Cadmus having waited for the return of his men till midday, went
in search of them. His covering was a lion's hide, and besides
his javelin he carried in his hand a lance, and in his breast a
bold heart, a surer reliance than either. When he entered the
wood and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the monster with
his bloody jaws, he exclaimed, "O faithful friends, I will avenge
you, or share your death." So saying he lifted a huge stone and
threw it with all his force at the serpent. Such a block would
have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no impression on
the monster. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which met with
better success, for it penetrated the serpent's scales, and
pierced through to his entrails. Fierce with pain the monster
turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out
the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron
point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with rage, bloody
foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils poisoned
the air around. Now he twisted himself into a circle, then
stretched himself out on the ground like the trunk of a fallen
tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding
his spear opposite to the monster's opened jaws. The serpent
snapped at the weapon and attempted to bite its iron point. At
last Cadmus, watching his chance, thrust the spear at a moment
when the animal's thrown back came against the trunk of a tree,
and so succeeded in pinning him to its side. His weight bent the
tree as he struggled in the agonies of death.
While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast
size, a voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but he heard it
distinctly), commanding him to take the dragon's teeth and sow
them in the earth. He obeyed. He made a furrow in the ground,
and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of men. Scarce
had he done so when the clods began to move, and the points of
spears to appear above the surface. Next helmets, with their
nodding plumes, came up, and next, the shoulders and breasts and
limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed
warriors. Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy,
but one of them said to him, "Meddle not with our civil war."
With that he who had spoken smote one of his earth-born brothers
with a sword, and he himself fell pierced with an arrow from
another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner
the whole crowd dealt with each other till all fell slain with
mutual wounds except five survivors. One of these cast away his
weapons and said, "Brothers, let us live in peace!" These five
joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the
name of Thebes.
Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus. The
gods left Olympus to honor the occasion with their presence, and
Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing
brilliancy, his own workmanship. But a fatality hung over the
family of Cadmus in consequence of his killing the serpent sacred
to Mars. Semele and Ino, his daughters, and Actaeon and
Pentheius, his grandchildren, all perished unhappily; and Cadmus
and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to them, and
emigrated to the country of the Enchelians, who received them
with honor and made Cadmus their king. But the misfortunes of
their children still weighed upon their minds; and one day Cadmus
exclaimed, "If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, I would I
were myself a serpent." No sooner had he uttered the words than
he began to change his form. Harmonia beheld it, and prayed to
the gods to let her share his fate. Both became serpents. They
lie in the woods, but mindful of their origin they neither avoid
the presence of man nor do they ever injure any one.
There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the
letters of the alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians.
This is alluded to by Byron, where, addressing the modern Greeks,
he says:
"You have the letters Cadmus gave,
Think you he meant them for a slave?"
Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of
the serpents of the classical stories, and says,
"----pleasing was his shape,
And lovely; never since of serpent kind
Lovelier; not those that in Illyria changed
Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god
in Epidaurus."
The "god in Epidaurus" was AEsculapius. Serpents were held
sacred to him.
THE MYRMIDONS
The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles in the Trojan war.
From them all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political
chief are called by that name down to this day. But the origin
of the Myrmidons would not give one the idea of a fierce and
bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful one.
Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of AEgina to seek
assistance of his old friend and ally AEacus, the king, in his
wars with Minos, king of Crete. Cephalus was kindly received,
and the desired assistance readily promised. "I have people
enough," said AEacus, "to protect myself and spare you such a
force as you need." "I rejoice to see it," replied Cephalus,
"and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find such a host of
youths as I see around me, all apparently of about the same age.
Yet there are many individuals whom I previously knew that I look
for now in vain. What has become of them?" AEacus groaned, and
replied with a voice of sadness, "I have been intending to tell
you, and will now do so without more delay, that you may see how
from the saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows. Those
whom you formerly knew are now dust and ashes! A plague sent by
angry Juno devastated the land. She hated it because it bore the
name of one of her husband's female favorites. While the disease
appeared to spring from natural causes we resisted it as we best
might by natural remedies; but it soon appeared that the
pestilence was too powerful for our efforts, and we yielded. At
the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and
thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months together a
deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and
springs; thousands of snakes crept over the land and shed their
poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first
spent on the lower animals; dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The
luckless ploughman wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of
their work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool
fell from the bleating sheep, and their bodies pined away. The
horse, once foremost in the race, contested the palm no more, but
groaned at his stall, and died an inglorious death. The wild
boar forgot his rage, the stag his swiftness, the bears no longer
attacked the herds. Everything languished; dead bodies lay in
the roads, the fields, and the woods; the air was poisoned by
them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor
birds would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread
the infection. Next the disease attacked the country people, and
then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed,
and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and
swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged and
gasped for the air. Men could not bear the heat of their clothes
or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground; and the
ground did not cool them, but on the contrary, they heated the
spot where they lay. Nor could the physicians help, for the
disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them
infection, so that the most faithful were the first victims. At
last all hope of relief vanished and men learned to look upon
death as the only deliverer from disease. Then they gave way to
every inclination, and cared not to ask what was expedient, for
nothing was expedient. All restraint laid aside, they crowded
around the wells and fountains, and drank till they died, without
quenching thirst. Many had not strength to get away from the
water, but died in the midst of the stream, and others would
drink of it notwithstanding. Such was their weariness of their
sick-beds that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough
to stand, would die on the ground. They seemed to hate their
friends, and got away from their homes, as if, not knowing the
cause of their sickness, they charged it on the place of their
abode. Some were seen tottering along the road, as long as they
could stand, while others sank on the earth, and turned their
dying eyes around to take a last look, then closed them in death.
"What heart had I left me, during all this, or what ought I to
have had, except to hate life and wish to be with my dead
subjects? On all sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened
apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak.
You see yonder s temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter.
Oh, how many offered prayers there; husbands for wives, fathers
for sons, and died in the very act of supplication! How often,
while the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell,
struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length
all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out
unburied, wood was wanting for funeral piles, men fought with one
another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left
to mourn; sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike
unlamented.
"Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. 'Oh,
Jupiter,' I said, 'if thou art indeed my father, and art not
ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or take me also
away!' At these words a clap of thunder was heard. 'I accept
the omen,' I cried; 'oh, may it be a sign of a favorable
disposition towards me!' By chance there grew by the place where
I stood an oak with wide-spreading branches, sacred to Jupiter.
I observed a troop of ants busy with their labor, carrying minute
grains in their mouths and following one another in a line up the
trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with admiration, I
said, 'Give me, oh father, citizens as numerous as these, and
replenish my empty city.' The tree shook and gave a rustling
sound with its branches though no wind agitated them. I trembled
in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree. I would not
confess to myself that I hoped, yet I did hope. Night came on
and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed with cares. The
tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all
covered with living, moving creatures. It seemed to shake its
limbs and throw down over the ground a multitude of those
industrious grain-gathering animals, which appeared to gain in
size, and grow larger, and by-and-by to stand erect, lay aside
their superfluous legs and their black color, and finally to
assume the human form. Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to
chide the gods who had robbed me of a sweet vision and given me
no reality in its place. Being still in the temple my attention
was caught by the sound of many voices without; a sound of late
unusual to my ears. While I began to think I was yet dreaming,
Telamon, my son, throwing open the temple-gates, exclaimed,
'Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your hopes!'
I went forth; I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my
dream, and they were passing in procession in the same manner.
While I gazed with wonder and delight they approached, and
kneeling, hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and
proceeded to allot the vacant city to the new-born race, and to
parcel out the fields among them. I called them Myrmidons from
the ant (myrmex), from which they sprang. You have seen these
persons; their dispositions resemble those which they had in
their former shape. They are a diligent and industrious race,
eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains. Among them you may
recruit your forces. They will follow you to the war, young in
years and bold in heart."
This description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account
which Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives of the plague of
Athens. The historian drew from life, and all the poets and
writers of fiction since his day, when they have had occasion to
describe a similar scene, have borrowed their details from him.
Chapter VIII
Nisus and Scylla. Echo and Narcissus. Clytie. Hero and Leander
Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Megara. Nisus was king of
Megara, and Scylla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted
six months, and the city still held out, for it was decreed by
fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple
lock, which glittered among the hair of King Nisus, remained on
his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked
the plain where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower
Scylla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the
hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned
to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos, in particular,
excited her admiration. She admired his graceful deportment; if
he threw his javelin, skill seemed combined with force in the
discharge; if he drew his bow, Apollo himself could not have done
it more gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in
his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its gay
caparisons, and reined in its foaming mouth, the daughter of
Nisus was hardly mistress of herself; she was almost frantic with
admiration. She envied the weapon that he grasped, the reins
that he held. She felt as if she could, if it were possible, go
to him through the hostile ranks; she felt an impulse to cast
herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to
open the gates to him, or do anything else, so only it might
gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus with
herself: "I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad
war. I grieve that Minos is our enemy; but I rejoice at any
cause that brings him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing
to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would fly
down, if I could, and alight in his camp, and tell him that we
yield ourselves to his mercy. But, then, to betray my father!
No! Rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no doubt it
is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered when the
conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on
his side. I think we shall be conquered; and if that must be the
end of it, why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of
leaving it to be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter
if we can. And, oh, if any one should wound or kill Minos! No
one surely would have the heart to do it; yet ignorantly, not
knowing him, one might. I will, I will surrender myself to him,
with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But
how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys; he
only stands in my way. Oh, that it might please the gods to take
him away! But why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving
as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the
way of her love. And can any other woman dare more than I? I
would encounter fire and sword to gain my object; but here there
is no need of fire and sword. I only need my father's purple
lock. More precious than gold to me, that will give me all I
wish."
While she thus reasoned night came on, and soon the whole palace
was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bedchamber and cut
off the fatal lock; then passed out of the city and entered the
enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king, and thus
addressed him: "I am Scylla, the daughter of Nisus. I surrender
to you my country and my father's house. I ask no reward but
yourself; for love of you I have done it. See here the purple
lock! With this I give you my father and his kingdom." She held
out her hand with the fatal spoil. Minos shrunk back and refused
to touch it. "The gods destroy thee, infamous woman," he
exclaimed; "disgrace of our time! May neither earth nor sea
yield thee a resting place! Surely, my Crete, where Jove himself
was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster!" Thus he
said, and gave orders that equitable terms should be allowed to
the conquered city, and that the fleet should immediately sail
from the island.
Scylla was frantic. "Ungrateful man," she exclaimed, "is it thus
you leave me? Me who have given you victory, who have
sacrificed for you parent and country! I am guilty, I confess,
and deserve to die, by not by your hand." As the ships left the
shore, she leaped into the water, and seizing the rudder of the
one which carried Minos, she was borne along an unwelcome
companion of their course. A sea-eagle soaring aloft, it was
her father who had been changed into that form, seeing her,
pounced down upon her, and struck her with his beak and claws.
In terror she let go the ship, and would have fallen into the
water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea-
eagle still cherishes the old animosity; and whenever he espies
her in his lofty flight, you may see him dart down upon her, with
beak and claws, to take vengeance for the ancient crime.
ECHO AND NARCISSUS
Echo was a beautiful nymph, fond of the woods and hills, where
she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of
Diana, and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing;
she was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument would
have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband, who,
she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs.
Echo by her talk contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs
made their escape. When Juno discovered it, she passed sentence
upon Echo in these words: "You shall forfeit the use of that
tongue with which you have cheated me, except for that one
purpose you are so fond of REPLY. You shall still have the
last word, but no power to speak first."
This nymph saw Narcissus, a beautiful youth, as he pursued the
chase upon the mountains. She loved him, and followed his
footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest
accents, and win him to converse, but it was not in her power.
She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her
answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his
companions, shouted aloud, "Who's here?" Echo replied, "Here."
Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one, called out, "Come."
Echo answered, "Come." As no one came, Narcissus called again,
"Why do you shun me?" Echo asked the same question. "Let us
join one another," said the youth. The maid answered with all
her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to
throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming,
"Hands off! I would rather die than you should have me." "Have
me," said she; but it was all in vain. He left her, and she went
to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time
forth she lived in caves and among mountain cliffs. Her form
faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her
bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her
but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to any one
who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last
word.
Narcissus was cruel not in this case alone. He shunned all the
rest of the nymphs as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden,
who had in vain endeavored to attract him, uttered a prayer that
he might some time or other feel what it was to love and meet no
return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the
prayer.
There was a clear fountain, with water like silver, to which the
shepherds never drove their flocks. Nor did the mountain goats
resort to it, nor any of the beasts of the forest; neither was it
defaced with fallen leaves or branches; but the grass grew fresh
around it, and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came
one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He
stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water; he
thought it was some beautiful water=spirit living in the
fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes,
those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the
rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of
health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He
brought his lips near to take a kiss; he plunged his arms in to
embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned
again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not
tear himself away; he lost all thought of food or rest, while he
hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image.
He talked with the supposed spirit: "Why, beautiful being, do you
shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs
love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I
stretch forth my arms you do the same; and you smile upon me and
answer my beckonings with the like." His tears fell into the
water and disturbed the image. As he saw it depart, he
exclaimed, "Stay, I entreat you! Let me at least gaze upon you,
if I may not touch you." With this, and much more of the same
kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by
degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which
formerly had so charmed the nymph Echo. She kept near him,
however, and when he exclaimed, "Alas! Alas!" she answered him
with the same words. He pined away and died; and when his shade
passed the Stygian river, it leaned over the boat to catch a look
of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially
the water-nymphs; and when they smote their breasts, Echo smote
hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned
the body, but it was nowhere to be found; but in its place a
flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which
bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus.
Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's
song in Comus. She is seeking her brothers in the forest, and
sings to attract their attention.
"Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell
By slow Meander's margent green.
And in the violet-embroidered vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likes thy Narcissus are?
Oh, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies."
Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which
he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the
fountain:
"That day I oft remember when from sleep
I first awaked, and found myself reposed
Under a shade on flowers, much wondering where
And what I was, whence thither brought, and how
Not distant far from thence a murmuring sound
Of waters issued from a cave, and spread
Into a liquid plain, then stood unmoved
Pure as the expanse of heaven; I thither went
With unexperienced thought, and laid me down
On the green bank, to look into the clear
Smooth lake that to me seemed another sky.
As I bent down to look, just opposite
A shape within the watery gleam appeared,
Bending to look on me. I started back;
It started back; but pleased I soon returned,
Pleased it returned as soon with answering looks
Of sympathy and love. There had I fixed
Mine eyes till now, and pined with vain desire,
Had not a voice thus warned me: 'What thou seest,
What there thou seest, fair creature, is thyself.'"
Paradise Lost, Book IV
The fable of Narcissus is often alluded to by the poets. Here
are two epigrams which treat it in different ways. The first is
by Goldsmith:
"ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING:
"Sure 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be like Cupid blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate"
The other is by Cowper:
"ON AN UGLY FELLOW
"Beware, my friend, of crystal brook
Or fountain, lest that hideous hook.
Thy nose, thou chance to see;
Narcissus' fate would then be thine,
And self-detested thou would'st pine,
As self-enamored he."
CLYTIE
Clytie was a water-nymph and in love with Apollo, who made her no
return. So she pined away, sitting all day long upon the cold
ground, with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders.
Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own
tears and the chilly dew her only food. She gazed on the sun
when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his
setting; she saw no other object, her face turned constantly on
him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground, her face
became a sunflower, which turns on its stem so as always to face
the sun throughout its daily course; for it retains to that
extent the feeling of the nymph from whom it sprang.
One of the best known of the marble busts discovered in our own
time, generally bears the name of Clytie. It has been very
frequently copied in plaster. It represents the head of a young
girl looking down, the neck and shoulders being supported in
the cup of a large flower, which by a little effort of
imagination can be made into a giant sunflower. The latest
supposition, however, is that this bust represented not Clytie,
but Isis.
Hood in his Flowers thus alludes to Clytie:
"I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom therefore I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one."
The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy. Thus Moore uses
it:
"The heart that has truly loved never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look that she turned when he rose."
It is only for convenience that the modern poets translate the
Latin word HELIOTROPIUM, by the English sunflower. The
sunflower, which was known to the ancients, was called in Greek,
helianthos, from HELIOS, the sun; and ANTHOS a flower, and in
Latin, helianthus. It derives its name from its resemblance to
the sun; but, as any one may see, at sunset, it does not "turn to
the God when he sets the same look that it turned when he rose."
The Heliotrope of the fable of Clytie is called Turn-sole in old
English books, and such a plant is known in England. It is not
the sweet heliotrope of modern gardens, which is a South American
plant. The true classical heliotrope is probably to be found in
the heliotrope of southern France, a weed not known in America.
The reader who is curious may examine the careful account of it
in Larousse's large dictionary.
HERO AND LEANDER
Leander was a youth of Abydos, a town of the Asian side of the
strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore in
the town of Sestos lived the maiden Hero, a priestess of Venus.
Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy
the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which she reared
upon the tower, for the purpose. But one night a tempest arose
and the sea was rough; his strength failed, and he was drowned.
The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became
aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the
tower into the sea and perished.
The following sonnet is by Keats:
"ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER
"Come hither, all sweet maidens, soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joined be,
As if so gentle that ye could not see,
Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright,
Sinking away to his young spirit's night,
Sinking bewilder'd 'mid the dreary sea.
'Tis young Leander toiling to his death.
Nigh swooning, he doth purse his weary lips
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile.
Oh, horrid dream! See how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!"
The story of Leander's swimming the Hellespont was looked upon as
fabulous, and the feat considered impossible, till Lord Byron
proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the Bride of
Abydos he says,
"These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne."
The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is
a constant current setting out from the Sea of Marmora into the
Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been achieved by
others; but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the
art of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity
to any one of our readers who may dare to make the attempt and
succeed in accomplishing it.
In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron
alludes to this story:
"The winds are high on Helle's wave,
As on that night of stormiest water,
When Love, who sent, forgot to save
The young, the beautiful, the brave,
The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter.
Oh, when alone along the sky
The turret-torch was blazing high,
Though rising gale and breaking foam,
And shrieking sea-birds warned him home;
And clouds aloft and tides below,
With signs and sounds forbade to go,
He could not see, he would not hear
Or sound or sight foreboding fear.
His eye but saw that light of love,
The only star it hailed above;
His ear but rang with Hero's song,
'Ye waves, divide not lovers long.'
That tale is old, but love anew
May nerve young hearts to prove as true."
The subject has been a favorite one with sculptors.
Schiller has made one of his finest ballads from the tragic fate
of the two lovers. The following verses are a translation from
the latter part of the ballad:
"Upon Hellespont's broad currents
Night broods black, and rain in torrents
From the cloud's full bosom pours;
Lightnings in the sky are flashing,
All the storms below are dashing
On the crag-piled shores.
Awful chasms gaping widely,
Separate the mountain waves;
Ocean yawning as to open
Downward e'en to Pluto's caves."
After the storm has arisen, Hero sees the danger, and cries,
"Woe, ah! Woe; great Jove have pity,
Listen to my sad entreaty,
Yet for what can Hero pray?
Should the gods in pity listen,
He, e'en now the false abyss in,
Struggles with the tempest's spray.
All the birds that skim the wave
In hasty flight are hieing home;
T the lee of safer haven
All the storm-tossed vessels come.
"Ah! I know he laughs at danger,
Dares again the frequent venture,
Lured by an almighty power;
For he swore it when we parted,
With the vow which binds true-hearted
Lovers to the latest hour.
Yes! Even as this moment hastens
Battles he the wave-crests rude,
And to their unfathomed chasms
Dags him down the angry flood.
"Pontus false! Thy sunny smile
Was the lying traitor's guile,
Like a mirror flashing there:
All thy ripples gently playing
Til they triumphed in betraying
Him into thy lying snare.
Now in thy mid-current yonder,
Onward still his course he urges,
Thou the false, on him the fated
Pouring loose thy terror-surges.
Waxes high the tempest's danger,
Waves to mountains rise in anger,
Oceans swell, and breakers dash,
Foaming, over cliffs of rock
Where even navies, stiff with oak,
Could not bear the crash.
In the gale her torch is blasted,
Beacon of the hoped-for strand;
Horror broods above the waters,
Horror broods above the land.
Prays she Venus to assuage
The hurricane's increasing rage,
And to sooth the billows' scorn.
And as gale on gale arises,
Vows to each as sacrifices
Spotless steer with gilded horn.
To all the goddesses below,
To "all the gods in heaven that be,"
She prays that oil of peace may flow
Softly on the storm-tossed sea.
Blest Leucothea, befriend me!
From cerulean halls attend me;
Hear my prayer of agony.
In the ocean desert's raving,
Storm-tossed seamen, succor craving,
Find in thee their helper nigh.
Wrap him in thy charmed veil,
Secret spun and secret wove,
Certain from the deepest wave
To lift him to its crests above."
Now the tempests wild are sleeping,
And from the horizon creeping
Rays of morning streak the skies,
Peaceful as it lay before
The placid sea reflects the shore,
Skies kiss waves and waves the skies.
Little ripples, lightly plashing,
Break upon the rock-bound strand,
And they trickle, lightly playing
O'er a corpse upon the sand.
Yes, 'tis he! Although he perished,
Still his sacred troth he cherished,
An instant's glance tells all to her;
Not a tear her eye lets slip
Not a murmur leaves her lip;
Down she looks in cold despair;
Gazes round the desert sea,
Trustless gazes round the sky,
Flashes then of noble fire
Through her pallid visage fly!
"Yes, I know, ye mighty powers,
Ye have drawn the fated hours
Pitiless and cruel on.
Early full my course is over.
Such a course with such a lover;
Such a share of joy I've known.
Venus, queen, within thy temple,
Thou hast known me vowed as thine,
Now accept thy willing priestess
As an offering at thy shrine."
Downward then, while all in vain her
Fluttering robes would still sustain her,
Springs she into Pontus' wave;
Grasping him and her, the god
Whirls them in his deepest flood,
And, himself, becomes their grave.
With his prizes then contented,
Peaceful bids his waters glide,
From the unexhausted vessels,
Whence there streams an endless tide.
Chapter IX
Minerva and Arachne. Niobe. The Story of Perseus
Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter.
She, they say, sprang forth from his brain full grown and clad in
complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental
arts, both those of men, such as agriculture and navigation,
and those of women, spinning, weaving, and needle-work. She
was also a warlike divinity; but a lover of defensive war only.
She had no sympathy with Mars's savage love of violence and
bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to
her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to
it. The tale ran that in the reign of Cecrops, the first king of
Athens, the two deities contended for the possession of the city.
The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that one who
produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the
horse; Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that
the olive was the more useful of the two, and awarded the city to
the goddess; and it was named after her, Athens, her name in
Greek being Athene.
In another contest, a mortal dared to come in competition with
Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such
skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the nymphs
themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and
gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done,
but beautiful also in the doing. To watch her, as she took the
wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it
with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft
as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skilful touch, or wove
the web, or, when woven, adorned it with her needle, one would
have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she
denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a
goddess. "Let Minerva try her skill with mine," said she; "if
beaten, I will pay the penalty." Minerva heard this and was
displeased. Assuming the form of an old woman, she went and gave
Arachne some friendly advice. "I have had much experience,: said
she, "and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your
fellow-mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess.
On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you
have said, and, as she is merciful, perhaps she will pardon you."
Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old dame with
anger in her countenance. "Keep your counsel," said she, "for
your daughters or handmaids; for my part, I know what I say, and
I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess; let her try her
skill, if she dare venture." "She comes," said Minerva; and
dropping her disguise, stood confessed. The nymphs bent low in
homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was
unterrified. She blushed, indeed; a sudden color dyed her cheek,
and then she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a
foolish conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva
forbore no longer, nor interposed any further advice. They
proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the
web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out
among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the
woof into its place and compacts the web. Both work with speed;
their skilful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the
contest makes the labor light. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted
with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so
adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose
long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from
the shower (this description of the rainbow is literally
translated rom Ovid), in which, where the colors meet they seem
as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact are
wholly different.
Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune.
Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with
August gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the
sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the
earth, from which a horse has leaped forth. Minerva depicted
herself with helmed head, her AEgis covering her breast. Such
was the central circle; and in the four corners were represented
incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such
presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These
were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before
it was too late.
Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit
the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented Leda
caressing the swan, under which form Jupiter had disguised
himself; and another, Danae, in the brazen tower in which her
father had imprisoned her, but where the god effected his
entrance in the form of a shower of gold. Still another depicted
Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull.
Encouraged by the tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to
mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea, and swam
with her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull so
naturally was it wrought, and so natural was the water in which
it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the
shore she was leaving, and to call to her companions for help.
She appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the heaving
waves, and to draw back her feet from the water.
Arachne filled her canvas with these and like subjects,
wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption and
impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet felt indignant
at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle, and rent it
in pieces; she then touched the forehead of Arachne, and made her
feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it, and went and
hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her hanging by a
rope. "Live, guilty woman," said she; " and that you may
preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, you and
your descendants, to all future times." She sprinkled her with
the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her
nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew
smaller yet; her fingers grew to her side, and served for legs.
All the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread,
often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when
Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider.
Spenser tells the story of Arachne in his Muiopotmos, adhering
very closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the
conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what
was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive tree: |
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