CHAPTER IV.
Hestia (Vesta).[1] In the domestic life of the Greeks Hestia, the hearth goddess, occupied an important position. She was one of the twelve great divinities, and her expressive symbol, the fire, they carefully guarded and kept constantly burning. In the more rude, barbaric state of society her worship was, perhaps, not general, as there is no mention of her by Homer in the “Iliad” or “Odyssey.” But as society advanced and the importance of domestic order and purity was more fully recognized, no other deity was held in greater veneration. She gives security to the dwelling, and especially guards the virtue and happiness of the family. “The hearth possessed among the ancients a far higher significance than it does in modern life. It served not only for the preparation of the daily meals, but was esteemed the sacred altar in the house. There the images of the Penates,[2] or household gods, were placed; and then, after the old patriarchal fashion, the father and priest of the family offered sacrifice on all important occasions of their domestic life.” (Seemans.)
The well-ordered home, under the guardianship of the virgin goddess, herself pure as the bright flame that was her symbol, is the secure abode of happiness as complete as mortals know. For the maintenance of its purity and peace the most solemn vows were made and the tutelary[3] goddess invoked to avenge the injured and reward the faithful. For those without, the hearth itself was a sacred shrine before which suppliants, if danger threatened, sought not in vain protection from the inhabitants of the house. And, as the state is an extended family, embracing all the domestic organizations in its domain, Hestia, protectress of the home circle, regards also the interest and safety of every civil community. So, thoughtful men of upright character, their statesmen and wise senators, did not hesitate to carry the religion of their homes into political matters that engaged their best endeavors.
In the Greek states the senate house, or department of the governing body, was solemnly dedicated to Hestia, and in it they built her an altar, on which fire was kept ever burning. That the daily sacrifice might not be wanting, or that sacred fire ever become extinct, it was assiduously guarded by vestal[4] virgins, whose negligence would be severely punished.
The name Hestia is not only very sacred, but has a stem or root meaning that indicates the fixed abiding position of her altar in the room where the family dwelt, or the senators met for business.
Hermes (Mercury). For the accredited pedigree, characteristics, and exploits of this sly deity—things of much interest to students of the old mythology—we are mostly indebted to Homer and his imitators, the Rhapsodists, some of whose productions were accepted as Homeric. He was the reputed son of Zeus and the mountain nymph Maia, and born in a cave, or grotto, on Mount Cyllene,[5] in Arcadia. The so-called “Homeric Hymn,” assuming cunning and dexterity as his principal characteristics, tells in a way to interest the reader, with what amazing capacity his powers developed. Having such a father, and his mother a daughter of Atlas, he grew as none but gods can, almost instantly revealing his divine powers. Only a few hours after his birth he sprung from his mother’s arms, or from the cradle where he lay, already planning an expedition of vast proportions, and escaped from the grotto to at once execute his purpose. On the way he met a beautiful tortoise that he killed, and extracting the carcass from the shell, stretched resonant cords across the cavity, and thus made him a harp on which he played most skilfully. The same day he hurried off to Pieria, where he stole fifty kine from the herd of Apollo, and undertook to drive them to the grotto of his mother. Fearing that the theft, so adroitly accomplished, might be detected by their tracks in the sand, he managed to drive them in such circuitous paths that, where most exposed to observation, the tracks showed them to be going toward the place from which they were stolen. His own footsteps he disguised by wrapping his feet with tamarisk and myrtle leaves. The next morning, at early dawn, he reached the stream of Alpheus,[6] and then rubbed sticks of wood against each other till they were ignited. Thus Hermes is said to have first given fire to mortal men. Another legend attributes the same to Prometheus,[7] who is said to have stolen fire from the altars of the gods. But this was kindled in the forest by the friction of dry branches rubbed against each other by the wind. In that forest Hermes slaughtered two of the herd, but, though pressed with hunger, he ate none of the roasted meat. After quenching the fire, and effacing all signs of it, he proceeded to Cyllene, where he concealed the cattle, and, having entered the place of his birth softly as a summer breeze, resumed his place as a babe, and lay innocently playing with the cradle clothes, while his right hand held the tortoise lyre hidden under them. His absence and the booty with which he returned were not unobserved by his mother, who chided him for the theft, but was assured that, by such exploits, he would secure for her and for himself admission to the assembly of the gods. In the morning Apollo, missing part of his herd, set out in search of them. An old man informed him that a child was seen the day before driving cows along the road. At Pylos he saw confused tracks of his cattle, but was amazed at the strange footprints of the driver. Greatly chagrined at his loss, and meditating chastisement for the thief, he entered the cave of the nymph. Hermes, seeing him, gathered himself under the clothes, feigning fear of the angry god. Apollo searched all the premises for his stolen property to no purpose. But convinced that the child, his own younger brother was certainly guilty of the theft, he threatened to hurl him into Tartarus[8] if he did not tell at once where the cows were. The little fellow in his cradle, winking slyly, and making a low whistling sound, as if amused at Apollo’s excitement, denies any knowledge of the matter, and innocently asks what cows are like. “I know nothing of cows,” he said, “but their name. We must refer the matter to Zeus, who will decide for us.”
When the father of gods and men heard the complaint and the evidence, little Hermes, to the great amusement of the celestials, stoutly denied the charge, and with his cradle clothes about his person, argued the absurdity of supposing a mere child like himself capable of such deeds.
Zeus admonished the contestants to be friends, but with a significant nod, the suit was decided in Apollo’s favor, and the brothers sent in quest of the missing kine. The miscreant led the way, and when the cattle were brought out of the cave, Apollo missed two, and was surprised to find their hides stretched on a rock to dry—more so, that when attempting to drive the others away their feet were found fastened in the earth. Again he seized the offender for punishment, but he in the emergency, thought of his lyre, and touching its chords, called forth music so sweet and soothing that Apollo, forgetting his anger, coveted the instrument and besought the musician to teach him his wondrous art. “Take it,” said he, “since you are wise, and will know how to use it well, but if touched by those unskilled in the divine art, it will utter strange nonsense, making uncertain, discordant moanings.” Delighted with his acquisition, Apollo gave his brother a magic wand, by which he could confer happiness on whom he would; and, henceforth, they dwelt together in great harmony and love, the honored sons of a common father.
Interpreting this myth one says, “while Apollo represents the genial sunshine, Hermes, as a power of nature, is the rain—rain and sunshine being both from the great God of heaven, or, in the language of mythologists, his sons. They are both beneficent and have many things so similar as to indicate a common origin.”
In the process of time their conceptions of the younger brother seem to have undergone some change, or possibly the different shades of opinion may indicate the places rather than the times in which they prevailed. To those who regarded him as sending the fertilizing rain, and thus the dispenser of manifold gifts, he also, and naturally, represented the wind that “bloweth where it listeth,” and carries the clouds about on their mission. This idea of personification may account for some things in their legends that otherwise seem inexplicable. Helpless infancy, in a very few hours leaving the cradle and performing exploits the most astonishing, has its parallel in the wind, which, at first only gentle zephyrs whispering softly, soon may freshen to a gale, and in an hour sweep over the earth with a force that defies resistance; and when people make inquest for the mischief done they hear but the mocking laugh as it hastens on, and the calm after a squall is like the quiet return of the adventurous god to the cave and cradle that were left for the exploits of that eventful day. Then the clouds of various shape and color that are seen grouped above the horizon, or scattered over the vast field of the sky, were, to a vivid imagination, the herd of Phœbus, who watches over them. When the rising wind, represented by Hermes’ leaving the cave, carries them away, a stupendous theft has been committed.