and each of them began to eat as fast as he could, until they met in the 
middle of the trough.  But it was found that Loki had only eaten the flesh, while his 
adversary had devoured both flesh and bone, and the trough to boot.  All the company 
therefore adjudged that Loki was vanquished.

	Utgard-Loki then asked what feat the young man who accompanied Thor could 
perform.  Thialfi answered that he would run a race with any one who might be 
matched against him.  The king observed that skill in running was something to boast 
of, but if the youth would win the match he must display great agility. He then arose 
and went with all who were present to a plain where there was good ground for 
running on, and calling a young man named Hugi, bade him run a match with Thialfi.  
In the first course Hugi so much outstripped his competitor that he turned back and 
met him not far from the starting place. Then they ran a second and a third time, but 
Thialfi met with no better success.

	Utgard-Loki then asked Thor in what feats he would choose to give proofs of that 
prowess for which he was so famous.  Thor answered that he would try a drinking-
match with any one.  Utgard-Loki bade his cupbearer bring the large horn which his 
followers were obliged to empty when they had trespassed in any way against the law 
of the feast.  The cupbearer having presented it to Thor, Utgard-Loki said, "Whoever is 
a good drinker will empty that horn at a single draught, though most men make two of 
it, but the most puny drinker can do it in three."

	Thor looked at the horn, which seemed of no extraordinary size though 
somewhat long; however, as he was very thirsty, he set it to his lips, and without 
drawing breath, pulled as long and as deeply as he could, that he might not be obliged 
to make a second draught of it; but when he set the horn down and looked in, he could 
scarcely perceive that the liquor was diminished.

	After taking breath, Thor went to it again with all his might, but when he took the 
horn from his mouth, it seemed to him that he had drank rather less than before, 
although the horn could now be carried without spilling.

	"How now, Thor," said Utgard-Loki, "thou must not spare thyself; if thou meanest 
to drain the horn at the third draught thou must pull deeply; and I must needs say that 
thou wilt not be called so mighty a man here as thou art at home if thou showest no 
greater prowess in other feats than methinks will be shown in this."

	Thor, full of wrath, again set the horn to his lips, and did his best to empty it; but 
on looking in found the liquor was only a little lower, so he resolved to make no further 
attempt, but gave back the horn to the cupbearer.

	"I now see plainly," said Utgard-Loki, "that thou art not quite so stout as we 
thought thee; but wilt thou try any other feat, though methinks thou art not likely to bear 
any prize away with thee hence."

	"What new trial hast thou to propose?" said Thor.

	"We have a very trifling game here," answered Utgard-Loki, "in which we 
exercise none but children.  It consists in merely lifting my cat from the ground; nor 
should I have dared to mention such a feat to the great Thor if I had not already 
observed that thou art by no means what we took thee for."

	As he finished speaking, a large gray cat sprang on the hall floor. Thor put his 
hand under the cat's belly and did his utmost to raise him from the floor, but the cat, 
bending his back, had, notwithstanding all Thor's efforts, only one of his feet lifted up, 
seeing which Thor made no further attempt.

	"This trial has turned out," said Utgard-Loki, "just as I imagined it would.  The cat 
is large, but Thor is little in comparison to our men."

	"Little as ye call me," answered Thor, "let me see who among you will come 
hither now I am in wrath and wrestle with me."

	"I see no one here," said Utgard-Loki, looking at the men sitting on the benches, 
"who would not think it beneath him to wrestle with thee; let somebody, however, call 
hither that old crone, my nurse Elli, and let Thor wrestle with her if he will.  She has 
thrown to the ground many a man not less strong than this Thor is.

	A toothless old woman then entered the hall, and was told by Utgard- Loki to take 
hold of Thor.  The tale is shortly told.  The more Thor tightened his hold on the crone 
the firmer she stood.  At length after a very violent struggle, Thor began to lose his 
footing, and was finally brought down upon one knee.  Utgard-Loki then told them to 
desist, adding that Thor had now no occasion to ask any one else in the hall to wrestle 
with him, and it was also getting late; so he showed Thor and his companions to their 
seats, and they passed the night there in good cheer.

	The next morning at break of day, Thor and his companions dressed themselves 
and prepared for their departure.  Utgard-Loki ordered a table to be set for them, on 
which there was no lack of victuals or drink.  After the repast Utgard-Loki led them to 
the gate of the city, and on parting asked Thor how he thought his journey had turned 
out, and whether he had met with any men stronger than himself.  Thor told him that 
he could not deny but that he had brought great shame on himself.  "And what grieves 
me most," he added, "is that ye will call me a person of little worth."

	"Nay," said Utgard-Loki, "it behooves me to tell thee the truth, now thou art out of 
the city, which so long as I live and have my way thou shalt never enter again.  And, by 
my troth, had I known beforehand, that thou hadst so much strength in thee, and 
wouldst have brought me so near to a great mishap, I would not have suffered thee to 
enter this time.  Know then that I have all along deceived thee by my illusions; first in 
the forest, where I tied up the wallet with iron wire so that thou couldst not untie it.  
After this thou gavest me three blows with thy mallet; the first, though the least, would 
have ended my days had it fallen on me, but I slipped aside and thy blows fell on the 
mountain where thou wilt find three glens, one of them remarkably deep. These are 
the dints made by thy mallet.  I have made use of similar illusions in the contest you 
have had with my followers.  In the first, Loki, like hunger itself, devoured all that was 
set before him, but Logi was in reality nothing else than Fire, and therefore consumed 
not only the meat, but the trough which held it. Hugi, with whom Thialfi contended in 
running, was Thought, and it was impossible for Thialfi to keep pace with that.  When 
thou in thy turn didst attempt to empty the horn, thou didst perform, by my troth, a deed 
so marvellous, that had I not seen it myself, I should never have believed it. For one 
end of that horn reached the sea, which thou wast not aware of, but when thou comest 
to the shore thou wilt perceive how much the sea has sunk by thy draughts.  Thou 
didst perform a feat no less wonderful by lifting up the cat, and to tell thee the truth, 
when we saw that one of his paws was off the floor, we were all of us terror-stricken, 
for what thou tookest for a cat was in reality the Midgard serpent that encompasseth 
the earth, and he was so stretched by thee, that he was barely long enough to enclose 
it between his head and tail.  Thy wrestling with Elli was also a most astonishing feat, 
for there was never yet a man, nor ever will be, whom Old Age, for such in fact was 
Elli, will not sooner or later lay low.  But now, as we are going to part, let me tell thee 
that it will be better for both of us if thou never come near me again, for shouldst thou 
do so, I shall again defend myself by other illusions, so that thou wilt only lose thy labor 
and get no fame from the contest with me."

	On hearing these words Thor in a rage laid hold of his mallet and would have 
launched it at him, but Utgard-Loki had disappeared, and when Thor would have 
returned to the city to destroy it, he found nothing around him but a verdant plain.


Chapter XL: Death Of Baldur - The Elves - Runic Letters - Skalds - Iceland

The Death Of Baldur. 
	Baldur the Good, having been tormented with terrible dreams indicating that his 
life was in peril, told them to the assembled gods, who resolved to conjure all things to 
avert from him the threatened danger.  Then Frigga, the wife of Odin, exacted an oath 
from fire and water, from iron and all other metals, from stones, trees, diseases, 
beasts, birds, poisons, and creeping things, that none of them would do any harm to 
Baldur.  Odin, not satisfied with all this, and feeling alarmed for the fate of his son, 
determined to consult the prophetess Angerbode, a giantess, mother of Fenris, Hela, 
and the Midgard serpent.  She was dead, and Odin was forced to seek her in Hela's 
dominions.  This Descent of Odin forms the subject of Gray's fine ode beginning, -

     "Uprose the king of men with speed
     And saddled straight his coal-black steed.'

	But the other gods, feeling that what Frigga had done was quite sufficient, 
amused themselves with using Baldur as a mark, some hurling darts at him, some 
stones, while others hewed at him with their swords and battle-axes, for do what they 
would none of them could harm him.  And this became a favorite pastime with them and 
was regarded as an honor shown to Baldur.  But when Loki beheld the scene he was 
sorely vexed that Baldur was not hurt.  Assuming, therefore, the shape of a woman, he 
went to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga.  That goddess, when she saw the pretended 
woman, inquired of her if she knew what the gods were doing at their meetings. She 
replied that they were throwing darts and stones at Baldur, without being able to hurt 
him.  "Ay," said Frigga, "neither stones, nor sticks, nor any thing else can hurt Baldur, for 
I have exacted an oath from all of them." "What," exclaimed the woman, "have all things 
sworn to spare Baldur?" "All things," replied Frigga, "except one little shrub that grows 
on the eastern side of Valhalla, and is called Mistletoe, and which I thought too young 
and feeble to crave an oath from."

	As soon as Loki heard this he went away, and resuming his natural shape, cut off 
the mistletoe, and repaired to the place where the gods were assembled.  There he 
found Hodur standing apart, without partaking of the sports, on account of his blindness, 
and going up to him, said, "Why dost thou not also throw something at Baldur?"

	"Because I am blind," answered Hodur, "and see not where Baldur is, and have 
moreover nothing to throw."

	"Come, then," said Loki, "do like the rest, and show honor to Baldur by throwing 
this twig at him, and I will direct thy arm towards the place where he stands."

	Hodur then took the mistletoe, and under the guidance of Loki, darted it at 
Baldur, who, pierced through and through, fell down lifeless.  Surely never was there 
witnessed, either among gods or men, a more atrocious deed than this.  When Baldur 
fell, the gods were struck speech less with horror, and then they looked at each other, 
and all were of one mind to lay hands on him who had done the deed, but they were 
obliged to delay their vengeance out of respect for the sacred place where they were 
assembled. They gave vent to their grief by loud lamentations.  When the gods came to 
themselves, Frigga asked who among them wished to gain all her love and good will.  
"For this," said she, "shall he have who will ride to Hel and offer Hela a ransom if she will 
let Baldur return to Asgard." Whereupon Hermod, surnamed the Nimble, the son of Odin, 
offered to undertake the journey.  Odin's horse, Sleipnir, which has eight legs, and can 
outrun the wind, was then led forth, on which Hermod mounted and galloped away on 
his mission.  For the space of nine days and as many nights he rode through deep glens 
so dark that he could not discern any thing, until he arrived at the river Gyoll, which he 
passed over on a bridge covered with glittering gold.  The maiden who kept the bridge 
asked him his name and lineage, telling him that the day before five bands of dead 
persons had ridden over the bridge, and did not shake it as much as he alone.  "But," 
she added, "thou hast not death's hue on thee; why then ridest thou here on the way to 
Hel?"

	"I ride to Hel," answered Hermod, "to seek Baldur.  Hast thou perchance seen 
him pass this way?"

	She replied, "Baldur hath ridden over Gyoll's bridge, and yonder lieth the way he 
took to the abodes of death."

	Hermod pursued his journey until he came to the barred gates of Hel. Here he 
alighted, girthed his saddle tighter, and remounting clapped both spurs to his horse, who 
cleared the gate by a tremendous leap without touching it. Hermod then rode on to the 
palace, where he found his brother Baldur occupying the most distinguished seat in the 
hall, and passed the night in his company. The next morning he besought Hela to let 
Baldur ride home with him, assuring her that nothing but lamentations were to be heard 
among the gods.  Hela answered that it should now be tried whether Baldur was so 
beloved as he was said to be.  "If, therefore," she added, "all things in the world, both 
living and lifeless, weep for him, then shall be return to life; but if any one thing speak 
against him or refuse to weep, he shall be kept in Hel."

	Hermod then rode back to Asgard and gave an account of all he had heard and 
witnessed.

	The gods upon this despatched messengers throughout the world to beg every 
thing to weep in order that Baldur might be delivered from Hel.  All things very willingly 
complied with this request, both men and every other living being, as well as earths, and 
stones, and trees, and metals, just as we have all seen these things weep when they are 
brought from a cold place into a hot one.  As the messengers were returning, they found 
an old hag named Thaukt sitting in a cavern, and begged her to weep Baldur out of Hel. 
But she answered, -

     "Thaukt will wail
     With dry tears
     Baldur's bale-fire.
     Let Hela keep her own."

	It was strongly suspected that this hag was no other than Loki himself, who never 
ceased to work evil among gods and men.  So Baldur was prevented from coming back 
to Asgard. ^*

	[Footnote *: In Longfellow's Poems, vol. ii. page 379, will be found a poem 
entitled Tegner's Drapa, upon the subject of Baldur's death.]

The Funeral Of Baldur. 

	The gods took up the dead body and bore it to the sea shore where stood 
Baldur's ship Hringham, which passed for the largest in the world. Baldur's dead body 
was put on the funeral pile, on board the ship, and his wife Nanna was so struck with 
grief at the sight that she broke her heart, and her body was burned on the same pile 
with her husband's.  There was a vast concourse of various kinds of people at Baldur's 
obsequies.  First came Odin accompanied by Frigga, the Valkyrior, and his ravens; then 
Frey in his car drawn by Gullinbursti, the boar; Heimdall rode his horse Gulltopp, and 
Freya drove in her chariot drawn by cats.  There were also a great many Frost giants 
and giants of the mountain present.  Baldur's horse was led to the pile fully caparisoned 
and consumed in the same flames with his master.

	But Loki did not escape his deserved punishment.  When he saw how angry the 
gods were, he fled to the mountain, and there built himself a hut with four doors, so that 
he could see every approaching danger.  He invented a net to catch the fishes, such as 
fishermen have used since his time.  But Odin found out his hiding-place and the gods 
assembled to take him.  He, seeing this, changed himself into a salmon, and lay hid 
among the stones of the brook.  But the gods took his net and dragged the brook, and 
Loki finding he must be caught, tried to leap over the net; but Thor caught him by the tail 
and compressed it so, that salmons ever since have had that part remarkably fine and 
thin.  They bound him with chains and suspended a serpent over his head, whose 
venom falls upon his face drop by drop.  His wife Siguna sits by his side and catches the 
drops as they fall, in a cup; but when she carries it away to empty it, the venom falls 
upon Loki, which makes him howl with horror, and twist his body about so violently that 
the whole earth shakes, and this produces what men call earthquakes.

The Elves. 

	The Edda mentions another class of beings, inferior to the gods, but still 
possessed of great power; these were called Elves.  The white spirits, or Elves of Light, 
were exceedingly fair, more brilliant than the sun, and clad in garments of a delicate and 
transparent texture.  They loved the light, were kindly disposed to mankind, and 
generally appeared as fair and lovely children.  Their country was called Alfheim, and 
was the domain of Freyr, the god of the sun, in whose light they were always sporting.

	The black or Night Elves were a different kind of creatures.  Ugly, long-nosed 
dwarfs, of a dirty brown color, they appeared only at night, for they avoided the sun as 
their most deadly enemy, because whenever his beams fell upon any of them they 
changed them immediately into stones.  Their language was the echo of solitudes, and 
their dwelling-places subterranean caves and clefts.  They were supposed to have come 
into existence as maggots produced by the decaying flesh of Ymir's body, and were 
afterwards endowed by the gods with a human form and great understanding.  They 
were particularly distinguished for a knowledge of the mysterious powers of nature, and 
for the runes which they carved and explained.  They were the most skilful artificers of all 
created beings, and worked in metals and in wood.  Among their most noted works were 
Thor's hammer, and the ship Skidbladnir which they gave to Freyr, and which was so 
large that it could contain all the deities with their war and household implements, but so 
skilfully was it wrought that when folded together it could be put into a side pocket.

Ragnarok, The Twilight Of The Gods. 

	It was a firm belief of the northern nations that a time would come when all the 
visible creation, the gods of Valhalla and Niffleheim, the inhabitants of Jotunheim, 
Alfheim, and Midgard, together with their habitations, would be destroyed.  The fearful 
day of destruction will not however be without its forerunners.  First will come a triple 
winter, during which snow will fall from the four corners of the heavens, the frost be very 
severe, the wind piercing, the weather tempestuous, and the sun impart no gladness.  
Three such winters will pass away without being tempered by a single summer.  Three 
other similar winters will then follow, during which war and discord will spread over the 
universe.  The earth itself will be frightened and begin to tremble, the sea leave its basin, 
the heavens tear asunder, and men perish in great numbers, and the eagles of the air 
feast upon their still quivering bodies. The wolf Fenris will not break his bands, the 
Midgard serpent rise out of her bed in the sea, and Loki, released from his bonds, will 
join the enemies of the gods. Amidst the general devastation the sons of Muspelheim 
will rush forth under their leader Surtur, before and behind whom are flames and burning 
fire. Onward they ride over Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, which breaks under the horses' 
hoofs.  But they, disregarding its fall, direct their course to the battle-field called Vigrid.  
Thither also repair the wolf Fenris, the Midgard serpent, Loki with all the followers of 
Hela, and the Frost giants.

	Heimdall now stands up and sounds the Giallar horn to assemble the gods and 
heroes for the contest.  The gods advance led on by Odin, who engages the wolf Fenris, 
but falls a victim to the monster, who is however slain by Vidar, Odin's son.  Thor gains 
great renown by killing the Midgard serpent, but recoils and falls dead, suffocated with 
the venom which the dying monster vomits over him.  Loki and Heimdall meet and fight 
till they are both slain. The gods and their enemies having fallen in battle, Surtur, who 
has killed Freyr, darts fire and flames over the world, and the whole universe is burned 
up.  The sun becomes dim, the earth sinks into the ocean, the stars fall from heaven, 
and time is no more.

	After this Alfadur (the Almighty) will cause a new heaven and a new earth to arise 
out of the sea.  The new earth filled with abundant supplies will spontaneously produce 
its fruits without labor or care.  Wickedness and misery will no more be known, but the 
gods and men will live happily together.

Runic Letters. 

	One cannot travel far in Denmark, Norway, or Sweden without meeting with great 
stones, of different forms, engraven with characters called Runic, which appear at first 
sight very different from all we know.  The letters consist almost invariably of straight 
lines, in the shape of little sticks either singly or put together.  Such sticks were in early 
times used by the northern nations for the purpose of ascertaining future events.  The 
sticks were shaken up, and from the figures that they formed a kind of divination was 
derived.

	The Runic characters were of various kinds.  They were chiefly used for magical 
purposes.  The noxious, or, as they called them, the bitter runes, were employed to bring 
various evils on their enemies; the favorable averted misfortune.  Some were medicinal, 
others employed to win love, &c. In later times they were frequently used for inscriptions, 
of which more than a thousand have been found.  The language is a dialect of the 
Gothic, called Norse, still in use in Iceland.  The inscriptions may therefore be read with 
certainty, but hitherto very few have been found which throw the least light on history.  
They are mostly epitaphs on tombstones.

	Gray's ode on the Descent of Odin contains an allusion to the use of Runic letters 
for incantation: -

     "Facing to the northern clime,
     Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme;
     Thrice pronounced, in accents dread,
     The thrilling verse that wakes the dead,
     Till from out the hollow ground
     Slowly breathed a sullen sound."

The Skalds. 

	The Skalds were the bards and poets of the nation, a very important class of men 
in all communities in an early stage of civilization.  They are the depositaries of whatever 
historic lore there is, and it is their office to mingle something of intellectual gratification 
with the rude feasts of the warriors, by rehearsing, with such accompaniments of poetry 
and music as their skill can afford, the exploits of their heroes living or dead.  The 
compositions of the Skalds were called Sagas, many of which have come down to us, 
and contain valuable materials of history, and a faithful picture of the state of society at 
the time to which they relate.

Iceland. 

	The Eddas and Sagas have come to us from Iceland.  The following extract from 
Carlyle's Lectures on Heroes and Hero Worship gives an animated account of the region 
where the strange stories we have been reading had their origin. Let the reader contrast 
it for a moment with Greece, the parent of classical mythology.

	"In that strange island, Iceland, - burst up, the geologists say, by fire from the 
bottom of the sea, a wild land of barrenness and lava, swallowed many months of every 
year in black tempests, yet with a wild, gleaming beauty in summer time, towering up 
there stern and grim in the North Ocean, with its snow yokuls, [mountains,] roaring 
geysers, [boiling springs,] sulphur pools, and horrid volcanic chasms, like the waste, 
chaotic battle-field of Frost and Fire, - where, of all places, we least looked for literature 
or written memorials, - the record of these things was written down.  On the seaboard of 
this wild land is a rim of grassy country, where cattle can subsist, and men by means of 
them and of what the sea yields; and it seems they were poetic men these, men who 
had deep thoughts in them and uttered musically their thoughts. Much would be lost had 
Iceland not been burst up from the sea, not been discovered by the Northmen!"



Chapter XLI: The Druids - Iona

Druids. 
	The Druids were the priests or ministers of religion among the ancient Celtic 
nations in Gaul, Britain, and Germany.  Our information respecting them is borrowed 
from notices in the Greek and Roman writers, compared with the remains of Welsh 
and Gaelic poetry still extant.

	The Druids combined the functions of the priest, the magistrate, the scholar, and 
the physician.  They stood to the people of the Celtic tribes in a relation closely 
analogous to that in which the Brahmans of India, the Magi of Persia, and the priests 
of the Egyptians stood to the people respectively by whom they were revered.

	The Druids taught the existence of one god, to whom they gave a name "Be'al," 
which Celtic antiquaries tell us means "the life of every thing," or "the source of all 
beings," and which seems to have affinity with the Phoenician Baal.  What renders this 
affinity more striking is that the Druids as well as the Phoenicians identified this, their 
supreme deity, with the Sun. Fire was regarded as a symbol of the divinity.  The Latin 
writers assert that the Druids also worshipped numerous inferior gods.

	They used no images to represent the object of their worship, nor did they meet 
in temples or buildings of any kind for the performance of their sacred rites.  A circle of 
stones (each stone generally of vast size) enclosing an area of from twenty feet to 
thirty yards in diameter, constituted their sacred place.  The most celebrated of these 
now remaining is Stonehenge, on Salisbury Plain, England.

	These sacred circles were generally situated near some stream, or under the 
shadow of a grove or wide-spreading oak.  In the centre of the circle stood the 
Cromlech or altar, which was a large stone, placed in the manner of a table upon other 
stones set up on end.  The Druids had also their high places, which were large stones 
or piles of stones on the summits of hills. These were called Cairns, and were used in 
the worship of the deity under the symbol of the sun.

	That the Druids offered sacrifices to their deity there can be no doubt. But there 
is some uncertainty as to what they offered, and of the ceremonies connected with 
their religious services we know almost nothing. The classical (Roman) writers affirm 
that they offered on great occasions human sacrifices; as for success in war or for 
relief from dangerous diseases.  Caesar has given a detailed account of the manner in 
which this was done.  "They have images of immense size, the limbs of which are 
framed with twisted twigs and filled with living persons.  These being set on fire, those 
within are encompassed by the flames." Many attempts have been made by Celtic 
writers to shake the testimony of the Roman historians to this fact, but without 
success.

	The Druids observed two festivals in each year.  The former took place in the 
beginning of May, and was called Beltane or "fire of God." On this occasion a large fire 
was kindled on some elevated spot, in honor of the sun, whose returning beneficence 
they thus welcomed after the gloom and desolation of winter.  Of this custom a trace 
remains in the name given to Whitsunday in parts of Scotland to this day.  Sir Walter 
Scott uses the word in the Boat Song in the Lady of the Lake: -

     "Ours is no sapling, chance sown by the fountain,
     Blooming at Beltane in winter to fade;" &c.

	The other great festival of the Druids was called "Samh'in," or "fire of peace," and 
was held on Hallow-even, (first of November,) which still retains this designation in the 
Highlands of Scotland.  On this occasion the Druids assembled in solemn conclave, in 
the most central part of the district, to discharge the judicial functions of their order.  All 
questions, whether public or private, all crimes against person or property, were at this 
time brought before them for adjudication.  With these judicial acts were combined 
certain superstitious usages, especially the kindling of the sacred fire, from which all the 
fires in the district, which had been beforehand scrupulously extinguished, might be 
relighted. This usage of kindling fires on Hallow-eve lingered in the British islands long 
after the establishment of Christianity.

	Besides these two great annual festivals, the Druids were in the habit of 
observing the full moon, and especially the sixth day of the moon.  On the latter they 
sought the Mistletoe, which grew on their favorite oaks, and to which, as well as to the 
oak itself, they ascribed a peculiar virtue and sacredness.  The discovery of it was an 
occasion of rejoicing and solemn worship.  "They call its," says Pliny, "by a word in their 
language which means 'heal-all,' and having made solemn preparation for feasting and 
sacrifice under the tree, they drive thither two milk-white bulls, whose horns are then for 
the first time bound.  The priest then, robed in white, ascends the tree, and cuts off the 
mistletoe with a golden sickle.  It is caught in a white mantle, after which they proceed to 
slay the victims, at the same time praying that God would render his gift prosperous to 
those to whom he had given it." They drink the water in which it has been infused, and 
think it a remedy for all diseases.  The mistletoe is a parasitic plant, and is not always 
nor often found on the oak, so that when it is found it is the more precious.

	The Druids were the teachers of morality as well as of religion.  Of their ethical 
teaching a valuable specimen is preserved in the Triads of the Welsh Bards, and from 
this we may gather that their views of moral rectitude were on the whole just, and that 
they held and inculcated many very noble and valuable principles of conduct.  They were 
also the men of science and learning of their age and people.  Whether they were 
acquainted with letters or not has been disputed, though the probability is strong that 
they were, to some extent.  But it is certain that they committed nothing of their doctrine, 
their history, or their poetry to writing. Their teaching was oral, and their literature (if such 
a word may be used in such a case) was preserved solely by tradition.  But the Roman 
writers admit that "they paid much attention to the order and laws of nature, and 
investigated and taught to the youth under their charge many things concerning the stars 
and their motions, the size of the world and the lands, and concerning the might and 
power of the immortal gods."

	Their history consisted in traditional tales, in which the heroic deeds of their 
forefathers were celebrated.  These were apparently in verse, and thus constituted part 
of the poetry as well as the history of the Druids.  In the poems of Ossian we have, if not 
the actual productions of Druidical times, what may be considered faithful 
representations of the songs of the Bards.

	The Bards were an essential part of the Druidical hierarchy.  One author, 
Pennant, says, "The Bards were supposed to be endowed with powers equal to 
inspiration.  They were the oral historians of all past transactions, public and private.  
They were also accomplished genealogists, &c."

	Pennant gives a minute account of the Eisteddfods or sessions of the Bards and 
minstrels, which were held in Wales for many centuries, long after the Druidical 
priesthood in its other departments became extinct.  At these meetings none but Bards 
of merit were suffered to rehearse their pieces, and minstrels of skill to perform.  Judges 
were appointed to decide on their respective abilities, and suitable degrees were 
conferred.  In the earlier period the judges were appointed by the Welsh princes, and 
after the conquest of Wales, by commission from the kings of England.  Yet the tradition 
is that Edward I. in revenge for the influence of the Bards, in animating the resistance of 
the people to his sway, persecuted them with great cruelty This tradition has furnished 
the poet Gray with the subject of his celebrated ode, the Bard.

	There are still occasional meetings of the lovers of Welsh poetry and music, held 
under the ancient name.  Among Mrs. Hemans's poems is one written for an Eisteddfod, 
or meeting of Welsh Bards, held in London May 22, 1822.  It begins with a description of 
the ancient meeting, of which the following lines are a part: -

     ". . . midst the eternal cliffs, whose strength defied
     The crested Roman in his hour of pride;
     And where the Druid's ancient cromlech frowned,
     And the oaks breathed mysterious murmurs round,
     There thronged the inspired of yore!  on plain or height,
     In the sun's face, beneath the eye of light,
     And baring unto heaven each noble head,
     Stood in the circle, where none else might tread."

	The Druidical system was at its height at the time of the Roman invasion under 
Julius Caesar.  Against the Druids, as their chief enemies, these conquerors of the world 
directed their unsparing fury.  The Druids, harassed at all points on the main land, 
retreated to Anglesey and Iona, where for a season they found shelter and continued 
their now-dishonored rites.

	The Druids retained their predominance in Iona and over the adjacent islands 
and main land until they were supplanted and their superstitions overturned by the 
arrival of St. Columba, the apostle of the Highlands, by whom the inhabitants of that 
district were first led to profess Christianity.

Iona. 

	One of the smallest of the British Isles, situated near a rugged and barren coast, 
surrounded by dangerous seas, and possessing no sources of internal wealth, Iona has 
obtained an imperishable place in history as the seat of civilization and religion at a time 
when the darkness of heathenism hung over almost the whole of Northern Europe.  Iona 
or Icolmkill is situated at the extremity of the island of Mull, from which it is separated by 
a strait of half a mile in breadth, its distance from the main land of Scotland being thirty-
six miles.

	Columba was a native of Ireland, and connected by birth with the princes of the 
land.  Ireland was at that time a land of gospel light, while the western and northern parts 
of Scotland were still immersed in the darkness of heathenism.  Columba with twelve 
friends landed on the island of Iona in the year of our Lord 563, having made the 
passage in a wicker boat covered with hides.  The Druids who occupied the island 
endeavored to prevent his settling there, and the savage nations on the adjoining shores 
incommoded him with their hostility, and on several occasions endangered his life by 
their attacks.  Yet by his perseverance and zeal he surmounted all opposition, procured 
from the king a gift of the island, and established there a monastery of which he was the 
abbot.  He was unwearied in his labors to disseminate a knowledge of the Scriptures 
throughout the Highlands and Islands of Scotland, and such was the reverence paid him 
that though not a bishop, but merely a presbyter and monk, the entire province with its 
bishops was subject to him and his successors.  The Pictish monarch was so impressed 
with a sense of his wisdom and worth that he held him in the highest honor, and the 
neighboring chiefs and princes sought his counsel and availed themselves of his 
judgment in settling their disputes.

	When Columba landed on Iona he was attended by twelve followers whom he 
had formed into a religious body of which he was the head.  To these, as occasion 
required, others were from time to time added, so that the original number was always 
kept up.  Their institution was called a monastery and the superior an abbot, but the 
system had little in common with the monastic institutions of later times.  The name by 
which those who submitted to the rule were known was that of Culdees, probably from 
the Latin "cultores Dei" - worshippers of God.  They were a body of religious persons 
associated together for the purpose of aiding each other in the common work of 
preaching the gospel and teaching youth, as well as maintaining in themselves the fervor 
of devotion by united exercises of worship.  On entering the order certain vows were 
taken by the members, but they were not those which were usually imposed by monastic 
orders, for of these, which are three, celibacy, poverty, and obedience, the Culdees were 
bound to none except the third.  To poverty they did not bind themselves; on the contrary 
they seem to have labored diligently to procure for them selves and those dependent on 
them the comforts of life. Marriage also was allowed them, and most of them seem to 
have entered into that state.  True their wives were not permitted to reside with them at 
the institution, but they had a residence assigned to them in an adjacent locality.  Near 
Iona there is an island which still bears the name of "Eilen nam ban," women's island, 
where their husbands seem to have resided with them, except when duty required their 
presence in the school or the sanctuary.

	Campbell, in his poem of Reullura, alludes to the married monks of Iona: -

     ". . . The pure Culdees
     Were Albyn's earliest priests of God,
     Ere yet an island of her seas
     By foot of Saxon monk was trod,
     Long ere her churchmen by bigotry
     Were barred from holy wedlock's tie.
     'Twas then that Aodh, famed afar,
     In Iona preached the word with power.
     And Reullura, beauty's star,
     Was the partner of his bower."

	In one of his Irish Melodies, Moore gives the legend of St. Senanus and the lady 
who sought shelter on the island, but was repulsed: -

     "O, haste and leave this sacred isle,
     Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
     For on thy deck, though dark it be,
     A female form I see;
     And I have sworn this sainted sod
     Shall ne'er by woman's foot be trod."

	In these respects and in others the Culdees departed from the established rules 
of the Romish Church, and consequently were deemed heretical.  The consequence 
was that as the power of the latter advanced that of the Culdees was enfeebled.  It was 
not however till the thirteenth century that the communities of the Culdees were 
suppressed and the members dispersed.  They still continued to labor as individuals, 
and resisted the inroads of Papal usurpation as they best might till the light of the 
Reformation dawned on the world.

	Iona, from its position in the western seas, was exposed to the assaults of the 
Norwegian and Danish rovers by whom those seas were infested, and by them it was 
repeatedly pillaged, its dwellings burned, and its peaceful inhabitants put to the sword.  
These unfavorable circumstances led to its gradual decline, which was expedited by the 
subversion of the Culdees throughout Scotland.  Under the reign of Popery the island 
became the seat of a nunnery, the ruins of which are still seen.  At the Reformation, the 
nuns were allowed to remain, living in community, when the abbey was dismantled.

	Iona is now chiefly resorted to by travellers on account of the numerous 
ecclesiastical and sepulchral remains which are found upon it. The principal of these are 
the Cathedral or Abbey Church, and the Chapel of the Nunnery. Besides these remains 
of ecclesiastical antiquity, there are some of an earlier date, and pointing to the 
existence on the island of forms of worship and belief different from those of Christianity.  
These are the circular Cairns which are found in various parts, and which seem to have 
been of Druidical origin.  It is in reference to all these remains of ancient religion that 
Johnson exclaims, "That man is little to be envied whose patriotism would not gain force 
upon the plains of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer amid the ruins of 
Iona."

	In the Lord of the Isles, Scott beautifully contrasts the church on Iona with the 
cave of Staffa, opposite -

     "Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
     A minster to her Maker's praise!
     Not for a meaner use ascend
     Her columns, or her arches bend;
     Nor of a theme less solemn tells
     That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
     And still between each awful pause,
     From the high vault an answer draws,
     In varied tone, prolonged and high,
     That mocks the organ's melody;
     Nor doth its entrance front in vain
     To old Iona's holy fane,
     That Nature's voice might seem to say,
     Well hast thou done, frail child of clay
     Thy humble powers that stately shrine
     Tasked high and hard - but witness mine.


Proverbial Expressions

No. 1. Page 60. 

     Materiem superabat opus. - Ovid.

     The workmanship surpassed the material.
No. 2. Page 60. 

     Facies non omnibus una,
     Nec diversa tamen, qualem decet esse sororum. - Ovid.

     Their faces were not all alike,
     nor yet unlike, but such as those of sisters ought to be.
No. 3. Page 63. 

     Medio tutissimus ibis. - Ovid.

     You will go most safely in the middle.
No. 4. Page 67. 

     Hic situs est Phaeton, currus auriga paterni,
     Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis. - Ovid.

     Here lies Phaeton, the driver of his father's chariot,
     which if he failed to manage, yet he fell in a great undertaking.
No. 5. Page 171. 

     Imponere Pelio Ossam. - Virgil.

     To pile Ossa upon Pelion.
No 6. Page 311. 

     Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes. - Virgil.

     I fear the Greeks even when they offer gifts.
No. 7. Page 373. 

     Non tali auxilio nec defensoribus istis
     Tempus eget. - Virgil.

     Not such aid nor such defenders does the time require.
No. 8. Page 331. 

     Incidit in Scyllam, cupiens vitare Charybdim.

     He runs on Scylla, wishing to avoid Charybdis.
No. 9. Page 346. 

     Sequitur patrem, non passibus aequis. - Virgil.

     He follows his father with unequal steps.
No. 10. Page 349. 

     Monstrum horrendum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum. - Virgil.

     A horrible monster, misshapen, vast, whose only eye had been put out.
No. 11. Page 350. 

     Tantaene animis coelestibus irae? - Virgil.

     In heavenly minds can such resentments dwell?
No. 12. Page 352. 

     Haud ignara mali, miseris succurrere disco. - Virgil.

     Not unacquainted with distress, I have learned to succor the unfortunate.
No. 13. Page 352. 

     Tros, Tyriusve mihi nullo discrimine agetur. - Virgil.

     Whether Trojan or Tyrian shall make no difference to me.
No. 14. Page 355. 

     Facilis descensus Averni;
     Noctes atque dies patet atri janua Ditis;
     Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras,
     Hoc opus, hic labor est. - Virgil.

     The descent of Avernus is easy;
     the gate of Pluto stands open night and day;
     but to retrace one's steps and return to the upper air,
     - that is the  toil, that the difficulty.
No. 15. Page 355. 

     Uno avulso non deficit alter. - Virgil.

     When one is torn away another succeeds.
No. 16. Page 355. 

     Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito. - Virgil.

     Yield thou not to adversity, but press on the more bravely.
No. 17. Page 376. 

     Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum. - Virgil.

     Then struck the hoofs of the steeds on the ground with a four-footed
trampling.
No. 18. Page 380. 

     Sternitur infelix alieno vulnere, coelumque
     Adspicit et moriens dulces reminiscitur Argos. - Virgil.

     He falls, unhappy, by a wound intended for another;
     looks up to the skies, and dying remembers sweet Argos.

