Karnac and Baalbec.
The city of Thebes is, perhaps, the most astonishing work executed by the hand of man. Its ruins are the most unequivocal proof of the ancient civilization of Egypt, and of the high degree of power which the Egyptians had reached by the extent of their knowledge. Its origin is lost in the obscurity of time, it being coeval with the nation which first took possession of Egypt; and it is sufficient to give a proper idea of its antiquity to say that the building of Memphis was the first attempt made to rival the prosperity of Thebes.
Its extent was immense; it filled the whole valley which was permeated by the Nile. D'Anville and Denon state its circumference to have been thirty-six miles; its diameter not less than ten and a half. The number of its inhabitants was in proportion to these vast dimensions. Diodorus says that the houses were four and five stories high. Although Thebes had greatly fallen off from its ancient splendor at the time of Cambyses, yet it was the fury of this merciless conqueror that gave the last blow to its grandeur. This prince pillaged the temples, carried away all the ornaments of gold, silver, and ivory, which decorated its magnificent buildings, and ruined both its temples and its buildings. Before this unfortunate epoch, no city in the world could be compared with it in extent, splendor, and riches; and, according to the expression of Diodorus, the sun had never seen so magnificent a city.
Previous to the establishment of the monarchical government, Thebes was the residence of the principal college of the priesthood, who ruled over the country. It is to this epoch that all writers refer the elevation of its most ancient edifices. The enumeration of them all would require more time than we have.
Here was the temple, or palace of Karnac, of Luxor; the Memnonium; and the Medineh-Tabou, or, as some other travelers spell it, Medinet-habou.
The temple, or the palace of Karnac was, without doubt, the most considerable monument of ancient Thebes. It was not less than a mile and a half in circumference, and enclosed about ten acres. M. Denon employed nearly twenty minutes on horseback in going round it, at full gallop. The principal entrance of the grand temple is on the northwest side, or that facing the river. From a raised platform commences an avenue of Crio-sphinxes leading to the front propyla, before which stood two granite statues of a Pharaoh. One of these towers retains a great part of its original height, but has lost its summit and cornice. Passing through the pylon of these towers you arrive at a large open court, or area, 275 feet by 329 feet, with a covered corridor on either side, and a double line of columns down the centre. Other propylæa terminate this area, with a small vestibule before the pylon, and form the front of the grand hall of assembly, the lintel stones of whose doorway were forty feet ten inches in length. The grand hall, or hypostyle hall, measures 170 feet by 329 feet, supported by a central avenue of twelve massive columns, 62 feet high (without the plinth or abacus), and 36 feet in circumference; besides 122 of smaller, or, rather less gigantic dimensions, 42 feet 5 inches in height, and 28 feet in circumference, distributed in seven lines, on either side of the former. It had in front two immense courts, adorned by ranges of columns, some of which were sixty feet high, and others eighty; and at their respective entrances there were two colossal statues on the same scale. In the middle of the second court there were four obelisks of granite of a finished workmanship, three of which are still standing. They stood before the sanctuary, built all of granite, and covered with sculptures representing symbolical attributes of the god to whom the temple was consecrated. This was the Maker of the universe, the Creator of all things, the Zeus of the Greeks, the Jupiter of the Latins, but the Ammon of the Egyptians. By the side of the sanctuary there were smaller buildings, probably the apartments of those attached to the service of the temple; and behind it other habitations, adorned with columns and porticos, which led into another immense court, having on each side closed passages, or corridors, and at the top a covered portico, or gallery, supported by a great number of columns and pilasters. In this way the sanctuary was entirety surrounded by these vast and splendid buildings, and the whole was enclosed by a wall, covered internally and externally with symbols and hieroglyphics, which went round the magnificent edifice.
COLUMNS OF KARNAC.[ToList]
Beyond this wall there were other buildings, and other courts, filled with colossal statues of grey and white marble. These buildings, or temples, communicated with each other by means of galleries and passages, adorned with columns and statues. The most striking circumstance, however, is, that attached to this palace are the remains of a much more considerable edifice, of higher antiquity, which had been introduced into the general plan when this magnificent building was restored by the Pharaoh Amenophis, the third king of the eighteenth dynasty, nearly 4,000 years ago. This more ancient edifice, or rather its ruins, are considered to be more than 4,000 years old, or 2,272 years Before Christ. A second wall enclosed the whole mass of these immense and splendid buildings, the approach to which was by means of avenues, having on their right and left colossal figures of sphinxes. In one avenue they had the head of a bull; in another they were represented with a human head; in a third with a ram's head. This last was a mile and a half in length, began at the southern gate, and led to the temple of Luxor.
Dr. Manning says: "We now enter the most stupendous pile of remains (we can hardly call them ruins) in the world. Every writer who has attempted to describe them avows his inability to convey any adequate idea of their extent and grandeur. The long covered avenues of sphinxes, the sculptured corridors, the columned aisles, the gates and obelisks, and colossal statues, all silent in their desolation, fill the beholder with awe." (See cut on page 463.)
There is no exaggeration in Champollion's words: "The imagination, which, in Europe, rises far above our porticos, sinks abashed at the foot of the 140 columns of the hypostyle hall at Karnac. The area of this hall is 70,629 feet; the central columns are thirty-six feet in circumference and sixty-two feet high, without reckoning the plinth and abacus. They are covered with paintings and sculptures, the colors of which are wonderfully fresh and vivid. If, as seems probable, the great design of Egyptian architecture was to impress man with a feeling of his own littleness, to inspire a sense of overwhelming awe in the presence of the Deity, and at the same time to show that the monarch was a being of superhuman greatness, these edifices were well adapted to accomplish their purpose. The Egyptian beholder and worshiper was not to be attracted and charmed, but overwhelmed. His own nothingness and the terribleness of the power and the will of God was what he was to feel. But, if the awfulness of Deity was thus inculcated, the divine power of the Pharaoh was not less strikingly set forth. He is seen seated amongst them, nourished from their breasts, folded in their arms, admitted to familiar intercourse with them. He is represented on the walls of the temple as of colossal stature, while the noblest of his subjects are but pigmies in his presence; with one hand he crushes hosts of his enemies, with the other he grasps that of his patron deity.
"The Pharaoh was the earthly manifestation and avatar of the unseen and mysterious power which oppressed the souls of man with terror. 'I am Pharaoh,' 'By the life of Pharaoh,' 'Say unto Pharaoh whom art thou like in thy greatness.' These familiar phrases of Scripture gain a new emphasis of meaning as we remember them amongst these temple palaces."
Speaking of this magnificent temple, and of the avenue of sphinxes we have just mentioned, Belzoni exclaims, that "on approaching it the visitor is inspired with devotion and piety; their enormous size strikes him with wonder and respect to the gods to whom they were dedicated. The immense colossal statues, which are seated at each side of the gate, seems guarding the entrance to the holy ground; still farther on was the majestic temple, dedicated to the great God of the creation." And a little after, "I was lost," says he, "in a mass of colossal objects, every one of which was more than sufficient of itself alone to attract my whole attention. I seemed alone in the midst of all that is most sacred in the world; a forest of enormous columns, adorned all round with beautiful figures and various ornaments from top to bottom. The graceful shape of the lotus, which forms their capitals, and is so well-proportioned to the columns, that it gives to the view the most pleasing effect; the gates, the walls, the pedestals, and the architraves also adorned in every part with symbolical figures in basso relievo and intaglio, representing battles, processions, triumphs, feasts, offerings, and sacrifices, all relating to the ancient history of the country; the sanctuary, wholly formed of fine red granite, with the various obelisks standing before it, proclaiming to the distant passenger, 'Here is the seat of holiness;' the high portals, seen at a distance from the openings of the vast labyrinth of edifices; the various groups of ruins of the other temples within sight; these altogether had such an effect upon my soul as to separate me, in imagination, from the rest of mortals, exalt me on high over all, and cause me to forget entirely the trifles and follies of life. I was happy for a whole day, which escaped like a flash of lightning."
Such is the language of Belzoni in describing these majestic ruins, and the effect they had upon him. Strong and enthusiastic as his expressions may, perhaps, appear, they are perfectly similar, we assure you, to those of other travelers. They all seem to have lost the power of expressing their wonder and astonishment, and frequently borrow the words and phrases of foreign nations to describe their feelings at the sight of these venerable and gigantic efforts of the old Egyptians.
We have said that this avenue of sphinxes led to the temple of Luxor.
This second temple, though not equal to that of Karnac in regard to its colossal proportions, was its equal in magnificence, and much superior to it in beauty and style of execution.
At its entrance there still stand two obelisks 100 feet high, and of one single block covered with hieroglyphics executed in a masterly style. It is at the feet of these obelisks that one may judge of the high degree of perfection to which the Egyptians had carried their knowledge in mechanics. We have seen that it costs fortunes to move them from their place. They were followed by two colossal statues forty feet high. After passing through three different large courts, filled with columns of great dimensions, the traveler reached the sanctuary, surrounded by spacious halls supported by columns, and exhibiting the most beautiful mass of sculpture in the best style of execution.
"It is absolutely impossible," again exclaims Belzoni, "to imagine the scene displayed, without seeing it. The most sublime ideas that can be formed from the most magnificent specimens of our present architecture, would give a very incorrect picture of these ruins. It appeared to me like entering a city of giants, who, after a long conflict, were all destroyed, leaving ruins of their various temples, as the only proofs of their former existence. The temple of Luxor," he adds, "presents to the traveler at once one of the most splendid groups of Egyptian grandeur. The extensive propylæon, with the two obelisks, and colossal statues in the front; the thick groups of enormous columns, the variety of apartments, and the sanctuary it contains. The beautiful ornaments which adorn every part of the walls and columns, cause in the astonished traveler an oblivion of all that he has seen before."
So far Belzoni; and in this he is borne out by Champollion, who speaks of Thebes in terms of equal admiration. "All that I had seen, all that I had admired on the left bank," says this learned Frenchman, "appeared miserable in comparison with the gigantic conceptions by which I was surrounded at Karnac. I shall take care not to attempt to describe any thing; for either my description would not express the thousandth part of what ought to be said, or, if I drew a faint sketch, I should be taken for an enthusiast, or, perhaps, for a madman. It will suffice to add, that no people, either ancient or modern, ever conceived the art of architecture on so sublime and so grand a scale as the ancient Egyptians."
The Great Pyramid, which is yet an enigma, stands for our astonishment. Herodotus tells us, when speaking of the Labyrinth of Egypt, that it had 3,000 chambers, half of them above and half below ground. He says, "The upper chambers I myself passed through and saw, and what I say concerning them is from my own observation. Of the underground chambers I can only speak from the report, for the keepers of the building could not be got to show them, since they contained, as they said, the sepulchres of the kings who built the labyrinth, and also those of the sacred crocodiles; thus it is from hearsay only that I can speak of the lower chambers. The upper chambers, however, I saw with my own eyes, and found them to excel all other human productions. The passage through the houses, and the various windings of the path across the courts, excited in me infinite admiration, as I passed from the courts into the chambers, and from chambers into colonnades, and from colonnades into fresh houses, and again from these into courts unseen before. The roof was throughout of stone like the walls, and the walls were carved all over with figures. Every court was surrounded with a colonnade, which was built of white stone exquisitely fitted together. At the corner of the labyrinth stands a pyramid forty fathoms high, with large figures engraved on it, which is entered by a subterranean passage." No one who has read an account of the Great Pyramid of Egypt, the building of Solomon's Temple, and of the ruins of ancient stone buildings still remaining, will doubt the ability of the ancients in the art of building with stones. Baalbec has probably the largest stones ever used.
THE GREAT PYRAMID AND SPHINX.[ToList]
Baalbec is situated on a plain now called Bukaa, at the northern end of a low range of black hills, about one mile from the base of Anti-Lebanon.
It is unknown just how old it is, or by whom it was built. Dr. Kitto, in his "History of the Bible," ascribes the building of it to Solomon. But the present remains are mostly of a later period, probably about 3,000 years old. Some of the material and some of the original foundations were used again for the second structures.
Baalbec has justly received a world-wide celebrity, owing to the magnificence of its ruins, which have excited the wonder and admiration of travelers who have enjoyed the privilege of seeing them. Its temples are among the most magnificent of Grecian architecture. The temples of Athens no doubt excel them in taste and purity of style, but they are vastly inferior in dimensions.
While the edifices of Thebes exceed them in magnitude, they bear no comparison with the symmetry of the columns, with the richness of the doorways, and the friezes, which abound at Baalbec. The foundations of the great temple are themselves entitled to rank with the pyramids among the wonders of the world, being raised twenty feet above the level of the ground, and have in them stones of one solid mass ninety feet long, eighteen feet wide, and thirteen feet thick.
The main attractions, however, are the three temples or main chambers. The first, which may be called the great temple, consists of a peristyle, of which only six columns remain, two courts and a portico are standing on an artificial platform, nearly thirty feet high, and having vaults underneath. Beneath the whole platform is an immense court of two hundred feet across; it is a hexagon or nearly round shape. It is accessible by a vaulted passage, which leads to a triplet gateway, with deep mouldings, which opens into the first court.
The great court is 440 feet long by 370 feet wide, and has on each of its sides niches and columns, which, even in their ruins, are magnificent.
The two sides exactly correspond with each other, but the south is in better condition than the other. These niches have columns in front of them in the style of the hexagon, with chambers at the angles of the great court or square. The visitor entering through the portico, and passing into the great court, has before him on the opposite side (the west) of the court, the Great Temple originally dedicated to Baal. This was a magnificent peristyle measuring 290 feet by 160 feet, with nineteen huge columns on each side, and ten on each end, making fifty-eight in all. The circumference of these columns at the base is twenty-three feet and two inches, and at the top twenty feet; and their height, including base and capital, was seventy-five feet, while over this was the entablature fourteen feet more. In the walls of the foundation are seen those enormous stones, some ninety feet in length; others, sixty-four, sixty-three, sixty-two, etc., and all from thirteen to eighteen feet wide, and very frequently thirteen feet thick. These stones mark the extent of a platform of unknown antiquity, but far older than the peristyle temple, and it is from this that the temple took its early date and name. It is probable that the great stones lying in the adjoining quarry were intended for it, as the temple at that date seems to have been left unfinished.
Engraved & Printed by Illman Brothers.
TEMPLE OF KARNAC[ToList]
FOR THE MUSEUM OF ANTIQUITY
The second temple has not quite the dimensions that the first has, but it is one of the grandest monuments of the ancient art in Syria. It is 227 feet by 117. Its peristyle is composed of forty-two columns, fifteen on each side and eight on each end. At the portico was an immense row of six fluted columns, and within these, and opposite to the ends of the antæ, were two others. The height of these columns is sixty-five feet, and their circumference nineteen feet and two inches, while the entablature, richly ornamented above the columns, was about twelve feet high.
The portico is destroyed, only a few pieces of the shafts remaining, and the steps by which it was approached are also destroyed. The columns of the peristyle have mostly fallen; but four remain with their entablatures on the south side near the portico; on the west end there are six remaining, and on the north there are nine. The cut on page 473 gives somewhat of an idea of this temple.
In 1759 an earthquake threw down three columns of the great temple and nine of the peristyle of the Temple of the Sun. It would appear as though nothing but an earthquake could destroy these remains, and they even seem to withstand this with wonderful resistance. At the western end is the cella, or innermost sacred part of the edifice, it is 160 feet by 85. A modern wall was built across the vestibule and the only entrance is through a low hole broken in the wall. Entering through this aperture the spectator has before him the gem of the structure, the great portal. It was twenty-one feet high and forty-two feet long and gorgeously ornamented. The sides are each of a single stone, and the lintels are composed of three huge blocks. Borders of fruit, flowers and leaves are profuse on the architrave, and on the soffit of the door is the celebrated figure of the eagle with a caduceus in his talons, and in his beak strings of long twisted garlands, which are extended on each side and have the opposite ends borne by flying genii.
In 1751 the portal was perfect. When Wood sketched it, but eight years afterwards, the shock of an earthquake rent the wall and permitted the central stone to sink about two feet. Yet, even in this state, it is one of the most striking and beautiful gateways in the world. The first compartment measures ninety-eight feet by sixty-seven, having fluted columns on each side, and the sanctum, or place for the altar and statue, occupies a space of twenty-nine feet deep at the western end and considerably raised above the floor of the nave. Such were the arrangements of this vast magnificent edifice.
It may be well to mention here another building although not so old nor large, but we wish to speak of it because it is so remarkable in withstanding time.
RUINS OF BAALBEC.[ToList]
We are speaking of the Pantheon, the splendid building erected by M. Agrippa, the friend of Augustus, in immediate connection with the Thermæ, built and dedicated to Jupiter Ultor by him. This building, which embodied, as it were, the highest aspirations of Roman national pride and power, was completed, according to the original inscription preserved on it, B.C. 25, in which year Agrippa was consul for the third time. According to the statement of Pliny ("His. Nat.," 36, 24, I), which however, has been disputed, it was originally dedicated to Jupiter Ultor, whose statue, therefore, undoubtedly stood in the chief niche opposite the entrance. The other six niches contained the statues of as many gods; those of the chief deities of the Julian family, Mars and Venus, and of the greatest son of that family, the divine Cæsar, being the only ones amongst the number of which we have certain knowledge. Was it that the statues of Mars and Venus showed the attributes of the other principal gods, or that the statues of the latter stood in the small chapels (ædiculæ) between the niches, or that the unequaled enormous cupola was supposed to represent heaven, that is, the house of all the gods? Certain it is that, together with the old appellation the new name of the Pantheon, i.e., temple of all the gods, was soon applied to the building. The latter name has been unanimously adopted by posterity, and has even originated the Christian destination of the edifice as church of all the martyrs (S. Maria ad Martyres). Without entering into the consecutive changes the building has undergone in the course of time, we will now attempt a description of its principal features. The temple consists of two parts, the round edifice and the portico. The former was 132 feet in diameter, exclusive of the thickness of the wall, which amounts to 19 feet. The wall is perfectly circular, and contains eight apertures, one of which serves as entrance, while the others form, in a certain order, either semicircular or quadrangular niches; the former are covered by semi-cupolas, the latter by barrel-vaults. Only the niche opposite the entrance is, at the present time, uninterrupted, and open up to its full height, thus corresponding with the formation of the entrance section; in front of each of the others, two columns have been erected, the beams of which close the opening of the semicircular vault. To this chief portion of the building is attached the splendid portico which, in the manner of the above-mentioned temples, projects by three columns, besides a massive wall-structure. The frontage shows eight columns. As a rule, the whole space of the pronaos was without columns; contrary to the rule we here see it divided into three naves by means of two pairs of columns. The center nave, which was also the widest, led to the entrance-door, each of the two others being terminated by an enormous niche. Not to mention æsthetical considerations, these columns were required as props of the roof covering the vast space (the portico is about 100 feet long).
INSIDE VIEW OF PANTHEON.[ToList]
THE PANTHEON AT ROME.[ToList]
The columns of the portico carried beams, on the frieze of which the following inscription in large letters has been placed: M·AGRIPPA·L·F·COS·TERTIUM·FECIT. Another inscription below this one, in smaller characters, states the building to have been restored by Septimius Severus and Caracalla. The beams carry a large pediment, originally adorned with groups of statues representing Jupiter's victories over the Gigantes. Behind and above this gable rises a second one of the same proportions, serving as an ornament of the projecting wall which connects the round building with the portico. The roof of the portico was supported by beams made of brass. According to the drawing of Serlio, these beams were not massive, but consisted of brass plates riveted together into square pipes—a principle frequently applied by modern engineers on a larger scale in building bridges, etc. Unfortunately, the material of the roof, barring some of the large rivets, has been used by Pope Urban VIII. for guns and various ornaments of doubtful taste in St. Peter's Cathedral. The large columns carrying the ugly tabernacle on the grave of St. Peter are one of the results of this barbarous spoliation. The old door, also made of brass, which leads from the portico into the interior has, on the contrary, been preserved. The outer appearance of the round building is simple and dignified. It most likely was originally covered with stucco and terra-cotta ornaments, of which, however, little remains at present; but the simple bricks, particularly in the upper stripes, where the insertion of the vault becomes visible, look, perhaps, quite as beautiful as the original coating. The whole cylinder of masonry is divided into three stripes by means of cornices, which break the heaviness of the outline, the divisions of the inner space corresponding to those of the outer surface. The first of these stripes is about forty feet high, and rests on a base of Travertine freestone. It consists of simple horizontal slabs of stone, broken only by doors which lead to chambers built in the thickness of the wall between the niches. It corresponds to the columns forming the first story of the interior, the two cornices, in and outside, being on a level. The second stripe, about thirty feet in height, answers to the second story of the interior, where the semicircular arches of the niches are situated. The horizontal stone layers outside are accordingly broken by large double arches, destined to balance the vaults in the interior. They alternate with smaller arches, thus forming a decoration of the exterior at once dignified and in harmony with the general design of the building. The two cornices in and outside are again on a level. The third stripe corresponds to the cupola, the tension of which is equal to 140 feet. The outer masonry reaches up to about a third of its height, from which point the cupola proper begins to rise in seven mighty steps.
The height of the dome is equal to the diameter of the cylindrical building, 132 feet, which adds to the sober and harmonious impression of the whole building. The lower of the above-mentioned interior stories is adorned with columns and pilasters, the latter of which enclosed the niches. Eight of these columns, over thirty-two feet in height, are monoliths of giallo antico—a yellow kind of marble beautifully veined, and belonging to the most valuable materials used by ancient architects. Six other columns are made of a kind of marble known as pavonazzetto; by an ingenious mode of coloring these columns are made to harmonize with those consisting of the rarer material. Above the first lies a second lower story, the architectural arrangements of which may be recognized from Adler's ingenious attempt at reconstruction. Its original decoration consisted of tablets of colored marble, the effect being similar to that of a sequence of narrow pilasters. This original decoration has later been changed for another. Above the chief cornice which crowns this story, and at the same time terminates the circular walls, rises the cupola, divided into five stripes, each of which contains twenty-five "caskets" beautifully worked and in excellent perspective. In the center at the top is an opening, forty feet in diameter, through which the light enters the building. Near this opening a fragment has been preserved of the bronze ornamentation which once seems to have covered the whole cupola. Even without these elegant decorations the building still excites the spectator's admiration, as one of the masterpieces of Roman genius.
HALF-SECTION OF THE PANTHEON.[ToList]
Obelisks were in Egypt commemorative pillars recording the style and the title of the king who erected them, his piety, and the proof he gave of it in dedicating those monoliths to the deity whom he especially wished to honor. They are made of a single block of stone, cut into a quadrilateral form, the width diminishing gradually from the base to the top of the shaft, which terminates in a small pyramid (pyramidion). They were placed on a plain square pedestal, but larger than the obelisk itself. Obelisks are of Egyptian origin. The Romans and the moderns have imitated them, but they never equaled their models.
Egyptian obelisks are generally made of red granite of Syene. There are some, however, of smaller dimensions made of sandstone and basalt. They were generally placed in pairs at the entrances of temples, on each side of the propyla. The shaft was commonly ten diameters in height, and a fourth narrower at the top than at the base. Of the two which were before the palace of Luxor at Thebes, one is seventy-two feet high, and six feet, two inches wide at the base; the other is seventy-seven feet high, and seven feet, eight inches wide. Each face is adorned with hieroglyphical inscriptions in intaglio, and the summit is terminated by a pyramid, the four sides of which represent religious scenes, also accompanied by inscriptions. The corners of the obelisks are sharp and well cut, but their faces are not perfectly plane, and their slight convexity is a proof of the attention the Egyptians paid to the construction of their monuments. If their faces were plane they would appear concave to the eye; the convexity compensates for this optical illusion. The hieroglyphical inscriptions are in a perpendicular line, sometimes there is but one in the middle of the breadth of the face, and often there are three. The inscription was a commemoration by the king who had the temple or palace built before which the obelisk was placed. It contained a record stating the houses and titles which the king who erected, enlarged, or gave rich presents to a temple, had received in return from the priesthood, and setting forth, for instance, that Rameses was the lord of an obedient people, and the beloved of Ammon. Such is the subject of the inscription which is in the middle of each face of the obelisks; and though the name of the same king and the same events are repeated on the four sides, there exists in the four texts, when compared, some difference, either in the invocation to the particular divinities or in the titles of the king. Every obelisk had, in its original form, but a single inscription on each face, and of the same period of the king who had erected it; but a king who came after him, adding a court, a portico, or colonnade to the temple or palace, had another inscription relative to his addition, with his name engraved on the original obelisk; thus, every obelisk adorned with many inscriptions is of several periods. The pyramidion which terminates them generally represents in its sculptures the king who erected the obelisk making different offerings to the principal deity of the temple, and to other divinities. Sometimes also the offering is of the obelisk itself. The short inscriptions of the pyramidion bear the oval of the king and the name of the divinity. By these ovals can be known the names of the kings who erected the obelisks still existing, whether in Egypt or elsewhere. The largest obelisk known is that of St. John Lateran, Rome. It was brought from Heliopolis to Alexandria by the emperor Constantine, and was conveyed to Rome by Constantius, who erected it in the Circus Maximus. The height of the shaft is 105 feet, 7 inches. The sides are of unequal breadth at the base, two measure nine feet, eight and one-half inches, the other two only nine feet. It bears the name of Thohtmes III. in the central, and that of Thohtmes IV. in the lateral lines, kings of the eighteenth dynasty, in the fifteenth century B.C. The two obelisks at Luxor were erected by the king Rameses II., of the nineteenth dynasty, 1311 B.C. (Wilkinson). One of these has been taken to Paris. The obelisk of Heliopolis bears the name of Osirtasen I., 2020 B.C. (Wilkinson), and is consequently the most ancient. It is about sixty-seven feet high. The obelisks at Alexandria were brought from Heliopolis about 2,000 years ago. The one that was lying in the sand, and the smaller of the two, was removed to London some years ago, and the other, which was still standing, was presented to the United States by Ismail Pasha, father of the present Khedive. This monument of antiquity is an inestimable treasure to our country. It bears the name of Thohtmes III. In the lateral lines are the ovals of Rameses the Great. It is of red granite of Syene. It bears the name of Cleopatra's Needle, is about seventy feet high, with a diameter at its base of seven feet, seven inches. We can hardly appreciate that we should have standing in New York a relic so ancient—a column upon which Moses and Aaron looked, and doubtless read its hieroglyphic inscription; that Rameses the Great (Sesostris) had his knightly banner carved upon it; that Darius, Cambyses, Alexander the Great, the Ptolemies, Julius Cæsar, Cleopatra, Mark Antony and Augustus knew it; that it was equally known and beheld of Pythagoras, Herodotus and Strabo; that a long procession of the most illustrious characters of the middle ages have passed before it, from the days of Clement and Anastasius to those of Don John of Austria; and, finally, that it was the first herald of Egypt to Napoleon and Mohammed Ali. A monument like this will truly be cherished by every citizen. The obelisk of the Piazza del Popolo claims great interest, as it also stood before the Temple of the Sun at Heliopolis. Lepsius attributes it to Meneptha. It was removed to Rome by Augustus, B.C. 19, to ornament the Circus Maximus. The obelisk in front of St. Peter's was brought to Rome by Caligula, and placed on the Vatican in the Circus of Caligula. It is about eighty-three feet high. There are several other Egyptian obelisks in Rome. Nothing can afford a greater idea of the skill of the Egyptians, and of their wonderful knowledge of mechanism, than the erection of these monoliths.
OBELISK OF HELIOPOLIS. (Over 4000 years old).[ToList]
The following is a translation of the hieroglyphic writing which is set into it: "The Horus; the living from his birth; the king of Upper and Lower Egypt; Ra Kheper Ka; Lord of the two diadems; Son of the sun; Osirtasen; the loved of the God of Heliopolis from his birth; Ever-living; The golden Horus; the Good God; Ra Kheper Ka to the first celebration of the panegyry. He (has) made (this obelisk) the eternal generator."
The Greeks never made obelisks outside of Egypt. The Macedonian kings, or Ptolemies, who reigned in that country, from Alexander to Augustus, erected, terminated, or enlarged many monuments, but always according to Egyptian rules. Egyptian artists executed obelisks for their Greek princes, but they did not depart, any more than in the other monuments, from their ancient customs. The Egyptian style and proportions are always to be recognized, and the inscriptions are also traced in hieroglyphics. The obelisk found at Philæ was erected in honor of Ptolemy Evergetes II. and of Cleopatra, his sister, or Cleopatra, his wife, and placed on a base bearing a Greek inscription relating the reason and occasion of this monument. It was removed from Philæ by Belzoni, and has been now erected at Kingston Hall, Dorset, by Mr. Bankes. It is very far from equaling the Pharaonic obelisks in dimensions, it being only twenty-two feet high.
After the Romans had made Egypt a Roman province they carried away some of its obelisks. Augustus was the first who conceived the idea of transporting these immense blocks to Rome; he was imitated by Caligula, Constantine, and others. They were generally erected in some circus. Thirteen remain at the present day at Rome, some of which are of the time of the Roman domination in Egypt. The Romans had obelisks made in honor of their princes, but the material and the workmanship of the inscriptions cause them to be easily distinguished from the more ancient obelisks. The Barberini obelisk, on the Monte Pincio, is of this number; it bears the names of Adrian, of Sabina, his wife, and of Antinous, his favorite. The obelisk of the Piazza Navona, from the style of its hieroglyphics, is supposed to be a Roman work of the time of Domitian. The name of Santus Rufus can be read on the Albani obelisk, now at Munich, and as there are two Roman prefects of Egypt known of that name, it was, therefore, one of those magistrates who had executed in that country these monuments in honor of the reigning emperors, and then had them sent to Rome. The Romans also attempted to make obelisks at Rome; such is the obelisk of the Trinita de' Monti, which formerly stood in the Circus of Sallust. It is a bad copy of that of the Porta del Popolo. The Roman emperors in the east had also some Egyptian obelisks transported to Constantinople. Fragments of two of these monuments have been found in Sicily, at Catania; one of them has eight sides, but it is probably not a genuine Egyptian work. The use of the obelisk as a gnomon, and the erection of it on a high base in the center of an open space, were only introduced on the removal of single obelisks to Rome.
RELIGION OR MYTHOLOGY.[ToC]
Mythology is from the word myth, meaning fable, it is therefore a system of fabulous opinions and doctrines respecting the deities which the heathen nations have supposed to preside over the world or to influence its affairs.
They had twelve gods, Jupiter, Neptune, Pluto, Mercury, Mars, Vulcan, Apollo, Diana, Minerva, Juno, Ceres and Vesta. Besides these there were other lesser gods, Bacchus, Isis, Hebe, the Muses and the Fates, etc.; also Sleep, Dreams and Death; and there were still others who had free will and intelligence, and having mixed forms, such as the Pegasus, or winged horse, the Centaur, half man and half horse, Hydra, etc.
The Greek theory of the origin of things was that the beginning was chaos laden with the seed of all nature, then came the Earth and the Heavens, or Uranus; these two were married and from this union came a numerous and powerful brood. First were the six Titans, all males, and then the six females, and the Cyclops, three in number; these latter were of gigantic size, having but one eye, and that in the center of the forehead. They represented Thunder, Lightning and Fire, or the rapid flame.
The Titans made war upon their father and wounded him, and from the drops of blood which flowed from the wound and fell upon the earth sprang the Furies, whose names signified "Unceasing," "Envier," and "Blood-Avenger;" and the Giants and melian Nymphs, and from the blood drops which fell into the sea sprang Venus, the goddess of love and beauty.
The youngest and bravest son, Saturn, who wounded and dethroned his father, was, by the consent of his brethren, permitted to reign with an understanding that his male children should all be destroyed. But his wife, Rhea, hid from him three of her sons, Jupiter, Neptune and Pluto, who, waging a ten-year war against their father, finally dethroned him and divided the kingdom among themselves. The oldest, Jupiter, had the heavens, and reigned over all gods, Neptune over the sea, and Pluto the lower regions.
Jupiter then built his courts on Mount Olympos, reigned supreme god over heaven and earth; he was called the father of man and gods, and is placed at the head of the entire creation.
He is generally represented as majestic in appearance, seated on a throne with a sceptre in one hand and thunderbolts in the other. Jupiter had a number of wives; he also married his sister Juno, who was the queen goddess. Besides Jupiter, Juno, Neptune and Pluto the other eight gods were the children of Jupiter.
Neptune was second to Jupiter in power. He is represented as carrying a trident or three-tined fork, with which he strikes the earth and shakes it; he is therefore often called the "earth-shaker." He is usually represented like Jupiter, of a serene and majestic aspect, seated in a chariot made of shells and drawn by dolphins and sea-horses, while the Tritons and the Nymphs gambol about him.
Pluto is represented as the grim, stern ruler over hell. He is also called Hades and Orcus. He has a throne of sulphur, from beneath which flows the Rivers Lethe, or "Oblivion," Phlegethon, Cocytus and Acheron. In one hand he holds his fork and in the other the keys of hell, and beside him is the dog with three heads. He is described as being well qualified for his position, being inexorable and deaf to supplications, and an object of aversion and hatred to both gods and men. From his realms there is no return, and all mankind, sooner or later, are sure to be gathered into his kingdom.
As none of the goddesses would marry the stern and gloomy god, he seized Proserpine, the daughter of Ceres, while she was gathering flowers, and opened the earth and carried her through into his dominion.
Mercury was the messenger and ambassador of the gods. He was represented by wings on his hat, and sandals, and usually carrying a wand, or staff, with two serpents twined around it. He himself was a god of eloquence and the patron of orators, merchants, thieves, robbers, travelers and shepherds.
Mars was the god of war. Sorrow and fear accompanied him, disorder and discord in tattered garments go before him and anger and clamor follow. He is of huge size and gigantic strength, and his voice was louder than those of ten thousand mortals.
Vulcan was the forger, and is generally represented at an anvil in a short tunic, with a hammer in his right hand. He was lame when he was born, and his mother, Juno, was so shocked that she flung him headlong from the Mt. Olympos.
Apollo was the god of archery, prophecy and music, and is usually seen with a harp in his hand and of beautiful figure.
Diana was the goddess of chase, and appears with a bow in her hand and a quiver of arrows at her back, and on her side is a hound. She devoted herself to perpetual celibacy, and her chief joy was to speed like a Dorian maid over the hills, followed by a train of nymphs in pursuit of the flying game.
Minerva is the goddess of wisdom and skill, and the teacher in warfare. She has a serious and thoughtful countenance, a spear in one hand and a shield in the other, while a helmet covers her head. She is said to have sprung from the brains of Jupiter.
Juno, the wife of Jupiter, was haughty, jealous and inexorable; a goddess of dignified and matronly air, often found with a peacock at her feet.
Ceres is the goddess of grain and harvest. She is represented riding on a chariot drawn by dragons, and distributing grain to the different regions of the earth. She holds in one hand corn and wheat, in the other a lighted torch, and wears on her head a garland of wheat heads.
After Pluto stole her daughter, Proserpine, she searched for her throughout the whole world.
Vesta, the goddess of the household and domestic hearths, is represented in a long-flowing robe, with a veil on her head, a lamp in one hand, and a spear or javelin in the other. In her temple at Rome, the sacred fire was guarded by six priestesses, called the Vestal Virgins.
Among the lesser gods there were many, but the most common was Bacchus, who was the god of lust, wine, and the patron of drunkenness and debauchery. He is represented as an effeminate young man, with long flowing hair. In one hand he holds a goblet, in the other a bunch of grapes and a short dagger.
The Muses were goddesses who presided over music and poetry, and all the liberal arts and sciences. They were nine in number.
The Graces were three in number, and personified Splendor, Joy and Pleasure. They were three beautiful sisters, standing with their arms entwined.
The Fates were also three goddesses, who presided over the destiny of mortals. The first was the staff of life, the second spun the cord, and the third cut it off.
This is a brief outline of the origin and nature of the gods and goddesses: and the legends are numerous, and some of them are of exceeding interest and beauty, while others shock and disgust us by the gross impossibilities and hideous deformities which they reveal. We have concluded to give a direct translation of them from the Greek, so that the reader may have them in the pure original form, and thereby have not only the beauty and interest retained, but at the same time an idea of the style of the ancient writings; only a few stories have been modified to bring them nearer to the level of the rest. We will, however, be obliged to use the Greek names instead of the Latin in this translation, as it is from the Greek, and will therefore give the names translated below:
| Greek. | Latin. |
| Zeus, | Jupiter. |
| Here, | Juno. |
| Poseidon, | Neptune. |
| Plouton, | Pluto. |
| Demeter, | Ceres. |
| Apollo, | Apolo. |
| Artemis, | Diana. |
| Hephaistos, | Vulcan. |
| Athene, | Minerva. |
| Ares, | Mars. |
| Aphrodite, | Venus. |
| Hermes, | Mercury. |
| Hestia, | Vesta. |
The most of the Greek people appear to have believed that their divinities were real persons, but their philosophers explained the legends concerning them as allegorical representations of general physical and moral truths. The Greeks, therefore, instead of favoring nature, worshiped the powers of nature personified.
THE DELPHIAN APOLLO.
From land to land the lady Leto wandered in fear and sorrow, for no city or country would give her a home where she might abide in peace. From Crete to Athens, from Athens to Ægina, from Ægina to the heights of Pelion and Athos, through all the islands of the wide Ægæan Sea, Skyros and Imbros and Lemnos, and Chios the fairest of all, she passed, seeking a home. But in vain she prayed each land to receive her, until she came to the Island of Delos, and promised to raise it to great glory if only there she might rest in peace. And she lifted up her voice and said, "Listen to me, O island of the dark sea. If thou wilt grant me a home, all nations shall come unto thee, and great wealth shall flow in upon thee; for here shall Phœbus Apollo, the lord of light and life, be born, and men shall come hither to know his will and win his favor." Then answered Delos, and said, "Lady, thou promisest great things; but they say that the power of Phœbus Apollo will be such as nothing on the wide earth may withstand; and mine is but a poor and stony soil, where there is little to please the eye of those who look upon me. Wherefore I fear that he will despise my hard and barren land, and go to some other country where he will build a more glorious temple, and grant richer gifts to the people who come to worship him." But Leto swore by the dark water of Styx, and the wide heaven above, and the broad earth around her, that in Delos should be the shrine of Phœbus, and that there should the rich offerings burn on his altar the whole year round.
So Leto rested in the Island of Delos, and there was Phœbus Apollo born. And there was joy among the undying gods who dwell in Olympos, and the earth laughed beneath the smile of heaven. Then was his temple built in Delos, and men came to it from all lands to learn his will and offer rich sacrifices on his altar.
THE PYTHIAN APOLLO.
Long time Apollo abode in Delos; and every year all the children of Ion were gathered to the feast which was held before his temple. But at length it came to pass that Apollo went through many lands, journeying towards Pytho. With harp in hand he drew nigh to the gates of Olympos, where Zeus and the gods dwell in their glory; and straightway all rejoiced for the sweetness of his harping. The Muses sang the undying gifts of the gods, and the griefs and woes of mortal men who can not flee from old age and death. The bright Horai joined hands together with Hebe and Harmonia; and Ares stood by the side of Aphrodite with Hermes the slayer of Argos, gazing on the face of Phœbus Apollo, which glistened as with the light of the new-risen sun. Then from Olympos he went down into the Pierian land, to Iolkos and the Lelantian plain; but it pleased him not there to build himself a home. Thence he wandered on to Mykalessos, and, traversing the grassy plains of Teumessos, came to the sacred Thebes; but neither would he dwell there, for no man had yet come hither, neither was there road nor path, but only wild forests in all the land.
JUPITER. (Zeus)[ToList]
Further and further he roamed, across the stream of Kephisos and beyond Okalea and Haliartos, until he came to Telphusa. There he thought to build himself a temple, for the land was rich and fair, so he said, "Beautiful Telphusa, here would I rest in thy happy vale, and here shall men come to ask my will and seek for aid in the hour of fear; and great glory shall come to thee while I abide in thy land." But Telphusa was moved with anger as she saw Phœbus marking out the place for his shrine and laying its foundations; and she spake craftily to him, and said, "Listen to me, Phœbus Apollo. Thou seekest here to have a home, but here thou canst never rest in peace; for my broad plain will tempt men to the strife of battle, and the tramp of war-horses shall vex the stillness of thy holy temple. Nay, even in the time of peace, the lowing cattle shall come in crowds to my fountain, and the tumult will grieve thine heart. But go thou to Krisa, and make for thyself a home in the hidden clefts of Parnassos, and thither shall men hasten with their gifts from the utmost bounds of the earth." So Apollo believed her words, and he went on through the land of the Phlegyes until he came to Krisa. There he laid the foundations of his shrine in the deep cleft of Parnassos; and Trophonios and Agamedes, the children of Erginos, raised the wall. There also he found the mighty dragon who nursed Typhaon, the child of Here, and he smote him, and said, "Rot there upon the ground, and vex not more the children of men. The clays of thy life are ended, neither can Typhoeus himself aid thee now, nor Chimæra of the evil name. But the earth and the burning sun shall consume and scorch thy body." So the dragon died, and his body rotted on the ground; wherefore the name of the place is called Pytho, and they worship Phœbus Apollo as the great Pythian king.
But Phœbus knew now that Telphusa had deceived him, because she said nothing of the great dragon of Krisa, or of the roughness of the land. So he hastened back in his anger and said, "Thou hast beguiled me, Telphusa, with thy crafty words; but no more shall thy fountain send forth its sweet water, and the glory shall be mine alone." Then Apollo hurled great crags down and choked the stream near the beautiful fountain, and the glory departed from Telphusa.
Then he thought within himself what men he should choose to be his priests at Pytho; and far away, as he stood on the high hill, he saw a ship sailing on the wine-faced sea, and the men who were in it were Cretans, sailing from the land of King Minos to barter their goods with the men of Pylos. So Phœbus leaped into the sea, and changed his form to the form of a dolphin, and hastened to meet the ship. None knew whence the great fish came which smote the side of their vessel with its mighty fins; but all marveled at the sight, as the dolphin guided the ship through the dark waters, and they sat trembling with fear, as they sped on without a sail by the force of the strong south wind. From the headland of Malea and the land of the Lakonians they passed to Helos and to Tænaron where Helios dwells, in whom the sons of men take delight, and where his cattle feed in the rich pastures. There the sailors would have ended their wanderings; but they sought in vain to land, for the ship would not obey its helm. Onward it went along the coast of the Island of Pelops, for the mighty dolphin guided it. So from Arene and Arguphea it came to the sandy Pylos, by Chalkis and Dyme to the land of the Epeians, to Pheræ and to Ithaka. There the men saw spread out before them the waters which wash the shores of Krisa; and the strong west wind came with its fierce breath, and drove them off to the east and towards the sunrising until they came to Krisa.
APOLLO. (From an ancient Sculpture.)[ToList]
Then Phœbus Apollo came forth from the sea, like a star, and the brightness of his glory reached up to the high heaven. Into his shrine he hastened, and on the altar he kindled the undying fire, and his bright arrows were hurled abroad, till all Krisa was filled with the blaze of his lightnings, so that fear came upon all, and the cries of the women rose shrill on the sultry air. Then, swift as a thought of the heart, he hastened back to the ship; but his form was now the form of a man in his beauty, and his golden locks flowed over his broad shoulders. From the shore he called out to the men in the Cretan ship, and said "Who are ye, strangers? and do ye come as thieves and robbers, bringing terror and sorrow whithersoever ye may go? Why stay ye thus, tarrying in your ships, and seek not to come out on the land? Surely ye must know that all who sail on the wide sea rejoice when their ship comes to the shore, that they may come forth and feast with the people of the land?" So spake Phœbus Apollo; and the leader of the Cretans took courage and said, "Stranger, sure I am that thou art no mortal man, but one of the bright heroes or the undying gods. Wherefore tell us now the name of this land and of the people who dwell in it. Hither we never sought to come, for we were sailing from the land of Minos to barter our wares at Pylos; but some one of the gods hath brought us hither against our will."
Then spake the mighty Apollo, and said to them, "O, strangers, who have dwelt in Knossos of the Cretan land, think not to return to your ancient home, to your wives or to your children. Here ye must guard and keep my shrine, and ye shall be honored of all the children of men. For I am the son of Zeus, and my name is Phœbus Apollo. It was I who brought you hither across the wide sea, not in guile or anger, but that in all time to come ye may have great power and glory, that ye may learn the counsel of the undying gods and make known their will to men. Hasten then to do my bidding; let down your sails, and bring your ship to the shore. Then bring out your goods, and build an altar on the beach, and kindle a fire, and offer white barley as an offering; and because I led you hither under the form of a dolphin, so worship me as the Delphian god. Then eat bread and drink wine, as much as your soul may lust after; and after that come with me to the holy place, where ye shall guard my temple."
So they obeyed the words of Phœbus; and when they had offered the white barley, and feasted richly on the sea-shore, they arose to go, and Apollo led them on their way. His harp was in his hand, and he made sweet music, such as no mortal ear had heard before; and they raised the chant Io Pæan, for a new power was breathed into their hearts, as they went along. They thought not now of toil or sorrow; but with feet unwearied they went up the hill until they reached the clefts of Parnassos, where Phœbus would have them dwell.
Then out spake the leader of the Cretans, and said, boldly, "O king, thou hast brought us far away from our homes to a strange land; whence are we to get food here? No harvest will grow on these bare rocks, no meadows are spread out before our eyes. The whole land is bare and desolate." But the son of Zeus smiled and said, "O foolish men, and easy to be cast down, if ye had your wish ye would gain nothing but care and toil. But listen to me and ponder well my words. Stretch forth your hands and slay each day the rich offerings, for they shall come to you without stint and sparing, seeing that the sons of men shall hasten hither from all lands, to learn my will and ask for aid in the hour of fear. Only guard ye my temple well, and keep your hands clean and your hearts pure; for if ye deal rightly no man shall take away your glory; but if ye speak lies and do iniquity, if ye hurt the people who come to my altar, and make them to go astray, then shall other men rise up in your place, and ye yourselves shall be thrust out forever, because ye would not obey my words."
NIOBE AND LETO.
In the little Island of Delos there lived a long time ago a lady who was called Niobe. She had many sons and many daughters, and she was very proud of them, for she thought that in all the Island of Delos, and even in all the world, there were no children so beautiful as her own. And as they walked, and leaped, and ran among the hills and valleys of that rocky island, all the people looked at them, and said, "Surely there are no other children like the children of the lady Niobe." And Niobe was so pleased at hearing this, that she began to boast to every one how strong and beautiful her sons and daughters were.
Now in this Island of Delos there lived also the lady named Leto. She had only two children, and their names were Artemis and Phœbus Apollo; but they were very strong and fair, indeed. And whenever the lady Niobe saw them, she tried to think that her own children were still more beautiful, although she could hardly help feeling that she had never seen any so glorious as Artemis and Apollo. So one day the lady Leto and the lady Niobe were together, and their children were playing before them; and Phœbus Apollo played on his golden harp, and then he shot from his golden bow the arrows which never missed their mark. But Niobe never thought of Apollo's bow, and the arrows which he had in his quiver; and she began to boast to the lady Leto of the beauty of her children, and said, "See, Leto; look at my seven sons and my seven daughters, and see how strong and fair they are. Apollo and Artemis are beautiful, I know, but my children are fairer still; and you have only two children while I have seven sons and seven daughters." So Niobe went on boasting, and never thought whether she should make Leto angry. But Leto said nothing until Niobe and her children were gone, and then she called Apollo, and said to him, "I do not love the lady Niobe. She is always boasting that her sons and daughters are more beautiful than you and your sister; and I wish you to show her that no one else is so strong as my children, or so beautiful." Then Phœbus Apollo was angry, and a dark frown came upon his fair young face, and his eyes were like the flaming fire. But he said nothing, and he took his golden bow in his hand, and put his quiver with his terrible arrows across his shoulder, and went away to the hills where he knew that the lady Niobe and her children were. And when he saw them he went and stood on a bare high rock, and stretched the string of his golden bow, and took an arrow from his quiver. Then he held out the bow, and drew the string to his breast, until the point of the arrow touched the bow; and then he let the arrow fly. Straight to its mark it went, and one of the lady Niobe's sons fell dead. Then another arrow flew swiftly from the bow, and another, and another, and another, till all the sons and all the daughters of Niobe lay dead on the hillside. Then Apollo called out to Niobe, and said, "Go and boast now of your beautiful children!"
It had all passed so quickly that Niobe scarcely knew whether it was not a dream. She could not believe that her children were really gone—all her sons and all her daughters, whom she had just now seen so happy and strong around her. But there they lay, still and cold, upon the ground. Their eyes were closed as if they were asleep, and their faces had still a happy smile, which made them look more beautiful than ever. And Niobe went to them all one by one, and touched their cold hands, and kissed their pale cheeks; and then she knew that the arrows of Phœbus Apollo had killed them. Then she sat down on a stone which was close to them, and the tears flowed from her eyes, and they streamed down her face, as she sat there as still as her children who lay dead before her. She never raised her head to look at the blue sky—she never moved hand or foot, but she sat weeping on the cold rock until she became as cold as the rock itself. And still her tears flowed on, and still her body grew colder and colder, until her heart beat no more, and the lady Niobe was dead. But there she still seemed to sit and weep, for her great grief had turned her into a stone; and all the people, whenever they came near that place, said, "See, there sits the lady Niobe, who was turned into stone, when Phœbus Apollo killed all her children because she boasted that no one was so beautiful as they were." And long after, when the stone was grown old and covered with moss, the people still thought they could see the form of the lady Niobe; for the stone, which did not look much like the form of a woman when they came near to it, seemed at a distance just as though Niobe still sat there, weeping for her beautiful children whom Phœbus Apollo slew.
DAPHNE.
In the vale of Tempe, where the stream of Peneios flows beneath the heights of Olympos towards the sea, the beautiful Daphne passed the days of her happy childhood. Fresh as the earliest morning, she climbed the crags to greet the first rays of the rising sun; and when he had driven his fiery horses over the sky, she watched his chariot sink behind the western mountains. Over hill and dale she roamed, free and light as the breeze of spring. Other maidens round her spoke each of her love, but Daphne cared not to listen to the voice of man, though many a one sought her to be his wife.
One day as she stood on the slopes of Ossa in the glow of early morning, she saw before her a glorious form. The light of the new-risen sun fell on his face with a golden splendor, and she knew that it was Phœbus Apollo. Hastily he ran towards her, and said, "I have found thee, Child of the Morning. Others thou hast cast aside, but from me thou canst not escape. I have sought thee long, and now will I make thee mine." But the heart of Daphne was bold and strong; and her cheek flushed and her eye sparkled with anger, as she said, "I know neither love nor bondage. I live free among the streams and hills; and to none will I yield my freedom." Then the face of Apollo grew dark with anger, and he drew near to seize the maiden; but swift as the wind she fled away. Over hill and dale, over crag and river, the feet of Daphne fell lightly as falling leaves in autumn; but nearer yet came Phœbus Apollo, till at last the strength of the maiden began to fail. Then she stretched out her hands, and cried for help to the lady Demeter; but she came not to her aid. Her head was dizzy, and her limbs trembled in utter feebleness as she drew near the broad river which gladdens the plains of Thessaly, till she almost felt the breath of Phœbus, and her robe was almost in his grasp. Then, with a wild cry, she said, "Father Peneios, receive thy child," and she rushed into the stream, whose waters closed gently over her.
She was gone; Apollo mourned for his madness in chasing thus the free maiden. And he said, "I have punished myself by my folly; the light of the morning is taken out of the day. I must go on alone till my journey shall draw towards its end." Then he spake the word, and a laurel came up on the bank where Daphne had plunged into the stream; and the green bush with its thick clustering leaves keeps her name forever.
KYRENE.
Among the valleys and hills of Thessaly, Kyrene, the fair-armed daughter of Hypseus, wandered free as the deer upon the mountain side. Of all the maidens of the land, there was none to vie her in beauty; neither was there any that could be matched with her for strength of arm and speed of foot. She touched not the loom or the spindle; she cared not for banquets with those who revel under houses. Her feasts were spread on the green grass, beneath the branching tree; and with her spear and dagger she went fearless among the beasts of the field, or sought them out in their dens.
One day she was roaming along the winding banks of Peneios, when a lion sprang from a thicket across her path. Neither spear nor dagger was in her hand, but the heart of Kyrene knew no fear, and she grappled with him until the beast sank wearied at her feet. She had conquered, but not unseen, for Phœbus Apollo had watched the maiden as she battled with the angry lion; and straightway he called the wise centaur Cheiron, who had taught him in the days of his youth. "Come forth," he said, "from thy dark cave, and teach me once again, for I have a question to ask thee. Look at yonder maiden, and the beast which lies beaten at her feet; and tell me (for thou art wise) whence she comes, and what name she bears. Who is she, that thus she wanders in these lonely valleys without fear and without hurt? Tell me if she may be wooed and won." Then Cheiron looked steadfastly at the face of Phœbus, and a smile passed over his countenance as he answered, "There are hidden keys to unlock the prison-house of love; but why askest thou me of the maiden's name and race—thou who knowest the end of all things, and all the paths along which the sons of men are journeying? Thou hast counted the leaves which burst forth in the spring-time, and the grains of sand which the wind tosses on the river bank, or by the sea shore. But if I must needs match thee in suitable wisdom, then listen to my words. The maiden is wooed and won already; and thou art going to bear her as thy bride over the dark sea, and place her in golden halls on the far-off Libyan land. There she shall have a home rich in every fruit that may grow up from the earth; and there shall thy son Aristaios be born, on whose lips the bright Horai shall shed nectar and ambrosia, so that he may not come under the doom of mortal men."
Then Phœbus Apollo smiled as he answered, "Of a truth, Cheiron, thou deservest thy fame, for there are none to match with thee for wisdom; and now I go with Kyrene to the land which shall be called by her name, and where, in time to come, her children shall build great and mighty cities, and their name shall be spread abroad throughout all the earth for strength and wisdom."
So the maiden Kyrene came to the Libyan land, and there Aristaios, her child, was born. And Hermes carried the babe to the bright Horai, who granted him an endless life; and he dwelt in the broad Libyan plains, tending his flocks, and bringing forth rich harvests from the earth. For him the bees wrought their sweetest honey; for him the sheep gave their softest wool; for him the cornfields waved with their fullest grain. No blight touched the grapes which his hand had tended; no sickness vexed the herds which fed in his pastures. And they who dwelt in the land said, "Strife and war bring no such gifts as these to the sons of men; therefore let us live in peace."
HERMES.
Early in the morning, long ago, in a cave of the great Kyllenian hill, lay the new-born Hermes, the son of Zeus and Maia. The cradle-clothes were scarcely stirred by his soft breathing, while he slept as peacefully as the children of mortal mothers. But the sun had not driven his fiery chariot half over the heaven, when the babe arose from his sacred cradle and stepped forth from the dark cavern. Before the threshold a tortoise fed lazily on the grass; and when the child saw it he laughed merrily. "Ah! this is luck, indeed," he said; "whence hast thou come, pretty creature, with thy bright speckled shell? Thou art mine now, and I must take thee into my cave. It is better to be under shelter than out of doors; and though there may be some use in thee while thou livest, it will comfort thee to think that thou wilt sing sweetly when thou art dead." So the child Hermes took up his treasure in both arms, and carried it into the cavern. There he took an iron probe, and pierced out the life of the tortoise; and quick as thought, he drilled holes in its shell, and fixed in them reed-canes. Then across the shell he fastened a piece of ox-hide, and with seven sheep-gut cords he finished the making of his lyre. Presently he struck it with the bow, and a wave of sweet music swelled out upon the air. Like the merry songs of youths and maidens, as they sport in village feasts, rose the song of the child Hermes; and his eyes laughed slyly as he sang of the loves of Zeus and Maia, and how he himself was born of the mighty race of the gods. Still he sang on, telling of all that he saw around him in the home of the nymph, his mother, but all the while, as he sang, his mind was pondering on other things; and when the song was ended, he went forth from the cave, like a thief in the night, on his wily errand.
The sun was hastening down the slope of heaven, with his chariot and horses to the slow-rolling stream of Ocean, as Hermes came to the shadowy hills of Pieria, where the cattle of the gods fed in their large pastures. There he took fifty from the herd, and made ready to drive them to the Kyllenian hill. But before him lay vast plains of sand; and, therefore, lest the track of the cattle should tell the tale of his thieving, he drove the beasts round about by crooked paths, until it seemed as though they had gone to the place from whence he had stolen them. He had taken good care that his own footsteps should not betray him, for with branches of tamarisk and myrtle, well twisted with their leaves, he hastily made sandals, and sped away from Pieria. One man alone saw him, a very old man, who was working in his vineyard on the sunny plain of Onchestos. To him Hermes went quickly, and said, "Old man, thou wilt have plenty of wine when these roots come all into bearing trim. Meanwhile keep a wise head on thy crumpled shoulders, and take heed not to remember more than may be convenient."
PLUTO AND HIS WIFE.[ToList]
Onwards, over dark hills, and through sounding dells, and across flowery plains, hastened the child Hermes, driving his flock before him. The night waxed and waned, and the moon had climbed to her watchtower in the heaven, when, in the flush of early morning, Hermes reached the banks of the great Alpheian stream. Then he turned his herd to feed on the grassy plain, while he gathered logs of wood, and, rubbing two sticks together, kindled the first flame that burned upon the earth where dwell the sons of men. The smoke went up to the heaven, and the flame crackled fiercely beneath it, as Hermes brought forth two of the herd, and, tumbling them on their back, pierced out the life of both. Their hides he placed on the hard rock; their flesh he cut up into twelve portions; and so Hermes hath the right of ordering all sacrifices which the children of men offer to the undying gods. But he ate not of the flesh or fat, although hunger sorely pressed him; and he burnt the bones in the fire, and tossed his tamarisk sandals into the swift stream of Alpheios. Then he quenched the fire, and with all his might trampled down the ashes, until the pale moon rose up again in the sky. So he sped on his way to Kyllene. Neither god nor man saw him as he went, nor did the dogs bark. Early in the morning he reached his mother's cave, and darted through the keyhole of the door, softly as a summer breeze. Without a sound his little feet paced the stony floor, till he reached his cradle and lay down, playing like a babe among the clothes with his left hand, while the right held the tortoise-lyre hidden underneath them.
But, wily as he was, he could not cheat his mother. To his cradle she came, and said, "Whither hast thou wandered in the dark night? Crafty rogue, mischief will be thy ruin. The son of Leto will soon be here, and bear thee away bound in chains not easily shaken off. Out of my sight, little wretch, born to worry the blessed gods and plague the race of men!" "Mother," said Hermes, gently, "why talk thus to me, as though I were like mortal babes, a poor cowering thing, to cry for a little scolding? I know thy interest and mine: why should we stay here in this wretched cave, with never a gift nor a feast to cheer our hearts? I shall not stay. It is pleasanter to banquet with the gods than to dwell in a cavern in draughts of whistling wind. I shall try my luck against Apollo, for I mean to be his peer; and if he will not suffer me, and if Zeus, my father, take not up my cause, I will see what I can do for myself, by going to the shrine of Pytho and stealing thence the tripods and caldrons, the iron vessels and glittering robes. If I may not have honor in Olympos, I can at least be the prince of thieves."
Meanwhile, as they talked together, Eos rose up from the deep ocean stream, and her tender light flushed across the sky, while Apollo hastened to Onchestos and the holy grove of Poseidon. There the old man was at work in his vineyard, and to him Phœbus went quickly, and said, "Friend hedger, I am come from Pieria looking for my cows. Fifty of them have been driven away, and the bull has been left behind with the four dogs who guarded them. Tell me, old man, hast thou seen any one with these cows, on the road?" But the old man said that it would be a hard matter to tell of all that he might chance to see. "Many travelers journey on this road, some with evil thoughts, some with good; I can not well remember all. This only I know, that yesterday, from the rising of the sun to its setting, I was digging in my vineyard, and I think, but I am not sure, that I saw a child with a herd of cattle. A babe he was, and he held a staff in his hand, and, as he went, he wandered strangely from the path on either side."
Then Phœbus stayed not to hear more, for now he knew of a surety that the new-born son of Zeus had done him the mischief. Wrapped in a purple mist, he hastened to beautiful Pylos, and came on the track of the cattle. "O Zeus!" he cried, "this is indeed a marvel. I see the footprints of cattle, but they are marked as though the cattle were going to the asphodel meadow, not away from it. Of man or woman, of wolf, bear, or lion, I spy not a single trace. Only here and there I behold the footprints of some strange monster, who has left his mark at random on either side of the road." So on he sped to the woody heights of Kyllene, and stood on the doorstep of Maia's cave. Straightway the child Hermes nestled under the cradle-clothes in fear, like a new-born babe asleep. But, seeing through all his craft, Phœbus looked steadily through all the cave and opened three secret places full of the food and drink of the gods, and full also of gold and silver and raiment; but not a cow was in any of them. At last he fixed his eyes sternly on the child, and said, "Wily babe, where are my cows? If thou wilt not tell me, there will be strife between us; and then I will hurl thee down to the gloomy Tartaros, to the land of darkness, whence neither thy father nor thy mother can bring thee back, and where thy kingdom shall be only over the ghosts of men." "Ah!" said Hermes, "these are dreadful words, indeed; but why dost thou chide me thus, or come here to look for cows? I have not seen or heard of them, nor has any one told me of them. I can not tell where they are, or get the reward, if any were promised, for discovering them. This is no work of mine; what do I care for but for sleeping and sucking, and playing with my cradle-clothes, and being washed in warm water? My friend, it will be much better that no one should hear of such a silly quarrel. The undying gods would laugh at the very thought of a little babe leaving its cradle to run after cows. I was born but yesterday. My feet are soft, and the ground is hard. But if it be any comfort to thee, I will swear by my father's head (and that is a very great oath) that I have not done this deed, nor seen any one else steal your cows, and that I do not know what cows are."
As he spoke he looked stealthily from one side to the other, while his eyes winked slyly, and he made a long soft whistling sound, as if the words of Phœbus had amused him mightily. "Well, friend," said Apollo, with a smile, "thou wilt break into many a house, I see, and thy followers after thee; and thy fancy for beef will set many a herdsman grieving. But come down from the cradle, or this sleep will be thy last. Only this honor can I promise thee, to be called the prince of thieves forever." So without more ado Phœbus caught up the babe in his arms; but Hermes gave so mighty a sneeze that he quickly let him fall, and Phœbus said to him, gravely, "This is the sign that I shall find my cows; show me, then, the way." In great fear Hermes started up and pulled the cradle-clothes over his ears, as he said, "Cruel god, what dost thou seek to do with me? Why worry me thus about cows? I would there were not a cow in all the earth. I stole them not, nor have I seen any one steal the cows, whatever things cows may be. I know nothing but their name. But come; Zeus must decide the quarrel between us."
Thus each with his own purpose spake to the other, and their minds grew all the darker, for Phœbus sought only to know where his cows might be, while Hermes strove only to cheat him. So they went quickly and sulkily on, the babe first, and Phœbus following after him, till they came to the heights of Olympos and the home of the mighty Zeus. There Zeus sat on the throne of judgment, and all the undying gods stood around him. Before them in the midst stood Phœbus and the child Hermes, and Zeus said, "Thou hast brought a fine booty after thy hunt to-day, Phœbus—a child of a day old. A fine matter is this to put before the gods."
"My father," said Apollo, quickly, "I have a tale to tell which will show that I am not the only plunderer. After a weary search I found this babe in the cave of Kyllene; and a thief he is such as I have never seen whether among gods or men. Yester eve he stole my cattle from the meadow, and drove them straight towards Pylos to the shore of the sounding sea. The tracks left were such that gods and men might well marvel at them. The footprints of the cows on the sand were as though they were going to my meadows, and not away from them; his own footmarks beggar all words, as if he had gone neither on his feet nor on his hands, and as if the oak tops had suddenly taken to walking. So was it on the sandy soil; and after this was passed, there remained no marks at all. But an old man saw him driving them on the road to Pylos. There he shut up the cattle at his leisure, and, going to his mother's cave, lay down in his cradle like a spark in a mass of cinders, which an eagle could scarcely spy out. When I taxed him with the theft he boldly denied it, and told me that he had not seen the cows or heard naught of them, and could not get the reward if one were offered for restoring them."
So the words of Phœbus were ended, and the child Hermes made obeisance to Zeus, the lord of all the gods, and said, "Father Zeus, I shall tell thee the truth, for I am a very truthful being, and I know not how to tell a lie. This morning, when the sun was but newly risen, Phœbus came to my mother's cave, looking for cows. He brought no witnesses; but urged me by force to confess; he threatened to hurl me into the abyss of Tartaros. Yet he has all the strength of early manhood, while I, as he knows, was born but yesterday, and am not in the least like a cattle-reiver. Believe me (by thy love for me, thy child) that I have not brought these cows home, or passed beyond my mother's threshold. This is strict truth. Nay, by Helios and the other gods, I swear that I love thee and have respect for Phœbus. Thou knowest that I am guiltless, and, if thou wilt, I will also swear it. But, spite of all his strength, I will avenge myself some day on Phœbus for his unkindness; and then help thou the weaker."
So spake Hermes, winking his eyes and holding the clothes to his shoulders; and Zeus laughed aloud at the wiliness of the babe, and bade Phœbus and the child be friends. Then he bowed his head and charged Hermes to show the spot where he had hidden the cattle, and the child obeyed, for none may despise that sign and live. To Pylos they hastened and to the broad stream of Alpheios, and from the fold Hermes drove forth the cattle. But as he stood apart, Apollo beheld the hides flung on the rock, and he asked Hermes, "How wast thou able, cunning rogue, to flay two cows, thou a child but one day old? I fear thy might in time to come, and I can not let thee live." Again he seized the child, and bound him fast with willow bands; but the child tore them from his body like flax, so that Phœbus marveled greatly. In vain Hermes sought a place wherein to hide himself, and great fear came upon him till he thought of his tortoise-lyre. With his bow he touched the strings, and the wave of song swelled out upon the air more full and sweet than ever. He sang of the undying gods and the dark earth, how it was made at the first, and how to each of the gods his own appointed portion was given, till the heart of Apollo was filled with a mighty longing, and he spake to Hermes, and said, "Cattle-reiver, wily rogue, thy song is worth fifty head of cattle. We will settle our strife by and by. Meanwhile, tell me, was this wondrous gift of song born with thee, or hast thou it as a gift from any god or mortal man? Never on Olympos, from those who can not die, have I heard such strains as these. They who hear thee may have what they will, be it mirth, or love, or sleep. Great is thy power, and great shall be thy renown, and by my cornel staff I swear that I will not stand in the way of thy honor or deceive thee in anywise."
Then said Hermes, "I grudge thee not my skill, son of Leto, for I seek but thy friendship. Yet thy gifts from Zeus are great. Thou knowest his mind, thou canst declare his will, and reveal what is stored up in time to come for undying gods or mortal men. This knowledge I fain would have. But my power of song shall this day be thine. Take my lyre, the soother of the wearied, the sweet companion in hours of sorrow or of feasting. To those who come skilled in its language, it can discourse sweetly of all things, and drive away all thoughts that annoy and cares that vex the soul. To those who touch it, not knowing how to draw forth its speech, it will babble strange nonsense, and rave with uncertain moanings. But thy knowledge is born with thee, and so my lyre is thine. Wherefore now let us feed the herds together, and with our care they shall thrive and multiply. There is no more cause for anger."
So saying the babe held out the lyre, and Phœbus Apollo took it. In his turn he gave to the child Hermes a glittering scourge, with charge over his flocks and herds. Then, touching the chords of the lyre, he filled the air with sweet music, and they both took their way to Olympos, and Zeus was glad at heart to see that the wrath of Apollo had passed away. But Phœbus dreaded yet the wiles of Hermes, and said, "I fear me much, child of Maia, that in time to come thou mayest steal both my harp and my bow, and take away my honor among men. Come now, and swear to me by the dark water of Styx that thou wilt never do me wrong." Then Hermes bowed his head, and swore never to steal anything from Apollo, and never to lay hands on his holy shrine; and Phœbus swore that of all the undying gods there should be none so dear to him as Hermes. "And of this love," he said, "I will give thee a pledge. My golden rod shall guard thee, and teach thee all that Zeus may say to me for the well or ill-doing of gods or men. But the higher knowledge for which thou didst pray may not be thine; for that is hidden in the mind of Zeus, and I have sworn a great oath that none shall learn it from me. But the man who comes to me with true signs, I will never deceive; and he who puts trust in false omens and then comes to inquire at my shrine, shall be answered according to his folly, but his offering shall go into my treasure-house. Yet further, son of Maia, in the clefts of Parnassos far away dwell the winged Thriai, who taught me long ago the secret things of times to come. Go thou, then, to the three sisters, and thus shalt thou test them. If they have eaten of the honeycomb before they speak, they will answer thee truly; but if they lack the sweet food of the gods, they will seek to lead astray those who come to them. These I give thee for thy counselors; only follow them warily; and have thou dominion over all flocks and herds, and over all living things that feed on the wide earth; and be thou the guide to lead the souls of mortal men to the dark kingdom of Hades."
So was the love of Apollo for Hermes made sure; and Hermes hath his place amongst all the deathless gods and dying men. Nevertheless, the sons of men have from him no great gain, for all night long he vexes them with his treacherous wiles.
THE SORROW OF DEMETER.
In the fields of Enna, in the happy Island of Sicily, the beautiful Persephone was playing with the girls who lived there with her. She was the daughter of the lady Demeter, and every one loved them both, for Demeter was good and kind to all, and no one could be more gentle and merry than Persephone. She and her companions were gathering flowers from the field, to make crowns for their long flowing hair. They had picked many roses and lilies and hyacinths, which grew in clusters around them, when Persephone thought she saw a splendid flower far off; and away she ran, as fast as she could, to get it. It was a beautiful narcissus, with a hundred heads springing from one stem; and the perfume which came from its flowers gladdened the broad heaven above, and the earth and sea around it. Eagerly Persephone stretched out her hand to take this splendid prize, when the earth opened, and a chariot stood before her, drawn by four coal-black horses; and in the chariot there was a man with a dark and solemn face, which looked as though he could never smile, and as though he had never been happy. In a moment he got out of his chariot, seized Persephone round the waist, and put her on the seat by his side. Then he touched the horses with his whip, and they drew the chariot down into the great gulf, and the earth closed over them again.
Presently the girls who had been playing with Persephone came up to the place where the beautiful narcissus was growing; but they could not see her anywhere. And they said, "Here is the very flower which she ran to pick, and there is no place here where she can be hiding." Still for a long time they searched through the fields of Enna; and when the evening was come they went home to tell the lady Demeter that they could not tell what had become of Persephone.
Very terrible was the sorrow of Demeter when she was told that her child was lost. She put a dark robe on her shoulders, and took a flaming torch in her hand, and went over land and sea to look for Persephone. But no one could tell her where she was gone. When ten days were passed she met Hekate, and asked her about her child; but Hekate said, "I heard her voice, as she cried out when some one seized her; but I did not see it with my eyes, and so I know not where she is gone." Then she went to Helios, and said to him, "O Helios, tell me about my child. Thou seest everything on the earth, sitting in the bright sun." Then Helios said to Demeter, "I pity thee for thy great sorrow, and I will tell thee the truth. It is Hades who has taken away Persephone to be his wife in the dark and gloomy land which lies beneath the earth."
CERES. (or Demeter, from Pompeii Wall Painting)[ToList]
Then the rage of Demeter was more terrible than her sorrow had been; and she would not stay in the palace of Zeus, on the great Thessalian hill, because it was Zeus who had allowed Hades to take away Persephone. So she went down from Olympos, and wandered on a long way until she came to Eleusis, just as the sun was going down into his golden cup behind the dark blue hills. There Demeter sat down close to a fountain, where the water bubbled out from the green turf and fell into a clear basin, over which some dark olive trees spread their branches. Just then the daughters of Keleos, the king of Eleusis, came to the fountain with pitchers on their heads to draw water; and when they saw Demeter, they knew from her face that she must have some great grief; and they spoke kindly to her, and asked if they could do anything to help her. Then she told them how she had lost and was searching for her child; and they said, "Come home and live with us; and our father and mother will give you everything that you can want, and do all that they can to soothe your sorrow." So Demeter went down to the house of Keleos, and she stayed there for a whole year. And all this time, although the daughters of Keleos were very gentle and kind to her, she went on mourning and weeping for Persephone. She never laughed or smiled, and scarcely ever did she speak to any one, because of her great grief. And even the earth, and the things which grow on the earth, mourned for the sorrow which had come upon Demeter. There was no fruit upon the trees, no corn came up in the fields, and no flowers blossomed in the gardens. And Zeus looked down from his high Thessalian hill, and saw that everything must die unless he could soothe the grief and anger of Demeter. So he sent Hermes down to Hades, the dark and stern king, to bid him send Persephone to see her mother, Demeter. But before Hades let her go he gave her a pomegranate to eat, because he did not wish her to stay away from him always, and he knew that she must come back if she tasted but one of his pomegranate seeds. Then the great chariot was brought before the door of the palace, and Hermes touched with his whip the coal-black horses, and away they went as swiftly as the wind, until they came close to Eleusis. Then Hermes left Persephone, and the coal-black horses drew the chariot away again to the dark home of King Hades.
The sun was sinking down in the sky when Hermes left Persephone, and as she came near to the fountain she saw some one sitting near it in a long black robe, and she knew that it must be her mother who still wept and mourned for her child. And as Demeter heard the rustling of her dress, she lifted up her face, and Persephone stood before her.
Then the joy of Demeter was greater, as she clasped her daughter to her breast, than her grief and her sorrow had been. Again and again she held Persephone in her arms, and asked her about all that had happened to her. And she said, "Now that you are come back to me, I shall never let you go away again; Hades shall not have my child to live with him in his dreary kingdom," But Persephone said, "It may not be so, my mother; I can not stay with you always; for before Hermes brought me away to see you, Hades gave me a pomegranate, and I have eaten some of the seeds; and after tasting the seed I must go back to him again when six months have passed by. And, indeed, I am not afraid to go, for although Hades never smiles or laughs, and everything in his palace is dark and gloomy, still he is very kind to me, and I think that he feels almost happy since I have been his wife. But do not be sorry, my mother, for he has promised to let me come up and stay with you for six months in every year, and the other six months I must spend with him in the land which lies beneath the earth."
So Demeter was comforted for her daughter Persephone, and the earth and all the things that grew in it felt that her anger and sorrow had passed away. Once more the trees bore their fruits, the flowers spread out their sweet blossoms in the garden, and the golden corn waved like the sea under the soft summer breeze. So the six months passed happily away, and then Hermes came with his coal-black horses to take Persephone to the dark land. And she said to her mother, "Do not weep much; the gloomy king whose wife I am is so kind to me that I can not be really unhappy, and in six months more he will let me come to you again." But still, whenever the time came round for Persephone to go back to Hades, Demeter thought of the happy days when her child was a merry girl playing with her companions and gathering the bright flowers in the beautiful plains of Enna.
THE SLEEP OF ENDYMION.
JUNO (or Here).[ToList]
One beautiful evening, when the sun was sinking down in the West, Selene was wandering on the banks of the River Meander; and she thought that of all the places which she had ever seen there was none more lovely than the quiet valley through which that gentle river was flowing. On her right hand rose a hill, whose sides were covered with trees and flowers, where the vine clambered over the elm, and the purple grapes shone out from amongst the dark leaves. Then Selene asked some people who were passing by to tell her the name of the hill, and they told her that it was called the hill of Latmos. On she went, under the tall trees, whose branches waved over her in the clear evening light, till at last she reached the top, and looked down on the valley which lay beneath her. Then Selene was indeed astonished, for she had never seen anything so beautiful before, even in a dream. She had fancied that nothing could be more lovely than the vale of the Meander, and now she saw something far more beautiful than the rocks and stones and clear bright water of that winding river. It was a small valley, at the bottom of which a lake shone like silver in the light of the setting sun. All around it beautiful trees covered the sloping banks; and their long branches drooped down over the water. Not a breath of wind was stirring the dark leaves—not a bird was flying in the air. Only the large green dragon-fly floated lazily on the lake, while the swan lay half asleep on the silvery waters. On one side, in the loveliest corner of the valley, there was a marble temple, whose pillars shone like the white snow; and, leading down to the lake, there were steps of marble, over which the palm trees spread their branches, and everywhere were clusters of all beautiful flowers, amongst which mosses, and ferns, and the green ivy were tangled. There was the white narcissus and the purple tulip—the dark hyacinth and the soft red rose. But more beautiful than all the trees and flowers, a man lay sleeping on the marble steps of the temple. It was Endymion, who lived in this quiet valley, where the storms never came, and where the dark rain-clouds never covered the sides of the mountain. There he lay in the still evening hour; and at first Selene thought that it could scarcely be a living man whom she saw, for he lay as still as if he were made of marble himself. And as she looked upon him, Selene drew in her breath for wonder; and she went gently down the valley till she came to the steps where Endymion lay asleep. Presently the sun sank behind the hill, and the rich glow of the evening made the silvery lake gleam like gold; and Endymion awoke and saw Selene standing near him. Then Selene said, "I am wandering over the earth; and I may not stay here. Come away, and I will show you larger lakes and more glorious valleys than these." But Endymion said, "Lady, I can not go. There may be lakes which are larger, and valleys more splendid than this, but I love this still and quiet place, where the storms never come, and the sky is never black with clouds. You must not ask me to leave the cool shade of these sleeping trees, and the myrtles and roses which twine under the tall elms, and these waters, where the swans rest in the hot hours of the day and the dragon-fly spreads his green and golden wings to the sun."
Many times did Selene ask him, but Endymion would not leave his pleasant home; and at last she said, "I can stay no more, but if you will not come with me, then you shall sleep on these marble steps and never wake up again." So Selene left him, and presently a deep sleep came over Endymion, and his hands dropped down by his side, and he lay without moving on the steps of the temple, while the evening breeze began to stir gently the broad leaves of the palm trees, and the lilies which bowed their heads over the calm water. There he lay all through the still and happy night; and there he lay when the sun rose up from the sea, and mounted up with its fiery horses into the sky. There was a charm now on this beautiful valley, which made the breeze more gentle and the lake more still than ever. The green dragon-flies came floating lazily in the air near Endymion, but he never opened his eyes; and the swans looked up from the lake, to see if he was coming to feed them; but he stirred not in his deep and dreamless sleep. There he lay day and night, for weeks, and months, and years; and many times, when the sun went down into the sea, Selene came and stood on the Latmian hill, and watched Endymion as he lay asleep on the marble steps beneath the drooping palm trees; and she said, "I have punished him because he would not leave his home; and Endymion sleeps forever in the land of Latmos."
PHAETHON.
In the golden house which Hephaistos had wrought for him with his wondrous skill, Helios saw nothing fairer than his son Phaethon; and he said to his mother, Klymene, that no mortal child might be matched with him for beauty. And Phaethon heard the words, and his heart was filled with an evil pride. So he stood before the throne of Helios, and said, "O father, who dwellest in the dazzling light, they say that I am thy child; but how shall I know it while I live in thy house without name and glory? Give me a token, that men may know me to be thy son." Then Helios bade him speak, and swear to grant his prayer; and Phaethon said, "I will guide thy chariot for one day through the high heaven; bid the Horai make ready the horses for me, when Eos spreads her quivering light in the sky." But the heart of Helios was filled with fear, and he besought his son with many tears to call back his words. "O Phaethon, bright child of Klymene, for all thy beauty thou art mortal still; and the horses of Helios obey no earthly master." But Phaethon harkened not to his words, and hastened away to the dwelling of the Horai, who guard the fiery horses. "Make ready for me," he said, "the chariot of Helios, for this day I go through the high heaven in the stead of my father."
The fair-haired Eos spread her faint light in the pale sky, and Lampetie was driving the cattle of Helios to their bright pastures, when the Horai brought forth his horses and harnessed them to the fiery chariot. With eager hand Phaethon seized the reins, and the horses sped upon their way up the heights of the blue heaven, until the heart of Phaethon was full of fear and the reins quivered in his grasp. Wildly and more madly sped the steeds, till at last they hurried from the track which led to the Hesperian land. Down from their path they plunged, and drew near to the broad plains of earth. Fiercer and fiercer flashed the scorching flames; the trees bowed down their withered heads; the green grass shriveled on the hillsides; the rivers vanished from their slimy beds, and the black vapors rose with smoke and fire from the hidden depths of the mighty hills. Then in every land the sons of men lay dying on the scorched and gaping ground. They looked up to the yellow sky, but the clouds came not; they sought the rivers and fountains, but no water glistened on their seething beds; and young and old, all lay down in madness of heart to sleep the sleep of death.
So sped the horses of Helios on their fiery wanderings, and Zeus looked down from his Thessalian hill and saw that all living things on the earth must die unless Phaethon should be smitten down from his father's chariot. Then the mighty thunders woke in the hot sky which mourned for the clouds that were dead; and the streams of lightning rushed forth upon Phaethon, and bore him from the blazing heaven far down beneath the waters of the green sea.
But his sisters wept sore for the death of the bright Phaethon, and the daughters of Hesperos built his tomb on the sea-shore, that all men might remember the name of the son of Helios and say, "Phaethon fell from his father's chariot, but he lost not his glory, for his heart was set upon great things."
BRIAREOS.
There was strife in the halls of Olympos, for Zeus had conquered the ancient gods, and sat on the throne of his father Kronos. In his hand he held the thunderbolts; the lightning slumbered at his feet, and around him all the gods trembled for the greatness of his power. For he laid hard tasks on all, and spoke hard words, and he thought to rule harshly over the gods who dwell on the earth and in the broad sea. All the day long Hermes toiled on weary errands to do his will; for Zeus sought to crush all alike, and remembered not the time when he, too, was weak and powerless.
DIANA (or Artemis).[ToList]
Then were there secret whisperings, as the gods of earth and sea took counsel together; and Poseidon, the lord of the dark waters, spoke in fierce anger, and said, "Hearken to me, Here and Athene, and let us rise up against Zeus, and teach him that he has not power over all. See how he bears himself in his new majesty—how he thinks not of the aid which we gave him in the war with his father Kronos—how he has smitten down even the mightiest of his friends. For Prometheus, who gave fire to mortal men and saved them from biting cold and gnawing hunger, lies chained on the crags of Caucasus; and if he shrink not to bind the Titan, see that he smite not thee also in his wrath, O lady Here." And Athene said, "The wisdom of Zeus is departed from him, and all his deeds are done now in craft and falsehood; let us bind him fast, lest all the heaven and earth be filled with strife and war." So they vowed a vow that they would no more bear the tyranny of Zeus; and Hephaistos forged strong chains at their bidding to cast around him when sleep lay heavy on his eyelids.
But Thetis heard the words of Poseidon and Athene, as she sat beneath the waters in her coral cave, and she rose up like a white mist from the sea, and knelt before the throne of Zeus. Then she clasped her arms round his knees, and said, "O Zeus, the gods tremble at thy might, but they love not thy hard words, and they say that thy wisdom hath departed from thee, and that thou doest all things in craft and falsehood. Hearken to me, O Zeus, for Hephaistos hath forged the chain and the lady Here, and Poseidon, the lord of the sea, and the pure Athene have vowed a vow to bind thee fast when sleep lies heavy on thine eyes. Let me therefore go, that I may bring Briareos to aid thee with his hundred hands, and when he sits by thy side, then shalt thou need no more to fear the wrath of Here and Poseidon. And when the peril is past, then, O Zeus, remember that thou must rule gently and justly, for that power shall not stand which fights with truth and love; and forget not those who aid thee, nor reward them as thou hast rewarded Prometheus on the crags of Caucasus, for it may be that, in time to come, I may ask a boon from thee for Achilleus, my child, who dwells now in the house of his father, Peleus; and when that hour shall come, then call to mind how in time past I saved thee from the chains of Hephaistos."
Then Zeus spoke gently, and said, "Hasten, Thetis, and bring hither the mighty Briareos, that he may guard me with his hundred hands, and fear not for the words that thou hast spoken, for Zeus will not cast aside good counsel, and the gods shall hate me no more for hard and unkindly words."
So from the depths of the inmost earth Thetis summoned Briareos to the aid of Zeus, and presently his giant form was seen in the hall of Olympos; and the gods trembled as he sat down by the side of Zeus, exulting in the greatness of his strength. And Zeus spoke, and said, "Hearken to me, O lady Here, and Poseidon, and Athene. I know your counsels, and how ye purposed to bind me for my evil deeds; but fear not. Only do my bidding in time to come, and ye shall no more have cause to say that Zeus is a hard and cruel master."
DIONYSOS.
In the dark land beneath the earth, where wander the ghosts of men, lay Semele, the daughter of Kadmos, while her child Dionysos grew up full of strength and beauty on the flowery plain of Orchomenos. But the wrath of the lady Here still burned alike against the mother and the child. No pity felt she for the helpless maiden whom the fiery lightning of Zeus had slain; and so in the prison-house of Hades Semele mourned for the love which she had lost, waiting till her child should lead her forth to the banquet of the gods. But for him the wiles of Here boded long toil and grievous peril. On the land and on the sea strange things befel him; but from all dangers his own strong arm and the love of Zeus, his father, rescued him. Thus throughout the land men spake of his beauty and his strength, and said that he was worthy to be the child of the maiden who had dared to look on the majesty of Zeus. At length the days of his youth were ended, and a great yearning filled his heart to wander through the earth and behold the cities and the ways of men. So from Orchomenos Dionysos journeyed to the sea-shore, and he stood on a jutting rock to gaze on the tumbling waters. The glad music of the waves fell upon his ear and filled his soul with a wild joy. His dark locks streamed gloriously over his shoulders, and his purple robe rustled in the soft summer breeze. Before him on the blue waters the ships danced merrily in the sparkling sunlight, as they hastened from shore to shore on the errands of war and peace. Presently a ship drew near to the beach. Her white sail was lowered hastily to the deck, and five of her crew leaped out and plunged through the sea-foam to the shore, near the rock on which stood Dionysos. "Come with us," they said, with rough voices, as they seized him in their brawny arms; "it is not every day that Tyrrhenian mariners fall in with youths like thee." With rude jests they dragged him into the ship, and there made ready to bind him. "A brave youth and fair he is," they said; "we shall not lack bidders when we put forth our goods for sale." So round his limbs they fastened stout withy bands, but they fell from off him as withered leaves fall from off trees in autumn, and a careless smile played on his face as he sat down and looked calmly on the robbers who stood before him. Then on a sudden the voice of the helmsman was heard, as he shouted, "Fools, what do ye? The wrath of Zeus is hurrying you to your doom. This youth is not of mortal race; and who can tell which of the undying gods has put on this beautiful form? Send him straightway from the ship in peace, if ye fear not a deadly storm as we cross the open sea." Loud laughed the crew, as their chief answered, jeeringly, "Look out for the breeze, wise helmsman, and draw up the sail to the wind. That is more thy task than to busy thyself with our doings. Fear not for the boy. The withy bands were but weak; it is no great marvel that he shook them off. He shall go with us, and before we reach Egypt or Cyprus or the land of the Hyperboreans, doubtless he will tell us his name and the name of his father and mother. Fear not, we have found a godsend."
So the sail was drawn up to the mast, and it swelled proudly before the breeze as the ship dashed through the crested waves. And still the sun shone brightly down on the water, and the soft white clouds floated lazily in the heavens, as the mighty Dionysos began to show signs and wonders before the robbers who had seized him. Over the deck ran a stream of purple wine, and a fragrance as of a heavenly banquet filled the air. Over mast and sailyard clambered the clustering vine, and dark masses of grapes hung from the branches. The ivy twined in tangled masses round the tackling, and bright garlands shone, like jeweled crowns, on every oar-pin. Then a great terror fell on all, as they cried to the old helmsman, "Quick, turn the ship to the shore; there is no hope for us here." But there followed a mightier wonder still. A loud roar broke upon the air, and a tawny lion stood before them, with a grim and grizzly bear by his side. Cowering like pitiful slaves, the Tyrrhenians crowded to the stern, and crouched round the good helmsman. Then the lion sprang and seized the chief, and the men leaped in their agony over the ship's side. But the power of Dionysos followed them still; and a change came over their bodies as they heard a voice, which said, "In the form of dolphins shall ye wander through the sea for many generations. No rest shall ye have by night or by day, while ye fly from the ravenous sharks that shall chase you through the seas."
But before the old helmsman again stood Dionysos, the young and fair, in all the glory of undying beauty. Again his dark locks flowed gently over his shoulders, and the purple robe rustled softly in the breeze. "Fear not," he said, "good friend and true, because thou hast aided one who is sprung from the deathless race of the gods. I am Dionysos, the child of Zeus, the lord of the wine-cup and the revel. Thou hast stood by me in the hour of peril; wherefore my power shall shield thee from the violence of evil men and soothe thee in a green old age, till thine eyes close in the sleep of death and thou goest forth to dwell among brave heroes and good men in the asphodel meadows of Elysium."
Then at the bidding of Dionysos, the north wind came and wafted the ship to the land of Egypt, where Proteus was King. And so began the long wanderings of the son of Semele, through the regions of the Ethiopians and the Indians, towards the rising of the sun. Whithersoever he went, the women of the land gathered round him with wild cries and songs, and he showed them of his secret things, punishing grievously all who set at naught the laws which he ordained. So, at his word, Lykurgos, the Edonian chieftain, was slain by his people, and none dared any more to speak against Dionysos, until he came back to the city where Semele, his mother, had been smitten by the lightnings of Zeus.
PENTHEUS.
For many years Dionysos wandered far away from the land of his birth; and wherever he went he taught the people of the country to worship him as a god, and showed them strange rites. Far away he roamed, to the regions where the Ganges rolls his mighty stream into the Indian Sea, and where the Nile brings every year rich gifts from the southern mountains. And in all the lands to which he came he made the women gather round him and honor him with wild cries and screams and marvelous customs such as they had never known before. As he went onwards the face of the land was changed. The women grouped themselves in companies far away from the sight of men, and, high up on the barren hills or down in the narrow valleys, with wild movements and fierce shoutings, paid honor to Dionysos, the lord of the wine-cup and the feast. At length, through the Thracian highlands and the soft plains of Thessaly, Dionysos came back to Thebes, where he had been born amid the roar of the thunder and the blaze of the fiery lightning. Kadmos, the King, who had built the city, was now old and weak, and he had made Pentheus, the child of his daughter Agave, King in his stead. So Pentheus sought to rule the people well, as his father Kadmos had done, and to train them in the old laws, that they might be quiet in the days of peace, and orderly and brave in war.
VULCAN (or Hephaistos).[ToList]
Thus it came to pass that when Dionysos came near to Thebes, and commanded all the people to receive the new rites, which he sought to teach them, it grieved Pentheus at the heart; and when he saw how the women seemed smitten with madness, and that they wandered away in groups to desert places, where they lurked for many days and nights, far from the sight of men, he mourned for the evils which his kinsman, Dionysos, was bringing upon the land. So King Pentheus made a law that none should follow these new customs, and that the women should stay quietly doing their own work in their homes. But when they heard this, they were all full of fury, for Dionysos had deceived them by his treacherous words, and even Kadmos himself, in his weakness and old age, had been led astray by them. In crowds they thronged around the house of Pentheus, raising loud shouts in honor of Dionysos, and besought him to follow the new way, but he would not hearken to them.
Thus it was for many days; and when all the city was shaken by the madness of the new worship, Pentheus thought that he would see with his own eyes the strange rites by which the women, in their lurking-places, did honor to Dionysos. So he went secretly to some hidden dells, whither he knew that the women had gone; but Dionysos saw him and laid his hands upon him, and straightway the mind of King Pentheus himself was darkened, and the madness of the worshipers was upon him, also. Then in his folly he climbed a tall pine-tree, to see what the women did in their revelry; but on a sudden one of them saw him, and they shrieked wildly and rooted up the tree in their fury. With one accord they seized Pentheus and tore him in pieces; and his own mother, Agave, was among the first to lay hands on her son. So Dionysos, the wine god, triumphed; and this was the way in which the new worship was set up in the Hellenic land.
ASKLEPIOS.
On the shores of the Lake Boibeis, the golden-haired Apollo saw and loved Koronis, the beautiful daughter of Phlegyas. Many a time they wandered beneath the branching elms while the dew-drops glistened like jewels on the leaves, or sat beneath the ivy bowers as the light of evening faded from the sky and the blue veil of mist fell upon the sleeping hills. But at length the day came when Apollo must journey to the western land, and as he held Koronis in his arms, his voice fell softly and sadly on her ear. "I go," he said, "to a land that is very far off, but surely I will return. More precious to me than aught else on the wide earth is thy love, Koronis. Let not its flower fade, but keep it fresh and pure as now, till I come to thee again. The dancing Horai trip quickly by, Koronis, and when they bring the day on which I may clasp thee in mine arms once more, it may be that I shall find thee watching proudly over the child of our love."
He was gone, and for Koronis it seemed as though the sun had ceased to shine in the heaven. For many a day she cared not to wander by the winding shore in the light of early morning, or to rest in the myrtle bowers as the flush of evening faded from the sky. Her thoughts went back to the days that were passed, when Apollo, the golden-haired, made her glad with the music of his voice. But at length a stranger came to the Boibean land, and dwelt in the house of Phlegyas, and the spell of his glorious beauty fell upon Koronis, and dimmed the love which she had borne for Apollo, who was far away. Again for her the sun shone brightly in the heaven, and the birds filled the air with a joyous music, but the tale went swiftly through the land, and Apollo heard the evil tidings as he journeyed back with his sister, Artemis, to the house of Phlegyas. A look of sorrow that may not be told passed over his fair face; but Artemis stretched forth her hand towards the flashing sun and swore that the maiden should rue her fickleness. Soon, on the shore of the Lake Boibeis, Koronis lay smitten by the spear which may never miss its mark, and her child, Asklepios, lay a helpless babe by her side. Then the voice of Apollo was heard saying, "Slay not the child with the mother, he is born to do great things, but bear him to the wise centaur, Cheiron, and bid him train the boy in all his wisdom, and teach him to do brave deeds, that men may praise his name in the generations that shall be hereafter."
So in the deep glens of Pelion the child, Asklepios, grew up to manhood under the teaching of Cheiron, the wise and good. In all the land there was none that might vie with him in strength of body; but the people marveled yet more at his wisdom, which passed the wisdom of the sons of men, for he had learned the power of every herb and leaf to stay the pangs of sickness and bring back health to the wasted form. Day by day the fame of his doings was spread abroad more widely through the land, so that all who were sick hastened to Asklepios and besought his help. But soon there went forth a rumor that the strength of death had been conquered by him, and that Athene, the mighty daughter of Zeus, had taught Asklepios how to bring back the dead from the dark kingdom of Hades. Then, as the number of those whom he brought from the gloomy Stygian land increased more and more, Hades went in hot anger to Olympos, and spoke bitter words against the son of Koronis, so that the heart of Zeus was stirred with a great fear lest the children of men should be delivered from death and defy the power of the gods. Then Zeus bowed his head, and the lightnings flashed from heaven, and Asklepios was smitten down by the scathing thunderbolt.
Mighty and terrible was the grief that stirred the soul of the golden-haired Apollo when his son was slain. The sun shone dimly from the heaven; the birds were silent in the darkened groves; the trees bowed down their heads in sorrow, and the hearts of all the sons of men fainted within them, because the healer of their pains and sickness lived no more upon the earth. But the wrath of Apollo was mightier than his grief, and he smote the giant Cyclopes, who shaped the fiery lightnings far down in the depths of the burning mountain. Then the anger of Zeus was kindled against his own child, the golden-haired Apollo, and he spake the word that he should be banished from the home of the gods to the dark Stygian land. But the lady Leto fell at his knees and besought him for her child, and the doom was given that a whole year long he should serve as a bondsman in the house of Admetos, who ruled in Pherai.
IXION.
Fair as the blushing clouds which float in early morning across the blue heaven, the beautiful Dia gladdened the hearts of all who dwelt in the house of her father Hesioneus. There was no guile in her soft clear eye, for the light of Eos was not more pure than the light of the maiden's countenance. There was no craft in her smile, for on her rested the love and the wisdom of Athene. Many a chieftain sought to win her for his bride; but her heart beat with love only for Ixion the beautiful and mighty, who came to the halls of Hesioneus with horses which can not grow old or die. The golden hair flashed a glory from his head dazzling as the rays which stream from Helios when he drives his chariot up the heights of heaven, and his flowing robe glistened as he moved like the vesture which the sun-god gave to the wise maiden Medeia, who dwelt in Kolchis.
MINERVA, OR PALLAS ATHENE. (Found in Pompeii.)[ToList]
Long time Ixion abode in the house of Hesioneus, for Hesioneus was loth to part with his child. But at the last Ixion sware to give for her a ransom precious as the golden fruits which Helios wins from the teeming earth. So the word was spoken, and Dia the fair became the wife of the son of Amythaon, and the undying horses bare her away in his gleaming chariot. Many a day and month and year the fiery steeds of Helios sped on their burning path, and sank down hot and wearied in the western sea; but no gifts came from Ixion, and Hesioneus waited in vain for the wealth which had tempted him to barter away his child. Messenger after messenger went and came, and always the tidings were that Ixion had better things to do than to waste his wealth on the mean and greedy. "Tell him," he said, "that every day I journey across the wide earth, gladdening the hearts of the children of men, and that his child has now a more glorious home than that of the mighty gods who dwell on the high Olympos. What would he have more?" Then day by day Hesioneus held converse with himself, and his people heard the words which came sadly from his lips. "What would I more?" he said; "I would have the love of my child. I let her depart, when not the wealth of Phœbus himself could recompense me for her loss. I bartered her for gifts, and Ixion withholds the wealth which he sware to give. Yet were all the riches of his treasure-house lying now before me, one loving glance from the eyes of Dia would be more than worth them all."
But when his messengers went yet again to plead with Ixion, and their words were all spoken in vain, Hesioneus resolved to deal craftily, and he sent his servants by night and stole the undying horses which bare his gleaming chariot. Then the heart of Ixion was humbled within him, for he said, "My people look for me daily throughout the wide earth. If they see not my face their souls will faint with fear; they will not care to sow their fields, and the golden harvests of Demeter will wave no more in the summer breeze." So there came messengers from Ixion, who said, "If thou wouldst have the wealth which thou seekest, come to the house of Ixion, and the gifts shall be thine, and thine eyes shall once more look upon thy child." In haste Hesioneus went forth from his home, like a dark and lonely cloud stealing across the broad heaven. All night long he sped upon his way, and, as the light of Eos flushed the eastern sky he saw afar off the form of a fair woman who beckoned to him with her long white arms. Then the heart of the old man revived, and he said, "It is Dia, my child. It is enough if I can but hear her voice and clasp her in mine arms and die." But his limbs trembled for joy, and he waited until presently his daughter came and stood beside him. On her face there rested a softer beauty than in former days, and the sound of her voice was more tender and loving, as she said, "My father, Zeus has made clear to me many dark things, for he has given me power to search out the secret treasures of the earth, and to learn from the wise beings who lurk in its hidden places the things that shall be hereafter. And now I see that thy life is well-nigh done, if thou seekest to look upon the treasures of Ixion, for no man may gaze upon them and live. Go back, then, to thy home if thou wouldst not die. I would that I might come with thee, but so it may not be. Each day I must welcome Ixion when his fiery horses come back from their long journey, and every morning I must harness them to his gleaming chariot before he speeds upon his way. Yet thou hast seen my face and thou knowest that I love thee now even as in the days of my childhood." But the old greed filled again the heart of Hesioneus, and he said, "The faith of Ixion is pledged. If he withhold still the treasures which he sware to give, he shall never more see the deathless horses. I will go myself into his treasure-house, and see whether in very truth he has the wealth of which he makes such proud boasting." Then Dia clasped her arms once again around her father, and she kissed his face, and said, sadly, "Farewell, then, my father; I go to my home, for even the eyes of Dia may not gaze on the secret treasures of Ixion." So Dia left him, and when the old man turned to look on her departing form it faded from his sight as the clouds melt away before the sun at noon-day. Yet, once again he toiled on his way, until before his glorious home he saw Ixion, radiant as Phœbus Apollo in his beauty; but there was anger in his kindling eye, for he was wroth for the theft of his undying horses. Then the voice of Ixion smote the ear of Hesioneus, harsh as the flapping of the wings of Erinys when she wanders through the air. "So thou wilt see my secret treasures. Take heed that thy sight be strong." But Hesioneus spake in haste, and said, "Thy faith is pledged, not only to let me see them, but to bestow them on me as my own, for therefore didst thou win Dia my child to be thy wife." Then Ixion opened the door of his treasure-house and thrust in Hesioneus, and the everlasting fire devoured him.
But far above, in the pure heaven, Zeus beheld the deed of Ixion, and the tidings were sent abroad to all the gods of Olympos, and to all the sons of men, that Ixion had slain Hesioneus by craft and guile. A horror of great blackness fell on the heaven above and the earth beneath for the sin of which Zeus alone can purge away the guilt. Once more Dia made ready her husband's chariot, and once more he sped on his fiery journey; but all men turned away their faces, and the trees bowed their scorched and withered heads to the ground. The flowers drooped sick on their stalks and died, the corn was kindled like dried stubble on the earth, and Ixion said within himself, "My sin is great; men will not look upon my face as in the old time, and the gods of Olympos will not cleanse my hands from the guilt of my treacherous deed." So he went straightway and fell down humbly before the throne of Zeus, and said, "O thou that dwellest in the pure æther far above the dark cloud, my hands are foul with blood, and thou alone canst cleanse them; therefore purge mine iniquity, lest all living things die throughout the wide earth."
Then the undying gods were summoned to the judgment seat of Zeus. By the side of the son of Kronos stood Hermes, ever bright and fair, the messenger who flies on his golden sandals more swiftly than a dream; but fairer and more glorious than all who stood near his throne was the lady Here, the queen of the blue heaven. On her brow rested the majesty of Zeus and the glory of a boundless love which sheds gladness on the teeming earth and the broad sea. And even as he stood before the judgment-seat, the eyes of Ixion rested with a strange yearning on her undying beauty, and he scarce heard the words which cleansed him from blood-guiltiness.
So Ixion tarried in the house of Zeus, far above in the pure æther, where only the light clouds weave a fairy net-work at the rising and setting of the sun. Day by day his glance rested more warm and loving on the countenance of the lady Here, and Zeus saw that her heart, too, was kindled by a strange love, so that a fierce wrath was stirred within him.
Presently he called Hermes, the messenger, and said, "Bring up from among the children of Nephele one who shall wear the semblance of the lady Here, and place her in the path of Ixion when he wanders forth on the morrow." So Hermes sped away on his errand, and on that day Ixion spake secretly with Here, and tempted her to fly from the house of Zeus. "Come with me," he said; "the winds of heaven can not vie in speed with my deathless horses, and the palace of Zeus is but as the house of the dead by the side of my glorious home." Then the heart of Ixion bounded with a mighty delight, as he heard the words of Here. "To-morrow I will meet thee in the land of the children of Nephele." So on the morrow when the light clouds had spread their fairy net-work over the heaven, Ixion stole away from the house of Zeus to meet the lady Here. As he went, the fairy web faded from the sky, and it seemed to him that the lady Here stood before him in all her beauty. "Here, great queen of the unstained heaven," he said, "come with me, for I am worthy of thy love, and I quail not for all the majesty of Zeus." But even as he stretched forth his arms, the bright form vanished away. The crashing thunder rolled through the sky, and he heard the voice of Zeus saying, "I cleansed thee from thy guilt, I sheltered thee in my home, and thou hast dealt with me treacherously, as thou didst before with Hesioneus. Thou hast sought the love of Here, but the maiden which stood before thee was but a child of Nephele, whom Hermes brought hither to cheat thee with the semblance of the wife of Zeus. Wherefore hear thy doom. No more shall thy deathless horses speed with thy glistening chariot over the earth, but high in the heaven a blazing wheel shall bear thee through the rolling years, and the doom shall be on thee for ever and ever."
So was Ixion bound on the fiery wheel, and the sons of men see the flashing spokes day by day as it whirls in the high heaven.
TANTALOS.
Beneath the mighty rocks of Sipylos stood the palace of Tantalos, the Phrygian King, gleaming with the blaze of gold and jewels. Its burnished roofs glistened from afar like the rays which dance on ruffled waters. Its marble columns flashed with hues rich as the hues of purple clouds which gather round the sun as he sinks down in the sky. And far and wide was known the name of the mighty chieftain, who was wiser than all the sons of mortal men; for his wife, Euryanassa, they said, came of the race of the undying gods, and to Tantalos Zeus had given the power of Helios, that he might know his secret counsels and see into the hidden things of earth and air and sea. Many a time, so the people said, he held converse with Zeus himself in his home, on the high Olympos, and day by day his wealth increased, his flocks and herds multiplied exceedingly, and in his fields the golden corn waved like a sunlit sea.
But, as the years rolled round, there were dark sayings spread abroad, that the wisdom of Tantalos was turned to craft, and that his wealth and power were used for evil ends. Men said that he had sinned like Prometheus, the Titan, and had stolen from the banquet-hall of Zeus the food and drink of the gods, and given them to mortal men. And tales yet more strange were told, how that Panderos brought to him the hound which Rhea placed in the cave of Dikte to guard the child, Zeus, and how, when Hermes bade him yield up the dog, Tantalos laughed him to scorn, and said, "Dost thou ask me for the hound which guarded Zeus in the days of his childhood? It were as well to ask me for the unseen breeze which sounds through the groves of Sipylos."
Then, last of all, men spake in whispers of a sin yet more fearful, which Tantalos had sinned, and the tale was told that Zeus and all the gods came down from Olympos to feast in his banquet-hall, and how, when the red wine sparkled in the golden goblets, Tantalos placed savory meat before Zeus, and bade him eat of a costly food, and, when the feast was ended, told him that in the dish had lain the limbs of the child Pelops, whose sunny smile had gladdened the hearts of mortal men. Then came the day of vengeance, for Zeus bade Hermes bring back Pelops again from the kingdom of Hades to the land of living men, and on Tantalos was passed a doom which should torment him for ever and ever. In the shadowy region where wander the ghosts of men, Tantalos, they said, lay prisoned in a beautiful garden, gazing on bright flowers and glistening fruits and laughing waters, but for all that his tongue was parched, and his limbs were faint with hunger. No drop of water might cool his lips, no luscious fruit might soothe his agony. If he bowed his head to drink, the water fled away; if he stretched forth his hand to pluck the golden apples, they would vanish like mists before the face of the rising sun, and in place of ripe fruits glistening among green leaves, a mighty rock beetled above his head, as though it must fall and grind him to powder. Wherefore men say, when the cup of pleasure is dashed from the lips of those who would drink of it, that on them has fallen the doom of the Phrygian Tantalos.
ANCIENT SCULPTURING ON TANTALOS.[ToList]
THE TOILS OF HERAKLES.
By the doom of his father Zeus, Herakles served in Argos the false and cruel Eurystheus. For so it was that Zeus spake of the birth of Herakles to Here, the Queen, and said, "This day shall a child be born of the race of Perseus, who shall be the mightiest of the sons of men." Even so he spake, because Ate had deceived him by her evil counsel. And Here asked whether this should be so in very deed, and Zeus bowed his head, and the word went forth which could not be recalled. Then Here went to the mighty Eileithyiai, and by their aid she brought it about that Eurystheus was born before Herakles the son of Zeus.
URANIA (Muse of Astronomy).[ToList]
So the lot was fixed that all his life long Herakles should toil at the will of a weak and crafty master. Brave in heart and stout of body, so that no man might be matched with him for strength or beauty, yet was he to have no profit of all his labor till he should come to the land of the undying gods. But it grieved Zeus that the craft of Here, the Queen, had brought grievous wrong on his child, and he cast forth Ate from the halls of Olympos, that she might no more dwell among the gods. Then he spake the word that Herakles should dwell with the gods in Olympos, as soon as the days of his toil on earth should be ended.
Thus the child grew in the house of Amphitryon, full of beauty and might, so that men marveled at his great strength; for as he lay one day sleeping, there came two serpents into the chamber, and twisted their long coils round the cradle, and peered upon him with their cold glassy eyes, till the sound of their hissing woke him from his slumber. But Herakles trembled not for fear, but he stretched forth his arms and placed his hands on the serpents' necks, and tightened his grasp more and more till they fell dead on the ground. Then all knew by this sign that Herakles must do great things and suffer many sorrows, but that in the end he should win the victory. So the child waxed great and strong, and none could be matched with him for strength of arm and swiftness of foot and in taming of horses and in wrestling. The best men in Argos were his teachers, and the wise centaur Cheiron was his friend, and taught him ever to help the weak and take their part against any who oppressed them. So, for all his great strength, none were more gentle than Herakles, none more full of pity for those who were bowed down by pain and labor.
But it was a sore grief to Herakles that all his life long he must toil for Eurystheus, while others were full of joy and pleasure and feasted at tables laden with good things. And so it came to pass that one day, as he thought of these things, he sat down by the wayside, where two paths met, in a lonely valley far away from the dwellings of men. Suddenly, as he lifted up his eyes, he saw two women coming towards him, each from a different road. They were both fair to look upon; but the one had a soft and gentle face, and she was clad in a seemly robe of pure white. The other looked boldly at Herakles, and her face was more ruddy, and her eyes shone with a hot and restless glare. From her shoulders streamed the long folds of her soft embroidered robe, which scantily hid the beauty of her form beneath. With a quick and eager step she hastened to Herakles, that she might be the first to speak. And she said, "I know, O man of much toil and sorrow, that thy heart is sad within thee, and that thou knowest not which way thou shalt turn. Come then with me, and I will lead thee on a soft and pleasant road, where no storms shall vex thee and no sorrows shall trouble thee. Thou shalt never hear of wars and battles, and sickness and pain shall not come nigh to thee; but all day long shalt thou feast at rich banquets and listen to the songs of minstrels. Thou shalt not want for sparkling wine, and soft robes, and pleasant couches; thou shalt not lack the delights of love, for the bright eyes of maidens shall look gently upon thee, and their songs shall lull thee to sleep in the soft evening hour, when the stars come out in the sky." And Herakles said, "Thou promisest to me pleasant things, lady, and I am sorely pressed down by a hard master. What is thy name?" "My friends," said she, "call me the happy and joyous one; and they who look not upon me with love have given me an evil name, but they speak falsely."
Then the other spake, and said, "O Herakles, I, too, know whence thou art, and the doom which is laid upon thee, and how thou hast lived and toiled even from the days of thy childhood; and therefore I think that thou wilt give me thy love, and if thou dost, then men shall speak of thy good deeds in time to come, and my name shall be yet more exalted. But I have no fair words wherewith to cheat thee. Nothing good is ever reached without labor; nothing great is ever won without toil. If thou seek for fruit from the earth thou must tend and till it; if thou wouldst have the favor of the undying gods thou must come before them with prayers and offerings; if thou longest for the love of men thou must do them good." Then the other brake in upon her words, and said, "Thou seest, Herakles, that Arete seeks to lead thee on a long and weary path, but my broad and easy road leads thee quickly to happiness." Then Arete answered her (and her eye flashed with anger), "O wretched one, what good thing hast thou to give, and what pleasure canst thou feel, who knowest not what it is to toil? Thy lusts are pampered, thy taste is dull. Thou quaffest the rich wine before thou art thirsty, and fillest thyself with dainties before thou art hungry. Though thou art numbered amongst the undying ones the gods have cast thee forth out of heaven, and good men scorn thee. The sweetest of all sounds, when a man's heart praises him, thou hast never heard; the sweetest of all sights, when a man looks on his good deeds, thou has never seen. They who bow down to thee are weak and feeble in youth, and wretched and loathsome in old age. But I dwell with the gods in heaven and with good men on earth; and without me nothing good and pure may be thought and done. More than all others am I honored by the gods, more than all others am I cherished by the men who love me. In peace and in war, in health and in sickness, I am the aid of all who seek me; and my help never fails. My children know the purest of all pleasures, when the hour of rest comes after the toil of day. In youth they are strong, and their limbs are quick with health; in old age they look back upon a happy life; and when they lie down to the sleep of death their name is cherished among men for their brave and good deeds. Love me, therefore, Herakles, and obey my words, and thou shalt dwell with me, when thy toil is ended, in the home of the undying gods."
Then Herakles bowed down his head and sware to follow her counsels; and when the two maidens passed away from his sight he went forth with a good courage to his labor and suffering. In many a land he sojourned and toiled to do the will of the false Eurystheus. Good deeds he did for the sons of men; but he had no profit of all his labor, save the love of the gentle Iole. Far away in Œchalia, where the sun rises from the eastern sea, he saw the maiden in the halls of Eurytos, and sought to win her love. But the word which Zeus spake to Here, the Queen, gave him no rest; and Eurystheus sent him forth to other lands, and he saw the maiden no more.
But Herakles toiled on with a good heart, and soon the glory of his great deeds were spread abroad throughout all the earth. Minstrels sang how he slew the monsters and savage beasts who vexed the sons of men, how he smote the Hydra in the land of Lernai, and the wild boar, which haunted the groves of Erymanthos, and the Harpies, who lurked in the swamps of Stymphalos. They told how he wandered far away to the land of the setting sun, when Eurystheus bade him pluck the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides—how, over hill and dale, across marsh and river, through thicket and forest, he came to the western sea, and crossed to the African land, where Atlas lifts up his white head to the high heaven—how he smote the dragon which guarded the brazen gates, and brought the apples to King Eurystheus. They sang of his weary journey, when he roamed through the land of the Ethiopians and came to the wild and desolate heights of Caucasus—how he saw a giant form high on the naked rock, and the vulture which gnawed the Titan's heart with its beak. They told how he slew the bird, and smote off the cruel chains, and set Prometheus free. They sang how Eurystheus laid on him a fruitless task, and sent him down to the dark land of King Hades to bring up the monster, Kerberos; how, upon the shore of the gloomy Acheron, he found the mighty hound who guards the home of Hades and Persephone; how he seized him in his strong right hand and bore him to King Eurystheus. They sang of the days when he toiled in the land of Queen Omphale, beneath the Libyan sun; how he destroyed the walls of Ilion when Laomedon was King, and how he went to Kalydon and wooed and won Deianeira, the daughter of the chieftain, Oineus.
Long time he abode in Kalydon, and the people of the land loved him for his kindly deeds. But one day his spear smote the boy, Eunomos, and his father was not angry, because he knew that Herakles sought not to slay him. Yet Herakles would go forth from the land, for his heart was grieved for the death of the child. So he journeyed to the banks of the Evenos, where he smote the centaur, Nessos, because he sought to lay hands on Deianeira. Swiftly the poison from the barb of the spear ran through the centaur's veins; but Nessos knew how to avenge himself on Herakles, and with a faint voice he besought Deianeira to fill a shell with his blood, so that, if ever she lost the love of Herakles, she might win it again by spreading it on a robe for him to wear.
JUPITER (or Zeus with his Thunderbolt).[ToList]
So Nessos died, and Herakles went to the land of Trachis, and there Deianeira abode while he journeyed to the eastern sea. Many times the moon waxed and waned in the heaven, and the corn sprang up from the ground and gave its golden harvest, but Herakles came not back. At last the tidings came how he had done great deeds in distant lands, how Eurytos, the King of Œchalia, was slain, and how, among the captives, was the daughter of the King, the fairest of all the maidens of the land.
Then the words of Nessos came back to Deianeira, and she hastened to anoint a broidered robe, for she thought only that the love of Herakles had passed away from her, and that she must win it to herself again. So with words of love and honor, she sent the gift for Herakles to put on, and the messenger found him on the Keneian shore, where he was offering rich sacrifice to Zeus, his father, and gave him the broidered robe in token of the love of Deianeira. Then Herakles wrapt it closely round him, and he stood by the altar while the dark smoke went up in a thick cloud to the heaven. Presently the vengeance of Nessos was accomplished. Through the veins of Herakles the poison spread like devouring fire. Fiercer and fiercer grew the burning pain, and Herakles vainly strove to tear the robe and cast it from him. It ate into the flesh, and as he struggled in his agony, the dark blood gushed from his body in streams. Then came the maiden Iole to his side. With her gentle hands she sought to soothe his pain, and with pitying words to cheer him in his woe. Then once more the face of Herakles flushed with a deep joy, and his eye glanced with a pure light, as in the days of his might and strength, and he said, "Ah, Iole, brightest of maidens, thy voice shall cheer me as I sink down in the sleep of death. I loved thee in the bright morning time, when my hand was strong and my foot swift, but Zeus willed not that thou shouldst be with me in my long wanderings. Yet I grieve not now, for again thou hast come, fair as the soft clouds which gather round the dying sun." Then Herakles bade them bear him to the high crest of Oita and gather wood. So when all was ready, he lay down to rest, and they kindled the great pile. The black mists were spreading over the sky, but still Herakles sought to gaze on the fair face of Iole and to comfort her in her sorrow. "Weep not, Iole," he said, "my toil is done, and now is the time for rest. I shall see thee again in the bright land which is never trodden by the feet of night."
Blacker and blacker grew the evening shades, and only the long line of light broke the darkness which gathered round the blazing pile. Then from the high heaven came down the thick cloud, and the din of its thunder crashed through the air. So Zeus carried his child home, and the halls of Olympos were opened to welcome the bright hero who rested from his mighty toil. There the fair maiden, Arete, placed a crown upon his head, and Hebe clothed him in a white robe for the banquet of the gods.
ADMETOS.
There was high feasting in the halls of Pheres, because Admetos, his son, had brought home Alkestis, the fairest of all the daughters of Pelias, to be his bride. The minstrels sang of the glories of the house of Pherai, and of the brave deeds of Admetos—how, by the aid of the golden-haired Apollo, he had yoked the lion and the boar, and made them drag his chariot to Iolkos, for Pelias had said that only to one who came thus would he give his daughter, Alkestis, to be his wife. So the sound of mirth and revelry echoed through the hall, and the red wine was poured forth in honor of Zeus and all the gods, each by his name, but the name of Artemis was forgotten, and her wrath burned sore against the house of Admetos.
But one, mightier yet than Artemis, was nigh at hand to aid him, for Apollo, the son of Leto, served as a bondman in the house of Pheres, because he had slain the Cyclopes, who forged the thunderbolts of Zeus. No mortal blood flowed in his veins, but, though he could neither grow old nor die, nor could any of the sons of men do him hurt, yet all loved him for his gentle dealing, for all things had prospered in the land from the day when he came to the house of Admetos. And so it came to pass that when the sacrifice of the marriage feast was ended, he spake to Admetos, and said, "The anger of Artemis, my sister, is kindled against thee, and it may be that she will smite thee with her spear, which can never miss its mark. But thou hast been to me a kind task-master, and though I am here as thy bond-servant, yet have I power still with my father, Zeus, and I have obtained for thee this boon, that, if thou art smitten by the spear of Artemis, thou shalt not die, if thou canst find one who in thy stead will go down to the dark kingdom of Hades."
Many a time the sun rose up into the heaven and sank down to sleep beneath the western waters, and still the hours went by full of deep joy to Admetos and his wife, Alkestis, for their hearts were knit together in a pure love, and no cloud of strife spread its dark shadow over their souls. Once only Admetos spake to her of the words of Apollo, and Alkestis answered with a smile, "Where is the pain of death, my husband, for those who love truly? Without thee I care not to live; wherefore, to die for thee will be a boon."
Once again there was high feasting in the house of Admetos, for Herakles, the mighty son of Alkmene, had come thither as he journeyed through many lands, doing the will of the false Eurystheus. But, even as the minstrels sang the praises of the chieftains of Pherai, the flush of life faded from the face of Admetos, and he felt that the hour of which Apollo had warned him was come. But soon the blood came back tingling through his veins, when he thought of the sacrifice which alone could save him from the sleep of death. Yet what will not a man do for his life? and how shall he withstand when the voice of love pleads on his side? So once again the fair Alkestis looked lovingly upon him, as she said, "There is no darkness for me in the land of Hades, if only I die for thee," and even as she spake the spell passed from Admetos, and the strength of the daughter of Pelias ebbed slowly away.
The sound of mirth and feasting was hushed. The harps of the minstrels hung silent on the wall, and men spake in whispering voices, for the awful Moirai were at hand to bear Alkestis to the shadowy kingdom. On the couch lay her fair form, pale as the white lily which floats on the blue water, and beautiful as Eos when her light dies out of the sky in the evening. Yet a little while, and the strife was ended, and Admetos mourned in bitterness and shame for the love which he had lost.
Then the soul of the brave Herakles was stirred within him, and he sware that the Moirai should not win the victory. So he departed in haste, and far away in the unseen land he did battle with the powers of death, and rescued Alkestis from Hades, the stern and rugged King.
So once more she stood before Admetos, more radiant in her beauty than in former days, and once more in the halls of Pherai echoed the sound of high rejoicing, and the minstrels sang of the mighty deeds of the good and brave Herakles, as he went on his way from the home of Admetos to do in other lands the bidding of the fair mean Eurystheus.
EPIMETHEUS AND PANDORA.
There was strife between Zeus and men, for Prometheus stood forth on their side and taught them how they might withstand the new god who sat on the throne of Kronos; and he said, "O men, Zeus is greedy of riches and honor, and your flocks and herds will be wasted with burnt-offerings if ye offer up to Zeus the whole victim. Come and let us make a covenant with him, that there may be a fair portion for him and for men." So Prometheus chose out a large ox, and slew him and divided the body. Under the skin he placed the entrails and the flesh, and under the fat he placed the bones. Then he said, "Choose thy portion, O Zeus, and let that on which thou layest thine hands be thy share forever." So Zeus stretched forth his hand in haste, and placed it upon the fat, and fierce was his wrath when he found only the bare bones underneath it. Wherefore men offer up to the undying gods only the bones and fat of the victims that are slain.
Then in his anger Zeus sought how he might avenge himself on the race of men, and he took away from them the gift of fire, so that they were vexed by cold and darkness and hunger, until Prometheus brought them down fire which he had stolen from heaven. Then was the rage of Zeus still more cruel, and he smote Prometheus with his thunderbolts, and at his bidding Hermes bare him to the crags of Caucasus, and bound him with iron chains to the hard rock, where the vulture gnawed his heart with its beak.
But the wrath of Zeus was not appeased, and he sought how he might yet more vex the race of men; and he remembered how the Titan Prometheus had warned them to accept no gift from the gods, and how he left his brother Epimetheus to guard them against the wiles of the son of Kronos. And he said within himself, "The race of men knows neither sickness nor pain, strife or war, theft or falsehood; for all these evil things are sealed up in the great cask which is guarded by Epimetheus. I will let loose the evils, and the whole earth shall be filled with woe and misery."
So he called Hephaistos, the lord of fire, and he said, "Make ready a gift which all the undying gods shall give to the race of men. Take the earth, and fashion it into the shape of woman. Very fair let it be to look upon, but give her an evil nature, that the race of men may suffer for all the deeds that they have done to me." Then Hephaistos took the clay and moulded from it the image of a fair woman, and Athene clothed her in a beautiful robe, and placed a crown upon her head, from which a veil fell over her snowy shoulders. And Hermes, the messenger of Zeus, gave her the power of words, and a greedy mind, to cheat and deceive the race of men. Then Hephaistos brought her before the assembly of the gods, and they marveled at the greatness of her beauty; and Zeus took her by the hand and gave her to Epimetheus, and said, "Ye toil hard, ye children of men; behold one who shall soothe and cheer you when the hours of toil are ended. The undying gods have taken pity on you, because ye have none to comfort you; and woman is their gift to men, therefore is her name called Pandora."
Then Epimetheus forgot the warning of his brother, and the race of men did obeisance to Zeus, and received Pandora at his hands, for the greatness of her beauty enslaved the hearts of all who looked upon her. But they rejoiced not long in the gift of the gods, for Pandora saw a great cask on the threshold of the house of Epimetheus, and she lifted the lid, and from it came strife and war, plague and sickness, theft and violence, grief and sorrow. Then in her terror she set down the lid again upon the cask, and Hope was shut up within it, so that she could not comfort the race of men for the grievous evil which Pandora had brought upon them.
IO AND PROMETHEUS.
In the halls of Inachos, King of Argos, Zeus beheld and loved the fair maiden Io, but when Here, the Queen, knew it, she was very wroth, and sought to slay her. Then Zeus changed the maiden into a heifer, to save her from the anger of Here, but presently Here learned that the heifer was the maiden whom she hated, and she went to Zeus, and said, "Give me that which I shall desire," and Zeus answered, "Say on." Then Here said, "Give me the beautiful heifer which I see feeding in the pastures of King Inachos." So Zeus granted her prayer, for he liked not to confess what he had done to Io to save her from the wrath of Here, and Here took the heifer and bade Argos, with the hundred eyes, watch over it by night and by day.
THALIA.[ToList]
Long time Zeus sought how he might deliver the maiden from the vengeance of Here, but he strove in vain, for Argos never slept, and his hundred eyes saw everything around him, and none could approach without being seen and slain. At the last Zeus sent Hermes, the bright messenger of the gods, who stole gently towards Argos, playing soft music on his lute. Soothingly the sweet sounds fell upon his ear, and a deep sleep began to weigh down his eyelids, until Argos, with the hundred eyes, lay powerless before Hermes. Then Hermes drew his sharp sword, and with a single stroke he smote off his head, wherefore men call him the slayer of Argos, with the hundred eyes. But the wrath of Here was fiercer than ever when she learned that her watchman was slain, and she sware that the heifer should have no rest, but wander in terror and pain from land to land. So she sent a gad-fly to goad the heifer with its fiery sting over hill and valley, across sea and river, to torment her if she lay down to rest, and madden her with pain when she sought to sleep. In grief and madness she fled from the pastures of Inachos, past the city of Erechtheus into the land of Kadmos, the Theban. On and on still she went, resting not by night or day, through the Dorian and Thessalian plains, until at last she came to the wild Thrakian land. Her feet bled on the sharp stones, her body was torn by the thorns and brambles, and tortured by the stings of the fearful gad-fly. Still she fled on and on, while the tears streamed often down her cheeks, and her moaning showed the greatness of her agony. "O Zeus," she said, "dost thou not see me in my misery? Thou didst tell me once of thy love, and dost thou suffer me now to be driven thus wildly from land to land, without hope of comfort or rest? Slay me at once, I pray thee, or suffer me to sink into the deep sea, that so I may put off the sore burden of my woe."
But Io knew not that, while she spake, one heard her who had suffered even harder things from Zeus. Far above her head, towards the desolate crags of Caucasus, the wild eagle soared shrieking in the sky, and the vulture hovered near, as though waiting close to some dying man till death should leave him for its prey. Dark snow-clouds brooded heavily on the mountain, the icy wind crept lazily through the frozen air, and Io thought that the hour of her death was come. Then, as she raised her head, she saw far off a giant form, which seemed fastened by nails to the naked rock, and a low groan reached her ear, as of one in mortal pain, and she heard a voice which said, "Whence comest thou, daughter of Inachos, into this savage wilderness? Hath the love of Zeus driven thee thus to the icy corners of the earth?" Then Io gazed at him in wonder and awe, and said, "How dost thou know my name and my sorrows? and what is thine own wrong? Tell me (if it is given to thee to know) what awaits thee and me in the time to come, for sure I am that thou art no mortal man. Thy giant form is as the form of gods or heroes, who come down sometimes to mingle with the sons of men, and great must be the wrath of Zeus, that thou shouldst be thus tormented here." Then he said, "Maiden, thou seest the Titan Prometheus, who brought down fire for the children of men, and taught them how to build themselves houses and till the earth, and how to win for themselves food and clothing. I gave them wise thoughts and good laws and prudent counsel, and raised them from the life of beasts to a life which was fit for speaking men. But the son of Kronos was afraid at my doings, lest, with the aid of men, I might hurl him from his place and set up new gods upon his throne. So he forgot all my good deeds in times past, how I had aided him when the earth-born giants sought to destroy his power and heaped rock on rock and crag on crag to smite him on his throne, and he caught me by craft, telling me in smooth words how that he was my friend, and that my honor should not fail in the halls of Olympos. So he took me unawares and bound me with iron chains, and bade Hephaistos take and fasten me to this mountain-side, where the frost and wind and heat scorch and torment me by day and night, and the vulture gnaws my heart with its merciless beak. But my spirit is not wholly cast down, for I know that I have done good to the sons of men, and that they honor the Titan Prometheus, who has saved them from cold and hunger and sickness. And well I know, also, that the reign of Zeus shall one day come to an end, and that another shall sit at length upon his throne, even as now he sits on the throne of his father, Kronos. Hither come, also, those who seek to comfort me, and thou seest before thee the daughters of Okeanos, who have but now left the green halls of their father to talk with me. Listen, then, to me, daughter of Inachos, and I will tell thee what shall befall thee in time to come. Hence from the ice-bound chain of Caucasus thou shalt roam into the Scythian land and the regions of Chalybes. Thence thou shalt come to the dwelling-place of the Amazons, on the banks of the river Thermodon; these shall guide thee on thy way, until at length thou shalt come to a strait, which thou wilt cross, and which shall tell by its name forever where the heifer passed from Europe into Asia. But the end of thy wanderings is not yet."
Then Io could no longer repress her grief, and her tears burst forth afresh; and Prometheus said, "Daughter of Inachos, if thou sorrowest thus at what I have told thee, how wilt thou bear to hear what beyond these things there remains for thee to do?" But Io said, "Of what use is it, O Titan, to tell me of these woeful wanderings? Better were it now to die and be at rest from all this misery and sorrow." "Nay, not so, O maiden of Argos," said Prometheus, "for if thou livest, the days will come when Zeus shall be cast down from his throne, and the end of his reign shall also be the end of my sufferings. For when thou hast passed by the Thrakian Bosporos into the land of Asia, thou wilt wander on through many regions, where the Gorgons dwell, and the Arimaspians and Ethiopians, until at last thou shalt come to the three-cornered land where the mighty Nile goes out by its many arms into the sea. There shall be thy resting-place, and there shall Epaphos, thy son, be born, from whom, in times yet far away, shall spring the great Herakles, who shall break my chain and set me free from my long torments. And if in this thou doubtest my words, I can tell thee of every land through which thou hast passed on thy journey hither; but it is enough if I tell thee how the speaking oaks of Dodona hailed thee as one day to be the wife of Zeus and the mother of the mighty Epaphos. Hasten, then, on thy way, daughter of Inachos. Long years of pain and sorrow await thee still, but my griefs shall endure for many generations. It avails not now to weep, but this comfort thou hast, that thy lot is happier than mine, and for both of us remains the surety that the right shall at last conquer, and the power of Zeus shall be brought low, even as the power of Kronos, whom he hurled from his ancient throne. Depart hence quickly, for I see Hermes, the messenger, drawing nigh, and perchance he comes with fresh torments for thee and me."
So Io went on her weary road, and Hermes drew nigh to Prometheus, and bade him once again yield himself to the will of the mighty Zeus. But Prometheus laughed him to scorn, and as Hermes turned to go away, the icy wind came shrieking through the air, and the dark cloud sank lower and lower down the hillside, until it covered the rock on which the body of the Titan was nailed, and the great mountain heaved with the earthquake, and the blazing thunderbolts darted fearfully through the sky. Brighter and brighter flashed the lightning, and louder pealed the thunder in the ears of Prometheus, but he quailed not for all the fiery majesty of Zeus, and still, as the storm grew fiercer and the curls of fire were wreathed around his form, his voice was heard amid the din and roar, and it spake of the day when the good shall triumph and unjust power shall be crushed and destroyed forever.
DEUKALION.
From his throne on the high Olympos, Zeus looked down on the children of men, and saw that everywhere they followed only their lusts, and cared nothing for right or for law. And ever, as their hearts waxed grosser in their wickedness, they devised for themselves new rites to appease the anger of the gods, till the whole earth was filled with blood. Far away in the hidden glens of the Arcadian hills the sons of Lykaon feasted and spake proud words against the majesty of Zeus, and Zeus himself came down from his throne to see their way and their doings.
The sun was sinking down in the sky when an old man drew nigh to the gate of Lykosoura. His gray locks streamed in the breeze, and his beard fell in tangled masses over his tattered mantle. With staff in hand he plodded wearily on his way, listening to the sound of revelry which struck upon his ear. At last he came to the Agora, and the sons of Lykaon crowded round him. "So the wise seer is come," they said; "what tale hast thou to tell us, old man? Canst thou sing of the days when the earth came forth from Chaos? Thou art old enough to have been there to see." Then with rude jeering they seized him and placed him on the ground near the place where they were feasting. "We have done a great sacrifice to Zeus this day, and thy coming is timely, for thou shalt share the banquet." So they placed before him a dish, and the food that was in it was the flesh of man, for with the blood of men they thought to turn aside the anger of the gods. But the old man thrust aside the dish, and, as he rose up, the weariness of age passed away from his face, and the sons of Lykaon were scorched by the glory of his countenance, for Zeus stood before them and scathed them all with his lightnings, and their ashes cumbered the ground.
LAOCOON, THE FALSE PRIEST. (Sculptured 3000 years ago.)[ToList]
Then Zeus returned to his home on Olympos, and he gave the word that a flood of waters should be let loose upon the earth, that the sons of men might die for their great wickedness. So the west wind rose in his might, and the dark rain-clouds veiled the whole heaven, for the winds of the north which drive away the mists and vapors were shut up in their prison-house. On the hill and valley burst the merciless rain, and the rivers, loosened from their courses, rushed over the wide plains and up the mountain-side. From his home on the highlands of Phthia, Deukalion looked forth on the angry sky, and, when he saw the waters swelling in the valleys beneath, he called Pyrrha, his wife, the daughter of Epimetheus, and said to her, "The time is come of which my father, the wise Prometheus, forewarned me. Make ready, therefore, the ark which I have built, and place in it all that we may need for food while the flood of waters is out upon the earth. Far away on the crags of Caucasus the iron nails rend the flesh of Prometheus, and the vulture gnaws his heart, but the words which he spake are being fulfilled, that for the wickedness of men the flood of waters would come upon the earth, for Zeus himself is but the servant of one that is mightier than he, and must do his bidding."
Then Pyrrha hastened to make all things ready, and they waited until the waters rose up to the highlands of Phthia and floated away the ark of Deukalion. The fishes swam amidst the old elm groves, and twined amongst the gnarled boughs of the oaks, while on the face of the waters were tossed the bodies of men, and Deukalion looked on the dead faces of stalwart warriors, of maidens, and of babes, as they rose and fell upon the heaving waves. Eight days the ark was borne on the flood, while the waters covered the hills, and all the children of men died save a few who found a place of shelter on the summit of the mountains. On the ninth day the ark rested on the heights of Parnassos, and Deukalion, with his wife Pyrrha, stepped forth upon the desolate earth. Hour by hour the waters fled down the valleys, and dead fishes and sea-monsters lay caught in the tangled branches of the forest. But, far as the eye could reach, there was no sign of living thing, save of the vultures who wheeled in circles through the heaven to swoop upon their prey, and Deukalion looked on Pyrrha, and their hearts were filled with a grief which can not be told. "We know not," he said, "whether there live any one of all the sons of men, or in what hour the sleep of death may fall upon us. But the mighty being who sent the flood has saved us from its waters; to him let us build an altar and bring our thankoffering." So the altar was built and Zeus had respect to the prayer of Deukalion, and presently Hermes, the messenger, stood before him. "Ask what thou wilt," he said, "and it shall be granted thee, for in thee alone of all the sons of men hath Zeus found a clean hand and a pure heart." Then Deukalion bowed himself before Hermes, and said, "The whole earth lies desolate; I pray thee, let men be seen upon it once more." "Even so shall it come to pass," said Hermes, "if ye will cover your faces with your mantles and cast the bones of your mother behind you as ye go upon your way."
So Hermes departed to the home of Zeus, and Deukalion pondered his words, till the wisdom of his father, Prometheus, showed him that his mother was the earth, and that they were to cast the stones behind them as they went down from Parnassos. Then they did each as they were bidden, and the stones which Deukalion threw were turned into men, but those which were thrown by Pyrrha became women, and the people which knew neither father nor mother went forth to their toil throughout the wide earth. The sun shone brightly in the heaven and dried up the slime beneath them; yet was their toil but a weary labor, and so hath it been until this day—a struggle hard as the stones from which they have been taken.
But as the years passed on, there were children born to Pyrrha and Deukalion, and the old race of men still lived on the heights of Phthia. From Helen their son, sprang the mighty tribes of the Hellenes, and from Protogeneia, their daughter, was born Aethlios, the man of toil and suffering, the father of Endymion, the fair, who sleeps on the hill of Latmos.
POSEIDON AND ATHENE.
Near the banks of the stream Kephisos, Erechtheus had built a city in a rocky and thin-soiled land. He was the father of a free and brave people, and though his city was small and humble, yet Zeus, by his wisdom, foresaw that one day it would become the noblest of all cities throughout the wide earth. And there was a strife between Poseidon, the lord of the sea, and Athene, the virgin child of Zeus, to see by whose name the city of Erechtheus should be called. So Zeus appointed a day in which he would judge between them in presence of the great gods who dwell on high Olympos.
When the day was come, the gods sat each on his golden throne, on the banks of the stream Kephisos. High above all was the throne of Zeus, the great father of gods and men, and by his side sat Here, the Queen. This day even the sons of men might gaze upon them, for Zeus had laid aside his lightnings, and all the gods had come down in peace to listen to his judgment between Poseidon and Athene. There sat Phœbus Apollo with his golden harp in his hand. His face glistened for the brightness of his beauty, but there was no anger in his gleaming eye, and idle by his side lay the unerring spear, with which he smites all who deal falsely and speak lies. There, beside him, sat Artemis, his sister, whose days were spent in chasing the beasts of the earth and in sporting with the nymphs on the reedy banks of Eurotas. There, by the side of Zeus, sat Hermes, ever bright and youthful, the spokesman of the gods, with staff in hand, to do the will of the great father. There sat Hephaistos, the lord of fire, and Hestia, who guards the hearth. There, too, was Ares, who delights in war, and Dionysos, who loves the banquet and the wine-cup, and Aphrodite, who rose from the sea-foam, to fill the earth with laughter and woe.
Before them all stood the great rivals, awaiting the judgment of Zeus. High in her left hand, Athene held the invincible spear, and on her ægis, hidden from mortal sight, was the face on which no man may gaze and live. Close beside her, proud in the greatness of his power, Poseidon waited the issue of the contest. In his right hand gleamed the trident, with which he shakes the earth and cleaves the waters of the sea.
Then, from his golden seat, rose the spokesman, Hermes, and his clear voice sounded over all the great council. "Listen," he said, "to the will of Zeus, who judges now between Poseidon and Athene. The city of Erechtheus shall bear the name of that god who shall bring forth out of the earth the best gift for the sons of men. If Poseidon do this, the city shall be called Poseidonia, but if Athene brings the higher gift it shall be called Athens."
Then King Poseidon rose up in the greatness of his majesty, and with his trident he smote the earth where he stood. Straightway the hill was shaken to its depths, and the earth clave asunder, and forth from the chasm leaped a horse, such as never shall be seen again for strength and beauty. His body shone white all over as the driven snow, his mane streamed proudly in the wind as he stamped on the ground and scoured in very wantonness over hill and valley. "Behold my gift," said Poseidon, "and call the city after my name. Who shall give aught better than the horse to the sons of men?"
But Athene looked steadfastly at the gods with her keen gray eye, and she stooped slowly down to the ground, and planted in it a little seed, which she held in her right hand. She spoke no word, but still gazed calmly on that great council. Presently they saw springing from the earth a little germ, which grew up and threw out its boughs and leaves. Higher and higher it rose, with all its thick green foliage, and put forth fruit on its clustering branches. "My gift is better, O Zeus," she said, "than that of King Poseidon. The horse which he has given shall bring war and strife and anguish to the children of men; my olive-tree is the sign of peace and plenty, of health and strength, and the pledge of happiness and freedom. Shall not, then, the city of Erechtheus be called after my name?"
Then with one accord rose the voices of the gods in the air, as they cried out, "The gift of Athene is the best which may be given to the sons of men; it is the token that the city of Erechtheus shall be greater in peace than in war, and nobler in its freedom than its power. Let the city be called Athens."
Then Zeus, the mighty son of Kronos, bowed his head in sign of judgment that the city should be called by the name of Athene. From his head the immortal locks streamed down, and the earth trembled beneath his feet as he rose from his golden throne to return to the halls of Olympos. But still Athene stood gazing over the land which was now her own; and she stretched out her spear towards the city of Erechtheus, and said: "I have won the victory, and here shall be my home. Here shall my children grow up in happiness and freedom, and hither shall the sons of men come to learn of law and order. Here shall they see what great things may be done by mortal hands when aided by the gods who dwell on Olympos, and when the torch of freedom has gone out at Athens, its light shall be handed on to other lands, and men shall learn that my gift is still the best, and they shall say that reverence for law and freedom of thought and deed has come to them from the city of Erechtheus, which bears the name of Athene."
MEDUSA.
In the far western land, where the Hesperides guard the golden apples which Gaia gave to the lady Here, dwelt the maiden Medusa, with her sisters Stheino and Euryale, in their lonely and dismal home. Between them and the land of living men flowed the gentle stream of ocean, so that only the name of the Gorgon sisters was known to the sons of men, and the heart of Medusa yearned in vain to see some face which might look on her with love and pity, for on her lay the doom of death, but her sisters could neither grow old nor die. For them there was nothing fearful in the stillness of their gloomy home, as they sat with stern, unpitying faces, gazing on the silent land beyond the ocean stream. But Medusa wandered to and fro, longing to see something new in a home to which no change ever came, and her heart pined for lack of those things which gladden the souls of mortal men. For where she dwelt there was neither day nor night. She never saw the bright children of Helios driving his flocks to their pastures in the morning. She never beheld the stars as they look out from the sky, when the sun sinks down into his golden cup in the evening. There no clouds ever passed across the heaven, no breeze ever whispered in the air, but a pale yellow light brooded on the land everlastingly. So there rested on the face of Medusa a sadness such as the children of men may never feel; and the look of hopeless pain was the more terrible because of the greatness of her beauty. She spake not to any of her awful grief, for her sisters knew not of any such thing as gentleness and love, and there was no comfort for her from the fearful Graiai who were her kinsfolk. Sometimes she sought them out in their dark caves, for it was something to see even the faint glimmer of the light of day which reached the dwelling of the Graiai, but they spake not to her a word of hope when she told them of her misery, and she wandered back to the land which the light of Helios might never enter. Her brow was knit with pain, but no tear wetted her cheek, for her grief was too great for weeping.
But harder things yet were in store for Medusa, for Athene, the daughter of Zeus, came from the Libyan land to the dwelling of the Gorgon sisters, and she charged Medusa to go with her to the gardens where the children of Hesperos guard the golden apples of the lady Here. Then Medusa bowed herself down at the feet of Athene, and besought her to have pity on her changeless sorrow, and she said, "Child of Zeus, thou dwellest with thy happy kinsfolk, where Helios gladdens all with his light and the Horai lead the glad dance when Phœbus touches the strings of his golden harp. Here there is neither night nor day, nor cloud or breeze or storm. Let me go forth from this horrible land and look on the face of mortal men, for I, too, must die, and my heart yearns for the love which my sisters scorn." Then Athene looked on her sternly, and said, "What hast thou to do with love? and what is the love of men for one who is of kin to the beings who may not die? Tarry here till thy doom is accomplished, and then it may be that Zeus will grant thee a place among those who dwell in his glorious home." But Medusa said, "Lady, let me go forth now. I can not tell how many ages may pass before I die, and thou knowest not the yearning which fills the heart of mortal things for tenderness and love." Then a look of anger came over the fair face of Athene, and she said, "Trouble me not. Thy prayer is vain, and the sons of men would shrink from thee, if thou couldst go among them, for hardly could they look on the woeful sorrow of thy countenance." But Medusa answered, gently, "Lady, hope has a wondrous power to kill the deepest grief, and in the pure light of Helios my face may be as fair as thine."
GRECIAN ALTAR. (3000 years old.)[ToList]
Then the anger of Athene became fiercer still, and she said, "Dost thou dare to vie with me? I stand by the side of Zeus, to do his will, and the splendor of his glory rests upon me, and what art thou, that thou shouldst speak to me such words as these? Therefore, hear thy doom. Henceforth, if mortal man ever look upon thee, one glance of thy face shall turn him to stone. Thy beauty shall still remain, but it shall be to thee the blackness of death. The hair which streams in golden tresses over thy fair shoulders shall be changed into hissing snakes, which shall curl and cluster round thy neck. On thy countenance shall be seen only fear and dread, that so all mortal things which look on thee may die." So Athene departed from her, and the blackness of the great horror rested on the face of Medusa, and the hiss of the snakes was heard as they twined around her head and their coils were wreathed about her neck. Yet the will of Athene was not wholly accomplished, for the heart of Medusa was not changed by the doom which gave to her face its deadly power, and she said, "Daughter of Zeus, there is hope yet, for thou hast left me mortal still, and, one day, I shall die."
DANAE.
From the home of Phœbus Apollo, at Delphi, came words of warning to Akrisios, the King of Argos, when he sent to ask what should befall him in the after days, and the warning was that he should be slain by the son of his daughter, Danae. So the love of Akrisios was changed towards his child, who was growing up fair as the flowers of spring, in her father's house, and he shut her up in a dungeon, caring nothing for her wretchedness. But the power of Zeus was greater than the power of Akrisios, and Danae became the mother of Perseus, and they called her child the Son of the Bright Morning, because Zeus had scattered the darkness of her prison-house. Then Akrisios feared exceedingly, and he spake the word that Danae and her child should die.
The first streak of day was spreading its faint light in the eastern sky when they led Danae to the sea-shore, and put her in a chest, with a loaf of bread and a flask of water. Her child slept in her arms, and the rocking of the waves, as they bore the chest over the heaving sea, made him slumber yet more sweetly, and the tears of Danae fell on him as she thought of the days that were past and the death which she must die in the dark waters. And she prayed to Zeus, and said, "O Zeus, who hast given me my child, canst thou hear me still and save me from this terrible doom?" Then a deep sleep came over Danae, and, as she slept with the babe in her arms, the winds carried the chest at the bidding of Poseidon, and cast it forth on the shore of the island of Seriphos.
Now it so chanced that Diktys, the brother of Polydektes, the King of the Island, was casting a net into the sea, when he saw something thrown up by the waves on the dry land, and he went hastily and took Danae with her child out of the chest, and said, "Fear not, lady, no harm shall happen to thee here, and they who have dealt hardly with thee shall not come nigh to hurt thee in this land." So he led her to the house of King Polydektes, who welcomed her to his home, and Danae had rest after all her troubles.
THEMIS (Goddess of Law).[ToList]
Thus the time went on, and the child Perseus grew up brave and strong, and all who saw him marveled at his beauty. The light of early morning is not more pure than was the color on his fair cheeks, and the golden locks streamed brightly over his shoulders, like the rays of the sun when they rest on the hills at midday. And Danae said, "My child, in the land where thou wast born, they called thee the Son of the Bright Morning. Keep thy faith, and deal justly with all men; so shalt thou deserve the name which they gave thee." Thus Perseus grew up, hating all things that were mean and wrong, and all who looked on him knew that his hands were clean and his heart pure.
But there were evil days in store for Danae—for King Polydektes sought to win her love against her will. Long time he besought her to hearken to his prayer, but her heart was far away in the land of Argos, where her child was born, and she said, "O King, my life is sad and weary; what is there in me that thou shouldst seek my love? There are maidens in thy kingdom fairer far than I; leave me, then, to take care of my child while we dwell in a strange land." Then Polydektes said, hastily, "Think not, lady, to escape me thus. If thou wilt not hearken to my words, thy child shall not remain with thee, but I will send him forth far away into the western land, that he may bring me the head of the Gorgon Medusa."
So Danae sat weeping when Polydektes had left her, and when Perseus came he asked her why she mourned and wept, and he said, "Tell me, my mother, if the people of this land have done thee wrong, and I will take a sword in my hand and smite them." Then Danae answered, "Many toils await thee in time to come, but here thou canst do nothing. Only be of good courage, and deal truly, and one day thou shalt be able to save me from my enemies."
Still, as the months went on, Polydektes sought to gain the love of Danae, until at last he began to hate her because she would not listen to his prayer. And he spake the word, that Perseus must go forth to slay Medusa, and that Danae must be shut up in a dungeon until the boy should return from the land of the Graiai and the Gorgons.
So once more Danae lay within a prison, and the boy Perseus came to bid her farewell before he set out on his weary journey. Then Danae folded her arms around him, and looked sadly into his eyes, and said, "My child, whatever a mortal man can do for his mother, that, I know, thou wilt do for me, but I can not tell whither thy long toils shall lead thee, save that the land of the Gorgons lies beyond the slow-rolling stream of Ocean. Nor can I tell how thou canst do the bidding of Polydektes, for Medusa alone of the Gorgon sisters may grow old and die, and the deadly snakes will slay those who come near, and one glance of her woeful eye can turn all mortal things to stone. Once, they say, she was fair to look upon, but the lady Athene has laid on her a dark doom, so that all who see the Gorgon's face must die. It may be, Perseus, that the heart of Medusa is full rather of grief than hatred, and that not of her own will the woeful glare of her eye changes all mortal things into stone, and, if so it be, then the deed which thou art charged to do shall set her free from a hateful life, and bring to her some of those good things for which now she yearns in vain. Go, then, my child, and prosper. Thou hast a great warfare before thee, and though I know not how thou canst win the victory, yet I know that true and fair dealing gives a wondrous might to the children of men, and Zeus will strengthen the arm of those who hate treachery and lies."
Then Perseus bade his mother take courage, and vowed a vow that he would not trust in craft and falsehood, and he said, "I know not, my mother, the dangers and the foes which await me, but be sure that I will not meet them with any weapons which thou wouldst scorn. Only, as the days and months roll on, think not that evil has befallen me, for there is hope within me that I shall be able to do the bidding of Polydektes and to bear thee hence to our Argive land." So Perseus went forth with a good courage to seek out the Gorgon Medusa.
PERSEUS.
The east wind crested with a silvery foam the waves of the sea of Helle, when Perseus went into the ship which was to bear him away from Seriphos. The white sail was spread to the breeze, and the ship sped gaily over the heaving waters. Soon the blue hills rose before them, and as the sun sank down in the west, Perseus trod once more the Argive land.
But there was no rest for him now in his ancient home. On and on, through Argos and other lands, he must wander in search of the Gorgon, with nothing but his strong heart and his stout arm to help him. Yet for himself he feared not, and if his eyes filled with tears, it was only because he thought of his mother, Danae; and he said within himself, "O, my mother, I would that thou wert here. I see the towers of the fair city where Akrisios still is King. I see the home which thou longest to behold, and which now I may not enter, but one day I shall bring thee hither in triumph, when I come to win back my birthright."
Brightly before his mind rose the vision of the time to come, as he lay down to rest beneath the blue sky, but when his eyes were closed in sleep, there stood before him a vision yet more glorious, for the lady Athene was come from the home of Zeus, to aid the young hero as he set forth on his weary labor. Her face gleamed with a beauty such as is not given to the daughters of men. But Perseus feared not because of her majesty, for the soft spell of sleep lay on him, and he heard her words as she said, "I am come down from Olympos, where dwells my father, Zeus, to help thee in thy mighty toil. Thou art brave of heart and strong of hand, but thou knowest not the way which thou shouldst go, and thou hast no weapons with which to slay the Gorgon Medusa. Many things thou needest, but only against the freezing stare of the Gorgon's face can I guard thee now. On her countenance thou canst not look and live, and even when she is dead, one glance of that fearful face will still turn all mortal things to stone. So, when thou drawest nigh to slay her, thine eye must not rest upon her. Take good heed, then, to thyself, for while they are awake the Gorgon sisters dread no danger, for the snakes which curl around their heads warn them of every peril. Only while they sleep canst thou approach them, and the face of Medusa, in life or in death, thou must never see. Take, then, this mirror, into which thou canst look, and when thou beholdest her image there, then nerve thy heart and take thine aim, and carry away with thee the head of the mortal maiden. Linger not in thy flight, for her sisters will pursue after thee, and they can neither grow old nor die."
So Athene departed from him, and early in the morning he saw by his side the mirror which she had given to him, and he said, "Now I know that my toil is not in vain, and the help of Athene is a pledge of yet more aid in time to come." So he journeyed on with a good heart over hill and dale, across rivers and forests, towards the setting of the sun. Manfully he toiled on, till sleep weighed heavy on his eyes, and he lay down to rest on a broad stone in the evening. Once more before him stood a glorious form. A burnished helmet glistened on his head, a golden staff was in his hand, and on his feet were the golden sandals, which bore him through the air with a flight more swift than the eagle's. And Perseus heard a voice which said, "I am Hermes, the messenger of Zeus, and I come to arm thee against thine enemies. Take this sword, which slays all mortal things on which it may fall, and go on thy way with a cheerful heart. A weary road yet lies before thee, and for many a long day must thou wander on before thou canst have other help in thy mighty toil. Far away, towards the setting of the sun, lies the Tartessian land, whence thou shalt see the white-crested mountains where Atlas holds up the pillars of the heaven. There must thou cross the dark waters, and then thou wilt find thyself in the land of the Graiai, who are of kin to the Gorgon sisters, and thou wilt see no more the glory of Helios, who gladdens the homes of living men. Only a faint light from the far-off sun comes dimly to the desolate land where, hidden in the gloomy cave, lurk the hapless Graiai. These thou must seek out, and when thou hast found them, fear them not. Over their worn and wrinkled faces stream tangled masses of long gray hair, their voice comes hollow from their toothless gums, and a single eye is passed from one to the other when they wish to look forth from their dismal dwelling. Seek them out, for these alone can tell thee what more remaineth yet for thee to do."
When Perseus woke in the morning, the sword of Hermes lay beside him, and he rose up with great joy, and said, "The help of Zeus fails me not; if more is needed will he not grant it to me?" So onward he went to the Tartessian land, and thence across the dark sea towards the country of the Graiai, till he saw the pillars of Atlas rise afar off into the sky. Then, as he drew nigh to the hills which lay beneath them, he came to a dark cave, and as he stooped to look into it, he fancied that he saw the gray hair which streamed over the shoulders of the Graiai. Long time he rested on the rocks without the cave, till he knew by their heavy breathing that the sisters were asleep. Then he crept in stealthily, and took the eye which lay beside them, and waited till they should wake. At last, as the faint light from the far-off sun, who shines on mortal men, reached the cave, he saw them groping for the eye which he had taken, and presently, from their toothless jaws, came a hollow voice, which said, "There is some one near us who is sprung from the children of men, for of old time we have known that one should come and leave us blind until we did his bidding." Then Perseus came forth boldly and stood before them, and said, "Daughters of Phorkos and of Keto, I know that ye are of kin to the Gorgon sisters, and to these ye must now guide me. Think not to escape my craft or guile, for in my hands is the sword of Hermes, and it slays all living things on which it may fall." And they answered, quickly, "Slay us not, child of man, for we will deal truly by thee, and will tell thee of the things which must be done before thou canst reach the dwelling of the Gorgon sisters. Go hence along the plain which stretches before thee, then over hill and vale, and forest and desert, till thou comest to the slow-rolling Ocean stream; there call on the nymphs who dwell beneath the waters, and they shall rise at thy bidding and tell thee many things which it is not given to us to know."
Onwards again he went, across the plain, and over hill and vale till he came to the Ocean which flows lazily round the world of living men. No ray of the pure sunshine pierced the murky air, but the pale yellow light, which broods on the land of the Gorgons, showed to him the dark stream, as he stood on the banks and summoned the nymphs to do his bidding. Presently they stood before him, and greeted him by his name, and they said, "O Perseus, thou art the first of living men whose feet have trodden this desolate shore. Long time have we known that the will of Zeus would bring thee hither to accomplish the doom of the mortal Medusa. We know the things of which thou art in need, and without us thy toil would in very truth be vain. Thou hast to come near to beings who can see all around them, for the snakes which twist about their heads are their eyes, and here is the helmet of Hades, which will enable thee to draw nigh to them unseen. Thou hast the sword which never falls in vain; but without this bag which we give thee, thou canst not bear away the head, the sight of which changes all mortal things to stone. And when thy work of death is done on the mortal maiden, thou must fly from her sisters who can not die, and who will follow thee more swiftly than eagles, and here are the sandals which shall waft thee through the air more quickly than a dream. Hasten, then, child of Danae, for we are ready to bear thee in our hands across the Ocean stream."
So they bare Perseus to the Gorgon land, and he journeyed on in the pale yellow light which rests upon it everlastingly.
On that night, in the darkness of their lonesome dwelling, Medusa spake to her sisters of the doom which should one day be accomplished, and she said, "Sisters, ye care little for the grief whose image on my face turns all mortal things to stone. Ye who know not old age or death, know not the awful weight of my agony, and can not feel the signs of the change that is coming. But I know them. The snakes which twine around my head warn me not in vain; but they warn me against perils which I care not now to shun. The wrath of Athene, who crushed the faint hopes which lingered in my heart, left me mortal still, and I am weary with the woe of the ages that are past. O sisters, ye know not what it is to pity, but something more, ye know what it is to love, for even in this living tomb we have dwelt together in peace, and peace is of kin to love. But hearken to me now. Mine eyes are heavy with sleep, and my heart tells me that the doom is coming, for I am but a mortal maiden, and I care not if the slumber which is stealing on me be the sleep of those whose life is done. Sisters, my lot is happier at the least than yours, for he who slays me is my friend. I am weary of my woe, and it may be that better things await me when I am dead."
But even as Medusa spake, the faces of Stheino and Euryale remained unchanged, and it seemed as though for them the words of Medusa were but an empty sound. Presently the Gorgon sisters were all asleep. The deadly snakes lay still and quiet, and only the breath which hissed from their mouths was heard throughout the cave.
Then Perseus drew nigh, with the helmet of Hades on his head, and the sandals of the nymphs on his feet. In his right hand was the sword of Hermes, and in his left the mirror of Athene. Long time he gazed on the image of Medusa's face, which still showed the wreck of her ancient beauty, and he said within himself, "Mortal maiden, well may it be that more than mortal woe should give to thy countenance its deadly power. The hour of thy doom is come, but death to thee must be a boon." Then the sword of Hermes fell, and the great agony of Medusa was ended. So Perseus cast a veil over the dead face, and bare it away from the cave in the bag which the nymphs gave him on the banks of the slow-rolling Ocean.
ANDROMEDA.
Terrible was the rage of the Gorgon sisters when they woke up from their sleep and saw that the doom of Medusa had been accomplished. The snakes hissed as they rose in knotted clusters round their heads, and the Gorgons gnashed their teeth in fury, not for any love of the mortal maiden whose woes were ended, but because a child of weak and toiling men had dared to approach the daughters of Phorkos and Keto. Swifter than the eagles they sped from their gloomy cave, but they sought in vain to find Perseus, for the helmet of Hades was on his head, and the sandals of the nymphs were bearing him through the air like a dream. Onwards he went, not knowing whither he was borne, for he saw but dimly through the pale yellow light which brooded on the Gorgon land everlastingly; but presently he heard a groan as from one in mortal pain, and before him he beheld a giant form, on whose head rested the pillars of the heaven, and he heard a voice, which said, "Hast thou slain the Gorgon Medusa, child of man, and art thou come to rid me of my long woe? Look on me, for I am Atlas, who rose up with the Titans against the power of Zeus, when Prometheus fought on his side; and of old time have I known that for me is no hope of rest till a mortal man should bring hither the Gorgon head which can turn all living things to stone. For so was it shown to me from Zeus, when he made me bow down beneath the weight of the brazen heaven. Yet, if thou hast slain Medusa, Zeus hath been more merciful to me than to Prometheus who was his friend, for he lies nailed on the rugged crags of Caucasus, and only thy child in the third generation shall scare away the vulture which gnaws his heart, and set the Titan free. But hasten now, Perseus, and let me look on the Gorgon's face, for the agony of my labor is well nigh greater than I can bear." So Perseus hearkened to the words of Atlas, and he unveiled before him the dead face of Medusa. Eagerly he gazed for a moment on the changeless countenance, as though beneath the blackness of great horror he could yet see the wreck of her ancient beauty and pitied her for her hopeless woe. But in an instant the straining eyes were closed, the heaving breast was still, the limbs which trembled with the weight of heaven were still and cold, and it seemed to Perseus, as he rose again into the pale yellow air, that the gray hairs which streamed from the giant's head were like the snow which rests on the peaks of the great mountain, and that in place of the trembling limbs he saw only the rents and clefts on a rough hill-side.
Onward yet and higher he sped, he knew not whither, on the golden sandals, till from the murky glare of the Gorgon land he passed into a soft and tender light, in which all things wore the colors of a dream. It was not the light of sun or moon, for in that land was neither day nor night. No breeze wafted the light clouds of morning through the sky, or stirred the leaves of the forest trees where the golden fruits glistened the whole year round, but from beneath rose the echoes of sweet music, as he glided gently down to the earth. Then he took the helmet of Hades from off his head, and asked the people whom he met the name of this happy land, and they said, "We dwell where the icy breath of Boreas can not chill the air or wither our fruits, therefore is our land called the garden of the Hyperboreans." There, for a while, Perseus rested from his toil, and all day long he saw the dances of happy maidens fair as Hebe and Harmonia, and he shared the rich banquets at which the people of the land feasted with wreaths of laurel twined around their head. There he rested in a deep peace, for no sound of strife or war can ever break it, and they know nothing of malice and hatred, of sickness or old age.
But presently Perseus remembered his mother, Danae, as she lay in her prison-house, at Seriphos, and he left the garden of the Hyperboreans to return to the world of toiling men, but the people of the land knew only that it lay beyond the slow-rolling Ocean stream, and Perseus saw not whither he went as he rose on his golden sandals into the soft and dreamy air. Onwards he flew, until far beneath he beheld the Ocean river, and once more he saw the light of Helios, as he drove his fiery chariot through the heaven. Far away stretched the mighty Libyan plain, and further yet, beyond the hills which shut it in, he saw the waters of the dark sea, and the white line of foam, where the breakers were dashed upon the shore. As he came nearer, he saw the huge rocks which rose out of the heaving waters, and on one of them he beheld a maiden, whose limbs were fastened with chains to a stone. The folds of her white robe fluttered in the breeze, and her fair face was worn and wasted with the heat by day and the cold by night. Then Perseus hastened to her, and stood a long time before her, but she saw him not, for the helmet of Hades was on his head, and he watched her there till the tears started to his eyes for pity. Her hands were clasped upon her breast, and only the moving of her lips showed the greatness of her misery. Higher and higher rose the foaming waters, till at last the maiden said, "O Zeus, is there none whom thou canst send to help me?" Then Perseus took the helmet in his hand, and stood before her in all his glorious beauty, and the maiden knew that she had nothing to fear when he said, "Lady, I see that thou art in great sorrow; tell me who it is that has wronged thee, and I will avenge thee mightily." And she answered, "Stranger, whoever thou art, I will trust thee, for thy face tells me that thou art not one of those who deal falsely. My name is Andromeda, and my father, Kepheus, is King of the rich Libyan land, but there is strife between him and the old man, Nereus, who dwells with his daughters in the coral caves, beneath the sea, for, as I grew up in my father's house, my mother made a vain boast of my beauty, and said that among all the children of Nereus there was none so fair as I." So Nereus rose from his coral caves, and went to the King Poseidon, and said, "King of the broad sea, Kassiopeia, hath done a grievous wrong to me and to my children. I pray thee let not her people escape for her evil words.
Then Poseidon let loose the waters of the sea, and they rushed in over the Libyan plains till only the hills which shut it in remained above them, and a mighty monster came forth and devoured all the fruits of the land. In grief and terror the people fell down before my father, Kepheus, and he sent to the home of Ammon to ask what he should do for the plague of waters and for the savage beast who vexed them; and soon the answer came that he must chain up his daughter on a rock, till the beast came and took her for his prey. So they fastened me here to this desolate crag, and each day the monster comes nearer as the waters rise; and soon, I think, they will place me within his reach." Then Perseus cheered her with kindly words, and said, "Maiden, I am Perseus, to whom Zeus has given the power to do great things. I hold in my hand the sword of Hermes, which has slain the Gorgon Medusa, and I am bearing to Polydektes, who rules in Seriphos, the head which turns all who look on it into stone. Fear not, then, Andromeda. I will do battle with the monster, and, when thy foes are vanquished, I will sue for the boon of thy love." A soft blush as of great gladness came over the pale cheek of Andromeda, as she answered, "O Perseus, why should I hide from thee my joy? Thou hast come to me like the light of the morning when it breaks on a woeful night." But, even as she spake, the rage of the waves waxed greater, and the waters rose higher and higher, lashing the rocks in their fury, and the hollow roar of the monster was heard as he hastened to seize his prey. Presently by the maiden's side he saw a glorious form with the flashing sword in his hand, and he lashed the waters in fiercer anger. Then Perseus went forth to meet him, and he held aloft the sword which Hermes gave to him, and said, "Sword of Phœbus, let thy stroke be sure, for thou smitest the enemy of the helpless." So the sword fell, and the blood of the mighty beast reddened the waters of the green sea.
EUTERPE (Muse of Pleasure).[ToList]
In gladness of heart Perseus led the maiden to the halls of Kepheus, and said, "O King, I have slain the monster to whom thou didst give thy child for a prey; let her go with me now to other lands, if she gainsay me not." But Kepheus answered, "Tarry with us yet a while, and the marriage feast shall be made ready, if indeed thou must hasten away from the Libyan land." So, at the banquet, by the side of Perseus sate the beautiful Andromeda; but there arose a fierce strife, for Phineus had come to the feast, and it angered him that another should have for his wife the maiden whom he had sought to make his bride. Deeper and fiercer grew his rage, as he looked on the face of Perseus, till at last he spake evil words of the stranger who had taken away the prize which should have been his own. But Perseus said, calmly, "Why, then, didst thou not slay the monster thyself and set the maiden free?" When Phineus heard these words his rage almost choked him, and he charged his people to draw their swords and slay Perseus. Wildly rose the din in the banquet hall, but Perseus unveiled the Gorgon's face, and Phineus and all his people were frozen into stone.
Then, in the still silence, Perseus bare away Andromeda from her father's home, and when they had wandered through many lands they came at length to Seriphos. Once more Danae looked on the face of her son, and said, "My child, the months have rolled wearily since I bade thee farewell; but sure I am that my prayer has been heard, for thy face is as the face of one who comes back a conqueror from battle." Then Perseus said, "Yes, my mother, the help of Zeus has never failed me. When the eastern breeze carried me hence to the Argive land, my heart was full of sorrow, because I saw the city which thou didst yearn to see, and the home which thou couldst not enter, and I vowed a vow to bring thee back in triumph when I came to claim my birthright.
That evening, as I slept, the lady Athene came to me from the home of Zeus, and gave me a mirror so that I might take the Gorgon's head without looking on the face which turns everything into stone, and yet another night, Hermes stood before me, and gave me the sword whose stroke never fails, and the Graiai told me where I should find the nymphs who gave me the helmet of Hades, and the bag which has borne hither the Gorgon's head, and the golden sandals which have carried me like a dream over land and sea. O, my mother, I have done wondrous things by the aid of Zeus. By me the doom of Medusa has been accomplished, and I think that the words which thou didst speak were true, for the image of the Gorgon's face, which I saw in Athene's mirror, was as the countenance of one whose beauty has been marred by a woeful agony, and whenever I have looked since on that image, it has seemed to me as though it wore the look of one who rested in death from a mighty pain. So, as the giant Atlas looked on that grief-stricken brow, he felt no more the weight of the heaven as it rested on him, and the gray hair which streamed from his head seemed to me, when I left him, like the snow which clothes the mountain-tops in winter. So, when from the happy gardens of the Hyperboreans I came to the rich Libyan plain, and had killed the monster who sought to slay Andromeda, the Gorgon's face turned Phineus and his people into stone, when they sought to slay me because I had won her love." Then Danae answered the questions of Perseus, and told him how Polydektes had vexed her with his evil words, and how Diktys alone had shielded her from his brother. And Perseus bade Danae be of good cheer, because the recompense of Polydektes was nigh at hand.
There was joy and feasting in Seriphos when the news was spread abroad that Perseus had brought back for the King the head of the Gorgon Medusa, and Polydektes made a great feast, and the wine sparkled in the goblets as the minstrels sang of the great deeds of the son of Danae. Then Perseus told him of all that Hermes and Athene had done for him. He showed them the helmet of Hades, and the golden sandals, and the unerring sword, and then he unveiled the face of Medusa before Polydektes and the men who had aided him against his mother, Danae. So Perseus looked upon them, as they sat at the rich banquet, stiff and cold as a stone, and he felt that his mighty work was ended. Then, at his prayer, came Hermes, the messenger of Zeus, and Perseus gave him back the helmet of Hades, and the sword which had slain the Gorgon, and the sandals which had borne him through the air like a dream. And Hermes gave the helmet again to Hades, and the sandals to the Ocean nymphs, but Athene took the Gorgon's head, and it was placed upon her shield.
Then Perseus spake to Danae, and said, "My mother, it is time for thee to go home. The Gorgon's face has turned Polydektes and his people into stone, and Diktys rules in Seriphos." So once more the white sails were filled with the eastern breeze, and Danae saw once more the Argive land. From city to city spread the tidings that Perseus was come, who had slain the Gorgon, and the youths and maidens sang "Io Paian," as they led the conqueror to the halls of Akrisios.
AKRISIOS.
The shouts of "Io Paian" reached the ear of Akrisios, as he sat in his lonely hall, marveling at the strange things which must have happened to waken the sounds of joy and triumph; for, since the day when Danae was cast forth with her babe on the raging waters, the glory of war had departed from Argos, and it seemed as though all the chieftains had lost their ancient strength and courage. But the wonder of Akrisios was changed to a great fear when they told him that his child, Danae, was coming home, and that the hero, Perseus, had rescued her from Polydektes, the King of Seriphos. The memory of all the wrong which he had done to his daughter tormented him, and still in his mind dwelt the words of warning which came from Phœbus Apollo that he should one day be slain by the hands of her son; so that, as he looked forth on the sky, it seemed to him as though he should see the sun again no more.
In haste and terror Akrisios fled from his home. He tarried not to hear the voice of Danae, he stayed not to look on the face of Perseus, nor to see that the hero who had slain the Gorgon bore him no malice for the wrongs of the former days. Quickly he sped over hill and dale, across river and forest, till he came to the house of Teutamidas, the great chieftain who ruled in Larissa.
The feast was spread in the banquet-hall, and the Thessalian minstrels sang of the brave deeds of Perseus, for even thither had his fame reached already. They told how from the land of toiling men he had passed to the country of the Graiai and the Gorgons, how he had slain the mortal Medusa and stiffened the giant Atlas into stone, and then they sang how, with the sword of Hermes, he smote the mighty beast which ravaged the Libyan land, and won Andromeda to be his bride. Then Teutamidas spake, and said, "My friend, I envy thee for thy happy lot, for not often in the world of men may fathers reap such glory from their children as thou hast won from Perseus. In the ages to come men shall love to tell of his great and good deeds, and from him shall spring mighty chieftains, who shall be stirred up to a purer courage when they remember how Perseus toiled and triumphed before them. And now tell me, friend, wherefore thou hast come hither. Thy cheek is pale, and thy hand trembles, but I think not that it can be from the weight of years, for thy old age is yet but green, and thou mayest hope still to see the children of Perseus clustering around thy knees."
But Akrisios could scarcely answer for shame and fear; for he cared not to tell Teutamidas of the wrongs which he had done to Danae. So he said, hastily, that he had fled from a great danger, for the warning of Phœbus was that he should be slain by his daughter's son. And Teutamidas said, "Has thy daughter yet another son?" And then Akrisios was forced to own that he had fled from the hero, Perseus. But the face of Teutamidas flushed with anger as he said, "O shame, that thou shouldst flee from him who ought to be thy glory and thy pride! Everywhere men speak of the goodness and the truth of Perseus, and I will not believe that he bears thee a grudge for anything that thou hast done to him. Nay, thou doest to him a more grievous wrong in shunning him now than when thou didst cast him forth in his mother's arms upon the angry sea." So he pleaded with Akrisios for Perseus, until he spoke the word that Danae and her child might come to the great games which were to be held on the plain before Larissa.
With shouts of "Io Paian" the youths and maidens went out before Perseus as he passed from the city of Akrisios to go to Larissa, and everywhere as he journeyed the people came forth from town and village to greet the bright hero and the beautiful Andromeda, whom he had saved from the Libyan dragon. Onwards they went, spreading gladness everywhere, till the cold heart of Akrisios himself was touched with a feeling of strange joy, as he saw the band of youths and maidens who came before them to the house of Teutamidas. So once more his child Danae stood before him, beautiful still, although the sorrows of twenty years had dimmed the brightness of her eye, and the merry laugh of her youth was gone. Once more he looked on the face of Perseus, and he listened to the kindly greeting of the hero whom he had wronged in the days of his helpless childhood. But he marveled yet more at the beauty of Andromeda, and he thought within himself that throughout the wide earth were none so fair as Perseus and the wife whom he had won with the sword of Hermes.
Then, as they looked on the chiefs who strove together in the games, the shouting of the crowd told at the end of each that Perseus was the conqueror. At last they stood forth to see which should have most strength of arm in hurling the quoit; and, when Perseus aimed at the mark, the quoit swerved aside and smote Akrisios on the head, and the warning of Phœbus Apollo was accomplished.
Great was the sorrow of Teutamidas and his people as the chieftain of Argos lay dead before them; but deeper still and more bitter was the grief of Perseus for the deed which he had unwittingly done, and he said, "O Zeus, I have striven to keep my hands clean and to deal truly, and a hard recompense hast thou given me."
So they went back mourning to Argos, but although he strove heartily to rule his people well, the grief of Perseus could not be lessened while he remained in the house of Akrisios. So he sent a messenger to his kinsman, Megapenthes, who ruled at Tiryns, and said, "Come thou and rule in Argos, and I will go and dwell among thy people." So Perseus dwelt at Tiryns, and the men of the city rejoiced that he had come to rule over them. Thus the months and years went quickly by, as Perseus strove with all his might to make his people happy and to guard them against their enemies. At his bidding, the Cyclopes came from the far-off Lykian land, and built the mighty walls which gird the city round about; and they helped him to build yet another city, which grew in after-times to be even greater and mightier than Tiryns. So rose the walls of Mykenæ, and there, too, the people loved and honored Perseus for his just dealing more than for all the deeds which he had done with the sword of Hermes. At last the time came when the hero must rest from his long toil, but as they looked on his face, bright and beautiful even in death, the minstrels said, "We shall hear his voice no more, but the name of Perseus shall never die."
KEPHALOS AND PROKRIS.
Of all the maidens in the land of Attica none was so beautiful as Prokris, the daughter of King Erechtheus. She was the delight of her father's heart, not so much for her beauty as for her goodness and her gentleness. The sight of her fair face and the sound of her happy voice brought gladness to all who saw and heard her. Every one stopped to listen to the songs which she sang as she sat working busily at the loom, and the maidens who dwelt with her were glad when the hour came to go with Prokris and wash their clothes or draw water from the fountain. Then, when all her tasks were ended, she would roam over hill and valley, into every nook and dell. There was no spot in all the land where Prokris had not been. She lay down to rest in the top of the highest hills, or by the side of the stream where it murmured among the rocks far down in the woody glen. So passed her days away; and while all loved her and rejoiced to see her face, only Prokris knew not of her own beauty, and thought not of her own goodness. But they amongst whom she lived, the old and the young, the sorrowful and happy, all said that Prokris, the child of Herse, was always as fair and bright as the dew of early morning.
THALIA (Muse of Comedy).[ToList]
Once in her many wanderings she had climbed the heights of Mount Hymettos, almost before the first streak of dawn was seen in the sky. Far away, as she looked over the blue sea, her eyes rested on the glittering cliffs of Eubœa, and she looked and saw that a ship was sailing towards the shore beneath the hill of Hymettos. Presently it reached the shore, and she could see that a man stepped out of the ship, and began to climb the hill, while the rest remained on the beach. As he came nearer to her, Prokris knew that his face was very fair, and she thought that she had never seen such beauty in mortal man before. She had heard that sometimes the gods come down from their home on Olympos to mingle among the children of men, and that sometimes the bright heroes were seen in the places where they had lived on the earth before they were taken to dwell in the halls of Zeus. As the stranger came near to her the sun rose brightly and without a cloud from the dark sea, and its light fell on his face, and made it gleam with more than mortal beauty. Gently he came towards her, and said, "Lady, I am come from the far-off eastern land, and as I drew near to this shore I saw that some one was resting here upon the hill. So I hastened to leave the ship that I might learn the name of the country which I have reached. My name is Kephalos, and my father, Helios, lives in a beautiful home beyond the sea, but I am traveling over the earth, till I shall have gone over every land and seen all the cities which men have built. Tell me now thy name, and the name of this fair land." Then she said, "Stranger, my name is Prokris, and I am the daughter of King Erechtheus, who dwells at Athens yonder, where thou seest the bright line of Kephisos flowing gently into the sea." So Prokris guided the stranger to her father's house, and Erechtheus received him kindly, and spread a banquet before him. But as they feasted and drank the dark red wine, he thought almost that Kephalos must be one of the bright heroes come back to his own land, so fair and beautiful was he to look upon, and that none save only his own child, Prokris, might be compared to him for beauty.
Long time Kephalos abode in the house of Erechtheus, and, each day, he loved more and more the bright and happy Prokris; and Prokris became brighter and happier, as the eye of Kephalos rested gently and lovingly upon her. At last Kephalos told her of his love, and Erechtheus gave him his child to be his wife, and there were none in all the land who dwelt together in a love so deep and pure as that of Kephalos and Prokris.
But among the maidens of that land there was one who was named Eos. She, too, was fair and beautiful, but she had not the gentle spirit and the guileless heart of Prokris. Whenever Kephalos wandered forth with his young wife, then Eos would seek to follow them stealthily, or, if she met them by chance, she would suffer her eyes to rest long on the fair face of Kephalos, till she began to envy the happiness of Prokris. And so one day, when there was a feast of the people of the land, and the maidens danced on the soft grass around the fountain, Kephalos and Eos talked together, and Eos suffered herself to be carried away by her evil love. From that day she sought more and more to talk with Kephalos, till at last she bowed her head before him and told him softly of her love. But Kephalos said to her, gently, "Maiden, thou art fair to look upon, and there are others who may love thee well, and thou deservest the love of any. But I may not leave Prokris, whom Erechtheus has given to me to be my wife. Forgive me, maiden, if Prokris appear to me even fairer than thou art; but I prize her gentleness more than her beauty, and Prokris, with her pure love and guileless heart, shall be always dearer to me than any other in all the wide earth." Then Eos answered him craftily, "O Kephalos, thou hast suffered thyself to be deceived. Prokris loves thee not as I do; prove her love and thou shalt see that I have spoken truly."
Thus Eos spoke to him for many days, and the great happiness of his life was marred, for the words of Eos would come back to his mind, as he looked on the happy and guileless Prokris. He had begun to doubt whether she were in very deed so pure and good as she seemed to be, and at last he said to Eos that he would prove her love. Then Eos told him how to do so, and said that if he came before his wife as a stranger and brought to her rich gifts, as from a distant land, she would forget her love for Kephalos.
With a heavy heart he went away, for he foreboded evil days from the subtle words of Eos, and he departed and dwelt in another land. So the time passed on, until many weeks and months had gone by, and Prokris mourned and wept in the house of Erechtheus, until the brightness of her eye was dimmed and her voice had lost its gladness. Day after day she sought throughout all the land for Kephalos, day after day she went up the hill of Hymettos, and as she looked towards the sea, she said, "Surely he will come back again; ah, Kephalos, thou knowest not the love which thou hast forsaken." Thus she pined away in her sorrow, although to all who were around her she was as gentle and as loving as ever. Her father was now old and weak, and he knew that he must soon die, but it grieved him most of all that he must leave his child in a grief more bitter than if Kephalos had remained to comfort her. So Erechtheus died, and the people honored him as one of the heroes of the land, but Prokris remained in his house desolate, and all who saw her pitied her for her true love and her deep sorrow. At last she felt that Kephalos would return no more, and that she could no more be happy until she went to her father in the bright home of the heroes and the gods.
Then a look of peace and loving patience came over her fair face, and she roamed with a strange gladness through every place where Kephalos had wandered with her; and so it came to pass that one day Prokris sat resting in the early morning on the eastern slopes of Mount Hymettos, when suddenly she beheld a man coming near to her. The dress was strange, but she half thought she knew his tall form and the light step as he came up the hill. Presently he came close to her, and she felt as if she were in a strange dream. The sight of his face and the glance of his eye carried her back to the days that were past, and she started up and ran towards him, saying, "O Kephalos, thou art come back at last; how couldst thou forsake me so long?" But the stranger answered, in a low and gentle voice (for he saw that she was in great sorrow), "Lady, thou art deceived. I am a stranger come from a far country, and I seek to know the name of this land." Then Prokris sat down again on the grass, and clasped her hands, and said, slowly, "It is changed and I can not tell how; yet surely it is the voice of Kephalos." Then she turned to the stranger, and said, "O stranger, I am mourning for Kephalos, whom I have loved and lost; he, too, came from a far land across the sea. Dost thou know him, and canst thou tell me where I may find him?" And the stranger answered, "I know him, lady; he is again in his own home, far away, whither thou canst not go; yet think not of him, for he has forgotten his love." Then the stranger spoke to her in gentle and soothing words, until her grief became less bitter. Long time he abode in the land, and it pleased Prokris to hear his voice while his eye rested kindly on her, until she almost fancied that she was with Kephalos once more. And she thought to herself, "What must that land be, from which there can come two who are beautiful as the bright heroes?"
So at last, when with soft and gentle words he had soothed her sorrow, the stranger spoke to her of his love, and Prokris felt that she, too, could love him, for had not Kephalos despised her love and forsaken her long ago? So he said, "Canst thou love me, Prokris, instead of Kephalos?" and when she gently answered "Yes," then a change came over the face of the stranger, and she saw that it was Kephalos himself who clasped her in his arms. With a wild cry she broke from him, and as bitter tears ran down her cheek, she said, "O Kephalos, Kephalos, why hast thou done thus? all my love was thine, and thou hast drawn me into evil deeds." Then, without tarrying for his answer, with all her strength she fled away, and she hastened to the sea shore and bade them make ready a ship to take her from her father's land. Sorrowfully they did as she besought them, and they took her to the Island of Crete, far away in the eastern sea.
When Prokris was gone, the maiden Eos came and stood before Kephalos, and she said to him, "My words are true, and now must thou keep the vow by which thou didst swear to love me, if Prokris should yield herself to a stranger." So Kephalos dwelt with Eos, but for all her fond words he could not love her as still he loved Prokris.
Meanwhile Prokris wandered, in deep and bitter sorrow, among the hills and valleys of Crete. She cared not to look on the fair morning as it broke on the pale path of night; she cared not to watch the bright sun as he rose from the dark sea, or when he sank to rest behind the western waters. For the earth had lost all its gladness, and she felt that she could die. But one day as she sat on a hill-side and looked on the broad plains which lay stretched beneath, suddenly a woman stood before her, brighter and more glorious than the daughters of men, and Prokris knew, from the spear which she held in her hand and the hound which crouched before her, that it was Artemis, the mighty child of Zeus and Leto. Then Prokris fell at her feet, and said, "O lady Artemis, pity me in my great sorrow;" and Artemis answered, "Fear not, Prokris, I know thy grief. Kephalos hath done thee a great wrong, but he shall fall by the same device wherewith he requited thy pure and trusting love." Then she gave to Prokris her hound and her spear, and said, "Hasten now to thine own land, and go stand before Kephalos, and I will put a spell upon him that he may not know thee. Follow him in the chase, and at whatsoever thou mayest cast this spear, it shall fall, and from this hound no prey which thou mayest seek for shall ever escape."
So Prokris sailed back to the land of Erechtheus with the gifts of Artemis. And when Kephalos went to the chase, Prokris followed him, and all the glory of the hunt fell to her portion, for the hound struck down whatever it seized, and her spear never missed its aim. And Kephalos marveled greatly, and said to the maiden, "Give me thy hound and thy spear," and he besought the stranger many times for the gift, till at last Prokris said, "I will not give them but for thy love, thou must forsake Eos and come to dwell with me." Then Kephalos said, "I care not for Eos; so only I have thy gifts, thou shalt have my love." But even as he spoke these words, a change came over the face of the stranger, and he saw that it was Prokris herself who stood before him. And Prokris said, "Ah, Kephalos, once more thou hast promised to love me, and now may I keep thy love, and remain with thee always. Almost I may say that I never loved any one but thee, but thou art changed, Kephalos, although still the same, else wouldst thou not have promised to love me for the gift of a hound and a spear." Then Kephalos besought Prokris to forgive him, and he said, "I am caught in the trap which I laid for thee, but I have fallen deeper. When thou gavest thy love to me as to a stranger, it pleased thee yet to think that I was like Kephalos, and my vow to thee has been given for the mere gifts which I coveted." But Prokris only said, "My joy is come back to me again, and now I will leave thee no more."
So once more in the land of Erechtheus Prokris and Kephalos dwelt together in a true and deep love. Once more they wandered over hill and dale as in the times that were past, and looked out from the heights of Hymettos to the white shore of Eubœa, as it glistened in the light of early day. But whenever he went to the chase with the hound and the spear of Artemis, Prokris saw that Eos still watched if haply she might talk with Kephalos alone, and win him again for herself. Once more she was happy, but her happiness was not what it had been when Kephalos first gave her his love, while her father, Erechtheus, was yet alive. She knew that Eos still envied her, and she sought to guard Kephalos from the danger of her treacherous look and her enticing words. She kept ever near him in the chase, although he saw her not, and thus it came to pass that one day, as Prokris watched him from a thicket, the folds of her dress rustled against the branches, so that Kephalos thought it was some beast moving from his den, and hurled at her the spear of Artemis that never missed its mark. Then he heard the cry as of one who has received a deadly blow, and when he hastened into the thicket, Prokris lay smitten down to the earth before him. The coldness of death was on her face, and her bright eye was dim, but her voice was as loving as ever, while she said, "O Kephalos, it grieves me not that thy arm hath struck me down. I have thy love, and having it, I go to the land of the bright heroes, where my father, Erechtheus, is waiting for his child, and where thou, too, shalt one day meet me, to dwell with me forever." One loving look she gave to Kephalos, and the smile of parting vanished in the stillness of death.
NUMA POMPILIUS VISITING THE NYMPH EGERIA.[ToList]
Then over the body of Prokris Kephalos wept tears of bitter sorrow, and he said, "Ah, Eos, Eos, well hast thou rewarded me for doubting once a love such as thou couldst never feel." Many days and many weeks he mourned for his lost love, and daily he sat on the slopes of Hymettos, and thought with a calm and almost happy grief how Prokris there had rested by his side. All this time the spear of Artemis was idle, and the hound went not forth to the chase, until chieftains came from other lands to ask his aid against savage beasts or men. Among them came Amphitryon, the lord of Thebes, to ask for help, and Kephalos said, "I will do as thou wouldst have me. It is time that I should begin to journey to the bright land where Prokris dwells, beyond the western sea."
So he went with Amphitryon into the Theban land, and hunted out the savage beasts which wasted his harvests, and then he journeyed on till he came to the home of Phœbus Apollo, at Delphi. There the god bade him hasten to the western sea, where he should once again find Prokris. Onward he went, across the heights and vales of Ætolia, until he stood on the Leukadian cape and looked out on the blue water. The sun was sinking low down in the sky, and the golden clouds of evening were gathered round him as he hastened to his rest. And Kephalos said, "Here must I rest, also, for my journey is done, and Prokris is waiting for me in the brighter land." There on the white cliff he stood, and just as the sun touched the waters, the strength of Kephalos failed him, and he sank gently into the sea.
So again, in the homes of the bright heroes, Kephalos found the wife whom he had loved and slain.
SKYLLA.
From the turret of her father's house, Skylla, the daughter of Nisos, watched the ships of King Minos, as they drew near from the Island of Crete. Their white sails and the spears of the Cretan warriors sparkled in the sunshine, as the crested waves rose and fell, carrying the long billows to the shore. As she watched the goodly sight, Skylla thought sadly of the days that were gone, when her father had sojourned as a guest in the halls of King Minos, and she had looked on his face as on the face of a friend. But now there was strife between the chieftains of Crete and Megara, for Androgeos, the son of Minos, had been slain by evil men as he journeyed from Megara to Athens, and Minos was come hither with his warriors to demand the price of his blood. But when the herald came with the message of Minos, the face of Nisos, the King, flushed with anger, as he said, "Go thy way to him that sent thee, and tell him that he who is guarded by the undying gods cares not for the wrath of men whose spears shall be snapped like bulrushes." Then said the herald, "I can not read thy riddle, chieftain of Megara, but the blood of the gods runs in the veins of Minos, and it can not be that the son of Europa shall fall under the hands of thee or of thy people."
The sun went down in a flood of golden glory behind the purple heights of Geraneia, and as the mists of evening fell upon the land, the warriors of Minos made ready for the onset on the morrow. But when the light of Eos flushed the eastern sky, and the men of Crete went forth to the battle, their strength and their brave deeds availed them nothing, for the arms of the mightiest became weak as the hands of a little child, because the secret spell, in which lay the strength of the undying gods, guarded the city of Nisos. And so it came to pass that, as day by day they fought in vain against the walls of Megara, the spirit of the men of Crete waxed feeble, and many said that they came not thither to fight against the deathless gods.
But each day as Minos led his men against the city, the daughter of Nisos had looked forth from her turret, and she saw his face, beautiful as in the days when she had sojourned in his house at Gnossos, and flushed with the pride and eagerness of the war. Then the heart of Skylla was filled with a strange love, and she spake musingly within herself, "To what end is this strife of armed men? Love is beyond all treasures, and brighter for me than the love of others would be one kindly look from the bright son of Europa. I know the spell which keeps the city of the Megarians, and where is the evil of the deed, if I take the purple lock of hair which the gods have given to my father as a pledge that so long as it remains untouched, no harm shall befall his people? If I give it to Minos the struggle is ended, and it may be that I shall win his love."
So when the darkness of night fell again upon the earth, and all the sons of men were buried in a deep sleep, Skylla entered stealthily into her father's chamber, and shore off the purple lock in which lay his strength and the strength of his people. Then, as the tints of early morning stole across the dark heavens, the watchmen of the Cretans beheld the form of a woman as she drew nigh to them and bade them lead her to the tent of King Minos. When she was brought before him, with downcast face she bowed herself to the earth, and said, "I have sojourned in thy halls in the days that are gone, when there was peace between thee and the house of my father, Nisos. O Minos, peace is better than war, and of all treasures the most precious is love. Look on me, then, gently as in former days, for at a great price do I seek thy kindness. In this purple lock is the strength of my father and his people." Then a strange smile passed over the face of Minos, as he said, "The gifts of fair maidens must not be lightly cast aside; the requital shall be made when the turmoil of strife is ended."
With a mighty shout the Cretan warriors went forth to the onset as the fiery horses of Helios rose up with his chariot into the kindled heaven. Straightway the walls of Megara fell, and the men of Crete burst into the house of Nisos. So the city was taken, and Minos made ready to go against the men of Athens, for on them also he sought to take vengeance for the death of his son, Androgeos. But even as he hastened to his ship, Skylla stood before him on the sea-shore. "Thy victory is from me," she said, "where is the requital of my gift?" Then Minos answered, "She who cares not for the father that has cherished her has her own reward, and the gift which thou didst bring me is beyond human recompense." The light southern breeze swelled the outspread sail, and the ship of Minos danced gaily over the rippling waters. For a moment the daughter of Nisos stood musing on the shore. Then she stretched forth her arms, as with a low cry of bitter anguish she said, "O Love, thy sting is cruel, and my life dies poisoned by the smile of Aphrodite!" So the waters closed over the daughter of Nisos, as she plunged in the blue depths; but the strife which vexes the sons of men follows her still, when the eagle swoops down from the clouds for his prey in the salt sea.
PHRIXOS AND HELLE.
Many, many years ago, there was a man called Athamas, and he had a wife whose name was Nephele. They had two children—a boy and a girl. The name of the boy was Phrixos, and his sister was called Helle. They were good and happy children, and played about merrily in the fields, and their mother, Nephele, loved them dearly. But by and by their mother was taken away from them, and their father, Athamas, forgot all about her, for he had not loved her as he ought to do. And very soon he married another wife whose name was Ino, but she was harsh and unkind to Phrixos and Helle, and they began to be very unhappy. Their cheeks were no more rosy, and their faces no longer looked bright and cheerful, as they used to do when they could go home to their mother, Nephele, and so they played less and less, until none would have thought that they were the same children who were so happy before Nephele was taken away. But Ino hated these poor children, for she was a cruel woman, and she longed to get rid of Phrixos and Helle, and she thought how she might do so. So she said that Phrixos spoiled all the corn, and prevented it from growing, and that they would not be able to make any bread till he was killed. At last she persuaded Athamas that he ought to kill Phrixos. But although Athamas cared nothing about Phrixos and Helle, still their mother, Nephele, saw what was going on, although they could not see her, because there was a cloud between them; and Nephele was determined that Athamas should not hurt Phrixos. So she sent a ram which had a golden fleece to carry her children away, and one day, when they were sitting down on the grass (for they were too sad and unhappy to play), they saw a beautiful ram come into the field. And Phrixos said to Helle, "Sister, look at this sheep that is coming to us; see, he shines all over like gold—his horns are made of gold, and all the hair on his body is golden, too." So the ram came nearer and nearer, and at last he lay down quite close to them, and looked so quiet that Phrixos and Helle were not at all afraid of him. Then they played with the sheep, and they took him by the horns, and stroked his golden fleece, and patted him on the head, and the ram looked so pleased that they thought they would like to have a ride on his back. So Phrixos got up first, and put his arms round the ram's neck, and little Helle got up behind her brother and put her arms round his waist, and then they called to the ram to stand up and carry them about. And the ram knew what they wanted, and began to walk first, and then to run. By and by it rose up from the ground and began to fly. And when it first left the earth, Phrixos and Helle became frightened, and they begged the ram to go down again and put them upon the ground, but the ram turned his head round, and looked so gently at them, that they were not afraid any more. So Phrixos told Helle to hold on tight round his waist, and he said, "Dear Helle, do not be afraid, for I do not think the ram means to do us any harm, and I almost fancy that he must have been sent by our dear mother, Nephele, and that he will carry us to some better country, where the people will be kind to us, as our mother used to be."
Now it so happened that, just as the ram began to fly away with the two children on its back, Ino and Athamas came into the field, thinking how they might kill Phrixos, but they could not see him anywhere; and when they looked up, then, high up in the air over their heads, they saw the ram flying away with the children on its back. So they cried out and made a great noise, and threw stones up into the air, thinking that the ram would get frightened and come down to the earth again; but the ram did not care how much noise they made or how many stones they threw up. On and on he flew, higher and higher, till at last he looked only like a little yellow speck in the blue sky; and then Ino and Athamas saw him no more.
So these wicked people sat down, very angry and unhappy. They were sorry because Phrixos and Helle had got away all safe, when they wanted to kill them. But they were much more sorry because they had gone away on the back of a ram whose fleece was made of gold. So Ino said to Athamas, "What a pity that we did not come into the field a little sooner, for then we might have caught this ram and killed him and stripped off his golden fleece, and we should have been rich for the rest of our days."
All this time the ram was flying on and on, higher and higher, with Phrixos and Helle on his back. And Helle began to be very tired, and she said to her brother that she could not hold on much longer, and Phrixos said, "Dear Helle, try and hold on as long as you possibly can; I dare say the ram will soon reach the place to which he wants to carry us, and then you shall lie down on the soft grass, and have such pleasant sleep that you will not feel tired any more." But Helle said, "Dearest Phrixos, I will indeed try and hold fast as long as I can, but my arms are becoming so weak that I am afraid that I shall not be able to hold on long." And by and by, when she grew weaker, she said, "Dear Phrixos, if I fall off, you will not see Helle any more, but you must not forget her, you must always love her as she loved you, and then some day or other we shall see each other again, and live with our dear mother, Nephele." Then Phrixos said, "Try and hold fast a little longer still, Helle. I can never love any one so much as I love you; but I want you to live with me on earth, and I can not bear to think of living without you."
But it was of no use that he talked so kindly and tried to encourage his sister, because he was not able to make her arms and her body stronger; so by and by poor Helle fell off, just as they were flying over a narrow part of the sea, and she fell into it and was drowned. And the people called the part of the sea where she fell in, the Hellespont, which means the sea of little Helle.
So Phrixos was left alone on the ram's back; and the ram flew on and on a long way, till it came to the palace of Aietes, the King of Kolchis. And King Aietes was walking about in his garden, when he looked up into the sky, and saw something which looked very like a yellow sheep with a little boy on its back. And King Aietes was greatly amazed, for he had never seen so strange a thing before, and he called his wife and his children, and everyone else that was in his house, to come and see this wonderful sight. And they looked, and saw the ram coming nearer and nearer, and then they knew that it really was a boy on its back; and by and by the ram came down upon the earth near their feet, and Phrixos got off its back. Then King Aietes went up to him, and took him by the hand, and asked him who he was, and he said, "Tell me, little boy, how it is that you come here, riding in this strange way on the back of a ram." Then Phrixos told him the ram had come into the field where he and Helle were playing, and had carried them away from Ino and Athamas, who were very unkind to them, and how little Helle had grown tired, and fallen off his back, and had been drowned in the sea. Then King Aietes took Phrixos up in his arms, and said, "Do not be afraid; I will take care of you and give you all that you want, and no one shall hurt you here; and the ram which has carried you through the air shall stay in this beautiful place, where he will have as much grass to eat as he can possibly want, and a stream to drink out of and to bathe in whenever he likes."
So Phrixos was taken into the palace of King Aietes, and everybody loved him, because he was good and kind, and never hurt anyone. And he grew up healthy and strong, and he learned to ride about the country and to leap and run over the hills and valleys, and swim about in the clear rivers. He had not forgotten his sister Helle, for he loved her still as much as ever, and very often he wished that she could come and live with him again, but he knew that she was with his mother, Nephele, in the happy land to which good people go after they are dead. And therefore he was never unhappy when he thought of his sister, for he said, "One day I, too, shall be taken to that bright land, and live with my mother and my sister again, if I try always to do what is right." And very often he used to go and see the beautiful ram with the golden fleece feeding in the garden, and stroke its golden locks.
But the ram was not so strong now as he was when he flew through the air with Phrixos and Helle on his hack, for he was growing old and weak, and at last the ram died, and Phrixos was very sorry. And King Aietes had the golden fleece taken off from the body, and they nailed it up upon the wall, and every one came to look at the fleece which was made of gold, and to hear the story of Phrixos and Helle.
But all this while Athamas and Ino had been hunting about everywhere, to see if they could find out where the ram had gone with the children on his back; and they asked every one whom they met, if they had seen a sheep with a fleece of gold carrying away two children. But no one could tell anything about it, till at last they came to the house of Aietes, the King of Kolchis. And they came to the door, and asked Aietes if he had seen Phrixos and Helle, and the sheep with the golden fleece. Then Aietes said to them, "I have never seen little Helle, for she fell off from the ram's back, and was drowned in the sea, but Phrixos is with me still, and as for the ram, see here is his golden fleece nailed up upon the wall." And just then Phrixos happened to come in, and Aietes asked them, "Look, now, and tell me if this is the Phrixos whom you are seeking." And when they saw him, they said, "It is indeed the same Phrixos who went away on the ram's back, but he is grown into a great man;" and they began to be afraid, because they thought they could not now ill-treat Phrixos, as they used to do when he was a little boy. So they tried to entice him away by pretending to be glad to see him, and they said, "Come away with us, and we shall live happily together." But Phrixos saw from the look of their faces that they were not telling the truth, and that they hated him still, and he said to them, "I will not go with you; King Aietes has been very good to me, and you were always unkind to me and to my sister, and therefore I will never leave King Aietes to go away with you." Then they said to Aietes, "Phrixos may stay here, but give us the golden fleece which came from the ram that carried away the children." But the King said, "I will not—I know that you only ask for it because you wish to sell it, and therefore you shall not have it."
Then Ino and Athamas turned away in a rage, and went to their own country again, wretched and unhappy because they could not get the golden fleece. And they told every one that the fleece of the ram was in the palace of the King of Kolchis, and they tried to persuade every one to go in a great ship and take away the fleece by force. So a great many people came, and they all got into a large ship called the Argo, and they sailed and sailed, until at last they came to Kolchis. Then they sent some one to ask Aietes to give them the golden fleece, but he would not, and they would never have found the fleece again, if the wise maiden, Medeia, had not shown Iason how he might outdo the bidding of King Aietes. But when Iason had won the prize and they had sailed back again to their own land, the fleece was not given to Athamas and Ino. The other people took it, for they said, "It is quite right that we should have it, to make up for all our trouble in helping to get it." So, with all their greediness, these wretched people remained as poor and as miserable as ever.
MEDEIA.
Far away in the Kolchian land, where her father, Aietes, was King, the wise maiden, Medeia, saw and loved Iason, who had come in the ship, Argo, to search for the golden fleece. To her Zeus had given a wise and cunning heart, and she had power over the hidden things of the earth, and nothing in the broad sea could withstand her might. She had spells to tame the monsters which vex the children of men, and to bring back youth to the wrinkled face and the tottering limbs of the old. But the spells of Eros were mightier still, and the wise maiden forgot her cunning as she looked on the fair countenance of Iason, and she said within herself that she would make him conqueror in his struggle for the golden fleece, and go with him to be his wife in the far-off western land. So King Aietes brought up in vain the fire-breathing bulls that they might scorch Iason as he plowed the land with the dragon's teeth, and in vain from these teeth sprang up the harvest of armed men ready for strife and bloodshed. For Medeia had anointed the body of Iason with ointment, so that the fiery breath of the bulls hurt him not; and by her bidding he cast a stone among the armed men, and they fought with one another for the stone till all lay dead upon the ground. Still King Aietes would not give to him the golden fleece, and the heart of Iason was cast down till Medeia came to him and bade him follow her. Then she led him to a hidden dell where the dragon guarded the fleece, and she laid her spells on the monster and brought a heavy sleep upon his eye, while Iason took the fleece and hastened to carry it on board the ship Argo.
So Medeia left her father's house, and wandered with Iason into many lands—to Iolkos, to Athens, and to Argos. And wherever she went, men marveled at her for her wisdom and her beauty, but as they looked on her fair face and listened to her gentle voice, they knew not the power of the maiden's wrath if any one should do her wrong. So she dwelt at Iolkos, in the house of Pelias, who had sent forth Iason to look for the golden fleece, that he might not be King in his stead, and the daughters of Pelias loved the beautiful Medeia, for they dreamed not that she had sworn to avenge on Pelias the wrong which he had done to Iason. Craftily she told the daughters of Pelias of the power of her spells, which could tame the fire-breathing bulls, and lull the dragon to sleep, and bring back the brightness of youth to the withered cheeks of the old. And the daughters of Pelias said to her, "Our father is old, and his limbs are weak and tottering, show us how once more he can be made young." Then Medeia took a ram and cut it up, and put its limbs into a caldron, and when she had boiled them on the hearth there came forth a lamb, and she said, "So shall your father be brought back again to youth and strength, if ye will do to him as I have done to the ram, and when the time is come, I will speak the words of my spell, and the change shall be accomplished." So the daughters of Pelias followed her counsel, and put the body of their father into the caldron, and, as it boiled on the hearth, Medeia said, "I must go up to the house-top and look forth on the broad heaven, that I may know the time to speak the words of my charm." And the fire waxed fiercer and fiercer, but Medeia gazed on at the bright stars, and came not down from the house-top till the limbs of Pelias were consumed away.
POLYHYMNIA (Muse Of Rhetoric and Eloquence).[ToList]
Then a look of fierce hatred passed over her face, and she said, "Daughters of Pelias, ye have slain your father, and I go with Iason to the land of Argos." So thither she sped with him in her dragon chariot, which bore them to the house of King Kreon.
Long time she abode in Argos, rejoicing in the love of Iason and at the sight of her children, who were growing up in strength and beauty. But Iason cared less and less for the wise and cunning Medeia, and he loved more to look on Glauke, the daughter of the King, till at last he longed to be free from the love and the power of Medeia.
Then men talked in Argos of the love of Iason for the beautiful Glauke, and Medeia heard how he was going to wed another wife. Once more her face grew dark with anger, as when she left the daughters of Pelias mourning for their father, and she vowed a vow that Iason should repent of his great treachery. But she hid her anger within her heart, and her eye was bright and her voice was soft and gentle as she spake to Iason and said, "They tell me that thou art to wed the daughter of Kreon; I had not thought thus to lose the love for which I left my father's house and came with thee to the land of strangers. Yet do I chide thee not, for it may be that thou canst not love the wise Kolchian maid like the soft daughters of the Argive land, and yet thou knowest not altogether how I have loved thee. Go, then, and dwell with Glauke, and I will send her a bright gift, so that thou mayest not forget the days that are past."
So Iason went away, well pleased that Medeia had spoken to him gently and upbraided him not, and presently his children came after him to the house of Kreon, and said, "Father, we have brought a wreath for Glauke, and a robe which Helios gave to our mother, Medeia, before she came away with thee from the house of her father." Then Glauke came forth eagerly to take the gifts, and she placed the glittering wreath on her head, and wrapped the robe round her slender form. Like a happy child, she looked into a mirror to watch the sparkling of the jewels on her fair forehead, and sat down on the couch playing with the folds of the robe of Helios. But soon a look of pain passed over her face, and her eyes shone with a fiery light as she lifted her hand to take the wreath away, but the will of Medeia was accomplished, for the poison had eaten into her veins, and the robe clung with a deadly grasp to her scorched and wasted limbs. Through the wide halls rang the screams of her agony, as Kreon clasped his child in his arms. Then sped the poison through his veins also, and Kreon died with Glauke.
Then Medeia went with her children to the house-top, and looked up to the blue heaven, and stretching forth her arms, she said, "O Helios, who didst give to me the wise and cunning heart, I have avenged me on Iason, even as once I avenged him on Pelias. Thou hast given me thy power; yet, it may be, I would rather have the life-long love of the helpless daughters of men."
Presently her dragon chariot rose into the sky, and the people of Argos saw the mighty Medeia no more.
THESEUS.
Many a long year ago a little child was playing on the white sand of the Bay of Troizen. His golden locks streamed in the breeze as he ran amongst the rippling waves which flung themselves lazily on the beach. Sometimes he clapped his hands in glee as the water washed over his feet, and he stopped again to look with wondering eyes at the strange things which were basking on the sunny shore, or gazed on the mighty waters which stretched away bright as a sapphire stone into the far distance. But presently some sadder thoughts troubled the child, for the look of gladness passed away from his face, and he went slowly to his mother, who sat among the weed-grown rocks, watching her child play.
"Mother," said the boy, "I am very happy here, but may I not know to-day why I never see my father as other children do? I am not now so very young, and I think that you feel sometimes lonely, for your face looks sad and sorrowful, as if you were grieving for some one who is gone away."
Fondly and proudly the mother looked on her boy, and smoothed the golden locks on his forehead, as she said, "My child, there is much to make us happy, and it may be that many days of gladness are in store for us both. But there is labor and toil for all, and many a hard task awaits thee, my son. Only have a brave heart, and turn away from all things mean and foul, and strength will be given thee to conquer the strongest enemy. Sit down, then, here by my side, and I will tell thee a tale which may make thee sad, but which must not make thee unhappy, for none can do good to others who waste their lives in weeping. Many summers have come and gone since the day when a stranger drew nigh to the house of my father, Pittheus. The pale light of evening was fading from the sky, but we could see, by his countenance and the strength of his stalwart form, that he was come of a noble race and could do brave deeds. When Pittheus went forth from the threshold to meet him, the stranger grasped his hand, and said, 'I come to claim the rights of our ancient friendship, for our enemies have grown too mighty for us, and Pandion, my father, rules no more in Athens. Here, then, let me tarry till I can find a way to punish the men who have driven away their King and made his children wanderers on the earth.' So Aigeus sojourned in my father's house, and soon he won my love, and I became his wife. Swiftly and happily the days went by, and one thing only troubled me, and this was the thought that one day he must leave me, to fight with his enemies and place his father again upon his throne. But even this thought was forgotten for awhile, when Aigeus looked on thee for the first time, and, stretching forth his hands towards heaven, said, 'O Zeus, that dwellest in the dark cloud, look down on my child, and give him strength that he may be a better man than his father, and if thou orderest that his life shall be one of toil, still let him have the joy which is the lot of all who do their work with a cheerful heart and keep their hands from all defiling things.' Then the days passed by more quickly and happily than ever, but at last there came the messengers from Athens, to tell him that the enemies of Pandion were at strife among themselves, and that the time was come that Aigeus should fight for his father's house. Not many days after this we sat here, watching thee at play among the weeds and flowers that climb among the rocks, when thy father put his arms gently round me, and said, 'Aithra, best gift of all that the gods have ever given to me, I leave thee to go to my own land, and I know not what things may befall me there, nor whether I may return hither to take thee to dwell with me at Athens. But forget not the days that are gone, and faint not for lack of hope that we may meet again in the days that are coming. Be a brave mother to our child, that so he, too, may grow up brave and pure, and when he is old enough to know what he must do, tell him that he is born of a noble race, and that he must one day fight stoutly to win the heritage of his fathers.' And now, my son, thou seest yonder rock, over which the wild briars have clambered. No hands have moved it since the day when thy father lifted it up and placed beneath it his sword and his sandals. Then he put back the stone as it was before, and said to me, 'When thou thinkest fit, tell our child that he must wait until he is able to lift this stone. Then must he put my sandals on his feet, and gird my sword on his side, and journey to the city of his forefathers.' From that day, my child, I have never seen thy father's face, and the time is often weary, although the memory of the old days is sweet and my child is by my side to cheer me with his love. So now thou knowest something of the task that lies before thee. Think of thy father's words, and make thyself ready for the toil and danger that may fall to thy lot in time to come."
SPHINX OF EGYPT.[ToList]
The boy looked wistfully into his mother's face, and a strange feeling of love and hope and strength filled his heart, as he saw the tears start to her eyes when the tale was ended. His arms were clasped around her neck, but he said only, "Mother, I will wait patiently till I am strong enough to lift the stone, but before that time comes, perhaps my father may come back from Athens."
So for many a year more the days went by, and the boy, Theseus, grew up brave, truthful, and strong. None who looked upon him grudged him his beauty, for his gentleness left no room for envy, and his mother listened with a proud and glad heart to the words with which the people of the land told of his kindly deeds. At length the days of his youth were ended, but Aigeus came not back, and Theseus went to Aithra, and said, "The time is come, my mother; I must see this day whether I am strong enough to lift the stone." And Aithra answered, gently, "Be it as thou wilt, and as the undying gods will it, my son." Then he went up to the rock, and nerved himself for a mighty effort, and the stone yielded slowly to his strength, and the sword and sandals lay before him. Presently he stood before Aithra, and to her it seemed that the face of Theseus was as the face of one of the bright heroes who dwell in the halls of Zeus. A flush of glorious beauty lit up his countenance, as she girt the sword to his side and said, "The gods prosper thee, my son, and they will prosper thee, if thou livest in time to come as thou hast lived in the days that are gone."
So Theseus bade his mother farewell, there on the white sea-shore, where long ago he had asked her first to tell him of his name and kindred. Sadly, yet with a good hope, he set out on his journey. The blue sea lay before him, and the white sails of ships glistened as they danced on the heaving waters. But Theseus had vowed a vow that he would do battle with the evil-doers who filled the land with blood, and for terror of whom the travelers walked in by-ways. So at Epidauros he fought with the cruel Periphetes, and smote him with his own club, and at the Megarian isthmus he seized the robber, Sinis, and tore him to pieces between the trunks of pines, even as he had been wont to do with the wayfarers who fell into his hands. Then, in the thickets of Krommyon, he slew the huge sow that ravaged the fair corn-fields, and on the borderland he fought a sore fight with Skiron, who plundered all who came in his path, and, making them wash his feet, hurled them, as they stooped, down the cliffs which hung over the surging sea. Even so did Theseus to him, and journeying on to the banks of Kephisos, stretched the robber, Prokroustes, on the bed on which he had twisted and tortured the limbs of his victims till they died.
Thus, amid the joyous shoutings of the people whom he had set free, Theseus entered into the city of his fathers, and the rumor of him was brought to Aigeus, the King. Then the memory of the days that were gone came back to Aigeus, and his heart smote him as he thought within himself that this must be the child of Aithra, whom he had left mourning on the shore of Troizen. But soon there was a strife in the city, for among the mightiest of the people were many who mocked at Theseus, and said, "Who is this stranger that men should exalt him thus, as though he came of the race of heroes? Let him show that he is the child of Aigeus, if he would win the heritage which he claims." So was Theseus brought before the King, and a blush of shame passed over the old man's face when he saw the sword and sandals which he had left beneath the great stone, near the Troizenian shore. Few words only he spake of welcome, and none of love or kindness for his child or for the wife who still yearned for the love of the former days. Then, at his father's bidding, Theseus made ready to go forth once again on his path of toil, and he chafed not against the hard lot which had fallen to his portion. Only he said, "The love of a father would sweeten my labor, but my mother's love is with me still, and the battle is for right and for law."
So in after-times the minstrels sang of the glorious deeds of Theseus the brave and fair. They told how at last at the bidding of his father he went forth from the gates of Athens and smote the bull which ravaged the broad plains of Marathon, and how in the secret maze of the labyrinth he smote the Minotauros. They sang of his exploits in the day when the Amazons did battle with the men of Athens—how he went with Meleagros and his chieftains to the chase of the boar in Kalydon—how with the heroes in the ship Argo he brought back the golden fleece from Kolchis. They told how at last he went down with Peirithoos, his comrade, into the gloomy kingdom of Hades and seized on the daughter of Demeter, to bring her to the land of living men. They sang of the fierce wrath of Hades when his lightnings burst forth and smote Peirithoos—of the dark prison-house where Theseus lay while many a rolling year went round, until at last the mighty Herakles passed the borders of the shadowy land and set the captive free.
And so it was that, when the heroes had passed to the home of Zeus and the banquet of the gods, the glory of Theseus was as the glory of the brave son of Alkmene who toiled for the false Eurystheus; and ever in the days of feasting, the minstrels linked together the names of Herakles and Theseus.
ARIADNE.
The soft western breeze was bearing a ship from the Athenian land to the fair haven of Gnossos, and the waters played merrily round the ship as it sped along the paths of the sea. But on board there were mournful hearts and weeping eyes, for the youths and maidens which that ship was bearing to Crete were to be the prey of the savage Minotauros. As they came near the harbor gates, they saw the people of King Minos crowded on the shore, and they wept aloud because they should no more look on the earth and on the sun as he journeyed through the heaven.
In that throng stood Ariadne, the daughter of the King, and as she gazed on the youths and maidens who came out of the tribute ship, there passed before her one taller and fairer than all, and she saw that his eye alone was bright and his step firm, as he moved from the shore to go to the house of Minos. Presently they all stood before the King, and he saw that one alone gazed steadfastly upon him, while the eyes of the rest were dim with many tears. Then he said, "What is thy name?" The young man answered, "I am Theseus, the son of King Aigeus, and I have come as one of the tribute children, but I part not with my life till I have battled for it with all my strength. Wherefore send me first, I pray thee, that I may fight with Minotauros; for if I be the conqueror, then shall all these go back with me in peace to our own land." Then Minos said, "Thou shalt indeed go first to meet Minotauros; but think not to conquer him in the fight, for the flame from his mouth will scorch thee, and no mortal man may withstand his strength." And Theseus answered, "It is for man to do what best he may; the gods know for whom remains the victory."
But the gentle heart of Ariadne was moved with love and pity as she looked on his fair face and his bright and fearless eye, and she said within herself, "I can not kill the Minotauros or rob him of his strength, but I will guide Theseus so that he may reach the monster while sleep lies heavy upon him."
On the next day Theseus, the Athenian, was to meet the dreadful Minotauros, who dwelt in the labyrinth of Gnossos. Far within its thousand twisted alleys was his den, where he waited for his prey, as they were brought each along the winding paths. But Ariadne talked in secret with Theseus in the still evening time, and she gave him a clue of thread, so that he might know how to come back out of the mazes of the labyrinth after he had slain the Minotauros; and when the moon looked down from heaven, she led him to a hidden gate, and bade him go forth boldly, for he should come to the monster's den while sleep lay heavy on his eyes. So when the morning came, the Minotauros lay lifeless on the ground, and there was joy and gladness in the great city of Gnossos, and Minos himself rejoiced that the youths and maidens might go back with Theseus in peace to Athens.
So once again they went into the ship, and the breeze blew softly to carry them to the homes which they had not thought to see again. But Theseus talked with Ariadne, in the house of Minos, and the maiden wept as though some great grief lay heavy upon her, and Theseus twined his arm gently round her, and said, "Fairest of maidens, thy aid hath saved me from death, but I care not now to live if I may not be with thee. Come with me, and I will lead thee to the happier land, where my father, Aigeus, is King. Come with me, that my people may see and love the maiden who rescued the tribute children from the savage Minotauros."
CALLIOPE. (Muse of Heroic Verse.)[ToList]
Then Ariadne went with him joyfully, for her own love made her think that Theseus loved her not less dearly. So she wept not as she saw the towers of Gnossos growing fainter and fainter while the ship sped over the dancing waters, and she thought only of the happy days which she should spend in the bright Athens where Theseus should one day be King. Gaily the ship sped upon her way, and there was laughter and mirth among the youths and maidens who were going back to their home. And Theseus sat by the side of Ariadne, speaking the words of a deeper love than in truth he felt, and fancying that he loved the maiden even as the maiden loved him. But while yet he gazed on the beautiful Ariadne, the image of Aigle came back to his mind, and the old love was wakened again in his heart. Onward sailed the ship, cleaving its way through the foaming waters, by the Islands of Thera and Amorgos, till the high cliffs of Naxos broke upon their sight.
The sun was sinking down into the sea when they came to its winding shores, and the seamen moored the ship to the land, and came forth to rest until the morning. There they feasted gaily on the beach, and Theseus talked with Ariadne until the moon was high up in the sky. So they slept through the still hours of night, but when the sun was risen, Ariadne was alone upon the sea-shore. In doubt and fear, she roamed along the beach, but she saw no one, and there was no ship sailing on the blue sea. In many a bay and nook she sought him, and she cried in bitter sorrow, "Ah, Theseus, Theseus, hast thou forsaken me?" Her feet were wounded by the sharp flints, her limbs were faint from very weariness, and her eyes were dim with tears. Above her rose the high cliffs like a wall, before her was spread the bright and laughing sea, and her heart sank within her, for she felt that she must die. "Ah, Theseus," she cried, "have I done thee wrong? I pitied thee in the time of thy sorrow and saved thee from thy doom, and then I listened to thy fair words, and trusted them as a maiden trusts when love is first awakened within her. Yet hast thou dealt me a hard requital. Thou art gone to happy Athens, and it may be thou thinkest already of some bright maiden who there has crossed thy path, and thou hast left me here to die for weariness and hunger. So would I not requite thee for a deed of love and pity."
Wearied and sad of heart, she sank down on the rock, and her long hair streamed over her fair shoulders. Her hands were clasped around her knees, and the hot tears ran down her cheeks, and she knew not that there stood before her one fairer and brighter than the sons of men, until she heard a voice which said, "Listen to me, daughter of Minos. I am Dionysos, the lord of the feast and revel. I wander with light heart and the sweet sounds of laughter and song over land and sea; I saw thee aid Theseus when he went into the labyrinth to slay the Minotauros. I heard his fair words when he prayed thee to leave thy home and go with him to Athens. I saw him this morning, while yet the stars twinkled in the sky, arouse his men and sail away in his ship to the land of Aigeus; but I sought not to stay him, for, Ariadne, thou must dwell with me. Thy love and beauty are a gift too great for Theseus; but thou shalt be the bride of Dionysos. Thy days shall be passed amid feasts and banquets, and when thy life is ended here, thou shalt go with me to the homes of the undying gods, and men shall see the crown of Ariadne in the heavens when the stars look forth at night from the dark sky. Nay, weep not, Ariadne, thy love for Theseus hath been but the love of a day, and I have loved thee long before the black-sailed ship brought him from poor and rugged Athens." Then Ariadne wept no more, and in the arms of Dionysos she forgot the false and cruel Theseus; so that among the matrons who thronged round the joyous wine-god the fairest and the most joyous was Ariadne, the daughter of Minos.
ARETHUSA.
On the heights of Mænalos the hunter Alpheios saw the maiden Arethusa as she wandered joyously with her companions over the green swelling downs where the heather spread out its pink blossoms to the sky. Onward she came, the fairest of all the band, until she drew nigh to the spot where Alpheios stood marveling at the brightness of her beauty. Then, as she followed the winding path on the hill-side, she saw his eye resting upon her, and her heart was filled with fear, for his dark face was flushed by the toil of the long chase and his torn raiment waved wildly in the breeze. And yet more was she afraid when she heard the sound of his rough voice, as he prayed her to tarry by his side. She lingered not to listen to his words, but with light foot she sped over hill and dale and along the bank of the river where it leaps down the mountain cliffs and winds along the narrow valleys.
Then Alpheios vowed a vow that the maiden should not escape him. "I will follow thee," he said, "over hill and dale; I will seek thee through rivers and seas, and where thou shalt rest, there will I rest, also." Onward they sped, across the dark heights of Erymanthos and over the broad plains of Pisa, till the waters of the western sea lay spread out before them, dancing in the light of the midday sun.
Then with arms outstretched, and with wearied limbs, Arethusa cried aloud, and said, "O daughters of the gentle Okeanos, I have played with you on the white shore in the days of mirth and gladness, and now I come to your green depths. Save me from the hand of the wild huntsman." So she plunged beneath the waves of the laughing sea, and the daughters of Okeanos bore her gently downwards till she came to the coral caves, where they sat listening to the sweet song of the waters. But there they suffered her not to rest, for they said, "Yet further must thou flee, Arethusa, for Alpheios comes behind thee." Then in their arms they bore her gently beneath the depths of the sea, till they laid her down at last on the Ortygian shore of the Thrinakian land, as the sun was sinking down in the sky. Dimly she saw spread before her the blue hills, and she felt the soft breath of the summer breeze, as her eyes closed for weariness. Then suddenly she heard the harsh voice which scared her on the heights of Mænalos, and she tarried not to listen to his prayer. "Flee not away, Arethusa," said the huntsman, Alpheios, "I mean not to harm thee; let me rest in thy love, and let me die for the beauty of thy fair face." But the maiden fled with a wild cry along the winding shore, and the light step of her foot left no print on the glistening sand. "Not thus shalt thou escape from my arms," said the huntsman, and he stretched forth his hand to seize the maiden, as she drew nigh to a fountain whose waters flashed clear and bright in the light of the sinking sun. Then once again Arethusa called aloud on the daughters of Okeanos, and she said, "O friends, once more I come to your coral caves, for on earth there is for me no resting-place." So the waters closed over the maiden, and the image of heaven came down again on the bright fountain. Then a flush of anger passed over the face of Alpheios, as he said, "On earth thou hast scorned my love, O maiden, but my form shall be fairer in thy sight when I rest beside thee beneath the laughing waters." So over the huntsman, Alpheios, flowed the Ortygian stream, and the love of Arethusa was given to him in the coral caves, where they dwell with the daughters of Okeanos.
THE ORIGIN OF MAN. (From an antique Sculpture.)[ToList]
TYRO.
On the banks of the fairest stream in all the land of Thessaly, the golden-haired Enipeus wooed the maiden Tyro; with her he wandered in gladness of heart, following the path of the winding river, and talking with her of his love. And Tyro listened to his tender words, as day by day she stole away from the house of her father, Salmoneus, to spend the livelong day on the banks of his beautiful stream.
But Salmoneus was full of rage when he knew that Tyro loved Enipeus, and how she had become the mother of two fair babes. There was none to plead for Tyro and her helpless children, for her mother, Alkidike, was dead, and Salmoneus had taken the iron-hearted Sidero to be his wife. So he followed her evil counsels, and he said to Tyro, "Thy children must die, and thou must wed Kretheus, the son of the mighty Aiolos."
Then Tyro hastened in bitter sorrow to the banks of the stream, and her babes slept in her arms, and she stretched out her hands with a loud cry for aid, but Enipeus heard her not, for he lay in his green dwelling far down beneath the happy waters. So she placed the babes amidst the thick rushes which grew along the banks, and she said, "O Enipeus, my father says that I may no more see thy face; but to thee I give our children; guard them from the anger of Salmoneus, and it may be that in time to come they will avenge my wrongs."
There, nestled amid the tall reeds, the children slept, till a herdsman saw them as he followed his cattle along the shore. And Tyro went back in anguish of heart to the house of Salmoneus, but she would not have the love of Kretheus or listen to his words. Then Sidero whispered again her evil counsels into the ear of Salmoneus, and he shut up Tyro, so that she might not see the light of the sun or hear the voice of man. He cut off the golden locks that clustered on her fair cheeks, he clothed her in rough raiment, and bound her in fetters which gave her no rest by night or by day. So in her misery she pined away, and her body was wasted by hunger and thirst, because she would not become the wife of Kretheus. Then more and more she thought of the days when she listened to the words of Enipeus as she wandered with him by the side of the sounding waters, and she said within herself, "He heard me not when I called to him for help, but I gave him my children, and it may be that he has saved them from death; and if ever they see my face again, they shall know that I never loved any save Enipeus, who dwells beneath the stream."
So the years passed on, and Pelias and Neleus dwelt with the herdsman, and they grew up strong in body and brave of soul. But Enipeus had not forgotten the wrongs of Tyro, and he put it into the heart of her children to punish Sidero for her evil counsels. So Sidero died, and they brought out their mother from her dreary dungeon, and led her to the banks of the stream where she had heard the words of Enipeus in the former days. But her eyes were dim with long weeping, and the words of her children sounded strangely in her ears, and she said, "O my children, let me sink to sleep while I hear your voices, which sound to me like the voice of Enipeus." So she fell asleep and died, and they laid her body in the ground by the river's bank, where the waters of Enipeus made their soft music near her grave.
NARKISSOS.
On the banks of Kephisos, Echo saw and loved the beautiful Narkissos, but the youth cared not for the maiden of the hills, and his heart was cold to the words of her love, for he mourned for his sister, whom Hermes had taken away beyond the Stygian River. Day by day he sat alone by the streamside, sorrowing for the bright maiden whose life was bound up with his own, because they had seen the light of the sun in the self-same day, and thither came Echo and sat down by his side, and sought in vain to win his love. "Look on me and see," she said, "I am fairer than the sister for whom thou dost mourn." But Narkissos answered her not, for he knew that the maiden would ever have something to say against his words. So he sat silent and looked down into the stream, and there he saw his own face in the clear water, and it was to him as the face of his sister for whom he pined away in sorrow, and his grief became less bitter as he seemed to see again her soft blue eye, and almost to hear the words which came from her lips. But the grief of Narkissos was too deep for tears, and it dried up slowly the fountain of his life. In vain the words of Echo fell upon his ears, as she prayed him to hearken to her prayer: "Ah, Narkissos, thou mournest for one who can not heed thy sorrow, and thou carest not for her who longs to see thy face and hear thy voice forever." But Narkissos saw still in the waters of Kephisos the face of his twin sister, and still gazing at it he fell asleep and died. Then the voice of Echo was heard no more, for she sat in silence by his grave, and a beautiful flower came up close to it. Its white blossoms drooped over the banks of Kephisos where Narkissos had sat and looked down into its clear water, and the people of the land called the plant after his name.
ORPHEUS AND EURYDIKE.
In the pleasant valleys of a country which was called Thessaly there lived a man whose name was Orpheus. Every day he made soft music with his golden harp, and sang beautiful songs such as no one had ever heard before. And whenever Orpheus sang, then everything came to listen to him, and the trees bowed down their heads to hear, and even the clouds sailed along more gently and brightly in the sky when he sang, and the stream which ran close to his feet made a softer noise, to show how glad his music made it.
Now, Orpheus had a wife who was called Eurydike, whom he loved very dearly. All through the winter, when the snow was on the hills, and all through the summer, when the sunshine made everything beautiful, Orpheus used to sing to her, and Eurydike sat on the grass by his side while the beasts came round to listen, and the trees bowed down their heads to hear him.
But one day when Eurydike was playing with some children on the bank of the river, she trod upon a snake in the long grass, and the snake bit her. And by and by she began to be very sick, and Eurydike knew that she must die. So she told the children to go to Orpheus (for he was far away) and say how sorry she was to leave him, and that she loved him always very dearly, and then she put her head down upon the grass and fell asleep and died. Sad indeed was Orpheus when the children came to tell him that Eurydike was dead. He felt so wretched that he never played upon his golden harp, and he never opened his lips to sing, and the beasts that used to listen to him wondered why Orpheus sat all alone on the green bank where Eurydike used to sit with him, and why it was that he never made any more of his beautiful music. All day long he sat there, and his cheeks were often wet with tears. At last he said, "I can not stay here any more, I must go and look for Eurydike. I can not bear to be without her, and perhaps the king of the land where people go after they are dead will let her come back and live with me again."
So he took his harp in his hand, and went to look for Eurydike in the land which is far away, where the sun goes down into his golden cup before the night comes on. And he went on and on a very long way, till at last he came to a high and dark gateway. It was barred across with iron bars, and it was bolted and locked so that nobody could open it.
It was a wretched and gloomy place, because the sunshine never came there, and it was covered with clouds and mist. In front of this great gateway there sat a monstrous dog, with three heads, and six eyes, and three tongues, and everything was dark around, except his eyes, which shone like fire, and which saw every one that dared to come near. Now, when Orpheus came looking for Eurydike, the dog raised his three heads, and opened his three mouths, and gnashed his teeth at him, and roared terribly, but when Orpheus came nearer, the dog jumped up upon his feet and got himself ready to fly at him and tear him to pieces. Then Orpheus took down his harp and began to play upon its golden strings. And the dog, Kerberos (for that was his name), growled and snarled and showed the great white teeth which were in his three mouths, but he could not help hearing the sweet music, and he wondered why it was that he did not wish any more to tear Orpheus in pieces. Very soon the music made him quiet and still, and at last it lulled him to sleep, and only his heavy breathing told that there was any dog there. So when Kerberos had gone to sleep, Orpheus passed by him and came up to the gate, and he found it wide open, for it had come open of its own accord while he was singing. And he was glad when he saw this, for he thought that now he should see Eurydike.
So he went on and on a long way, until he came to the palace of the King, and there were guards placed before the door who tried to keep him from going in, but Orpheus played upon his harp, and then they could not help letting him go.
ERATE (Muse of the Lute).
TERPSICHORE. (Muse of Dancing.)[ToList]
So he went into the great hall, where he saw the King and Queen sitting on a throne, and as Orpheus came near, the King called out to him with a loud and terrible voice, "Who are you, and how dare you to come here? Do you not know that no one is allowed to come here till after they are dead? I will have you chained and placed in a dungeon, from which you will never be able to get out." Then Orpheus said nothing, but he took his golden harp in his hand and began to sing more sweetly and gently than ever, because he knew that, if he liked to do so, the King could let him see Eurydike again. And as he sang, the face of the King began to look almost glad, and his anger passed away, and he began to feel how much happier it must be to be gentle and loving than to be angry and cruel. Then the King said, "You have made me feel happy with your sweet music, although I have never felt happy before; and now tell me why you have come, because you must want something or other, for, otherwise, no one would come, before he was dead, to this sad and gloomy land of which I am the King." Then Orpheus said, "O King, give me back my dear Eurydike, and let her go from this gloomy place and live with me on the bright earth again." So the King said that she should go. And the King said to Orpheus, "I have given you what you wanted, because you sang so sweetly, and when you go back to the earth from this place, your wife whom you love shall go up after you, but remember that you must never look back until she has reached the earth, for if you do, Eurydike will be brought back here, and I shall not be able to give her to you again, even if you should sing more sweetly and gently than ever."
Now, Orpheus was longing to see Eurydike, and he hoped that the King would let him see her at once, but when the King said that he must not try to see her till she had reached the earth, he was quite content, for he said, "Shall I not wait patiently a little while, that Eurydike may come and live with me again?" So he promised the King that he would go up to the earth without stopping to look behind and see whether Eurydike was coming after him.
Then Orpheus went away from the palace of the King, and he passed through the dark gateway, and the dog, Kerberos, did not bark or growl, for he knew that Orpheus would not have been allowed to come back if the King had not wished it. So he went on and on a long way, and he became impatient, and longed more and more to see Eurydike. At last he came near to the land of living men, and he saw just a little streak of light, where the sun was going to rise from the sea, and presently the sky became brighter, and he saw everything before him so clearly that he could not help turning round to look at Eurydike. But, ah! she had not yet quite reached the earth, and so now he lost her again. He just saw something pale and white, which looked like his own dear wife, and he just heard a soft and gentle voice, which sounded like the voice of Eurydike, and then it all melted away. And still he thought that he saw that pale white face, and heard that soft and gentle voice, which said, "O Orpheus, Orpheus, why did you look back? How dearly I love you, and how glad I should have been to live with you again, but now I must go back, because you have broken your promise to the King, and I must not even kiss you, and say how much I love you."
And Orpheus sat down at the place where Eurydike was taken away from him, and he could not go on any further, because he felt so miserable. There he stayed day after day, and his cheek became more pale, and his body weaker and weaker, till at last he knew that he must die. And Orpheus was not sorry, for although he loved the bright earth, with all its flowers and soft grass and sunny streams, he knew that he could not be with Eurydike again until he left it. So at last he laid his head upon the earth, and fell asleep, and died; and then he and Eurydike saw each other in the land which is far away, where the sun goes down at night into his golden cup, and were never parted again.
KADMOS AND EUROPA.
In a beautiful valley in Phœnicia, a long time ago, two children, named Kadmos and Europa, lived with their mother, Telephassa. They were good and happy children, and full of fun and merriment. It was a very lovely place in which they lived, where there were all sorts of beautiful trees with fruits and flowers. The oranges shone like gold among the dark leaves, and great bunches of dates hung from the tall palm trees which bowed their heads as if they were asleep, and there was a delicious smell from the lime groves, and from many fruits and flowers which are never seen in America, but which blossom and ripen under the hot sun in Syria.
So the years went; and one day, as they were playing about by the side of the river, there came into the field a beautiful white bull. He was quite white all over—as white as the whitest snow; there was not a single spot or speck on any part of his body. And he came and lay down on the green grass, and remained still and quiet. So they went nearer and nearer to the bull, and the bull did not move, but looked at them with his large eyes as if he wished to ask them to come and play with him, and at last they came to the place where the bull was. Then Kadmos thought that he would be very brave, so he put out his hand, and began to pat the bull on his side, and the bull only made a soft sound to show how glad he was. Then Europa put out her hand, and stroked him on the face, and laid hold of his white horn, and the bull rubbed his face gently against her dress.
So by and by Kadmos thought that it would be pleasant to have a ride on the back of the bull, and he got on, and the bull rose up from the ground, and went slowly round the field with Kadmos on his back, and just for a minute or two Kadmos felt frightened, but when he saw how well and safely the bull carried him, he was not afraid any more. So they played with the bull until the sun sank down behind the hills, and then they hastened home.
When they reached the house, they ran quickly to Telephassa, and said to her, "Only think, we have been playing in the field with a beautiful white bull." And Telephassa was glad that they had been so happy, but she would not have been so glad if she had known what the bull was going to do.
Now, the next day while Europa was on its back, the bull began to trot quickly away, but Kadmos thought he was only trotting away for fun. So he ran after him, and cried out to make him stop. But the faster that Kadmos ran, the bull ran faster still, and then Kadmos saw that the bull was running away with his sister, Europa. Away the bull flew, all along the bank of the river, and up the steep hill and down into the valley on the other side, and then he scoured along the plain beneath. And Kadmos watched his white body, which shone like silver as he dashed through the small bushes and the long waving grass and the creeping plants which were trailing about all over the ground, till at last the white body of the bull looked only like a little speck, and then Kadmos could see it no more.
Very wretched was Kadmos when his sister was taken away from him in this strange way. His eyes were full of tears so that he could scarcely see, but still he kept on looking and looking in the way the bull had gone, and hoping that he would bring his sister back by and by. But the sun sank lower and lower in the sky, and then Kadmos saw him go down behind the hills, and he knew now that the bull would not come again, and then he began to weep bitterly. He hardly dared to go home and tell Telephassa what had happened, and yet he knew that he ought to tell her. So he went home slowly and sadly, and Telephassa saw him coming alone, and she began to be afraid that something had happened to Europa, and when she came up to him Kadmos could scarcely speak. At last he said, "The bull has run away with Europa." Then Telephassa asked him where he had gone, and Kadmos said that he did not know. But Telephassa said, "Which way did he go?" and then Kadmos told her that the bull had run away towards the land of the West, where the sun goes down into his golden cup. Then Telephassa said that they, too, must get up early in the morning and go towards the land of the West, and see if they could find Europa again.
That night they hardly slept at all, and their cheeks were pale and wet with their tears. And before the sun rose, and while the stars still glimmered in the pale light of the morning, they got up and went on their journey to look for Europa. Far away they went, along the valleys and over the hills, across the rivers and through the woods, and they asked every one whom they met if they had seen a white bull with a girl upon its back. But no one had seen anything of the kind, and many people thought that Kadmos and Telephassa were silly to ask such a question, for they said, "Girls do not ride on the backs of bulls; you can not be telling the truth." So they went on and on, asking every one, but hearing nothing about her; and as they journeyed, sometimes they saw the great mountains rising up high into the sky, with their tops covered with snow, and shining like gold in the light of the setting sun; sometimes they rested on the bank of a great broad river, where the large white leaves lay floating and sleeping on the water, and where the palm trees waved their long branches above their heads. Sometimes they came to a water-fall, where the water sparkled brightly as it rushed over the great stones. And whenever they came to these beautiful places, Kadmos would say to Telephassa, "How we should have enjoyed staying here if Europa were with us; but we do not care to stay here now, we must go on looking for her everywhere." So they went on and on till they came to the sea, and they wondered how they could get across it, for it was a great deal wider than any river which they had seen. At last they found a place where the sea was narrow, and here a boatman took them across in his boat, just where little Helle had been drowned when she fell off the back of the ram that was carrying her and her brother away to Kolchis. So Telephassa and Kadmos crossed over Hellespontos, which means the Sea of Helle, and they went on and on, over mountains and hills and rocks, and wild gloomy places, till they came to the sunny plains of Thessaly. And still they asked every one about Europa, but they found no one who had seen her. And Kadmos saw that his mother was getting weak and thin, and that she could not walk now as far and as quickly as she had done when they had set out from home to look for his sister. So he asked her to rest for a little while. But Telephassa said, "We must go on, Kadmos, for if we do, perhaps we may still find Europa." So they went on, until at last Telephassa felt that she could not go any further. And she said to Kadmos, "I am very tired, and I do not think I shall be able to walk any more with you; I must lie down and go to sleep here, and perhaps, Kadmos, I may not wake again. But if I die while I am asleep, then you must go on by yourself and look for Europa, for I am quite sure that you will find her some day, although I shall not be with you. And when you see your sister, tell her how I longed to find her again, and how much I loved her always. And now, my child, I must go to sleep, and if I do not wake up any more, then I trust that we shall all see each other again one day, in a land which is brighter and happier than even the land in which we used to live before your sister was taken away from us."
So when she had said this, Telephassa fell asleep, just as the daylight was going away from the sky, and when the bright round moon rose up slowly from behind the dark hill. All night long Kadmos watched by her side, and when the morning came, he saw that Telephassa had died while she was asleep. Her face was quite still, and Kadmos knew by the happy smile which was on it, that she had gone to the bright land to which good people go when they are dead. Kadmos was very sorry to be parted from his mother, but he was not sorry that now she could not feel tired or sorrowful any more. So Kadmos placed his mother's body in the ground, and very soon all kinds of flowers grew up upon her grave.
But Kadmos had gone on to look for his sister, Europa, and presently he met a shepherd who was leading his flock of sheep. He was very beautiful to look at. His face shone as bright almost as the sun. He had a golden harp, and a golden bow, and arrows in a golden quiver, and his name was Phœbus Apollo. And Kadmos went up to him and said, "Have you seen my sister, Europa? a white bull ran away with her on his back. Can you tell me where I can find her?" And Phœbus Apollo said, "I have seen your sister, Europa, but I can not tell you yet where she is, you must go on a great way further still, till you come to a town which is called Delphi, under a great mountain named Parnassos, and there perhaps you may be able to find out something about her. But when you have seen her you must not stay there, because I wish you to build a city, and become a King, and be wise and strong and good. You and Europa must follow a beautiful cow that I shall send, till it lies down upon the ground to rest, and the place where the cow shall lie down shall be the place where I wish you to build the city."
So Kadmos went on and on till he came to the town of Delphi, which lay beneath the great mountain, called Parnassos. And there he saw a beautiful temple with white marble pillars, which shone brightly in the light of the early morning. And Kadmos went into the temple, and there he saw his dear sister, Europa. And Kadmos said, "Europa, is it you, indeed? How glad I am to find you." Then Europa told Kadmos how the bull had brought her and left her there a long time ago, and how sorry she had been that she could not tell Telephassa where she was. Then she said to Kadmos, "How pale and thin and weak you look; tell me how it is you are come alone, and when shall I see our dear mother?" Then his eyes became full of tears, and Kadmos said, "We shall never see our mother again in this world. She has gone to the happy land where good people go when they are dead. She was so tired with seeking after you that at last she could not come any further, and she lay down and fell asleep, and never waked up again. But she said that when I saw you I must tell you how she longed to see you, and how she hoped that we should all live together one day in the land to which she has gone before us. And now, Europa, we must not stay here, for I met a shepherd whose name is Phœbus Apollo. He had a golden harp and a golden bow, and his face shone like the sun, and he told me that we must follow a beautiful cow which he would send, and build a city in that place where the cow shall lie down to rest."
ANCIENT SACRIFICE. (From Wall Painting of Pompeii.)[ToList]
So Europa left Delphi with her brother, Kadmos, and when they had gone a little way, they saw a cow lying down on the grass. But when they came near, the cow got up, and began to walk in front of them, and then they knew that this was the cow which Phœbus Apollo had sent. So they followed the cow, and it went on and on, a long way, and at last it lay down to rest on a large plain, and Kadmos knew then that this was the place where he must build the city. And there he built a great many houses, and the city was called Thebes. And Kadmos became the King of Thebes, and his sister, Europa, lived there with him. He was a wise and good King, and ruled his people justly and kindly. And by and by Kadmos and Europa both fell asleep and died, and then they saw their mother, Telephassa, in the happy land to which good people go when they are dead, and were never parted from her any more.
BELLEROPHON.
The minstrels sang of the beauty and the great deeds of Bellerophon through all the lands of Argos. His arm was strong in the battle, his feet were swift in the chase, and his heart was pure as the pure heart of Artemis and Athene. None that were poor and weak and wretched feared the might of Bellerophon. To them the sight of his beautiful form brought only joy and gladness, but the proud and boastful, the slanderer and the robber, dreaded the glance of his keen eye. But the hand of Zeus lay heavy upon Bellerophon. He dwelt in the halls of King Prœtos, and served him even as Herakles served the mean and crafty Eurystheus. For many long years Bellerophon knew that he must obey the bidding of a man weaker than himself, but his soul failed him not, and he went forth to his long toil with a heart strong as the sun when he rises in his strength, and pure as the heart of a little child.
But Anteia, the wife of King Prœtos, saw day by day the beauty of Bellerophon, and she would not turn away her eye from his fair face. Every day he seemed to her to be more and more like to the bright heroes who feast with the gods in the halls of high Olympos, and her heart became filled with love, and she sought to beguile Bellerophon by her enticing words. But he hearkened not to her evil prayer, and heeded not her tears and sighs; so her love was turned to wrath, and she vowed a vow that Bellerophon should suffer a sore vengeance, because he would not hear her prayer. Then, in her rage, she went to King Prœtos, and said, "Bellerophon, thy slave, hath sought to do me wrong, and to lead me astray by his crafty words. Long time he strove with me to win my love, but I would not hearken to him. Therefore, let thine hand lie more heavy upon him than in time past, for the evil that he hath done, and slay him before my face." Then was Prœtos also full of anger, but he feared to slay Bellerophon, lest he should bring on himself the wrath of Zeus, his father. So he took a tablet of wood, and on it he drew grievous signs of toil and war, of battles and death, and gave it to Bellerophon to carry to the far-off Lykian land, where the father of Anteia was King, and as he bade him farewell, he said, "Show this tablet to the King of Lykia, and he will recompense thee for all thy good deeds which thou hast done for me, and for the people of Argos."
So Bellerophon went forth on his long wandering, and dreamed not of the evil that was to befall him by the wicked craft of Anteia. On and on he journeyed towards the rising of the sun, till he came to the country of the Lykians. Then he went to the house of the King, who welcomed him with rich banquets, and feasted him for nine days, and on the tenth day he sought to know wherefore Bellerophon had come to the Lykian land. Then Bellerophon took the tablet of Prœtos and gave it to the King, who saw on it grievous signs of toil and woe, of battles and death. Presently the King spake, and said, "There are great things which remain for thee to do, Bellerophon, but when thy toil is over, high honor awaits thee here and in the homes of the bright heroes." So the King sent him forth to slay the terrible Chimæra, which had the face of a lion with a goat's body and a dragon's tail. Then Bellerophon journeyed yet further towards the rising of the sun, till he came to the pastures where the winged horse, Pegasos, the child of Gorgo, with the snaky hair, was feeding, and he knew that if he could tame the steed he should then be able to conquer the fierce Chimæra.
Long time he sought to seize on Pegasos, but the horse snorted wildly and tore up the ground in his fury, till Bellerophon sank wearied on the earth and a deep sleep weighed down his eyelids. Then, as he slept, Pallas Athene came and stood by his side, and cheered him with her brave words, and gave him a philtre which should tame the wild Pegasos. When Bellerophon awoke, the philtre was in his hand, and he knew now that he should accomplish the task which the Lykian King had given him to do. So, by the help of Athene, he mounted the winged Pegasos and smote the Chimæra, and struck off his head, and with it he went back, and told the King of all that had befallen him. But the King was filled with rage, for he thought not to see the face of Bellerophon again, and he charged him to go forth and do battle with the mighty Solymi and the fair Amazons. Then Bellerophon went forth again, for he dreamed not of guile and falsehood, and he dreaded neither man nor beast that might meet him in open battle. Long time he fought with the Solymi and the Amazons, until all his enemies shrank from the stroke of his mighty arm, and sought for mercy. Glad of heart, Bellerophon departed to carry his spoils to the home of the Lykian King, but as he drew nigh to it and was passing through a narrow dell where the thick brushwood covered the ground, fifty of the mightiest Lykians rushed upon him with fierce shoutings, and sought to slay him. At the first, Bellerophon withheld his hands, and said, "Lykian friends, I have feasted in the halls of your King, and eaten of his bread; surely ye are not come hither to slay me." But they shouted the more fiercely, and they hurled spears at Bellerophon; so he stretched forth his hand in the greatness of his strength, and did battle for his life until all the Lykians lay dead before him.
Weary in body and sad of heart, Bellerophon entered the hall where the King was feasting with his chieftains. And the King knew that Bellerophon could not have come thither unless he had first slain all the warriors whom he had sent forth to lie in wait for him. But he dissembled his wrath, and said, "Welcome, Bellerophon, bravest and mightiest of the sons of men. Thy toils are done, and the time of rest is come for thee. Thou shalt wed my daughter, and share with me my kingly power."
Then the minstrels praised the deeds of Bellerophon, and there was feasting for many days when he wedded the daughter of the King. But not yet was his doom accomplished; and once again the dark cloud gathered around him, laden with woe and suffering. Far away from his Lykian home, the wrath of Zeus drove him to the western land where the sun goes down into the sea. His heart was brave and guileless still, as in the days of his early youth, but the strength of his arm was weakened, and the light of his eye was now dim. Sometimes the might was given back to his limbs, and his face shone with its ancient beauty; and then, again, he wandered on in sadness and sorrow, as a man wanders in a strange path through the dark hours of night, when the moon is down. And so it was that when Bellerophon reached the western sea, he fell asleep and died, and the last sight which he saw before his eyes were closed was the red glare of the dying sun, as he broke through the barred clouds and plunged beneath the sea.
ALTHAIA AND THE BURNING BRAND.
There was feasting in the halls of Oineus, the chieftain of Kalydon, in the Ætolian land, and all prayed for wealth and glory for the chief, and for his wife, Althaia, and for the child who had on that day been born to them. And Oineus besought the King of gods and men with rich offerings, that his son, Meleagros, might win a name greater than his own, that he might grow up stout of heart and strong of arm, and that in time to come men might say, "Meleagros wrought mighty works and did good deeds to the people of the land."
But the mighty Moirai, whose word even Zeus himself may not turn aside, had fixed the doom of Meleagros. The child lay sleeping in his mother's arms, and Althaia prayed that her son might grow up brave and gentle, and be to her a comforter in the time of age and the hour of death. Suddenly, as she yet spake, the Moirai stood before her. There was no love or pity in their cold, grey eyes, and they looked down with stern, unchanging faces on the mother and her child, and one of them said, "The brand burns on the hearth, when it is burnt wholly, thy child shall die." But love is swifter than thought, and the mother snatched the burning brand from the fire, and quenched its flame in water, and she placed it in a secret place where no hand but her own might reach it.
So the child grew, brave of heart and sturdy of limb, and ever ready to hunt the wild beasts or to go against the cities of men. Many great deeds he did in the far-off Kolchian land, when the chieftains sailed with Athamas and Ino to take away the golden fleece from King Aietes. But there were greater things for him to do when he came again to Kalydon, for his father, Oineus, had roused the wrath of the mighty Artemis. There was rich banqueting in his great hall when his harvest was ingathered, and Zeus and all the other gods feasted on the fat burnt-offerings, but no gift was set apart for the virgin child of Leto. Soon she requited the wrong to Oineus, and a savage boar was seen in the land, which tore up the fruit-trees, and destroyed the seed in the ground, and trampled on the green corn as it came up. None dared to approach it, for its mighty tusks tore everything that crossed its path. Long time the chieftains took counsel what they should do, until Meleagros said, "I will go forth; who will follow me?" Then from Kalydon and from the cities and lands round about came mighty chieftains and brave youths, even as they had hastened to the ship, Argo, when they sought to win the golden fleece from Kolchis. With them came the Kouretes, who live in Pleuron, and among them were seen Kastor and Polydeukes, the twin brethren, and Theseus, with his comrade, Peirithoos, and Iason and Admetos. But more beautiful than all was Atalante, the daughter of Schoineus, a stranger from the Arcadian land. Much the chieftains sought to keep her from the chase, for the maiden's arm was strong, and her feet swift, and her aim sure, and they liked not that she should come from a far country to share their glory or take away their name. But Meleagros loved the fair and brave maiden, and said, "If she go not to the chase, neither will I go with you." So they suffered her, and the chase began. At first the boar fled, trampling down those whom he chanced to meet, and rending them with his tusks, but at last he stood fiercely at bay, and fought furiously, and many of the hunters fell, until at length the spear of Atalante pierced his side, and then Meleagros slew him.
Then was there great gladness as they dragged the body of the boar to Kalydon, and made ready to divide the spoil. But the anger of Artemis was not yet soothed, and she roused a strife between the men of Pleuron and the men of Kalydon. For Meleagros sought to have the head, and the Kouretes of Pleuron cared not to take the hide only for their portion. So the strife grew hot between them, until Meleagros slew the chieftain of the Kouretes, who was the brother of Althaia, his mother. Then he seized the head of the boar, and bare it to Atalante, and said, "Take, maiden, the spoils are rightly thine. From thy spear came the first wound which smote down the boar; and well hast thou earned the prize for the fleetness of thy foot and the sureness of thy aim."
So Atalante took the spoils and carried them to her home in the Arcadian land, but the men of Pleuron were full of wrath, and they made war on the men of Kalydon. Many times they fought, but in every battle the strong arm of Meleagros and his stout heart won the victory for the men of his own city, and the Kouretes began to grow faint in spirit, so that they quailed before the spear and sword of Meleagros. But presently Meleagros was seen no more with his people, and his voice was no longer heard cheering them on to the battle. No more would he take lance in hand or lift up his shield for the strife, but he tarried in his own house by the side of the beautiful Kleopatra, whom Idas, her father, gave to him to be his wife.
For the heart of his mother was filled with grief and rage when she heard the story of the deadly strife, and that Meleagros, her child, had slain her brother. In heavy wrath and sorrow she sat down upon the earth, and she cast the dust from the ground into the air, and with wild words called on Hades, the unseen King, and Persephone, who shares his dark throne: "Lord of the lands beneath the earth, stretch forth thy hand against Meleagros, my child. He has quenched the love of a mother in my brother's blood, and I will that he should die." And even as she prayed, the awful Erinys, who wanders through the air, heard her words and swore to accomplish the doom. But Meleagros was yet more wrathful when he knew that his mother had laid her curse upon him, and therefore he would not go forth out of his chamber to the aid of his people in the war.
MELPOMENE. (Muse of Tragedy.)[ToList]
So the Kouretes grew more and more mighty, and their warriors came up against the City of Kalydon, and would no longer suffer the people to come without the walls. And everywhere there was faintness of heart and grief of spirit, for the enemy had wasted their fields and slain the bravest of the men, and little store remained to them of food. Day by day Oineus besought his son, and the great men of the city fell at the knees of Meleagros and prayed him to come out to their help, but he would not hearken. Still he tarried in his chamber with his wife, Kleopatra, by his side, and heeded not the hunger and the wailings of the people. Fiercer and fiercer waxed the roar of war; the loosened stones rolled from the tottering wall, and the battered gates were scarce able to keep out the enemy. Then Kleopatra fell at her husband's knee, and she took him by the hand, and called him gently by his name, and said, "O Meleagros, if thou wilt think of thy wrath, think also of the evils which war brings with it—how when a city is taken, the men are slain, and the mother with her child, the old and the young are borne away into slavery. If the men of Pleuron win the day, thy mother may repent her of the curse which she has laid upon thee; but thou wilt see thy children slain and me a slave."
Then Meleagros started from his couch and seized his spear and shield. He spake no word, but hastened to the walls, and soon the Kouretes fell back before the spear which never missed its mark. Then he gathered the warriors of his city, and bade them open the gates, and went forth against the enemy. Long and dreadful was the battle, but at length the Kouretes turned and fled, and the danger passed away from the men of Kalydon.
But the Moirai still remembered the doom of the burning brand, and the unpitying Erinys had not forgotten the curse of Althaia, and they moved the men of Kalydon to withhold the prize of his good deeds from the chieftain, Meleagros. "He came not forth," they said, "save at the prayer of his wife. He hearkened not when we besought him, he heeded not our misery and tears; why should we give him that which he did not win from any love for us?" So his people were angry with Meleagros, and his spirit grew yet more bitter within him. Once again he lay within his chamber, and his spear and shield hung idle on the wall, and it pleased him more to listen the whole day long to the soft words of Kleopatra than to be doing brave and good deeds for the people of his land.
Then the heart of his mother, Althaia, was more and more turned away from him, so that she said in bitterness of spirit, "What good shall his life now do to me?" and she brought forth the half-burnt brand from its secret place, and cast it on the hearth. Suddenly it burst into a flame, and suddenly the strength of Meleagros began to fail as he lay in the arms of Kleopatra. "My life is wasting within me," he said; "clasp me closer in thine arms; let others lay a curse upon me, so only I die rejoicing in thy love." Weaker and weaker grew his failing breath, but still he looked with loving eyes on the face of Kleopatra, and his spirit went forth with a sigh of gladness, as the last spark of the brand flickered out upon the hearth.
Then was there grief and sorrow in the house of Oineus and through all the City of Kalydon, but they wept and mourned in vain. They thought now of his good deeds, his wise counsels, and his mighty arm, but in vain they bewailed the death of their chieftain in the glory of his age. Yet deeper and more bitter was the sorrow of Althaia, for the love of a mother came back to her heart when the Moirai had accomplished the doom of her child. And yet more bitterly sorrowed his wife, Kleopatra, and yearned for the love which had been torn away from her. There was no more joy within the halls of Oineus, for the Erinys had done their task well. Soon Althaia followed her child to the unknown land, and Kleopatra went forth with joy to meet Meleagros in the dark kingdom of Hades and Persephone.
IAMOS.
On the banks of Alpheios, Evadne watched over her new-born babe, till she fled away because she feared the wrath of Aipytos, who ruled in Phaisana. The tears streamed down her cheeks as she prayed to Phœbus Apollo, who dwells at Delphi, and said, "Lord of the bright day, look on thy child, and guard him when he lies forsaken, for I may no longer tarry near him."
CLIO (Muse of History).[ToList]
So Evadne fled away, and Phœbus sent two serpents, who fed the babe with honey as he lay amid the flowers which clustered round him. And ever more and more through all the land went forth the saying of Phœbus, that the child of Evadne should grow up mighty in wisdom and in the power of telling the things that should happen in the time to come. Then Aipytos asked of all who dwelt in his house to tell him where he might find the son of Evadne. But they knew not where the child lay, for the serpents had hidden him far away in the thicket, where the wild flowers sheltered him from wind and heat. Long time they searched amid the tall reeds which clothe the banks of Alpheios, until at last they found the babe lying in a bed of violets. So Aipytos took the child and called his name Iamos, and he grew up brave and wise of heart, pondering well the signs of coming grief and joy, and the tokens of hidden things which he saw in the heaven above him or the wide earth beneath. He spake but little to the youths and maidens who dwelt in the house of Aipytos, but he wandered on the bare hills or by the stream side, musing on many things. And so it came to pass that one night, when the stars glimmered softly in the sky, Iamos plunged beneath the waters of Alpheios, and prayed to Phœbus who dwells at Delphi, and to Poseidon, the lord of the broad sea; and he besought them to open his eyes, that he might reveal to the sons of men the things which of themselves they could not see. Then they led him away to the high rocks which look down on the plain of Pisa, and they said, "Look yonder, child of Evadne, where the white stream of Alpheios winds its way gently to the sea. Here, in the days which are to come, Herakles, the son of the mighty Zeus, shall gather together the sons of Helen, and give them in the solemn games the mightiest of all bonds; hither shall they come to know the will of Zeus, and here shall it be thy work and the work of thy children to read to them the signs which of themselves they can not understand." Then Phœbus Apollo touched his ears, and straightway the voices of the birds spake to him clearly of the things which were to come and he heard their words as a man listens to the speech of his friend. So Iamos prospered exceedingly, for the men of all the Argive land sought aid from his wisdom, and laid rich gifts at his feet. And he taught his children after him to speak the truth and to deal justly, so that none envied their great wealth, and all men spake well of the wise children of Iamos.
FINE ARTS.[ToC]
The artistic instinct is one of the earliest developed in man; the love of representation is evolved at the earliest period; we see it in the child, we see it in the savage, we find traces of it among primitive men. The child in his earliest years loves to trace the forms of objects familiar to his eyes. The savage takes a pleasure in depicting and rudely giving shape to objects which constantly meet his view. The artistic instinct is of all ages and of all climes; it springs up naturally in all countries, and takes its origin alike everywhere in the imitative faculty of man. Evidences of this instinct at the earliest period have been discovered among the relics of primitive men; rough sketches on slate and on stone of the mammoth, the deer, and of man, have been found in the caves of France; the American savage traces rude hunting scenes, or the forms of animals on the covering of his tents, and on his buffalo robes; the savage Australian covers the side of caverns, and the faces of rocks with coarse drawings of animals. We thus find an independent evolution of the art of design, and distinct and separate cycles of its development through the stages of rise, progress, maturity, decline and decay, in many countries the most remote and unconnected with one another. The earliest mode of representing men, animals and objects was in outline and in profile. It is evidently the most primitive style, and characteristic of the commencement of the art, as the first attempts made by children and uncivilized people are solely confined to it; the most inexperienced perceive the object intended to be represented, and no effort is required to comprehend it. Outline figures were thus in all countries the earliest style of painting, and we find this mode practiced at a remote period in Egypt and in Greece. In Egypt we meet paintings in this earliest stage of the art of design in the tombs of Beni Hassan, dating from over 2000 B.C. They are illustrative of the manners and customs of that age. Tradition tells us that the origin of the art of design in Greece was in tracing in outline and in profile the shadow of a human head on the wall and afterwards filling it in so as to present the appearance of a kind of silhouette. The Greek painted vases of the earliest epoch exhibit examples of this style. From this humble beginning the art of design in Greece rose in gradually successive stages, until it reached its highest degree of perfection under the hands of Zeuxis and Apelles.
The interest that attaches to Egyptian art is from its great antiquity. We see it in the first attempts to represent what in after times, and in some other countries, gradually arrived, under better auspices, at the greatest perfection; and we even trace in it the germ of much that was improved upon by those who had a higher appreciation of, and feeling for, the beautiful. For, both in ornamental art, as well as in architecture, Egypt exercised in early times considerable influence over other people less advanced than itself, or only just emerging from barbarism; and the various conventional devices, the lotus flowers, the sphinxes, and other fabulous animals, as well as the early Medusa's head, with a protruding tongue, of the oldest Greek pottery and sculptures, and the ibex, leopard, and above all the (Nile) "goose and sun," on the vases, show them to be connected with, and frequently directly borrowed from, Egyptian fancy. It was, as it still is, the custom of people to borrow from those who have attained to a greater degree of refinement and civilization than themselves; the nation most advanced in art led the taste, and though some had sufficient invention to alter what they adopted, and to render it their own, the original idea may still be traced whenever it has been derived from a foreign source. Egypt was long the dominant nation, and the intercourse established at a very remote period with other countries, through commerce of war, carried abroad the taste of this the most advanced people of the time; and so general seems to have been the fashion of their ornaments, that even the Nineveh marbles present the winged globe, and other well-known Egyptian emblems, as established elements of Assyrian decorative art.
ANCIENT ART AND LITERATURE.[ToList]
While Greece was still in its infancy, Egypt had long been the leading nation of the world; she was noted for her magnificence, her wealth, and power, and all acknowledged her pre-eminence in wisdom and civilization. It is not, therefore, surprising that the Greeks should have admitted into their early art some of the forms then most in vogue, and though the wonderful taste of that gifted people speedily raised them to a point of excellence never attained by the Egyptians or any others, the rise and first germs of art and architecture must be sought in the Valley of the Nile. In the oldest monuments of Greece, the sloping or pyramidal line constantly predominates; the columns in the oldest Greek order are almost purely Egyptian, in the proportions of the shaft, and in the form of its shallow flutes without fillets; and it is a remarkable fact that the oldest Egyptian columns are those which bear the closest resemblance to the Greek Doric.
Though great variety was permitted in objects of luxury, as furniture, vases, and other things depending on caprice, the Egyptians were forbidden to introduce any material innovations into the human figure, such as would alter its general character, and all subjects connected with religion retained to the last the same conventional type. A god in the latest temple was of the same form as when represented on monuments of the earliest date; and King Menes would have recognized Amun, or Osiris, in a Ptolemaic or a Roman sanctuary. In sacred subjects the law was inflexible, and religion, which has frequently done so much for the development and direction of taste in sculpture, had the effect of fettering the genius of Egyptian artists. No improvements, resulting from experience and observation, were admitted in the mode of drawing the human figure; to copy nature was not allowed; it was therefore useless to study it, and no attempt was made to give the proper action to the limbs. Certain rules, certain models, had been established by the priesthood, and the faulty conceptions of ignorant times were copied and perpetuated by every successive artist. For, as Plato and Synesius say, the Egyptian sculptors were not suffered to attempt anything contrary to the regulations laid down regarding the figures of the gods; they were forbidden to introduce any change, or to invent new subjects and habits, and thus the art, and the rules which bound it, always remained the same.
Egyptian bas-relief appears to have been, in its origin, a mere copy of painting, its predecessor. The first attempt to represent the figures of gods, sacred emblems, and other subjects, consisted in drawing or painting simple outlines of them on a flat surface, the details being afterwards put in with color; but in process of time these forms were traced on stone with a tool, and the intermediate space between the various figures being afterwards cut away, the once level surface assumed the appearance of a bas-relief. It was, in fact, a pictorial representation on stone, which is evidently the character of all the bas-reliefs on Egyptian monuments, and which readily accounts for the imperfect arrangement of their figures.
Deficient in conception, and above all in a proper knowledge of grouping, they were unable to form those combinations which give true expression; every picture was made up of isolated parts, put together according to some general notions, but without harmony, or preconceived effect. The human face, the whole body, and everything they introduced, were composed in the same manner, of separate members placed together one by one according to their relative situations: the eye, the nose, and other features composed a face, but the expression of feelings and passions was entirely wanting; and the countenance of the King, whether charging an enemy's phalanx in the heat of battle, or peaceably offering incense in a sombre temple, presented the same outline and the same inanimate look. The peculiarity of the front view of an eye, introduced in a profile, is thus accounted for: it was the ordinary representation of that feature added to a profile, and no allowance was made for any change in the position of the head.
It was the same with drapery: the figure was first drawn, and the drapery then added, not as part of the whole, but as an accessory; they had no general conception, no previous idea of the effect required to distinguish the warrior or the priest, beyond the impressions received from costume, or from the subject of which they formed a part, and the same figure was dressed according to the character it was intended to perform. Every portion of a picture was conceived by itself, and inserted as it was wanted to complete the scene; and when the walls of the building, where a subject was to be drawn, had been accurately ruled with squares, the figures were introduced, and fitted to this mechanical arrangement. The members were appended to the body, and these squares regulated their form and distribution, in whatever posture they might be placed.
As long as this conventional system continued, no great change could take place, beyond a slight variation in the proportions, which at one period became more elongated, particularly in the reign of the second Remeses; but still the general form and character of the figures continued the same, which led to the remark of Plato, "that the pictures and statues made ten thousand years ago, are in no one particular better or worse than what they now make." And taken in this limited sense—that no nearer approach to the beau ideal of the human figure, or its real character, was made at one period than another—his remark is true, since they were always bound by the same regulations, which prohibited any change in these matters, even to the latest times, as is evident from the sculptures of the monuments erected after Egypt had long been a Roman province. All was still Egyptian, though of bad style; and if they then attempted to finish the details with more precision, it was only substituting ornament for simplicity; and the endeavor to bring the proportions of the human figure nearer to nature, with the retention of its conventional type, only made its deformity greater, and showed how incompatible the Egyptian was with any other style.
In the composition of modern paintings three objects are required: one main action, one point of view, and one instant of time, and the proportions and harmony of the parts are regulated by perspective, but in Egyptian sculpture these essentials were disregarded; every thing was sacrificed to the principal figure; its colossal dimensions pointed it out as a center to which all the rest was a mere accessory, and, if any other was made equally conspicuous, or of equal size, it was still in a subordinate station, and only intended to illustrate the scene connected with the hero of the piece.
In the paintings of the tombs greater license was allowed in the representation of subjects relating to private life, the trades, or the manners and occupations of the people, and some indication of perspective in the position of the figures may occasionally be observed; but the attempt was imperfect, and, probably, to an Egyptian eye, unpleasing, for such is the force of habit, that even where nature is copied, a conventional style is sometimes preferred to a more accurate representation.
In the battle scenes on the temples of Thebes, some of the figures representing the monarch pursuing the flying enemy, despatching a hostile chief with his sword, and drawing his bow, as his horses carry his car over the prostrate bodies of the slain, are drawn with much spirit, and the position of the arms gives a perfect idea of the action which the artist intended to portray; still, the same imperfections of style, and want of truth, are observed; there is action, but no sentiment, expression of the passions, nor life in the features; it is a figure ready formed, and mechanically varied into movement, and whatever position it is made to assume, the point of view is the same: the identical profile of the human body with the anomaly of the shoulders seen in front. It is a description rather than a representation.
But in their mode of portraying a large crowd of persons they often show great cleverness, and, as their habit was to avoid uniformity, the varied positions of the heads give a truth to the subject without fatiguing the eye. Nor have they any symmetrical arrangement of figures, on opposite sides of a picture, such as we find in some of the very early paintings in Europe.
As their skill increased, the mere figurative representation was extended to that of a descriptive kind, and some resemblance of the hero's person was attempted; his car, the army he commanded, and the flying enemies, were introduced, and what was at first scarcely more than a symbol, aspired to the more exalted form and character of a picture. Of a similar nature were all their historical records, and these pictorial illustrations were a substitute for written documents. Rude drawing and sculpture, indeed, long preceded letters, and we find that even in Greece, to describe, draw, engrave, and write, were expressed by the same word.
Of the quality of the pencils used by the Egyptians for drawing and painting, it is difficult to form any opinion. Those generally employed for writing were a reed or rush, many of which have been found with the tablets or inkstands belonging to the scribes; and with these, too, they probably sketched the figures in red and black upon the stone or stucco of the walls. To put in the color, we may suppose that brushes of some kind were used, but the minute scale on which the painters are represented in the sculptures prevents our deciding the question.
Habits among men of similar occupations are frequently alike, even in the most distant countries, and we find it was not unusual for an Egyptian artist, or scribe, to put his reed pencil behind his ear, when engaged in examining the effect of his painting, or listening to a person on business, like a clerk in the counting-house.
The Etruscans, it is said, cultivated painting before the Greeks, and Pliny attributes to the former a certain degree of perfection before the Greeks had emerged from the infancy of the art. Ancient paintings at Ardea, in Etruria, and at Lanuvium still retained, in the time of Pliny, all their primitive freshness. According to Pliny, paintings of a still earlier date were to be seen at Cære, another Etruscan city. Those paintings mentioned by Pliny were commonly believed to be earlier than the foundation of Rome. At the present day the tombs of Etruria afford examples of Etruscan painting in every stage of its development, from the rudeness and conventionality of early art in the tomb of Veii to the correctness and ease of design, and the more perfect development of the art exhibited in the painted scenes in the tombs of Tarquinii. In one of these tombs the pilasters are profusely adorned with arabesques, and a frieze which runs round the side of the tomb is composed of painted figures draped, winged, armed, fighting, or borne in chariots. The subjects of these paintings are various; in them we find the ideas of the Etruscans on the state of the soul after death, combats of warriors, banquets, funeral scenes. The Etruscans painted also bas-reliefs and statues.
The Greeks carried painting to the highest degree of perfection; their first attempts were long posterior to those of the Egyptians; they do not even date as far back as the epoch of the siege of Troy; and Pliny remarks that Homer does not mention painting. The Greeks always cultivated sculpture in preference. Pausanias enumerates only eighty-eight paintings, and forty-three portraits; he describes, on the other hand, 2,827 statues. These were, in fact, more suitable ornaments to public places, and the gods were always represented in the temple by sculpture. In Greece painting followed the invariable law of development. Its cycle was run through. Painting passed through the successive stages of rise, progress, maturity, decline, and decay. The art of design in Greece is said to have had its origin in Corinth. The legend is: the daughter of Dibutades, a potter of Corinth, struck by the shadow of her lover's head cast by the lamp on the wall, drew its outline, filling it in with a dark shadow. Hence, the earliest mode of representing the human figure was a silhouette. The simplest form of design or drawing was mere outline, or monogrammon, and was invented by Cleanthes, of Corinth. After this the outlines were filled in, and light and shade introduced of one color, and hence were styled mono-chromes. Telephanes, of Sicyon, further improved the art by indicating the principal details of anatomy; Euphantes, of Corinth, or Craton, of Sicyon, by the introduction of color. Cimon, of Cleonæ, is the first who is mentioned as having advanced the art of painting in Greece, and as having emancipated it from its archaic rigidity, by exchanging the conventional manner of rendering the human form for an approach to truthfulness to nature. He also first made muscular articulations, indicated the veins, and gave natural folds to draperies. He is also supposed to have been the first who used a variety of colors, and to have introduced foreshortening. The first painter of great renown was Polygnotus. Accurate drawing, and a noble and distinct manner of characterizing the most different mythological forms was his great merit; his female figures also possessed charms and grace. His large tabular pictures were conceived with great knowledge of legends, and in an earnest religious spirit. At Athens he painted, according to Pausanias, a series of paintings of mythological subjects in the Pinakotheke in the Propylæa on the Acropolis, and pictorial decorations for the temple of Theseus, and the Pœcile. He executed a series of paintings at Delphi on the long walls of the Lesche. The wall to the right on entering the Lesche bore scenes illustrative of the epic myth of the taking of Troy; the left, the visit of Ulysses to the lower world, as described in the Odyssey. Pliny remarks that in place of the old severity and rigidity of the features he introduced a great variety of expression, and was the first to paint figures with the lips open. Lucian attributes to him great improvements in the rendering of drapery so as to show the forms underneath. Apollodorus, of Athens, was the first great master of light and shade. According to Pliny he was the first to paint men and things as they really appear. A more advanced stage of improved painting began with Zeuxis, in which art aimed at illusion of the senses and the rendering of external charms. He appears to have been equally distinguished in the representation of female charms, and of the sublime majesty of Zeus on his throne. His masterpiece was his picture of Helen, in painting which he had as his models the five most beautiful virgins of Croton.
Neither the place nor date of the birth of Zeuxis can be accurately ascertained, though he was probably born about 455 B.C., since thirty years after that date we find him practicing his art with great success at Athens. He was patronized by Archelaus, King of Macedonia, and spent some time at his court. He must also have visited Magna Græcia, as he painted his celebrated picture of Helen for the City of Croton. He acquired great wealth by his pencil, and was very ostentatious in displaying it. He appeared at Olympia in a magnificent robe, having his name embroidered in letters of gold, and the same vanity is also displayed in the anecdote that, after he had reached the summit of his fame, he no longer sold, but gave away, his pictures, as being above all price. With regard to his style of art, single figures were his favorite subjects. He could depict gods or heroes with sufficient majesty, but he particularly excelled in painting the softer graces of female beauty. In one important respect he appears to have degenerated from the style of Polygnotus, his idealism being rather that of form than of character and expression. Thus his style is analogous to that of Euripides in tragedy. He was a great master of color, and his paintings were sometimes so accurate and life-like as to amount to illusion. This is exemplified in the story told of him and Parrhasius. As a trial of skill, these artists painted two pictures. That of Zeuxis represented a bunch of grapes, and was so naturally executed that the birds came and pecked at it. After this proof, Zeuxis, confident of success, called upon his rival to draw aside the curtain which concealed his picture. But the painting of Parrhasius was the curtain itself, and Zeuxis was now obliged to acknowledge himself vanquished, for, though he had deceived birds, Parrhasius had deceived the author of the deception. But many of the pictures of Zeuxis also displayed great dramatic power. He worked very slowly and carefully, and he is said to have replied to somebody who blamed him for his slowness, "It is true I take a long time to paint, but then I paint works to last a long time." His master-piece was the picture of Helen, already mentioned.
Parrhasius was a native of Ephesus, but his art was chiefly exercised at Athens, where he was presented with the right of citizenship. His date can not be accurately ascertained, but he was probably rather younger than his contemporary, Zeuxis, and it is certain that he enjoyed a high reputation before the death of Socrates. The style and degree of excellence attained by Parrhasius appear to have been much the same as those of Zeuxis. He was particularly celebrated for the accuracy of his drawing, and the excellent proportions of his figures. For these he established a canon, as Phidias had done in sculpture for gods, and Polycletus for the human figure, whence Quintilian calls him the legislator of his art. His vanity seems to have been as remarkable as that of Zeuxis. Among the most celebrated of his works was a portrait of the personified Athenian Demos, which is said to have miraculously expressed even the most contradictory qualities of that many-headed personage.
PAINTING. (2600 years old.)[ToList]
Parrhasius excelled in giving a roundness and a beautiful contour to his figures, and was remarkable for the richness and variety of his creations. His numerous pictures of gods and heroes attained the highest consideration in art. He was overcome, however, in a pictorial contest, in which the subject was the contest of Ulysses and Ajax for the arms of Achilles, by the ingenious Timanthes, in whose sacrifice of Iphigenia the ancients admired the expression of grief carried to that pitch of intensity at which art had only dared to hint. The most striking feature in the picture was the concealment of the face of Agamemnon in his mantle. (The concealment of the face of Agamemnon in this picture has been generally considered as a "trick" or ingenious invention of Timanthes, when it was the result of a fundamental law in Greek art—to represent alone what was beautiful, and never to present to the eye anything repulsive or disagreeable; the features of a father convulsed with grief would not have been a pleasing object to gaze on; hence the painter, fully conscious of the laws of his art, concealed the countenance of Agamemnon.) Timanthes was distinguished for his invention and expression. Before all, however, ranks the great Apelles, who united the advantages of his native Ionia—grace, sensual charms, and rich coloring—with the scientific accuracy of the Sicyonian school. The most prominent characteristic of his style was grace (charis), a quality which he himself avowed as peculiarly his, and which serves to unite all the other gifts and faculties which the painter requires; perhaps in none of his pictures was it exhibited in such perfection as in his famous Anadyomene, in which Aphrodite is represented rising out of the sea, and wringing the wet out of her hair. But heroic subjects were likewise adapted to his genius, especially grandly-conceived portraits, such as the numerous likenesses of Alexander, by whom he was warmly patronized. He not only represented Alexander with the thunderbolt in his hand, but he even attempted, as the master in light and shade, to paint thunderstorms, probably at the same time as natural scenes and mythological personifications. The Anadyomene, originally painted for the temple of Æsculapius, at Cos, was transferred by Augustus to the temple of D. Julius, at Rome, where, however, it was in a decayed state even at the time of Nero. Contemporaneously with him flourished Protogenes and Nicias. Protogenes was both a painter and a statuary, and was celebrated for the high finish of his works. His master-piece was the picture of Ialysus, the tutelary hero of Rhodes, where he lived. He is said to have spent seven years on it. Nicias, of Athens, was celebrated for the delicacy with which he painted females. He was also famous as an encaustic painter, and was employed by Praxiteles to apply his art to his statues. The glorious art of these masters, as far as regards light, tone, and local colors, is lost to us, and we know nothing of it except from obscure notices and later imitations. It is not thus necessary to speak at length of the various schools of painting in Greece, their works being all lost, the knowledge of the characteristics peculiar to each school would be at the present day perfectly useless. Painting had to follow the invariable law of all development; having reached a period of maturity, it followed, as a necessary consequence, that the period of decline should begin. The art of this period of refinement, Mr. Wornum writes, which has been termed the Alexandrian, because the most celebrated artist of this period lived about the time of Alexander the Great, was the last of progression, or acquisition, but it only added variety of effect to the tones it could not improve, and was principally characterized by the diversity of the styles of so many contemporary artists. The decadence of the arts immediately succeeded, the necessary consequence, when, instead of excellence, variety and originality became the end of the artist. The tendencies which are peculiar to this period gave birth sometimes to pictures which ministered to a low sensuality; sometimes to works which attracted by their effects of light, and also to caricatures and travesties of mythological subjects. The artists of this period were under the necessity of attracting attention by novelty and variety; thus rhyparography, and the lower classes of art, attained the ascendency, and became the characteristic styles of the period. In these Pyreieus was pre-eminent; he was termed rhyparographos, on account of the mean quality of his subjects. After the destruction of Corinth by Mummius and the spoliation of Athens by Sylla the art of painting experienced a rapid and total decay.
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We shall now make a few extracts from Mr. Wornum's excellent article on the vehicles, materials, colors, and methods of painting used by the Greeks.
The Greeks painted with wax, resins, and in water-colors, to which they gave a proper consistency, according to the material upon which they painted, with gum, glue, and the white of egg; gum and glue were the most common.
They painted upon wood, clay, plaster, stone, parchment, and canvas. They generally painted upon panels or tables, and very rarely upon walls; and an easel, similar to what is now used, was common among the ancients. These panels, when finished, were fixed into frames of various descriptions and materials, and encased in walls. The ancients used also a palette very similar to that used by the moderns, as is sufficiently attested by a fresco painting from Pompeii, which represents a female painting a copy of Hermes, for a votive tablet, with a palette in her left hand.
The earlier Grecian masters used only four colors: the earth of Melos for white; Attic ochre for yellow; Sinopis, an earth from Pontus, for red; and lamp-black; and it was with these simple elements that Zeuxis, Polygnotus, and others of that age, executed their celebrated works. By degrees new coloring substances were found, such as were used by Apelles and Protogenes.
So great, indeed, is the number of pigments mentioned by ancient authors, and such the beauty of them, that it is very doubtful whether, with all the help of modern science, modern artists possess any advantage in this respect over their predecessors.
We now give the following list of colors, known to be generally used by ancient painters:
Red.—The ancient reds were very numerous, cinnabar, vermilion, bisulphuret of mercury, called also by Pliny and Vitruvius, minium. The cinnabaris indica, mentioned by Pliny and Dioscorides, was what is vulgarly called dragon's blood, the resin obtained from various species of the calamus palm. Miltos seems to have had various significations; it was used for cinnabaris, minium, red lead, and rubrica, red ochre. There were various kinds of rubricæ; all were, however, red oxides, of which the best were the Lemnian, from the Isle of Lemnos, and the Cappadocian, called by the Romans rubrica sinopica, from Sinope in Paphlagonia. Minium, red oxide of lead, red lead, was called by the Romans cerussa usta, and, according to Vitruvius, sandaracha.
The Roman sandaracha seems to have had various significations. Pliny speaks of the different shades of sandaracha; there was also a compound color of equal parts of sandaracha and rubrica calcined, called sandyx, which Sir H. Davy supposed to approach our crimson in tint; in painting it was frequently glazed with purple, to give it additional lustre.
Yellow.—Yellow-ochre, hydrated peroxide of iron, the sil of the Romans, formed the base of many other yellows, mixed with various colors and carbonate of lime. Ochre was procured from different parts—the Attic was considered the best; sometimes the paler sort of sandaracha was used for yellow.
Green.—Chrysocolla, which appears to have been green carbonate of copper, or malachite (green verditer), was the green most approved of by the ancients; there was also an artificial kind which was made from clay impregnated with sulphate of copper (blue vitriol) rendered green by a yellow dye. The commonest and cheapest colors were the Appianum, which was a clay, and the creta viridis, the common green earth of Verona.
Blue.—The ancient blues were very numerous; the principal of these was cœruleum, azure, a species of verditer, or blue carbonate of copper, of which there were many varieties. The Alexandrian was the most valued, as approaching the nearest to ultramarine. It was also manufactured at Pozzuoli. This imitation was called cœlon. Armenium was a metallic color, and was prepared by being ground to an impalpable powder. It was of a light blue color. It has been conjectured that ultramarine (lapis lazuli) was known to the ancients under the name of Armenium, from Armenia, whence it was procured. It is evident, however, from Pliny's description, that the "sapphirus" of the ancients was the lapis lazuli of the present day. It came from Media.
Indigo, indicum, was well known to the ancients.
Purple.—The ancients had several kinds of purple, purpurissimum, ostrum, hysginum, and various compound colors. Purpurissimum was made from creta argentaria, a fine chalk or clay, steeped in a purple dye, obtained from the murex. In color it ranged between minium and blue, and included every degree in the scale of purple shades. The best sort came from Pozzuoli. Purpurissimum indicum was brought from India. It was of a deep blue, and probably was the same as indigo. Ostrum was a liquid color, to which the proper consistence was given by adding honey. It was produced from the secretion of a fish called ostrum, and differed in tint according to the country from whence it came; being deeper and more violet when brought from the northern, redder when from the southern coasts of the Mediterranean. The Roman ostrum was a compound of red ochre and blue oxide of copper. Hysginum, according to Vitruvius, is a color between scarlet and purple. The celebrated Tyrian dye was a dark, rich purple, of the color of coagulated blood, but, when held against the light, showed a crimson hue. It was produced by a combination of the secretions of the murex and buccinum. In preparing the dye the buccinum was used last, the dye of the murex being necessary to render the colors fast, while the buccinum enlivened by its tint of red the dark hue of the murex. Sir H. Davy, on examining a rose-colored substance, found in the baths of Titus, which in its interior had a lustre approaching to that of carmine, considered it a specimen of the best Tyrian purple. The purpura, as mentioned in Pliny, was an amethyst or violet color.
Brown.—Ochra usta, burnt ochre.—The browns were ochres calcined, oxides of iron and manganese, and compounds of ochres and blacks.
Black.—Atramentum, or black, was of two sorts, natural and artificial. The natural was made from a black earth, or from the secretion of the cuttle-fish, sepia. The artificial was made of the dregs of wine carbonized, calcined ivory, or lamp-black. The atramentum indicum, mentioned by Pliny, was probably the Chinese Indian ink.
White.—The ordinary Greek white was melinum, an earth from the Isle of Melos; for fresco-painting the best was the African parœtonium. There was also a white earth of Eretria and the annularian white. Carbonate of lead, or white lead, cerussa, was apparently not much used by the ancient painters. It has not been found in any of the remains of painting in Roman ruins.
Methods of Painting.—There were two distinct classes of painting practiced by the ancients—in water colors and in wax, both of which were practiced in various ways. Of the former the principal were fresco, al fresco; and the various kinds of distemper (a tempera), with glue, with the white of egg, or with gums (a guazzo); and with wax or resins when these were rendered by any means vehicles that could be worked with water. Of the latter the principal was through fire, termed encaustic.
Fresco was probably little employed by the ancients for works of imitative art, but it appears to have been the ordinary method of simply coloring walls, especially amongst the Romans. Coloring al fresco, in which the colors were mixed simply in water, as the term implies, was applied when the composition of the stucco on the walls was still wet (udo tectorio), and on that account was limited to certain colors, for no colors except earths can be employed in this way.
The fresco walls, when painted, were covered with an encaustic varnish, both to heighten the colors and to preserve them from the injurious effects of the sun or the weather. Vitruvius describes the process as a Greek practice. When the wall was colored and dry, Punic wax, melted and tempered with a little oil, was rubbed over it with a hard brush (seta); this was made smooth and even by applying a cauterium or an iron pan, filled with live coals, over the surface, as near to it as was just necessary to melt the wax; it was then rubbed with a candle (wax) and a clean cloth. In encaustic painting the wax colors were burnt into the ground by means of a hot iron (called cauterium) or pan of hot coals being held near the surface of the picture. The mere process of burning in constitutes the whole difference between encaustic and the ordinary method of painting with wax colors.
We shall now say a few words with regard to the much canvassed question of painting or coloring statues. Its antiquity and universality admit of no doubt. Indeed, the practice of painting statues is a characteristic of a primitive and workmanship of clay or wood. It was a survival of the old religious practices of daubing the early statues of the gods with vermilion, and was done to meet the superstitious tastes of the uneducated. Statues for religious purposes may have been painted in obedience to a formula prescribed by religion, but statues as objects of art, on which the sculptor exhibited all his genius and taste, were unquestionably executed in the pure and uncolored marble alone. In the chryselephantine, or ivory statues of Jove and Minerva, by Phidias, art was made a handmaid to religion. Phidias himself would have preferred to have executed them in marble.
We may further remark that form, in its purest ideal, being the chief aim of sculpture, any application of color, which would detract from the purity and ideality of this purest of the arts, could never be agreeable to refined taste. Coloring sculpture and giving it a life-like reality is manifestly trenching on the province of painting, and so departing from the true principle of sculpture, which is to give form in its most perfect and idealized development. We must also consider that sculpture in marble, by its whiteness, is calculated for the display of light and shade. For this reason statues and bas-reliefs were placed either in the open light to receive the direct rays of the sun, or in underground places, or thermæ, where they received their light either from an upper window, or, by night, from the strong light of a lamp, the sculptor having for that purpose studied the effects of the shadows. It must also be remembered that the statues in Greek and Roman temples received their light from the upper part of the building, many of the temples being hypæthral, thus having the benefit of a top light, the sculptor's chief aim. Color in these statues or bas-reliefs would have tended to mar the contrasts of light and shade, and blended them too much; for example, color a photograph of a statue, which exhibits a marked contrast of light and shade, and it will tend to confuse and blend the two. The taste for polychrome sculpture in the period of the decline of art was obviously but a returning to the primitive imperfection of art, when an attempt was made to produce illusion in order to please the uneducated taste of the vulgar.
The Romans derived their knowledge of painting from the Etruscans, their ancestors and neighbors; the first Grecian painters who came to Italy are said to have been brought over by Demaratus, the father of Tarquinius Priscus, King of Rome; at all events Etruria appears to have exercised extensive influence over the arts of Rome during the reign of the Tarquins. Tradition attributes to them the first works which were used to adorn the temples of Rome, and, according to Pliny, not much consideration was bestowed either on the arts or on the artists. Fabius, the first among the Romans, had some painting executed in the temple of Salus, from which he received the name of Pictor. The works of art brought from Corinth by Mummius, from Athens by Sulla, and from Syracuse by Marcellus, introduced a taste for paintings and statues in their public buildings, which eventually became an absorbing passion with many distinguished Romans. Towards the end of the republic Rome was full of painters. Julius Cæsar, Agrippa, Augustus, were among the earliest great patrons of artists. Suetonius informs us that Cæsar expended great sums in the purchase of pictures by the old masters. Under Augustus, Marcus Ludius painted marine subjects, landscape decorations, and historic landscape as ornamentation for the apartments of villas and country houses. He invented that style of decoration which we now call arabesque or grotesque. It spread rapidly, insomuch that the baths of Titus and Livia, the remains discovered at Cumæ, Pozzuoli, Herculaneum, Stabiæ, Pompeii, in short, whatever buildings about that date have been found in good preservation, afford numerous and beautiful examples of it. At this time, also, a passion for portrait painting prevailed; an art which flattered their vanity was more suited to the tastes of the Romans than the art which could produce beautiful and refined works similar to those of Greece. Portraits must have been exceedingly numerous; Varro made a collection of the portraits of 700 eminent men. Portraits, decorative and scene painting, seem to have engrossed the art. The example, or rather the pretensions, of Nero must also have contributed to encourage painting in Rome; but Roman artists were, however, but few in number; the victories of the consuls, and the rapine of the prætors, were sufficient to adorn Rome with all the master-pieces of Greece and Italy. They introduced the fashion of having a taste for the beautiful works of Greek art. At a later period, such was the corrupt state of taste, that painting was almost left to be practiced by slaves, and the painter was estimated by the quantity of work that he could do in a day.
The remains of painting found at Pompeii, Herculaneum, and in the baths of Titus, at Rome, are the only paintings which can give us any idea of the coloring and painting of the ancients, which, though they exhibit many beauties, particularly in composition, are evidently the works of inferior artists in a period of decline. At Pompeii there is scarcely a house the walls of which are not decorated with fresco paintings. The smallest apartments were lined with stucco, painted in the most brilliant and endless variety of colors, in compartments simply tinted with a light ground, surrounded by an ornamental margin, and sometimes embellished with a single figure or subject in the center, or at equal distances. These paintings are very frequently historical or mythological, but embrace every variety of subject, some of the most exquisite beauty. Landscape painting was never a favorite with the ancients, and if ever introduced in a painting, was subordinate. The end and aim of painting among the ancients was to represent and illustrate the myths of the gods, the deeds of heroes, and important historical events, hence giving all prominence to the delineation of the human form. Landscape, on the other hand, illustrated nothing, represented no important event deserving of record, and was thus totally without significance in a Grecian temple or pinacotheca. In an age of decline, as at Pompeii, it was employed for mere decorative purposes. Many architectural subjects are continually found in which it is easy to trace the true principles of perspective, but they are rather indicated than minutely expressed or accurately displayed; whereas in most instances a total want of the knowledge of this art is but too evident. Greek artists seem to have been employed; indeed, native painters were few, while the former everywhere abounded, and their superiority in design must have always insured them the preference.
The subjects of Roman mural paintings are usually Greek myths; in the composition and style we see Greek conception, modified by Roman influence. The style of drawing is rather dexterous than masterly; rapidity of execution seems to be more prized than faithful, conscientious representation of the truth of nature; the drawing is generally careless, and effects are sometimes produced by tricks and expedients, which belong rather to scene-painting than to the higher branches of art. It must not, however, be forgotten that the majority of these pictures were architectural decorations, not meant to be regarded as independent compositions, but as parts of larger compositions, in which they were inserted as in a frame. As examples of ancient coloring they are of the highest interest, and much may be learnt from them in reference to the technical materials and processes employed by ancient artists.
