A Guide to Mythology

by Helen A. Clarke

PUNCHKIN

(A Hindoo Story)

Once upon a time there was a Rajah who had seven beautiful daughters. They were all good girls; but the youngest, named Balna, was more clever than the rest. The Rajah’s wife died when they were quite little children, so these seven poor princesses were left with no mother to take care of them.

The Rajah’s daughters took it by turns to cook their father’s dinner every day, whilst he was absent deliberating with his ministers on the affairs of the nation.

About this time the Purdan died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and every day, when the seven princesses were preparing their father’s dinner, the Purdan’s widow and daughter would come and beg for a little fire from the hearth. Then Balna used to say to her sisters, “Send that woman away; send her away. Let her get the fire at her own house. What does she want with ours? If we allow her to come here we shall suffer for it some day.” But the other sisters would answer, “Be quiet, Balna; why must you always be quarrelling with this poor woman? Let her take some fire if she likes.” Then the Purdan’s widow used to go to the hearth and take a few sticks from it; and, whilst no one was looking, she would quickly throw some mud into the midst of the dishes which were being prepared for the Rajah’s dinner.

Now the Rajah was very fond of his daughters. Ever since their mother’s death they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to avoid the danger of his being poisoned by his enemies. So, when he found the mud mixed up with his dinner, he thought it must arise from their carelessness, as it appeared improbable that any one should have put mud there on purpose; but being very kind, he did not like to reprove them for it, although this spoiling of the curry was repeated many successive days.

At last, one day, he determined to hide and watch his daughters cooking and see how it all happened; so he went into the next room, and watched them through a hole in the wall.

There he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing the curry, and as each dish was completed they put it by the fire ready to be cooked. Next he noticed the Purdan’s widow come to the door, and beg for a few sticks from the fire to cook her dinner with. Balna turned to her, angrily, and said, “Why don’t you keep fuel in your own house and not come here every day and take ours? Sisters, don’t give this woman any more; let her buy it for herself.”

Then the eldest sister answered, “Balna, let the poor woman take the wood and the fire; she does us no harm.” But Balna replied, “If you let her come here so often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us sorry for it, some day.”

The Rajah then saw the Purdan’s widow go to the place where all his dinner was nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a little mud into each of the dishes.

At this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and brought before him. But when the widow came, she told him that she had played this trick because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and she spoke so cleverly, and pleased him so well with her cunning words, that instead of punishing her the Rajah married her, and made her his Ranee, and she and her daughter came to live in the palace.

The new Ranee hated the seven poor princesses, and wanted to get them, if possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might have all their riches and live in the palace as princess in their place; and instead of being grateful to them for their kindness to her, she did all she could to make them miserable. She gave them nothing but bread to eat, and very little of that, and very little water to drink; so these seven poor little princesses, who had been accustomed to have everything comfortable about them, and good food and good clothes all their lives long, were very miserable and unhappy; and they used to go out every day and sit by their dead mother’s tomb and cry; and used to say, “Oh mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and how we are starved by our cruel step-mother?”

One day, whilst they were sobbing and crying, lo and behold! a beautiful pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomeloes, and the children satisfied their hunger by eating some of the fruit; and every day after this, instead of trying to eat the nasty dinner their step-mother provided for them, they used to go out to their mother’s grave and eat the pomeloes which grew there on the beautiful tree.

Then the Ranee said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is; every day those seven girls say they don’t want any dinner, and won’t eat any, and yet they never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than you do. I cannot tell how it is;” and she bade her watch the seven princesses and see if any one gave them anything to eat.

So next day, when the princesses went to their mother’s grave, and were eating the beautiful pomeloes, the Purdan’s daughter followed them and saw them gathering the fruit.

Then Balna said to her sisters, “Do you see that girl watching us? Let us drive her away or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell her mother all about it, and that will be very bad for us.”

But the other sisters said, “Oh, no, do not be unkind, Balna. The girl would never be so cruel as to tell her mother. Let us rather invite her to come and have some of the fruit;” and calling her to them, they gave her one of the pomeloes.

No sooner had she eaten it, however, than the Purdan’s daughter went home and said to her mother, “I do not wonder the seven princesses will not eat the nasty dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother’s grave there grows a beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and eat the pomeloes. I ate one, and it was the nicest I have ever tasted.”

The cruel Ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she stayed in her room, and told the Rajah that she had a very bad headache. The Rajah at hearing this was deeply grieved, and said to his wife, “What can I do for you?” She answered, “There is only one thing that will make my headache well. By your dead wife’s tomb there grows a fine pomelo tree; you must bring that here, and boil it, root and branch, and put a little of the water in which it has been boiled on my forehead, and that will cure my headache.” So the Rajah sent his servants, and had the beautiful pomelo tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the Ranee desired; and when some of the water in which it had been boiled was put on her forehead she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.

Next day, when the seven princesses went as usual to the grave of their mother, the pomelo tree had disappeared. Then they all began to cry very bitterly.

Now there was by the Ranee’s tomb a small tank, and as they were crying they saw that the tank was filled with a rich, cream-like substance, which quickly hardened into a thick white cake. At seeing this all the princesses were very glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it; and next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days. Every morning the princesses went to their mother’s grave, and found the little tank filled with nourishing, cream-like cake. Then the cruel step-mother said to her daughter, “I cannot tell how it is; I have had the pomelo tree which used to grow by the Ranee’s grave destroyed, and yet the princesses grow no thinner, nor look more sad, though they never eat the dinner I give them. I cannot tell how it is!”

And her daughter said, “I will watch.”

Next day, while the princesses were eating the cream cake, who should come by but their step-mother’s daughter. Balna saw her first, and said, “See, sisters, there comes that girl again. Let us sit round the edge of the tank, and not allow her to see it; for if we give her some of our cake she will go and tell her mother, and that will be very unfortunate for us.”

The other sisters, however, thought Balna unnecessarily suspicious, and instead of following her advice they gave the Purdan’s daughter some of the cake, and she went home and told her mother all about it.

The Ranee, on hearing how well the princesses fared, was exceedingly angry, and sent her servants to pull down the dead Ranee’s tomb and fill the little tank with the ruins. And not content with this, she next day pretended to be very, very ill—in fact, at the point of death; and when the Rajah was much grieved, and asked her whether it was in his power to procure her any remedy, she said to him, “Only one thing can save my life, but I know you will not do it.” He replied, “Yes, whatever it is, I will do it.” She then said, “To save my life, you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of their blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands, and their death will be my life.” At these words the Rajah was very sorrowful; but because he feared to break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters.

He found them crying by the ruins of their mother’s grave.

Then, feeling he could not kill them, the Rajah spoke kindly to them, and told them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a fire and cooked some rice, and gave it to them. But in the afternoon, it being very hot, the seven princesses all fell asleep, and when he saw they were fast asleep the Rajah, their father, stole away and left them (for he feared his wife), saying to himself, “It is better my poor daughters should die here than be killed by their step-mother.”

He then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of the blood on the forehead and hands of the Ranee, and she thought then that he had really killed the princesses and said she felt quite well.

Meantime the seven princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all alone in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call out as loud as they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he was by that time far away, and would not have been able to hear them, even had their voices been as loud as thunder.

It so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighboring Rajah chanced to be hunting in the same jungle, and as they were returning home after the day’s sport was over, the youngest prince said to his brothers: “Stop, I think I hear some one crying and calling out. Do you not hear voices? Let us go in the direction of the sound, and try and find out what it is.”

So the seven princes rode through the wood until they came to the place where the seven princesses sat crying and wringing their hands. At the sight of them the young princes were very much astonished, and still more so on learning their story; and they settled that each should take one of these poor forlorn ladies home with him and marry her.

So the first and eldest prince took the eldest princess home with him and married her.

And the second took the second;

And the third took the third;

And the fourth took the fourth;

And the fifth took the fifth;

And the sixth took the sixth;

And the seventh, and handsomest of all, took the beautiful Balna.

And when they got to their own land there was great rejoicing throughout the kingdom at the marriage of the seven young princes to seven such beautiful princesses.

About a year after this Balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven mothers. None of the other princes or princesses had any children, so the son of the seventh prince and Balna was acknowledged their heir by all the rest.

They had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the seventh prince (Balna’s husband) said he would go out hunting, and away he went; and they waited long for him, but he never came back.

Then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of him; and they went away, but they also did not return.

And the seven princesses grieved very much, for they felt sure their kind husbands must have been killed.

One day, not long after this had happened, as Balna was rocking her baby’s cradle, and whilst her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the palace door a man in a long black dress, who said that he was a Fakir, and came to beg. The servants said to him, “You cannot go into the palace—the Rajah’s sons have all gone away; we think they must be dead, and their widows cannot be interrupted by your begging.” But he said, “I am a holy man; you must let me in.” Then the stupid servants let him walk through the palace, but they did not know that this man was no Fakir, but a wicked magician named Punchkin.

Punchkin Fakir wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful things there, till at last he reached the room where Balna sat singing beside her little boy’s cradle. The magician thought her more beautiful than all the other beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked her to go home with him and to marry him. But she said, “My husband, I fear, is dead, but my little boy is still quite young; I will stay here and teach him to grow up a clever man, and when he is grown up he shall go out into the world, and try and learn tidings of his father. Heaven forbid that I should ever leave him or marry you.” At these words the magician was very angry, and turned her into a little black dog, and led her away, saying, “Since you will not come with me of your own free will, I will make you.” So the poor princess was dragged away, without any power of effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what had become of her. As Punchkin passed through the palace gate the servants said to him, “Where did you get that pretty little dog?” And he answered, “One of the princesses gave it to me as a present.” At hearing which they let him go without further questioning.

Soon after this the six elder princesses heard the little baby, their nephew, begin to cry, and when they went upstairs they were much surprised to find him all alone, and Balna nowhere to be seen. Then they questioned the servants, and when they heard of the Fakir and the little black dog they guessed what had happened, and sent in every direction seeking them, but neither the Fakir nor the dog was to be found. What could six poor women do? They had to give up all hopes of ever seeing their kind husbands and their sister and her husband again, and they devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of their little nephew.

Thus time went on, till Balna’s son was fourteen years old. Then one day his aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he hear it than he was seized with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and uncles, and bring them home again if he could find them alive. His aunts, on learning his determination, were much alarmed and tried to dissuade him, saying, “We have lost our husbands, and our sister and her husband, and you are now our sole hope; if you go away, what shall we do?” But he replied, “I pray you not to be discouraged; I shall return soon, and, if it is possible, bring my father and mother and uncles with me.” So he set out on his travels, but for some months he could learn nothing to help him in his search.

At last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and become almost hopeless of ever being able to hear anything further of his parents, he one day came to a country which seemed full of stones and rocks and trees, and there he saw a large palace with a high tower; hard by which was a Malee’s little house.

As he was looking about, the Malee’s wife saw him, and ran out of the house and said, “My dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this dangerous place?” And he answered, “I am a Rajah’s son, and I come in search of my father and my uncles and my mother whom a wicked enchanter bewitched.” Then the Malee’s wife said, “This country and this palace belong to a great enchanter; he is all-powerful, and if any one displeases him, he can turn them into stones and trees. All the rocks and trees you see here were living people once, and the magician turned them to what they now are. Some time ago a Rajah’s son came here, and shortly afterward came his six brothers, and they were all turned into stones and trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives a beautiful princess, whom the magician has kept prisoner there for twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him.”

Then the little prince thought, “These must be my parents and my uncles. I have found what I seek at last.” So he told his story to the Malee’s wife, and begged her to help him to remain in that place a while, and inquire further concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and she promised to befriend him, and advised his disguising himself, lest the magician should see him, and turn him likewise into stone. To this the prince agreed. So the Malee’s wife dressed him up in a saree, and pretended that he was her daughter.

One day, not long after this, as the magician was walking in his garden, he saw the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and he asked her who she was. She told him she was the Malee’s daughter, and the magician said, “You are a pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower.”

The young prince was much delighted at hearing this, and after some consultation with the Malee’s wife, he settled that it would be more safe for him to retain his disguise, and trust to the chance of a favorable opportunity for establishing some communication with his mother, if it were indeed she.

Now it happened that at Balna’s marriage her husband had given her a small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she put it on her little son’s finger when he was a baby, and afterward when he was older, his aunts had had it enlarged for him, so that he was still able to wear it. The Malee’s wife advised him to fasten the well-known treasure to one of the bouquets he presented to his mother, and trust to her recognizing it. This was not to be done without difficulty, as such a strict watch was kept over the poor princess (for fear of her ever establishing communication with her friends) that though the supposed Malee’s daughter was permitted to take her flowers every day, the magician or one of his slaves was always in the room at the same time. At last one day, however, opportunity favored him and when no one was looking the boy tied the ring to a nosegay and threw it at Balna’s feet. The ring fell with a clang on the floor, and Balna, looking to see what made the strange sound, found the little ring tied to the flowers. On recognizing it, she at once believed the story her son told her of his long search, and begged him to advise her as to what she had better do; at the same time entreating him on no account to endanger his life by trying to rescue her. She told him that for twelve long years the magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to marry him, and she was so closely guarded that she saw no hope of release.

Now Balna’s son was a bright, clever boy; so he said, “Do not fear, dear mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the magician’s power extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my father and uncles, whom he has imprisoned in the form of rocks and trees. You have spoken to him angrily for twelve long years; do you now rather speak kindly. Tell him you have given up all hopes of again seeing the husband you have so long mourned, and say you are willing to marry him. Then endeavor to find out what his power consists in, and whether he is immortal or can be put to death.”

Balna determined to take her son’s advice; and the next day sent for Punchkin and spoke to him as had been suggested.

The magician, greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take place as soon as possible.

But she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little more time in which she might make his acquaintance, and that, after being enemies so long, their friendship could but strengthen by degrees. “And do tell me,” she said, “are you quite immortal? Can death never touch you? And are you too great an enchanter ever to feel human suffering?”

“Why do you ask?” said he.

“Because,” she replied, “if I am to be your wife I would fain know all about you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or, if possible, to avert it.”

“It is true,” he said, “that I am not as others. Far, far away, hundreds of thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country covered with thick jungle. In the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm trees, and in the center of the circle stand six chattees full of water, piled one above another; below the sixth chattee is a small cage which contains a little green parrot; on the life of the parrot depends my life, and if the parrot is killed I must die. It is, however,” he added, “impossible that the parrot should sustain any injury, both on account of the inaccessibility of the country and because, by my appointment, many thousand evil genii surround the palm trees, and kill all who approach the place.”

Balna told her son what Punchkin had said, but, at the same time, implored him to give up all idea of getting the parrot.

The prince, however, replied, “Mother, unless I can get hold of that parrot you and my father and uncles cannot be liberated: be not afraid, I will shortly return. Do you, meantime, keep the magician in good humor—still putting off your marriage with him on various pretexts; and before he finds out the cause of delay I will return.” So saying he went away.

Many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick jungle, and being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep. He was awakened by a soft rustling sound, and, looking about him, saw a large serpent which was making its way to an eagle’s nest built in the tree under which he lay, and in the nest were two young eagles. The prince, seeing the danger of the young birds, drew his sword and killed the serpent; at the same moment a rushing sound was heard in the air, and the two old eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their young ones, returned. They quickly saw the dead serpent and the young prince standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, “Dear boy, for many years all our young have been devoured by that cruel serpent: you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you are in need, therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for these little eagles, take them, and let them be your servants.”

At this the prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their wings, on which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the thick jungles until he came to the place where grew the circle of palm trees in the midst of which stood the six chattees full of water. It was the middle of the day. All around the trees were the genii fast asleep; nevertheless, there were such countless thousands of them that it would have been quite impossible for any one to walk through their ranks to the place. Down swooped the strong-winged eaglets—down jumped the prince; in an instant he had overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized the little green parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he mounted again into the air, all the genii below awoke, and, finding their treasure gone, set up a wild and melancholy howl.

Away, away flew the little eagles till they came to their home in the great tree; then the prince said to the old eagles, “Take back your little ones; they have done me good service; if ever again I stand in need of help I shall not fail to come to you.” He then continued his journey on foot till he arrived once more at the magician’s palace, where he sat down at the door and began playing with the parrot. The magician saw him, and came to him quickly and said, “My boy, where did you get that parrot? Give it to me, I pray you.” But the prince answered, “Oh, no, I cannot give away my parrot; it is a great pet of mine; I have had it many years.” Then the magician said, “If it is an old favorite, I can understand you not caring to give it away; but come, what will you sell it for?” “Sir,” replied the prince, “I will not sell my parrot.”

Then the magician got frightened and said, “Anything, anything; name what price you will, and it shall be yours.” “Then,” the prince answered, “I will that you liberate the Rajah’s seven sons whom you turned into rocks and trees.” “It is done as you desire,” said the magician, “only give me my parrot” (and with that, by a stroke of his wand, Balna’s husband and his brothers resumed their natural shapes). “Now give me my parrot,” repeated Punchkin. “Not so fast, my master,” rejoined the prince; “I must first beg that you restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned.”

The magician immediately waved his wand again; and whilst he cried in an imploring voice, “Give me my parrot!” the whole garden became suddenly alive: where rocks and stones and trees had been before, stood Rajahs and Punts and Sirdars, and mighty men on prancing horses, and jewelled pages and troops of armed attendants.

“Give me my parrot!” cried Punchkin. Then the boy took hold of the parrot and tore off one of its wings; and as he did so the magician’s right arm fell off.

Punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying “Give me my parrot!” The prince pulled off the parrot’s second wing, and the magician’s left arm tumbled off.

“Give me my parrot!” cried he, and fell on his knees. The prince pulled off the parrot’s right leg—the magician’s right leg fell off; the prince pulled off the parrot’s left leg—down fell the magician’s left.

Nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still he rolled his eyes, and cried, “Give me my parrot!” “Take your parrot, then,” cried the boy, and with that he wrung the bird’s neck and threw it at the magician; and as he did so, Punchkin’s head twisted round, and with a fearful groan he died!

Then they let Balna out of the tower; and she, her son, and the seven princes went to their own country, and lived very happily ever afterward. And as to the rest of the world, every one went to his own house.

CHAPTER III
ANIMALS IN CULTURE MYTHS

All the stories so far have reflected primitive man’s way of thinking and acting. Passing now to more developed phases of life, we are confronted in myths by such an array of animals—definite personifications of natural phenomena—that no possible ark would hold these cosmical monsters.

Now if we imagine ourselves off for a hunt for some of these animals in the mythology of people no longer primitive but with a considerable degree of culture, we shall find ourselves rewarded to the full in the myths of India. The ancient Hindoo revels in animal cosmic myths. The sky seems to be in his imagination one vast pasture land for cows and bulls, though frequently it is turned into a battle-ground because of the incursions of an evil serpent who has a predilection for carrying off cows. These tremendous dramas in the imaginative sky of the Hindoo are a magnified reflection of the state of affairs existing upon the earth. Cosmic cattle would be expected to be more glorious than mundane cattle, yet we see through these myths how important the cow was to the existence of the Hindoo.[3] To increase the number of cows, to render them fruitful in milk and prolific in calves, to have them well looked after, is the dream, the ideal of the ancient Hindoo. His worst enemy, therefore, is he that robs him of his cows, while his best friend would be he who rescues the cows from the robber.

The dewy moon, the dawn, the watery cloud, in fact, the entire vault of heaven which gives the benignant and quickening rain as cows give their milk, are all personified as the beneficent Cow of Abundance.

The great and awful ruler of all these cows is the God Indra, who rides in a car to which are harnessed magnificent bay steeds. Sometimes he is called a Bull and sometimes he is said to roar like a Bull.

From the hymns of the “Rig Veda,” probably three or four thousand years old, many of which were written in honor of Indra, may be gathered the characteristics of Indra and these remarkable cattle. In her cloudy aspects, this cow of the sky was called the spotted one, and was said to be the mother of the storm winds or Maruts, while Indra, who hides himself in thunder-clouds is the Bull of Bulls, invincible son of a cow that bellows like the Maruts. This terrible creature bellows and shows his strength as he sharpens his horns, who is able of himself to overthrow all peoples. His horns are the lightning, and he is sometimes said to have a thousand of them. With all these animals prancing about in the sky, there is a fine opportunity for brilliant onslaughts upon the enemy who steals the cows. Indra with his thunder-bolts and the Maruts with their winds are the leaders on one side, while in the hostile camp will be found a horrid monster called by different names, such as Valas, Vritras, Cushnas, meaning the enemy, black one, thief, serpent, wolf, or wild boar. This awful being generally seems to throw down the gauntlet by stealing the cows of Indra and imprisoning them in a dark and dismal cavern in the clouds. Then an exciting battle follows; Indra bellows, the thunder-bolt bellows, the Maruts bellow, and ascend the rock, now by their own efforts making the sonorous stone, the rock mountain fall; now, with the iron edge of their rolling chariots violently splitting the mountain; then the valiant hero, Indra, beloved by the gods, moves the stone; he hears the cows, by aid of the Maruts he finds the cows hidden in the cavern. Furnished with an arm of stone he opens the grotto of Valas, who keeps the cows; he vanquishes, kills or pursues the thieves in battle. We may see this battle every time there is a thunder-storm, the lightning often leaps between the clouds, and the thunder roars before the rain falls, but when there comes the heavy downpour of rain, the ancient Hindoo would compare it to the refreshing milk of the cows which have been rescued by Indra.

Horses are also important animals in Hindoo myths. The Asvins, who gallop across the sky from morning till night, are sometimes called the sons of the Sun and the Dawn and sometimes they are called the steeds of Indra. They are described in the hymns of the “Rig Veda” as full of life, having eyes like the sun, drawing the chariot with the golden yoke, the two most rapid ones, who carry Indra as every day they carry the sun. They are as two rays of the sun, which illumine the sky with manes the color of a peacock, bridled sixty times, beneficent, winged, indefatigable, resolute destroyers of enemies.

The Hindoo deities all have animals on which they ride, called Vahans or Vehicles; thus, Indra sometimes rides an elephant, Siva, a bull, Durga, a tiger, and so on. These all share in the honors of worship accorded to their riders. These vehicles of the gods were probably once impersonations of the gods themselves, or animals into which they changed themselves as they do in the primitive myths with which we are already familiar.

The cow does not seem to have been a Vahan for any of the gods. She was too much of a goddess in her own right, shown by the fact that she was regularly worshipped every year with great ceremony.

Egypt, however, was the land where animals received the greatest reverence. We find there a complete archæological museum of mythological animals. Cats and dogs, mice and crocodiles, birds and insects—all were worshipped. So sacred did the Egyptians consider animals in general that it was a capital crime if any of them were killed. Should an Ibis or a Hawk be even accidentally killed, the unfortunate person who happened to do it was put to death by the multitude without form of law. Even if a cat died, everybody in the house cut off his eyebrows. Nothing, not even the direst extremes of famine, could tempt an Egyptian to eat a sacred animal. They would rather devour each other than this.

But of all the animals, the ox kind received the highest honors. Bulls were occasionally sacrificed, but cows never. They were sacred to Isis, the Moon Goddess. There were special individuals of the species, however, who were looked upon with the utmost veneration. They were called Apis and Mnevis. Apis was a black bull, but had a white star on his forehead, the figure of an eagle on his back, a crescent on his right side, with a knot under his tongue, resembling the Scarabeus or sacred beetle. Apis is described as living twenty-five years, when he jumped into a well or into the river Nile. Upon the discovery of a new Apis the Egyptians celebrated a joyful festival.

According to an ancient account, as soon as a report had been spread abroad that the Egyptian god had been brought to light, certain sacred scribes, who were well versed in the mystic marks, which they had learned by tradition, approached the divine calf. They fed it during four months with milk, in a house that fronted the rising sun. After this the sacred scribes carried him in a vessel prepared for the purpose to Memphis, where he had a convenient and delightful abode, with pleasure grounds and ample space for salubrious exercise. Companions were provided for him. He drank from a well or fountain of clean water.

Dances and festivities and joyful assemblies were held in honor of this animal at the rising of the Nile, and the man from whose flock the divine beast sprang was the happiest of mortals and was looked upon with admiration by all the people. According to some, Apis was dedicated to Isis or the Moon. Next to Apis the highest honors were paid to the sacred bull of Heliopolis, called Mnevis. This bull was black and was dedicated to Osiris. He was kept in a stable in the Temple of the Sun and was worshipped as a god. The warring principle in nature, Typhon, was identified with various hideous animals, such as the crocodile and hippopotamus. The most sacred of beetles was the Scarabeus, the symbol either of the sun or immortality. Even the higher gods were frequently represented as animals, or in part animals, while to those gods imaged in human form, like Osiris and Isis, animals were sacred. There was also an important bird, which was itself mythical, called the Phœnix. This wonderful bird was said to rise from time to time out of its own ashes.

Animals occupy a somewhat different position in Norse mythology. They are also survivals, very likely, from an earlier stage of life when animals were worshipped, but when we meet with them in the Norse myths they have become symbols of the various ideas of mankind in regard to the mind and spirit, and no longer appear simply as personifications of the events of nature like Indra and the cows in Hindoo mythology.

The Norse gods appear galloping into view on their wonderful steeds across the rainbow bridge, Bifrost, from Heaven to Earth. Their names are very significant: Odin rides Sleipner; Heimdal, Goldtop. The other horses are Glad (Bright), Gyller (Gilder), Gler (the Shining One), Skeidbrimer (Fleetfoot), Silfrintop (Silvertop), Siner (Sinews), Gisl (the Sunbeam), Falhofner (Palehoof), Letfet (Lightfoot).

Thor, the thunderer, unlike Indra, who often drove two bay steeds, had no horse upon which to ride over the rainbow bridge. He would destroy it with his thunder-bolts, so he had to wade through three rivers every day in order to reach the council of the gods. Odin’s horse, Sleipner, is the most wonderful—a genuine cosmic animal, with eight legs that symbolize the eight winds of heaven.

The maiden Sol drove two gentle and beautiful steeds which were harnessed to the car of the sun. She drove in great haste, for she as well as her brother, who watches over the moon, are pursued by two wolves, by which is probably meant eclipses of the sun and moon. Day and Night also drive round the sky after each other. Night first with his steed Rine-fax. Every morning, as he ends his course, Rine-fax bedews the earth with the foam from his bit. Then Day follows with her steed, Shining-fax, from whose mane all the sky and earth glisten. The god Frey rides on a boar named Golden-bristle, and his sister, Freyja, the goddess of love, is drawn by two cats.

The Midgard serpent or the worm which supported the earth with its tail in its mouth, is another most interesting mythical animal, whose story will be found in this chapter.

Finally, there is a Norse cow, still more remarkable than the Hindoo cow. She was made of frozen vapor, and four rivers of milk ran from her and fed the giant Yiner, or the earth. It is easy to recognize these rivers of milk as mountain streams of melted snow. This poor cow had only rime stones to live on, which she licked because of the salt. After she had licked them for some time, two magical, godlike beings sprang out of the stones and became the parents of Odin. The name of this strange cow was Audhumbla.

In the Norse Heaven, Valhalla, there are two more strange animals. The food of the Gods of Valhalla, Mead, is supplied by the milk of a she-goat who feeds upon the leaves of an extraordinary tree. Upon this same tree feeds a stag, and from his antlers fall so many drops of dew that water is supplied to thirty-six rivers, twelve of which flow to the abodes of the gods, twelve to the abodes of men, and twelve to Niflheim.

Fenris, the wolf, is another important animal who typifies evil.

Turning now to Greek mythology, we find that animals, on the whole, play a subordinate part. Animals are sacrificed to the gods of Greece, but they are not often worshipped. Many of the gods have more than one animal sacred to them or sacrificed to them in their worship, and very likely some of these animals, as in Indian mythology, were originally worshipped. When the ideas of early mankind once began to develop it would soon occur to them that human beings would be better impersonations for their gods than animals, yet the animals, once having been sacred, it would be very difficult to banish them altogether, hence they remained in the more developed myths as animals sacred to gods in human form. Greek myths, too, abound in transformations into animal form, Zeus (Roman name Jupiter or Jove), the ruling god of heaven and earth, being especially given to appearing on earth in the form of some animal. Gods of the earth and sea were also often represented as half man, half animal, the most famous of these being Pan, the god of the woods, who was half man, half goat, and the mermaids, who had the bodies of women with fishes’ tails. Though not so prominent as in India, the sky is the pasture land for flocks and herds in Greece, as you will see illustrated in the story of Odysseus’s meeting with them. There are animals, also, which talk, like the celebrated steeds of Achilles, described in the “Iliad.” In one place they are pictured as weeping when they saw the Greek hero Patroclus slain. As Pope translates this affecting scene:

“Along their face

The big round drops cours’d down with silent pace

Conglobing on the dust. Their manes that late

Circled their arched necks and waved in state

Trailed on the dust beneath the yoke, were spread,

And prone to earth was hung their languid head.”

But even more marvellous was the time when Xanthus broke into speech and warned his master of his approaching doom. It is quite in the manner of an animal in a savage myth, but in the days of Homer’s “Iliad” thought had advanced so far among the Greeks that the speech of this horse was not regarded as a perfectly natural event as it would be in a savage myth. It was Juno, the goddess, who willed that Xanthus should break eternal silence and portentous speak. Achilles addresses his horses, and Xanthus answers:

“Xanthus and Balius! of Podarges’ strain;

(Unless ye boast that heavenly race in vain)

Be swift, be mindful of the load ye bear

And learn to make your master more your care:

Through falling squadrons bear my slaughtering sword,

Nor, as ye left Patroclus, leave your lord.”

The generous Xanthus, as the words he said,

Seemed sensible of woe, and droop’d his head:

Trembling he stood before the golden wain,

And bow’d to dust the honors of his mane;

When, strange to tell! (so Juno will’d) he broke

Eternal silence, and portentous spoke:

“Achilles! yes! this day at least we bear

Thy rage in safety through the files of war:

But come it will, the fatal time must come,

Not ours the fault, but God decrees thy doom.

Not through our crime, or slowness in the course,

Tell thy Patroclus, but by heavenly force:

The bright far-shooting god who gilds the day

(Confess’d we saw him) tore his arms away.

No: could our swiftness o’er the winds prevail,

Or beat the pinions of the western gale,

All were in vain: the fates thy death demand,

Due to a mortal and immortal hand.’

Then ceas’d forever, by the Furies tied,

This fateful voice. Th’ intrepid chief replied

With unabated rage: ‘So let it be!

Portents and prodigies are lost on me.’”

Zeus. From Pompeii.

In Pegasus, the winged steed of the Nine Muses, we have what might be called the prize horse of all mythology. The old Greek writer Hesiod says he was born near the springs of Ocean. And he, indeed, winging his flight away, left Earth, the mother of flocks, and came to the immortals; in Jove’s house he dwells, bearing to counsellor Jove thunder and lightning. This looks very much as if he began life as a personification of a natural phenomenon, like the Hindoo Asvins and the Norse Sleipner. But he was destined to a more glorious career than any of them. The goddess of wisdom, Athēne, caught him and tamed him, and he became the symbol of the imagination in its highest flights into the region of poetic aspiration and inspiration, a fitting climax to an idea, going back to the very fountains of the imagination which bubbled up in that early stage of life when animals as well as men were thought to be endowed with spirit.

In the two hymns following, one from the most ancient of Hindoo books, the “Rig Veda,” and one from a still more ancient Egyptian book called “The Book of the Dead,” there is quite a contrast, though they both represent myths in the highly developed religious form of hymns or songs to the gods. The Hindoo song sings the praises of Indra, while the Egyptian song is a prayer. Rā, who is mentioned, was the God of the Sun in Egypt.

Instead of driving steeds as many other sun-gods did, he was said to ride in a boat. But according to this hymn, there were four sacred apes in the boat, to whom the ancient Egyptians offered prayers as they did to the sacred bulls Apis and Mnevis.