A Guide to Mythology

by Helen A. Clarke

The Infant Hercules. Louvre.

THE STORY OF THE CHILD HERMES

(Greek)

The little child-god Hermes was born at the first peep of day in a rocky cavern overshadowed by a beautiful grove of ancient trees. He was so remarkable a child that he began playing on the lyre at noon, and the very same evening he stole away the herds of Phœbus Apollo. He sprang from the arms of his mother, Maia, nor could she keep him in his sacred cradle, nor from creeping forth to seek the herds of Apollo.

Wandering forth from the lofty cavern, he found a tortoise, and cried out, “What a treasure!” Before the portal, the little beast was depasturing the flowery herbage at his leisure, moving his feet in a deliberate measure over the turf. Hermes, eyeing him and laughing, exclaimed: “You are a useful godsend indeed to me, king of the dance, companion of the feast, lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain beast, did you get that speckled shell? Thus much I know, you must come home with me and be my guest; you will give joy to me, and I will do all that is in my power to honor you. Better to be at home than out-of-doors; so come with me, and though it has been said that when alive you defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when you are dead.” Having spoken, this quaint infant lifted the tortoise up from the grass upon which it was feeding, and grasping it tightly in his delighted hold, carried off his treasured prize into the cavern. He then scooped out all the inside of the tortoise, leaving only the shell. Then, through the shell he bored small holes at proper distances, and fastened within, the cut stems of reeds, and a bridge, over which he stretched the strings.

When he had made this lovely instrument, he tried the chords, and brought forth beautiful music. He hit the strings with a little instrument called the plectrum, and lo! up from beneath his hand there went a tumult sweet of mighty sounds and from his lips he sent a strain of unpremeditated wit, joyous and wild and wanton—such as you may hear among revellers on a holiday. He sang a lovely song in honor of his mother Maia, but while he was singing, he was suddenly seized with a new fancy. So he deposited in his sacred crib the hollow lyre, and from the sweet cavern rushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head, revolving in his mind some subtle feat of thievish craft, such as a swindler might devise in the lone season of dim night. The great Sun had driven his steeds and chariot under the ocean’s bed. Meanwhile the child strode over the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, where the immortal oxen of the God are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, and safely stalled in a remote abode—elate and proud he drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud. He drove them wandering over the sandy way, but being of a crafty disposition, he drove them backward and forward astray, so that the tracks which seemed before were aft; then he threw his sandals into the ocean spray, and for each foot he wrought a kind of raft of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, and bound them in a lump with withy twigs. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, so that the trail of the wide leaves might confuse his tracks; and then, a self-sufficing wight, like a man hastening on some distant way, he from Piera’s mountain bent his flight; but an old man perceived the infant pass down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass. The old man stood, dressing his sunny vine: “Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? Before they will bear wine methinks even you must grow a little older: attend, I pray, to this advice of mine if you would escape something which might appall a bolder man. Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—if you have understanding—understand.” So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; over shadowy mountain and resounding dell, and flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; till the black night divine, which favoring fell around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast wakened the world to work, and from her sea-strewn cell, the sublime Morn had just begun to climb into her watch-tower. Now to Alpheus he drove all the broad foreheaded oxen of the Sun. They came unwearied to the lofty stall and to the water-troughs which ever run through the fresh fields—and when everyone had been pastured with rush-grass tall, lotus and all sweet herbage, the great God drove them into the stall.

Hermes then heaped a mighty pile of wood, and then bethought him how to produce fire. He took two smooth laurel branches, stripped off the bark and rubbed them in his palms. Suddenly the burning vapor leaped forth on high, which the divine child saw with delight. And fine dry logs and numerous roots he gathered in a delve upon the ground and kindled them, and instantaneously the strength of the fierce flames was breathed around, and while the might of the glorious fire thus wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, close to the fire—such might was in the God. He threw them on their backs upon the earth and rolled them over and over and bored their lives out. Then he cut up the fat and flesh and placed the two on spits of wood before the fire, toasting their flesh and ribs, and while this was being done he stretched their hides over a craggy stone. This was a burnt offering to the gods, but the savor of the roasted meat tempted him sorely though immortal, but he repressed the desire to taste it and put not a single morsel into his mouth.

Then he removed every trace of the fresh butchery and cooking, so that it seemed all to have vanished through the sky. He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair; the insatiate fire devoured them hungrily. And when he saw that everything was clear, he quenched the coals and trampled the black dust, and tossed into the stream his bloody sandals. All night he worked in the serene moonshine, but when the light of day was spread abroad, he sought his natal mountain-peaks. On his long wandering, neither man nor god had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine, nor had a single house-dog barked at him on his road. Now he passed obliquely through the keyhole, like a thin mist or an autumnal blast. Right through the temple of the spacious cave he went with soft light feet, as if his tread fell not on earth. Then he crept quickly to his cradle and spread the swaddling clothes about him; and the knave lay playing with the covering of the bed, with his left hand about his knees and the right hand holding his beloved tortoise-lyre tight. There he lay, innocent as a new-born child, as gossips say.

But though he was a god, the goddess, his fair mother, was not deceived, and knew all that he had been doing while away. So she said to him: “Whence come you and what wild adventures have you had, you cunning rogue. Where have you been all night long, clothed in your impudence? What have you done since you departed hence? Apollo will soon pass within this gate and bind your tender body in a chain inextricably tight and fast as fate, unless you can delude the god again. A pretty torment are you for gods and men.” “Dear mother,” the sly Hermes replied, “why scold and bother as if I were like other babes of my age, and understood nothing. I have hatched a scheme in my subtle brain which, while the sacred stars round heaven are rolled, will profit you and me, nor shall our lot be as you counsel, without gifts or food, to spend our lives in this obscure abode. We will leave this shadow-peopled cave and live among the gods, and pass each day in high communion, sharing their great wealth, and from the portion which Jove gave to Phœbus I will snatch my share away, and if he should find me out I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan. I’ll pierce the Pythian temple walls, though stout, and sack the fane of everything I can—cauldrons and tripods, each golden cup and every brazen pan, all the wrought tapestries and the gay garments.” So they talked together.