"When the ceremony was over, and the procession had passed by," continued Calasiris——"But," said Cnemon, interrupting him, "the ceremony is not over, Father; you have not made me a spectator of the procession, whereas I am very desirous both of hearing and seeing; you treat me like a guest who, as they say, is come a day after the feast: why should you just open the theatre, only to close it again?"—"I was unwilling," said Calasiris, "to detain you from what you are most desirous to know, by a detail which has little or nothing to do with the principal end of my narration; but since you must be a passing spectator, and by your fondness for shows declare yourself to be an Athenian, I will endeavour briefly to describe the exhibition to you; and I shall do so the more willingly, on account of the consequences which followed it.
"The procession began with an hecatomb of victims, led by some of the inferior ministers of the temple, rough-looking men, in white and girt-up garments. Their right hands and breasts were naked, and they bore a two-edged axe. The oxen were black, with moderately arched and brawny necks—their horns equal, and very little bent; some were gilt, others adorned with flowers—their legs bent inwards[1]—and their deep dewlaps flowing down to their knees—their number, in accordance with the name, exactly a hundred. A variety of other different victims came afterwards, each species separate and in order, attended with pipes and flutes, sending forth a strain prelusive of the sacrifice: these were followed by a troop of fair and long-waisted Thessalian maidens, with dishevelled locks—they were distributed into two companies; the first division bore baskets full of fruits and flowers; the second, vases of conserves and spices, which filled the air with fragrance: they carried these on their heads; thus, their hands being at liberty, they joined them together, so that they could move along and lead the dance. The key-note to the melody was sounded by the next division, who were to sing the whole of the hymn appointed for this festival, which contained the praises of Thetis, of Peleus, and their son, and of Neoptolemus. After this, Ο Cnemon——" "But Cnemon me no Cnemons," said the latter; "why not recite the hymn to me instead of depriving me of so much pleasure? Make me, I beseech you, an auditor at this festival as well as a spectator."—"You shall be so if you desire it," said Calasiris; "the hymn, as nearly as I can recollect, ran as follows:[2]
"'Thetis, the golden-haired, we sing.
She who from Nereus erst did spring,
The Venus of our fatherland.
To Peleus wed, at Jove's command,
Her—of the thunderbolt of war, }
Famed for his beamy spear afar, }
Achilles—Greece the mother saw }
Wedded to whom did Pyrrha bear,
Great Neoptolemus his heir,
Of Grecian land the boast and joy,
The destined scourge of lofty Troy.
Thou who in Delphic land dost rest,
Hero, by thee may we be blest;
Accept our strains, and oh, by thee,
May every ill averted be!
Thetis the golden-haired we sing,
She who from Peleus erst did spring.
"The dance[3] which accompanied this song was so well adapted to it, and the cadence of their steps agreed so exactly with the melody of the strain, that for a while, in spite of the magnificence of the spectacle, the sense of seeing was overpowered and suspended by that of hearing; and all who were present, attracted by the sounds, followed the advancing dancers. At length a band of youths on horseback, with their splendidly dressed commander, opening upon them, afforded a spectacle far preferable to any sounds. Their number was exactly fifty; they divided themselves into five-and-twenty on each side guarding their leader, chief of the sacred embassy, who rode in the midst: their buskins, laced with a purple thong, were tied above their ancles; their white garments, bordered with blue, were fastened by a golden clasp over their breasts. Their horses were Thessalian, and by their spirit gave token of the open plains they came from; they seemed to champ with disdain the foaming bit, yet obeyed the regulating hand of their riders, who appeared to vie with each other in the splendour of their frontlets and other trappings, which glittered with gold and silver. But all these, Cnemon, splendid as they were, were utterly overlooked, and seemed to vanish, like other objects before a flash of lightning, at the appearance of their leader, my dear Theagenes, so gallant a show did he make.[4] He too was on horseback, and in armour, with an ashen spear in his hand; his head was uncovered; he wore a purple robe, on which was worked in gold the story of the Centaurs and the Lapithæ; the clasp of it was of electrum, and represented Pallas with the Gorgon's head on her shield. A light breath of wind added to the grace of his appearance; it played upon his hair, dispersed it on his neck, and divided it from his forehead, throwing back the extremities of his cloak in easy folds on the back and sides of his horse. You would say, too, that the horse himself was conscious both of his own beauty and of the beauty of his rider; so stately did he arch his neck and carry his head, with ears erect and fiery eyes, proudly bearing a master who was proud to be thus borne. He moved along under a loose rein, balancing himself equally on each side, and, touching the ground with the extremity of his hoofs, tempered his pace into almost an insensible motion.
"Every one, astonished at the appearance of this young man, joined in confessing, that beauty and strength were never before so gracefully mingled. The women in the streets, unable to disguise their feelings, flung handfuls of fruit and flowers over him, in token of their admiration and affection: in short, there was but one opinion concerning him—that it was impossible for mortal form to excel that of Theagenes. But now, when
Rosy-finger'd morn appeared,
as Homer says, and the beautiful and accomplished Chariclea proceeded from the temple of Diana, we then perceived that even Theagenes might be outshone; but only so far as female beauty is naturally more engaging and alluring than that of men. She was borne in a chariot drawn by two white oxen—she was dressed in a purple robe embroidered with gold, which flowed down to her feet—she had a girdle round her waist, on which the artist had exerted all his skill: it represented two serpents, whose tails were interlaced behind her shoulders; their necks knotted beneath her bosom; and their heads, disentangled from the knot, hung down on either side as an appendage: so well were they imitated, that you would say they really glided onward. Their aspect was not at all terrible; their eyes swam in a kind of languid lustre, as if being lulled to sleep by the charms of the maiden's breast. They were wrought in darkened gold, tinged with blue, the better to represent, by this mixture of dark and yellow, the roughness and glancing colour of the scales. Such was the maiden's girdle. Her hair was not entirely tied up, nor quite dishevelled, but the greater part of it flowed down her neck, and wantoned on her shoulders—a crown of laurel confined the bright and ruddy locks which adorned her forehead, and prevented the wind from disturbing them too roughly—she bore a gilded bow in her left hand; her quiver hung at her right shoulder—in her other hand she had a lighted torch; yet the lustre of her eyes paled the brightness of the torch."
"Here are, indeed, Theagenes and Chariclea," cried out Cnemon. "Where, where are they?" exclaimed Calasiris; who thought that Cnemon saw them.—"I think I see them now," he replied, "but it is in your lively description."—"I do not know," said Calasiris, "whether you ever saw them such as all Greece and the sun beheld them on that day—so conspicuous, so illustrious; she the object of wish to all the men, and he to all the women; all thought them equal to the immortals in beauty. But the Delphians more admired the youth, and the Thessalians the maid; each most struck with that form which they then saw for the first time. Such is the charm of novelty.
"But, Cnemon! what a sweet expectation did you raise in me when you promised to show me these whom I so fondly loved! and how have you deceived me! You winged me with hope to expect that they would presently be here, and exacted a reward for these good tidings; but, lo! evening and night have overtaken us, and they nowhere appear."—"Raise up your spirits," said Cnemon, "and have a good heart; I assure you they will soon arrive. Perhaps they have met with some impediment by the way, for they intended to arrive much earlier. But I would not shew them to you, if they were here, till you had paid me the whole of my reward; if, therefore, you are in haste to see them, perform your promise, and finish your story."—"It is now," replied Calasiris, "become a little irksome to me, as it will call up disagreeable remembrances; and I thought, besides, that you must by this time be tired with listening to so tedious a tale; but, since you seem a good listener, and fond of hearing stories worth the telling, I will resume my narration where I left it off. But let us first light a torch, and make our libations to the gods who preside over the night;[5] so that, having performed our devotions, we may spend, without interruption, as much as we please of it in such discourses as we like." A maid, at the old man's command, brought in a lighted taper; and he poured out a libation, calling upon all the gods, and particularly upon Mercury; beseeching them to grant him pleasant dreams, and that those whom he most loved might appear to him in his sleep. Calasiris then proceeded in this manner:
"After, Cnemon, that the procession had thrice compassed the sepulchre of Neoptolemus, and that both men and women had raised over it their appropriate shout and cry;[6] on a signal being given, the oxen, the sheep, the goats, were slaughtered at once, as if the sacrifice had been performed by a single hand. Heaps of wood were piled on an immense altar; and the victims being placed thereon, the priest of Apollo was desired to light the pile, and begin the libation.