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Title: The Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art (2nd ed.) (1911)

Author: Charles Mills Gayley
Thomas Bulfinch

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Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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MYTHS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND IN ART (2ND ED.) (1911)
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LEMNIAN ATHENA

THE CLASSIC MYTHS
IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND IN ART
BASED ORIGINALLY ON
BULFINCH'S "AGE OF FABLE"
(1855)
ACCOMPANIED BY AN INTERPRETATIVE AND ILLUSTRATIVE

COMMENTARY

BY

CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY, Litt.D., LL.D.

PROFESSOR OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA

NEW EDITION
REVISED AND ENLARGED

GINN AND COMPANY

BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON
ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO

COPYRIGHT, 1893, 1911, BY CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
817.6
The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS · BOSTON · U.S.A.

TO THE MUSES
Whether on Ida's shady brow,
Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the sun, that now
From ancient melody have ceas'd;

Whether in Heav'n ye wander fair,
Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,
Where the melodious winds have birth;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove,
Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

How have you left the ancient love
That bards of old enjoyed in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forc'd, the notes are few!

William Blake

O antique fables! beautiful and bright
And joyous with the joyous youth of yore;
O antique fables! for a little light
Of that which shineth in you evermore,
To cleanse the dimness from our weary eyes,
And bathe our old world with a new surprise
Of golden dawn entrancing sea and shore.

James Thomson

PREFACE
In this new edition of "The Classic Myths in English Literature" the former
order of materials has been altered in accordance with the advice of the
teachers who have had longest experience with the use of the book; the old
material has been thoroughly revised; and much new material has been
added. Since most people prefer to begin a story at its beginning, and not
with the career of its author and his genealogy, I have reserved the history
of the myths for the conclusion of the text. Some of the myths have been
restated in more careful form. Some short narratives, before omitted, have
been included. The sketches of the Iliad and the Odyssey have been
considerably expanded; and an outline—which, I hope, will be deemed
adequate—of Wagner's version of the Ring of the Nibelung has been
appended to the account of Norse and German mythology. That version is,
of course, not English literature; but it has come to be received as the
classic modern version of the story; and the story is needed, at some time or
other, by every lover of music. Fresh examples of the employment of myth
in English verse have, where practicable, been incorporated in the text; and
some new references will be found in the Commentary.
I have thoroughly revised the list of illustrative cuts, have interpreted the
more difficult of the ancient figures, and indicated the sources. The pictures
themselves are a decided improvement upon those in the former edition. In
the determination of sources for reproduction, I have had the valuable
assistance of Dr. E. von Mach, the author of more than one well-known
work on ancient art; and to him I am indebted, in addition, for the section
on The Classic Myths in Art, which is included in my Introduction. With
this new equipment the book should prove more useful to those who here
make their first acquaintance with art, especially the art of the ancients, as
well as to those who have been in the habit of using it as a guide to
paintings and sculptures of mythological subjects in foreign galleries.
Much of our best English poetry lies beyond the imaginative reach of many
readers because of their unfamiliarity with the commonplaces of literary

allusion, reference, and tradition. Of such commonplaces few are more
frequently recurrent than those furnished by the literature of myth.
In view of this consideration, the Academic Council of the University of
California, some twenty years ago, introduced into its requirements for
entrance in English the subject of Classical Mythology in its relation to
English Literature, and recommended, as a textbook for preparation,
Bulfinch's "Age of Fable." The experience of English and classical teachers
in the schools of the state attested the wisdom of the requirement; but the
demand for some textbook adapted to the needs of the classroom made
necessary the preparation of this volume. For while "The Age of Fable"
offered a tempting collection of Greek, Norse, and Oriental narratives, it
was designed neither as a schoolbook nor as a systematized presentation
and interpretation of the myths that have most influenced English literature.
At the request of my publishers I undertook at that time such a revision and
rearrangement of the materials of "The Age of Fable" as might adapt it to
the purposes of teacher and pupil, and to the taste of readers somewhat
more advanced in years than those addressed by the original work or by the
edition which bore the name of the Reverend Edward Everett Hale. But
after a year's work I found that half my material for copy was new, and that
the remainder differed in many important respects from the book upon
which it was based. Consequently, while the obligation to "The Age of
Fable" was acknowledged in full, a different title was selected for the
resulting volume. For neither my publishers nor I desired that the
scholarship or the taste of Mr. Bulfinch should be held accountable for
liberties that were taken with his work.
In "The Classic Myths in English Literature and in Art," Chapters XXIII-
XXVII, containing sketches of the Fall of Troy, the Odyssey, the Æneid,
and of certain Norse lays, are a revision of corresponding chapters in "The
Age of Fable." Chapters VII-XX, and XXII, comprising Myths of the
Greater Divinities of Heaven, Earth, the Underworld, and the Waters, Myths
of the Lesser Divinities of the same regions, Myths of the Older Heroes and
Myths of the Younger Heroes, and the outline of the Trojan War, represent a
total rearrangement and recomposition of the original material, section by
section, and frequently paragraph by paragraph,—such portions of "The
Age of Fable" as have been retained being abridged or rewritten, and, in
places too frequent to enumerate, supplemented by new and necessary

sentences, paragraphs, and sections. The Introduction, the first six chapters
(on the Greek Myths of the Creation, and the attributes of Greek and
Roman divinities), Chapters XXI and XXVIII-XXXII (on the Houses
concerned in the Trojan War, the Saga of the Volsungs, the Lay of the
Nibelungs, Wagner's Ring of the Nibelung, and on the origin, elements,
distribution, and preservation of myth), the choice of poetic and artistic
illustration, the footnotes referring to sources, and the Commentary are
wholly, or essentially, my own. In fact, there is little but the scaffolding of
"The Age of Fable" now remaining in the book.
Although in the Index of Mythological Subjects and their Sources the more
common myths of some other nations are briefly stated, no myths save
those known to the Greeks, Romans, Norsemen, or Germans have been
included in the body of the text. The scope of selection has been thus
confined for three reasons: first, the regard for necessary limits; second, the
desirability of emphasizing only such myths as have actually acclimated
themselves in English-speaking lands and have influenced the spirit, form,
and habit of English imaginative thought; third, the necessity of excluding
all but the unquestionably classic. The term classic, however, is, of course,
not restricted to the products of Greece and Rome; nor is it employed as
synonymous with Classical or as antithetical to Romantic. From the
extreme Classical to the extreme Romantic is a far cry; but as human life
knows no divorce of necessity from freedom, so genuine art knows neither
an unrelieved Classical nor an unrestrained Romantic. Classical and
Romantic are relative terms. The Classical and the Romantic of one
generation may merit equally to be the classics of the next. Therefore
certain Hellenic myths of romantic spirit or construction have been included
in this work, and certain Norse and German myths have not been excluded.
Whatever is admitted, is admitted as first-class: first-class, because simple,
spontaneous, and beautiful; because fulfilling the requirements of perennial
freshness, of æsthetic potency, and of ideal worth.
In the matter of illustrative English and American poems the principle of
selection has been that the verses shall translate a myth from the classic
original, or exemplify the poetic idealization and embellishment of the
subject, or suggest the spirit and mien of ancient art. But in each case regard
has been had to the æsthetic value of the poem or the citation. In the search
for suitable examples I have derived valuable assistance from Mr. E.C.

Guild's "Bibliography of Greek Mythology in English Poetry of the
Nineteenth Century" (Bowdoin College, Library Bulletin No. 1). The
student is also referred to A.E. Sawtelle's "Sources of Spenser's
Mythology," C.G. Osgood's' "Classical Mythology of Milton," and R.K.
Root's "Classical Mythology in Shakespeare" (Holt, 1896, 1900, and 1903,
respectively).
In the Commentary four things have been attempted: first, an explanation,
under each section, of ordinary textual difficulties; second, an unpretentious
exposition of the myth or a brief statement of the more evident
interpretations advanced by philologists or ethnologists; third, an indication
of certain additional poems or verses that illustrate the myth; fourth, special
mention of such masterpieces of ancient and modern sculpture and painting
as may serve to introduce the student or the general reader to a field of
æsthetic profit neglected by the great mass of our people. For the poetic
conception of most of the myths contained in Chapters I-XXIV, we are
indebted to the Greek imagination; but since this book is intended for
students of English poetry, and since in English poetry Latin names of
mythological characters are much more frequently employed than Greek,
the Latin designations or Latinized forms of Greek names have been, so far
as possible, retained; and such variations as Jupiter, Jove—Proserpina,
Proserpine, freely used. In the chapters, however, on the attributes of the
Greek gods, names exclusively Greek have been placed in parentheses after
the usual Roman equivalents, Latin appellations, or designations common
to both Greek and Roman usage. In the transliteration of Greek names I
have followed, also, the prevalent practice of our poets, which is, generally
speaking, the practice of the Romans. The diphthong ει, for instance, is
transliterated according to the accepted English pronunciation, which in
individual words perpetuates the preference of the Latins for the e sound or
the i sound respectively. So Ἀτρείδης becomes Atrīdes; Ἰφιμέδεια,
Iphimedīa. But, on the other hand, Κυθέρεια becomes Cytherēa; Πηνειός,
Penēus; and Μήδεια, Medēa; while owing to purely popular English
custom, such a name as Φειδίας has become, not Pheidias nor even Phīdias,
but—Phĭdias. A few names of islands, towns, persons, etc., that even in
Latin retain their Greek forms,—such as Delos, Naxos, Argos, Aglauros,
Pandrosos,—have been transferred without modification. So also has
Poseidon, because that is the common English spelling. In short, the
practice aimed at has been not that of scientific uniformity, but of

acknowledged poetic usage. In the titles of the illustrative cuts, Greek
names have been used for works of Greek origin, Latin for the Roman.
For the benefit of readers who do not know the fundamental rules for the
pronunciation of Greek and Latin proper names in English, a brief
statement of rules is prefixed to the Index; and in the Index of Mythological
Subjects and their Sources names are not only accented, but, when
necessary, diacritically marked.
In the preparation of the Text and Commentary more or less use has been
made of: Roscher's Ausführliches Lexikon der griechischen und römischen
Mythologie (Lieferungen 1-21, Teubner, Leipzig); Preller's Griechische
Mythologie (2 Bde., Berlin, 1861); Max Müller's Chips from a German
Workshop, Science of Religion (London, 1873), Science of Language (7th
ed., 2 vols., London, 1873), Oxford Essays (1856); Sir G. W. Cox's
Mythology of the Aryan Nations (2 vols., London, 1878); Frazer's Golden
Bough; W. Warde Fowler's Roman Festivals (London, 1899); Welcker's
Griechische Götterlehre; Baumeister's Denkmäler des klassischen
Alterthums; Murray's Manual of Mythology (New York, 1880); Smith's
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology; Duruy's
Histories of Rome and Greece; Keightley's Greek and Roman Mythology;
Kelsey's Outline of Greek and Roman Mythology (Boston, 1889); Horn's
Geschichte der Literatur des skandinavischen Nordens (Leipzig, 1880);
Cleasby and Vigfusson's Icelandic Dictionary; Lüning's Die Edda (Zürich,
1859); Vigfusson and Powell's Corpus Poeticum Boreale (2 vols., Oxford,
1883); Paul's Grundriss der germanischen Philologie, 1 Bd., 5 Lfg. (article
Mythologie, by E. Mogk); Grimm's Teutonic Mythology (translated by
Stallybrass, 3 vols.); Werner Hahn's Das Nibelungenlied; Lang's Myth,
Ritual, and Religion (2 vols., London, 1887), and Mythology (Encyc. Brit.,
Vol. 9); Tylor's Anthropology (New York, 1881) and Primitive Culture (2
vols.); J. W. Powell's Annual Reports of the Bureau of Ethnology (7 vols.,
beginning 1879-1880, Washington, D.C.); Keary's Outlines of Primitive
Belief; Fiske's Myths and Myth-makers (Boston); Whitney's Oriental and
Linguistic Studies; W. P. Johnston's The Origin of Myth; and of other works
to which due reference is made in the footnotes and Commentary. The
student is also referred to F. B. Jevons' edition of Plutarch's Romane
Questions, translated by Philemon Holland (London, 1892) (introduction on
Roman Mythology); and to C.G. Leland's Etruscan-Roman Remains in

Popular Tradition (London, 1892). The Maps, furnished by Messrs. Ginn
and Company from other of their publications, have, with the kind consent
of the authors of those works, in some instances been adapted by me to suit
the present purpose.
The principal authorities used in the selection of the illustrations of this new
edition are: Baumeister, Denkmäler des klassischen Alterthums (3 vols.,
Munich, 1888); Furtwängler, Masterpieces of Greek Sculpture (London,
1905); Ernest Gardner, Ancient Athens (New York and London, 1902);
Percy Gardner, A Grammar of Greek Art (New York and London, 1905);
and Sculptured Tombs of Hellas (London, 1896); Percy Gardner and
Jevons, A Manual of Greek Antiquities (London, 1895); Gerhard,
Auserlesene griechische Vasenbilder (1840-1858); Gusman, Pompeii
(London, 1900); Harrison and Maccoll, Greek Vase Paintings (London,
1894); E. von Mach, Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture (Boston,
1905); and Greek Sculpture, Its Spirit and Principles (Boston, 1903); A. S.
Murray, Handbook of Greek Archæology (London, 1892); History of Greek
Sculpture (2 vols., London, 1883); and Sculptures of the Parthenon
(London, 1903); A. S. Murray and C. A. Hutton, Greek Bronzes and Terra
Cotta Statuettes (London, 1898); C. O. Müller, Denkmäler der alten Kunst
(Göttingen, 1832); Overbeck, Griechische Kunstmythologie (1871 ——);
Emil Presuhn, Pompeii, 1874-1881 (Leipzig, 1882); Salomon Reinach,
Peintures de vases antiques (including the collections of Millin, 1808, and
Millingen, 1813 (Paris, 1891)), and Apollo (Paris, 1907); H. Roux Ainé,
Herculaneum and Pompeii; Roscher, Ausführliches Lexikon der
griechischen und römischen Mythologie (1884 ——) (Lieferungen 1-17 in
Vol. I, 18 on in Vol. II); Anton Springer, Handbuch der Kunstgeschichte (I
Alterthum, Leipzig, 1904); Charles Waldstein, The Argive Heræum (2
vols.); and the archæological periodicals as cited in the List of Illustrations.
The acknowledgment of assistance made in the former edition is here
renewed.
CHARLES MILLS GAYLEY

CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION xxix
PART I
MYTHS OF DIVINITIES AND HEROES
CHAPTER I. GREEK MYTHS OF THE CREATION 1
Purpose of the Study. The Fable and the Myth. Origin of the World. Origin of the Gods.
The Rule of Cronus. The War of the Titans. The Division of Empire. The Reign of Jupiter.
The Origin of Man. Prometheus, a Creator. The Age of Gold. The Silver Age. Prometheus,
Champion of Man. Pandora. Prometheus Bound. Longfellow's Prometheus. The Brazen
Age. The Iron Age. The Flood. Deucalion and Pyrrha. The Demigods and Heroes.
CHAPTER II. THE GODS OF HEAVEN 18
Olympus. The Great Gods. Jupiter (Zeus). Conceptions of Jupiter. Juno (Hera). Minerva
(Athene or Athena). Mars (Ares). Vulcan (Hephæstus). Apollo. Shelley's Hymn of Apollo.
Diana (Artemis). Jonson's Hymn to Cynthia. Venus (Aphrodite). The "Venus of Milo."
Mercury (Hermes). Vesta (Hestia). The Lesser Divinities of Heaven.
CHAPTER III. THE GODS OF EARTH 42
Conception of the World. Ceres (Demeter). Gæa (Ge). Bacchus (Dionysus). The Lesser
Divinities of Earth.
CHAPTER IV. THE GODS OF THE UNDERWORLD 47
The Underworld. Tartarus and the Elysian Fields. The Islands of the Blest. Pluto (Hades).
Proserpina (Persephone). The Lesser Divinities of the Underworld.
CHAPTER V. THE GODS OF THE WATERS 55
The Older Dynasty. The Younger Dynasty. The Lesser Divinities of the Waters.
CHAPTER VI. THE ROMAN DIVINITIES 59
Gods Common to Greece and Italy. Italian Gods.
CHAPTER VII. MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN 64
Myths of Jupiter and Juno. Love Affairs of Jupiter. Io. Callisto. Europa. Semele. Ægina.
Antiope. Jupiter, a Friend of Man. Juno's Best Gift. Myths of Minerva. Arachne. Myths of
Mars. Mars and Diomede. Mars and Minerva. The Fortunes of Cadmus. Myths of Vulcan.
Myths of Apollo. The Wanderings of Latona. Apollo, the Light Triumphant. Hyacinthus.
Phaëthon. The Plague sent upon the Greeks before Troy. The Punishment of Niobe. The
Lamentation for Linus. Æsculapius. Apollo in Exile. Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus.
Admetus and Alcestis. Apollo, the Musician. Apollo, Pan, and Midas. Shelley's Hymn of
Pan. Marsyas. The Loves of Apollo. Daphne. Marpessa. Clytie. Myths of Diana. The
Flight of Arethusa. Shelley's Arethusa. The Fate of Actæon. The Fortunes and Death of
Orion. The Pleiads. Endymion. Myths of Venus. Adonis. Cupid and Psyche. Keats' Ode to
Psyche. Atalanta's Race. Hero and Leander. Pygmalion and the Statue. Pyramus and
Thisbe. Phaon. The Vengeance of Venus. Myths of Mercury.
CHAPTER VIII. MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF EARTH 152
Myths of Bacchus. The Wanderings of Bacchus. The Story of Acetes. The Choice of King
Midas.

CHAPTER IX. FROM THE EARTH TO THE UNDERWORLD 159
Myths of Ceres, Pluto, and Proserpine. The Rape of Proserpine. The Wanderings of Ceres.
Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Orpheus and Eurydice.
CHAPTER X. MYTHS OF NEPTUNE, RULER OF THE WATERS 169
Lord of the Sea. Lord of Streams and Fountains. Pelops and Hippodamia.
CHAPTER XI. MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN 172
Myths of Stars and Winds. Cephalus and Procris. Dobson's The Death of Procris. Ceyx
and Halcyone. Aurora and Tithonus. Tennyson's Tithonus. Memnon.
CHAPTER XII. MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF EARTH, ETC. 181
Pan, and the Personification of Nature. Stedman's Pan in Wall Street. Other Lesser Gods
of Earth. Echo and Narcissus. Echo, Pan, Lyde, and the Satyr. The Naiads. The Dryads, or
Hamadryads. Erysichthon. Dryope. Rhœcus. Pomona and Vertumnus. The Cranes of
Ibycus.
CHAPTER XIII. MYTHS OF LESSER DIVINITIES OF THE WATERS 198
Galatea and Polyphemus. Glaucus and Scylla. Nisus and Scylla. Leucothea. Proteus and
Aristæus. Acheloüs and Hercules. Milton's Sabrina Fair.
CHAPTER XIV. MYTHS OF THE OLDER HEROES: THE HOUSE OF DANAÜS,
206
AND ITS CONNECTIONS
The Older and the Younger Heroes. The Genealogy of Danaüs. The Danaïds. The Doom
of King Acrisius. Perseus and Medusa. Perseus and Atlas. Perseus and Andromeda.
Bellerophon and the Chimæra. Hercules (Heracles): His Youth. His Labors. His Later
Exploits. The Loss of Hylas. The Rescue of Daphnis. The Expedition against Laomedon.
The Death of Hercules.
CHAPTER XV. THE FAMILY OF ÆOLUS 229
Descendants of Deucalion. The Quest of the Golden Fleece. The Return of the Argonauts.
Medea and Æson. Pelias.
CHAPTER XVI. THE FAMILY OF ÆTOLUS AND ITS CONNECTIONS 237
The Calydonian Hunt. Merope. Castor and Pollux. The Twin Brethren among the Romans.
CHAPTER XVII. THE HOUSE OF MINOS 246
Minos of Crete. Dædalus and Icarus.
CHAPTER XVIII. THE HOUSE OF CECROPS AND ERICHTHONIUS 249
From Cecrops to Philomela. Matthew Arnold's Philomela. Theseus. Theseus and Ariadne.
Bacchus and Ariadne. The Amazons. Theseus and Pirithoüs. Phædra and Hippolytus.
CHAPTER XIX. THE HOUSE OF LABDACUS 261
The Misfortunes of Thebes. Œdipus and the Sphinx. Œdipus, the King. Œdipus at
Colonus.
CHAPTER XX. MYTHS OF THE YOUNGER HEROES: THE SEVEN AGAINST
265
THEBES
Their Exploits. The Seven against Thebes. Antigone. The Epigoni.
CHAPTER XXI. HOUSES CONCERNED IN THE TROJAN WAR 269
Three Families. Peleus. Achilles, Son of Peleus. Atreus. Tyndareus.
CHAPTER XXII. THE TROJAN WAR 277
Its Origin. Iphigenia in Aulis. Protesilaüs and Laodamia. Homer's Iliad. The Wrath of
Achilles. The Enlistment of the Gods. Thetis intercedes for Achilles. Agamemnon calls a
Council. Paris plays the Champion. Helen surveys the Grecian Host. Menelaüs defeats
Paris. The Two Days' Battle. Hector and Andromache. Neptune aids the Discouraged
Greeks. Jupiter inspirits the Trojans. Achilles and Patroclus. Patroclus in the Armor of

Achilles. The Deaths of Sarpedon and Patroclus. The Remorse of Achilles. The
Reconciliation of Agamemnon and Achilles. The Death of Hector. Achilles drags the Body
of Hector. Priam in the Tent of Achilles.
CHAPTER XXIII. THE FALL OF TROY 307
The Fall of Troy. The Death of Achilles. Contest for the Arms of Achilles. Paris and
Œnone. The Palladium. The Wooden Horse. Laocoön and the Serpents. The Death of
Priam. The Survivors. Helen, Menelaüs, and Agamemnon. Electra and Orestes. Orestes
pursued by the Furies. His Purification.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES 318
From Troy to Phæacia. The Lotos-eaters. The Cyclopes. The Bag of Winds. The
Læstrygonians. The Isle of Ææa. Ulysses visits Hades. The Sirens. Scylla and Charybdis.
The Cattle of the Sun. Calypso's Island. The Land of the Phæacians. Fate of the Suitors.
Tennyson's Ulysses.
CHAPTER XXV. ADVENTURES OF ÆNEAS 346
From Troy to Italy. The Departure from Troy. The Promised Empire. The Harpies. Epirus.
The Cyclopes Again. The Resentment of Juno. The Sojourn at Carthage. Dido. Palinurus.
Italy at Last. The Sibyl of Cumæ. The Infernal Regions. The Elysian Fields. The Valley of
Oblivion.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE WAR BETWEEN TROJANS AND LATINS 362
The Fulfillment of Prophecy. The Gates of Janus Opened. Camilla. Alliance with Evander.
The Site of Future Rome. Turnus attacks the Trojan Camp. Nisus and Euryalus. The Death
of Mezentius. The Deaths of Pallas and Camilla. The Final Conflict.
CHAPTER XXVII. MYTHS OF THE NORSE GODS 373
The Creation. Yggdrasil. Odin and his Valhalla. The Valkyries. Thor and the Other Gods.
Loki and his Progeny. The Conflict with the Mountain Giants. The Recovery of Thor's
Hammer. Thor's Visit to Jötunheim. The Sword of Freyr. The Death of Balder. The Funeral
of Balder. The Elves. Ragnarok.
CHAPTER XXVIII. MYTHS OF NORSE AND OLD GERMAN HEROES 398
The Saga of the Volsungs. The Lay of the Nibelungs.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE RING OF THE NIBELUNG 410
Wagner's Tetralogy. The Rhine-gold. The Valkyrie. Siegfried. The Twilight of the Gods.
PART II
THE HISTORY OF MYTH
CHAPTER XXX. THE ORIGIN AND ELEMENTS OF MYTH 431
Kinds of Myth. Divisions of Inquiry. Elements of the Myth. Reasonable Myths.
Unreasonable Myths. Theory of Deterioration. Theory of Progress.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE DISTRIBUTION OF MYTHS 447
Theories of Resemblance.
CHAPTER XXXII. THE PRESERVATION OF MYTHS 450
Traditional History. In Greece. Roman Poets of Mythology. Records of Norse Mythology.
Records of German Mythology. Records of Oriental Mythology: Egyptian. Indian
Records. Persian Records.
COMMENTARY 465
RULES FOR PRONUNCIATION 541
INDEX OF MYTHOLOGICAL SUBJECTS AND SOURCES 543
INDEX OF MODERN AUTHORS AND ARTISTS 582

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FIGURE PAGE
Herculaneum and Pompeii, by H. Roux Ainé Jupiter surveying the World.
1. 3
Roman Wall Painting, Naples:
Journal of Hellenic Studies, 4, 90 Athena and Giant. Greek Bronze, Mus.
2. 7
Kircherianum:
3. Zeus and Giants. Ancient Gem: Baumeister 3, 1791 8
Baumeister 3, 1568 Prometheus making Man. Roman Sarcophagus in the
4. 9
Capitoline:
Upper row, from left to right: Oceanus, the Sun-god, Clotho, Lachesis, etc.
Lower row: Cupid and Psyche, Gæa (Tellus), Prometheus, the newly created
Man to whom Minerva gives life (the butterfly). Death, Cupid with down-
turned torch, the first man dead, Atropos, Mercury.
Poseidon (Neptune), Dionysus (Bacchus) and Goddess. East Frieze,
5. 17
Parthenon, in the British Museum: Photograph
6. Two Hours. Greek Vase Painting, St. Petersburg: Roscher 1, 2727 18
7. Zeus from Dodona. Greek Bronze: Photograph 20
8. Zeus after Phidias. Coin of Elis: A. S. Murray, Greek Bronzes, opp. p. 81 21
9. Hera of Argos. Greek Marble: Argive Heræum, 1 22
10. Athena Velletri. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: Photograph 23
11. Ares Ludovisi. Ancient Marble in Rome: Photograph 24
12. Ares (Mars). Painting by Raphael: Photograph 25
13. The Forge of Vulcan. Roman Relief: Baumeister 3, 1640 25
14. Apollo (so-called Adonis). Ancient Marble in the Vatican: Photograph 26
15. Apollo Belvedere. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: Photograph 27
Apollo. Greek Bronze from Thessaly, British Museum: Murray, Greek
16. 28
Bronzes, Fig. 28
17. Diana. Painting by Correggio: Photograph 29
18. Diana (Artemis) of Versailles. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: Photograph 30
Artemis Knagia. Ancient Silver Medallion from Herculaneum: Roscher 1,
19. 31
566
Hermes Psychopompos. Greek Stele of Myrrhina: P. Gardner, Sculptured
20. 34
Tombs, Fig. 72
Hermes (Mercury) leading to the underworld the spirit of a lady, Myrrhina,
who has just died. From a relief on her tomb.
21. Eros (Cupid). Ancient Marble, Naples: Photograph 36
22. Rape of Ganymede. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: Baumeister 2, 891 37
23. Polyhymnia. Ancient Marble, Berlin: Baumeister 2, 1185 37
The Three Fates. Painting attributed to Michelangelo, but recently
24. 38
conjectured to be by Rosso Fiorentino. Florence: Photograph

25. Boreas. Greek Reliefs, Athens: Baumeister 3, 2370 39
26. Zephyros. Greek Reliefs, Athens: Baumeister 3, 2370 39
Boreas carrying off Orithyia. Greek Vase Painting, Munich: Baumeister 1,
27. 40
373
28. Iris carrying Child. Vase Painting: Gerhard, Auserlesene Vasenbilder, 2, 83 41
Demeter of Knidos. Greek Marble in the British Museum: E. von Mach,
29. 42
Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 247
30. Ceres. Roman Wall Painting: I. Weir, Greek Painting, p. 343 43
Dionysus and the Vine. Ancient Marble in the British Museum: Roscher 1,
31. 44
292
32. Pan the Hunter. Ancient Terra Cotta: Murray and Hutton, Plate VI 45
33. A Satyr with Grafting Materials. Ancient Gem: Pine's Virgil 46
The Greek Underworld. Ancient Vase Painting from Canusium: Baumeister
34. 48
3, 2042 B
Center: Hades and Persephone. Above, left: Megara, wife of Heracles, and
two of her children, slain by Heracles when mad. Above, right: a Fury
guarding Pirithoüs and Theseus. Middle, left: Orpheus playing and dancing,
and an unknown family group. Middle, right: the three judges of the dead.
Below: Sisyphus, a Fury, Hermes, Heracles with Cerberus, a Fury, Tantalus.
Hermes conducting a Soul to Charon. Ancient Terra Cotta: Archäologische
35. 49
Zeitung, Berlin
36. Hypnos (Somnus, Sleep). Murray, Greek Bronzes, opp. p. 72 50
37. A Fury. Ancient Vase Painting: Roscher 1, 1334 51
38. Hades. Ancient Marble in the Villa Borghese, Rome: Baumeister 1, 690 53
Death, Sleep, and Hermes laying a Body in the Tomb. Ancient Vase Painting:
39. 54
P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 5
Poseidon from Dodona. Greek Bronze in the British Museum: Murray,
40. 55
Greek Bronzes, Fig. 32
Wedding of Poseidon and Amphitrite. Ancient Marble Frieze, Munich:
41. 56
Baumeister 3, 1744 B
Triton carrying off a Nymph. Ancient Marble in the Vatican: Baumeister 3,
42. 57
1964
43. Bearded Janus. Roman Coin: Baumeister 2, 1166 A 60
Genius Loci. Wall Painting from Herculaneum in the Naples Museum:
44. 62
Gusman, Pompeii, p. 107
Ganymede feeding the Eagle. Ancient Relief: Pietro Santi Bartoli, Gli.
45. 64
Antichi Sepolcri
Hermes (Mercury) kills Argus in presence of Zeus. Ancient Vase Painting:
46. 65
Roscher 2, 279
Io, Argus, and Mercury. Wall Painting from Herculaneum in the Naples
47. 66
Museum: Baumeister 1, 802
48. Europa on the Bull. Greek Vase Painting: Harrison-Maccoll, Plate IV 69
Nereïds on Sea Beasts. Ancient Marble Frieze in Munich: Baumeister 3,
49. 70
1744 A

Youthful Bacchus embracing Semele in presence of Apollo and a Satyr.
50. 71
Etruscan Mirror, Berlin: Baumeister 1, 557
Amphion and Zethus. Ancient Relief in the Palazzo Spada, Rome: Roscher
51. 76
2, 311
Contest of Athena and Poseidon for the Supremacy of Athens. Ancient Vase
52. 83
Painting, St. Petersburg: Baumeister 3, 1542
Athena. Ancient Marble in Hope Collection: Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Fig.
53. 85
27
Cadmus slaying the Dragon. Ancient Vase Painting, Naples: Baumeister 2,
54. 87
822
Athena counseling. Above: river-god Ismenos, fountain-nymph Krene, and
personification of Thebes.
Harmonia in Company of Deities. Greek Vase Painting: Ephemeris, 1897-
55. 89
1898, Plate X
Aphrodite, Eros, Harmonia standing, Peitho (Persuasion) sitting, and Koré,
Hebe, Himeros (Desire).
56. The Forge of Vulcan. Painting by Velasquez: Photograph 90
A Sacrifice to Apollo. Greek Vase Painting: Gardner-Jevons Manual, p. 249,
57. 91
Fig. 16
Apollo with Hyacinthus. Ancient Marble in Hope Collection: Roscher 16-17,
58. 93
2765
59. The Fall of Phaëthon. Roman Relief in the Louvre: Baumeister 3, 1449 97
Upper left-hand corner: Phaëthon making his request of Helios (Phœbus).
Below: the Heliades turning into trees. Center: the maddened horses, one
chariot wheel, and Phaëthon falling into the arms of Eridanus. The horsemen
left and right of the four horses are Castor and Pollux. Earth-gods, sea-gods,
and other figures.
60. A Son of Niobe. Ancient Marble in Florence: Baumeister 3, 1751 100
61. The Children of Niobe. Ancient Relief, St. Petersburg: Baumeister 3, 1759 101
Niobe and her Youngest Daughter. Ancient Marble, Florence: Baumeister 3,
62. 102
1746
Æsculapius (Asklepios). Ancient Marble, Florence: Furtwängler,
63. 104
Masterpieces, Fig. 87
Admetus must Die. Wall painting from Herculaneum in Naples: Baumeister
64. 106
1, 53
65. Heracles. Ancient Marble in Lansdowne House: Photograph 108
66. The Palatine Apollo. Ancient Marble in Vatican: Baumeister 1, 104 110
67. Daphne. Ancient Marble: Springer, Kunstgeschichte, 1, 336 113
Artemis (Diana). Ancient Marble, Dresden: Furtwängler, Masterpieces, p.
68. 117
325
69. Arethusa. Ancient Coin: Baumeister 2, 1140 118
70. A Young River-god. Ancient Bronze Head: Roscher 9, 1489 119
71. Actæon. Ancient Marble Relief: Baumeister 1, 41 121
72. The Pleiades. Painting by Elihu Vedder: Photograph 123

Endymion. Ancient Relief in the Capitoline, Rome: E. von Mach, Handbook
73. 124
of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 306
74. The Death of Adonis. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: Baumeister 1, 17 127
Right: Adonis leaves Venus. Center: he is wounded. Left: he is cared for by
Venus, Cupid, and attendants.
75. Psyche at the Couch of Cupid. Painting by Thumann: Photograph 130
76. Psyche and Cupid on Mount Olympus. Painting by Thumann: Photograph 136
Artemis of Gabii. Ancient Marble in the Louvre: E. von Mach, Handbook of
77. 139
Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 207
78. Atalanta's Race. Painting by Poynter: Photograph 140
79. Hero and Leander. Painting by Keller: Photograph 144
80. Thisbe. Painting by Edward Burne-Jones: Photograph 148
Hermes and Dog disguised as Pig. Ancient Vase Painting, Vienna: Harrison-
81. 151
Maccoll, Plate XXXIIIa
Silenus taking Dionysus (Bacchus) to School. Ancient Terra Cotta: Murray
82. 152
and Hutton, Fig. 36
Bearded Dionysus on Mule, attended by Satyr. Old Greek Terra Cotta Relief:
83. 153
Baumeister 1, 481
84. Satyr and Mænad with Child Dionysus. Ancient Relief: Baumeister 2, 932 154
Dionysus at Sea. Greek Vase Painting in the Pinakothek, Munich: Harrison-
85. 155
Maccoll, Plate I
86. Bacchic Procession. Greek Vase Painting: Arch. Zeit. 156
87. Dionysus visiting a Poet. Ancient Relief, Naples: Baumeister 3, 1849 157
88. Rape of Proserpina. Ancient Relief: Baumeister 1, 461 159
Hades and Persephone. Ancient Terra Cotta: P. Gardner, Sculptured Tombs,
89. 161
Fig. 29
Sacrifice to Demeter and Persephone. Greek Relief in Paris: Baumeister 1,
90. 162
457
Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Deities. Greek Vase Painting: Baumeister 3,
91. 164
1958
Demeter behind the chariot and Persephone and the nymph Eleusis in front.
Demeter (Ceres), Triptolemus, and Proserpina. Greek Relief: E. von Mach,
92. 165
Handbook of Greek and Roman Sculpture, Plate 178
93. Orpheus and Eurydice. Painting by Lord Leighton: Photograph 166
Farewell of Orpheus and Eurydice (Mercury ready to lead her away).
94. 167
Ancient Marble Relief in Villa Albani, Rome: Photograph
Isthmian Poseidon. Ancient Marble in Lateran: Springer, Kunstgeschichte, 1,
95. 169
Fig. 495
Pelops winning the Race; Hippodamia looking on. Ancient Vase Painting:
96. 171
Baumeister 2, 1395
Phosphor, Eos, and Helios (the Sun) rising from the Sea. Ancient Vase
97. 172
Painting: Gerhard, Akademische Abhandlungen
98. Sun, rising, preceded by Dawn. Painting by Guido Reni: Photograph 173
Sunrise; Eos (Dawn) pursuing Cephalus. Greek Vase Painting: P. Gardner,
99. 174
Grammar of Greek Art, Fig. 71

The young stars descending; to the left, the moon (Selene) riding over the
hills.
100. The God of Sleep. Ancient Relief: Baumeister 1, 770 176
The Death of Memnon (Aurora lifting his body). Greek Vase Painting in the
101. 180
Louvre: Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XVIII
Pan blowing his Pipe, Echo answering. Ancient Earthenware Lamp:
102. 182
Baumeister 1, 514
The Music Lesson (Pan teaching a Boy). Ancient Marble, Florence:
103. 184
Baumeister 2, 1340
104. Bacchic Dance (Nymph and Satyrs). Ancient Relief: Baumeister 3, 1931 184
105. Silenus. From an ancient candelabrum in Munich: Baumeister 2, 895 185
106. Satyr (Marble Faun). Ancient Marble in the Capitoline, Rome: Photograph 186
Satyr swinging Maiden. Greek Vase Painting in Berlin: Harrison-Maccoll,
107. 186
Plate XXXII
Satyr drinking from Amphora. Ancient Vase Painting in Baltimore:
108. 187
Harrison-Maccoll, Plate IX
Narcissus gazing at his Reflection. Wall Painting from Pompeii, Naples:
109. 188
Baumeister 2, 1213
110. A Rustic. Wall Painting from Herculaneum 195
111. A Rustic. Wall Painting from Herculaneum 196
Galatea and Polyphemus. Wall Painting in House of Germanicus, Rome:
112. 199
Roscher 9, 1587
113. A Sea-god, perhaps Glaucus. Ancient Marble in Vatican: Baumeister 2, 987 200
114. Nereïds and Sea Monsters. Ancient Relief: Baumeister 2, 1216 204
115. The Danaïds. Ancient Marble Relief in Vatican: Roscher 6, 951 207
Danaë and Perseus and the Chest. Greek Vase Painting in St. Petersburg:
116. 208
Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXXIV
Medusa Rondanini (Front View). Ancient Marble in Munich: Furtwängler,
117. 209
Masterpieces, Fig. 63
Medusa Rondanini (Profile). Ancient Marble in Munich: Furtwängler,
118. 209
Masterpieces, Fig. 63
119. Perseus. Marble by Cellini in Florence: Photograph 210
120. Perseus with the Head of Medusa. Ancient Vase Painting: Gerhard 211
Perseus finds Andromeda. Ancient Vase Painting in Museum, Berlin:
121. 212
Jahrbuch des D. Arch. Instituts XI (1896), Plate II
Right: Aphrodite holding wreath over Perseus' head. Left: Cepheus seated,
Hermes with his wand, and an Æthiopian inhabitant.
122. Bellerophon and Pegasus. Ancient Relief: Baumeister 1, 317 215
Heracles strangling the Nemean Lion. Greek Vase Painting in British
123. 217
Museum: Baumeister 1, 722
Left: Iolaiis and the local nymph Nemea. Right: Athena and Hermes.
Heracles killing the Hydra (behind him Athena and Iolaiis). Greek Vase
124. 217
Painting: Baumeister 1, 724
Heracles bringing Home the Boar (Eurystheus hiding in a wine jar). Greek
125. 218
Vase Painting: Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XII

Heracles with the Bull: Metope of the Temple of Zeus at Olympia:
126. 219
Baumeister 2, 1285
127. Heracles and Cerberus. Greek Vase Painting: Baumeister 1, 730 220
Left: Athena and Hermes. Right: Goddess of the Underworld.
Heracles and Antæus. Greek Vase Painting in Athens: Harrison-Maccoll,
128. 221
Plate XXIV
Hercules and Nessus (Dejanira in Chariot). Wall Painting from Pompeii:
129. 226
Baumeister 1, 733
The Building of the Argo, Athene directing. Ancient Terra Cotta Relief in the
130. 229
British Museum: Baumeister 1, 127
Jason conquers the Bulls and steals the Fleece. Ancient Relief in Vienna:
131. 231
Baumeister 2, 981
Center: Æetes seated. Right: Medea assists her lover.
Medea deliberating upon the Murder of her Children. Wall Painting from
132. 234
Herculaneum: Baumeister 2, 948
Medea and Daughters of Pelias preparing the Caldron. Ancient Marble
133. 235
Relief, Berlin: Photograph
134. Meleager on the Boar Hunt. Roman Relief: Baumeister 2, 990 238
Atalanta appears twice,—as before the hunt to the left of the central figures,
as during the hunt in front of Meleager, and shooting an arrow into the boar.
The Death of Meleager. Roman Sarcophagus in the Louvre: Baumeister 2,
135. 241
991
Right: the contest between Meleager and his uncles. Left: Althæa putting the
fateful brand into the fire; behind her a Fury whose torch has lighted the fire.
Center: the dying Meleager, and Atalanta seated mourning.
Castor and Pollux capturing the Giant Talus. Ancient Vase Painting:
136, 137. 244, 245
Baumeister 3, 1804
Pollux on foot in front of Medea. Seated Deities on right, Poseidon and
Amphitrite.
Dædalus and Icarus. Ancient Relief in the Villa Albani, Rome: Roscher 6,
138. 247
934
139. So-called Theseus. Greek Marble in the Parthenon: Baumeister 2, 1370 249
Æthra caresses Theseus and sends him forth with his Father's Sword. Greek
140. 251
Vase Painting, St. Petersburg: Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXII
Theseus receiving Thanks from the Rescued after killing the Minotaur.
141. 252
Campanian Wall Painting in Naples: Baumeister 3, 1876
142. The Sleeping Ariadne. Ancient Marble in Vatican: Baumeister 1, 130 254
143. Head of Dionysus. Ancient Marble, Leyden: Roscher 7, 1128 256
144. The Revels of Bacchus and Ariadne. Roman Sarcophagus: Baumeister 1, 492 257
Large figures from left to right: Priest, Satyr, Mænad, Mercury, Bacchus and
Ariadne seated, Satyr, Mænad, priest. Small figures: Desire (Himeros) and
Love leading Pan captive, followed by Silenus.
Lapith and Centaur fighting. Greek Metope from the Parthenon, British
145. 259
Museum: Photograph
Œdipus and the Sphinx. Greek Vase Painting: P. Gardner, Grammar of Greek
146. 261
Art, Fig. 70

Eteocles and Polynices kill each other. Etruscan Relief, Florence: Baumeister
147. 266
3, 1841
The Gods bring Wedding Gifts. Ancient Relief from the Villa Albani, Rome:
148. 271
Baumeister 1, 759
From right to left, married couple, Vulcan, Minerva, the four seasons
(Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn) Hymen with torch, Comus, Amor
pushing jealous deity away.
149. Map of the Troad and the Hellespont 273
Helen persuaded by Aphrodite; Paris (Alexander) held by Love. Ancient
150. 277
Relief in Naples: E. von Mach, Handbook, Plate 312
Achilles taken from Scyros by Ulysses (to the right) and Diomedes (to the
151. 279
left). Pompeian Wall Painting, Naples: Roscher 1, 27
The Sacrifice of Iphigenia. Pompeian Wall Painting, Naples: Baumeister 1,
152. 281
807
153. The Surrender of Briseïs. Relief by Thorwaldsen: Photograph 284
154. Hector's Farewell. Relief by Thorwaldsen: Photograph 291
The Embassy to Achilles. Greek Vase Painting: P. Gardner, Grammar of
155, 156. 294, 295
Greek Art, Fig. 72
Left section: Briseïs is led away. Right section: Ajax and Ulysses, leaning on
staff, plead with Achilles; at the right, Phœnix.
157. The Battle by the Ships. Greek Vase Painting: Baumeister 1, 783 296
Perhaps the moment when Ajax retreats. Hector presses upon him followed
by a youth with a torch. At the extreme right, Paris drawing a bow.
Supposed Menelaüs with the Body of Patroclus. Ancient Marble, Florence:
158. 298
Baumeister 1, 785
159. Contest of Achilles and Hector. Ancient Vase Painting: Baumeister 1, 788 302
Left: Athene. Right: Apollo.
Achilles over the Body of Hector at the Tomb of Patroclus P. Gardner,
160. Sculptured Tombs, Fig. 40 (whose shade is running above the tomb). Greek 303
Vase Painting:
Priam's Visit to Achilles (under whose couch lies the body of Hector). Greek
161. 304
Vase Painting: Baumeister 1, 791
Achilles has been taking his dinner. Servants bear gifts behind Priam.
Achilles and the Amazon Penthesilea. Greek Vase Painting: Baumeister 3,
162. 307
2123
Œnone warning Paris not to sail for Greece. Ancient Relief, in the Villa
163. 309
Ludovisi, Rome: Baumeister 2, 1360
164. The Wooden Horse. Ancient Gem: Baumeister 1, 794 310
165, 166. The Sack of Troy. Greek Vase Painting, Naples: Baumeister 1, 795 312, 313
Priam on altar, Astyanax on his lap, and Polites, whom Pyrrhus has just
killed, at his feet. Pyrrhus is about to strike Priam. Behind him rushes
Andromache to strike a kneeling soldier. Below, under the palm tree, sits
Hecuba facing the statue of Minerva (a Palladium) behind which Helen is
seen to cower. In front Cassandra clings to the statue, while Ajax, striding
over the body of her dead lover, tries to drag her away by the hair. To the left,
Æneas, with Anchises in his arms, and little Ascanius are hastening away.

Orestes and Electra at the Tomb of Agamemnon. Greek Vase Painting:
167. 315
Baumeister 3, 1939
168. Orestes pursued by Furies. Greek Vase Painting: Baumeister 2, 1313 316
Orestes and Pylades before the King of the Tauri (Iphigenia as a priestess on
169. the steps of the temple). Wall Painting from Pompeii, Naples: Springer, 316
Kunstgeschichte, 1, 529
Ulysses offering the Cyclops Wine. Ancient Statuette in the Vatican:
170. 318
Baumeister 2, 1251
Boring out the Cyclops' Eye. From an Attic Vase: P. Gardner, Grammar of
171. 322
Greek Art, p. 225
Ulysses and Two Companions under the Rams. Greek Vase Painting:
172. 323
Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XXIX
173. The Castle of Circe. Sicilian Vase Painting: Baumeister 2, 839 325
Ulysses and the Sirens. Greek Vase Painting in the British Museum: P.
174. 329
Gardner, Grammar of Greek Art, p. 227, Fig. 78
175. Ulysses and Scylla. Etruscan Relief: Baumeister 3, 1762 330
Penelope at the Loom, and Telemachus. Greek Vase Painting in Museum,
176. 339
Chiusi: Harrison-Maccoll, Plate XLI
Ulysses recognized by Euryclea (behind him Eumæus). Ancient Terra Cotta
177. 341
Relief: Baumeister 2, 1257
178, 179. Ulysses kills the Suitors. Greek Vase Painting, Berlin: Baumeister 3, 2139 342, 343
It will be seen that the suitors are defending themselves.
The Nike (Victory) of Samothrace. Greek Statue in the Louvre: Von Mach,
180. 345
Greek Sculpture, Plate facing p. 30
181. Æneas, Anchises, and Iulus. Ancient Gem, Uffizi, Florence 347
Scylla (carved end of ancient table). Chefs d'Œuvres de l'Art Antique, Paris,
182. 349
1867
183. The Cumæan Sibyl. Painting by Michelangelo in the Vatican: Photograph 353
184. Ixion on the wheel. Ancient Vase Painting, Berlin: Baumeister 1, Fig. 821 358
Below, right: Vulcan looking at his handiwork; a Fury and Hermes. Above:
winged forms, perhaps the Hours, to see that the motion is perpetual. One is
even now shoving the wheel; the other has just taken off her hand to point
"your turn."
185. Amazon. Ancient Marble Statue: Guhl and Koner 364
186. Valkyrie bearing a Hero to Valhalla. Painting by Dielitz: Photograph 375
187. Loki and Siguna. Painting by Gebhardt: Photograph 393
188. Gunther and Brunhild. Fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld: Photograph 406
Siegfried and Kriemhild. Fresco by Julius Schnorr von Carolsfeld:
189. 407
Photograph

FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAPS
PAGE
Lemnian Athena Frontispiece
Statue, possibly after Phidias, reconstructed by Furtwängler from torso in
Dresden and head in Bologna: Photograph.
Hera of the Vatican 22
Ancient Marble in the Vatican: Photograph.
Venus (Aphrodite) of Melos 32
Greek Marble in the Louvre: Photograph.
Greece in the Fifth Century B.C. 64
The Farnese Bull Group: Amphion, Zethus, Dirce, and Antiope 74
Ancient Marble in Naples: E. von Mach, Handbook, Fig. 44.
Apollo and Daphne 112
Marble Group by Bernini, Villa Borghese, Rome: Photograph.
Aphrodite (Petworth Head) 126
Ancient Marble in London: Furtwängler, Masterpieces, Plate XVII.
Eros with Bow 136
Ancient Marble in the Capitoline Museum: Baumeister 1, 539.
Hermes of Praxiteles 150
Greek Marble in Olympia: Photograph.
Perseus freeing Andromeda 212
Ancient Relief in the Capitoline Museum: Roscher 2, 346.
The Wedding of Hercules and Hebe 226
Ancient Apulian Vase Painting in Berlin: Baumeister 1, 700.
Amazon 306
Ancient Marble in Lansdowne House: Photograph.
Laocoön 310
Greek Marble in the Vatican: Photograph.
The Outer Geography of the Odyssey 318
Flying Mercury 330
Statue by Giovanni di Bologna in Florence: Photograph.
Italy before the Growth of the Roman Empire 346
The Victory (Nike) of Brescia 372
Ancient Bronze Statue: E. von Mach, Greek Sculpture, Plate XXXV, No. 4.

INTRODUCTION
THE STUDY OF MYTHOLOGY IN CONNECTION WITH
ENGLISH POETRY AND WITH ART

Our American educational methods too frequently seek to produce the
effect of polish upon a kind of sandstone information that will not stand
polishing. With such fatuity many of our teachers in the secondary schools
exercise their pupils in the study of English masterpieces and in the critical
estimate of æsthetic qualities before acquainting them with the
commonplace facts and fables that, transmitted through generations, are the
material of much of our poetry because the material of daily converse,
imagination, and thought. These commonplaces of tradition are to be found
largely in the literature of mythology. Of course the evil would be neither so
widespread nor so dangerous if more of the guardians and instructors of our
youth were at home even among the Greek and Latin classics. But for
various reasons,—some valid, as, for instance, the importance of increased
attention to the modern languages and the natural sciences; others
worthless, as the so-called utilitarian protest against the cultivation of
"dead" languages,—for various reasons the study of the classics is at
present considerably impaired. It is, therefore, incumbent upon our
universities and schools, recognizing this fact and deploring it, to abate so
far as possible the unfortunate consequences that proceed therefrom, until,
by a readjustment of subjects of instruction and of the periods allotted them,
the Greek and Latin classics shall be reinstated in their proper place as a
means of discipline, a humanizing influence, the historic background
against which our present appears. For, cut off from the intellectual and
imaginative sources of Greece and Rome, the state and statesmanship,
legislation and law, society and manners, philosophy, religion, literature,
art, and even artistic appreciation, run readily shallow and soon dry.
Now, one evident means of tempering the consequence of this neglect of the
classics is the study of them through translations and summaries. Such
secondhand study must indeed be ever a makeshift; for the literature of a
people inheres in its language, and loses its seeming and often its

characteristic when caparisoned in the trappings of another speech,—an
utterance totally dissimilar, the outcome of diverse conditions of physical
environment, history, social and intellectual tradition. But in dealing with
the purely imaginative products of antiquity, the inefficacy of translation
may be somewhat offset if those products be reproduced, so far as possible,
not in the prosaic but in the poetic atmosphere and in the imaginative garb
of art. For though the phenomena of plastic art are not the same in one
continent as in another, or from one century to the next, and though the
fashion of poetry itself varies from age to age and from clime to clime, the
genesis of imagination is universal, its products are akin, and its process is
continuous. For this reason the study of the imaginative thought of the
ancients through the artistic creations of the moderns is commended to
students and readers as feasible and profitable.
The study of the classic myths stimulates to creative production, prepares
for the appreciation of poetry and other kinds of art, and furnishes a clew to
the spiritual development of the race.
1. Classic mythology has been for succeeding poetry, sculpture, and
painting, a treasure house replete with golden tales and glimmering
thoughts, passions in the rough and smooth, and fancies rich bejeweled.
Like Virgil's Shadows that flit by the Lethean stream until at beck of Fate
they revisit upper day and the ever-tranquil stars, these ghosts of "far-off
things and battles long ago," peopling the murmurous glades of myth, await
the artist who shall bestow on each his new and predetermined form and
restore them, purified and breathing of Elysian air, to the world of life and
ever-young mankind.
2. For the reader the study of mythology does, in this respect, as much as
for poet, sculptor, or painter. It assists him to thrid the labyrinth of art, not
merely with the clew of tradition, but with a thread of surer knowledge
whose surest strand is sympathy.
The knowledge of mythic lore has led men in the past broadly to appreciate
the motives and conditions of ancient art and literature, and the uniform and
ordered evolution of the æsthetic sense. And, beside enriching us with
heirlooms of fiction and pointing us to the sources of imaginative joy from
which early poets of Hellenic verse, or Norse, or English, drank, the classic
myths quicken the imaginative and emotional faculties to-day, just as of old.

How many a man held by the sorrows of the Labdacidæ or the love of
Alcestis, by some curious wonder in Pausanias, or some woe in Hyginus,
has waked to the consciousness of artistic fancy and creative force within
himself! How many, indifferent to the well-known round, the trivial task,
the nearest care of home, have read the Farewell to Andromache and lived a
new sympathy, an unselfish thrill, a purified delight! And not only as an
impulse toward artistic output, or patriotic devotion, or domestic altruism,
but as a restraining influence, a chastener of æsthetic excess, a moderator of
the "unchartered freedom" that knows no mean between idolatry and
loathing, of the foolish frenzy that affects new things, abnormal and
sensational, in literature, music, and the plastic arts,—as such a tutor and
governor is the study of beautiful myths invaluable. Long familiarity with
the sweet simplicity, the orderly restraint, the severe regard, the filial awe
that pervade the myths of Greece and Rome,—or with the newness of life
and fullness and wonder of it, the naïveté and the romance, of Eddic lore,—
cannot but graciously temper our modern estimate of artistic worth.
The study, when illustrated by masterpieces of literature and art, should lead
to the appreciation of concrete artistic productions of both these kinds.
It goes without saying that a rational series of somewhat consecutive stories
is more serviceable to the reader than a congeries of data acquired by
spasmodic consultation of the classical dictionary,—a mass of information
bolted, as it were, but by no means digested. If, moreover, these stories are
narrated in genealogical and realistic sequence and are illustrated by lyric,
narrative, and descriptive passages of modern literature, there is furnished
not only that material of allusion and reference for which the student
nowadays trusts to meager and disjointed textbook notes, but a potentiality
that should render the general reading of belles-lettres more profitable. For
a previous acquaintance with the material of literary tradition heightens the
appreciation of each allusive passage as it is encountered; it enables the
reader to sympathize with the mood and to enter into the purpose of the
poet, the essayist, the novelist, the orator; it expands the intellectual lungs
for the atmosphere breathed by the artist, at any rate for a literary and social
atmosphere less asthmatic than that to which so many of us are
unconsciously habituated. Of course all this advantage would far better
result from the first-hand nutriment and discipline of the Greek and Latin
classics; of course direct familiarity with the writers of Greece and Rome is

the sine qua non of level-headed criticism and broad evaluation of modern
literature; and, of course, a sympathy with the imaginings of old is the best
incentive to an æsthetic estimate not only of art but of nature to-day; but if
our American pupils and many of their teachers cannot quaff Massic and
Falernian, they do well to scent the bouquet. In time a sense of flavor may
perchance be stimulated, and ultimately a desire for nearer acquaintance
with the literatures that we inherit.
The study of these ancient tales serves, then, much more than the purpose of
special information. It refines the æsthetic judgment in general, and
heightens the enjoyment of such works of literature as, not treating of
mythical or classical subjects, still possess the characteristics of the classic:
the unconscious simplicity, the inevitable charm, and the noble ideality. The
Lycidas, the Adonais, the Thyrsis, the In Memoriam, the Ode to Duty, the
Bothie of Tober-na-Vuolich, the Hymn of Man, Love is Enough, Prospice,
Festus, the Ode of Life, the Dream of Gerontius, Lying in the Grass, and
Simmenthal must mean little to one devoid of the spirit of classicism.
In respect of art a similar inspiration, aid, instruction, are afforded by the
study. This volume is liberally supplied with cuts of famous paintings and
sculptures of mythical subjects. Familiarity with specimens of ancient art,
even through the medium of photography and engraving, must not only
cultivate the historic sense but stimulate the æsthetic. The cruder efforts of
the ancients, no less than the more refined, are windows through which we
view the ancient mind. The frequent contemplation of their nobler efforts
and of the modern masterpieces here reproduced may avail to lift some
from the level of apathy or provinciality in matters of imagination; some it
may spur to a study of the originals, some to artistic creation. A public
which, from year to year, displays a deeper interest in the art of foreign
lands will despise no auxiliary to a more intelligent appreciation of that art.
A country whose future in artistic achievement cannot be prophesied in a
paragraph will more and more truly recognize the value of a study that is an
introduction to much that is best in art as it exists.
3. Furthermore, it must be borne in mind that the myths of the ancients, as
the earliest literary crystallization of social order and religious fear, record
the incipient history of religious ideals and of moral conduct. For though
ethnologists may insist that to search for truth in mythology is vain, the best
of them will grant that to search for truth through mythology is wise and

profitable. If we accept the statement (often stretched beyond its proper
limit) that mythology is primitive philosophy, and the other statement that
an ancient philosophy never dies, but by process of internal growth, of
modification, and of accretion acquires a purer spirit and a new and higher
form,—then, since truth was never yet conceived of error (ex nihilo nihil
fit), the truth now recognized, while it did not exist in that fraction of myth
which happens to be irrational, existed as an archetypal impulse,—set the
myth in motion, and, as a process refining the mind of man, tended steadily
to eliminate from primitive philosophy (that is, from the myths that
embodied primitive philosophy) the savage, ephemeral, and irrational
element. For all myths spring from the universal and inalienable desire to
know, to enjoy, to teach. These impulses of knowledge, of imaginative
relaxation, of conduct, are the throbbing of the heart of reason; the first or
the second is the primal pulse of every myth, and to the life of every myth
each impulse may be, at some period, contributory. This study has led men
to trace soberly the progress of their kind from the twilight of gray
conjecture to the dawn of spiritual conviction and rational individuality; to
discern a continuity of thought, an outward reach of imagination, an upward
lift of moral and religious ideas; to confess the brotherhood of humanity
and an inspiring purpose which holds good for every race and through all
time.

SUGGESTIONS TO TEACHERS

1. Of the Classic Myths in their Relation to Literature. It is essential that the
teacher of mythology, no matter what textbook or system he uses or what
classic epic he proposes to present, should first make himself acquainted
with the meaning of myth, its origin and elements; the difference between
myth and fable, between myths explanatory and myths æsthetic, myths
reasonable and myths unreasonable, the theories of myth-making as a
process of deterioration or as a process of development. He should also
inform himself concerning the ways in which the leading myths have been
disseminated, and how the survivors have been preserved. Materials for this
preparation he will find in Chapters XXX-XXXII of this book as readily,
perhaps, as elsewhere; but no matter where he obtains this information he
should in a simple and interesting talk pass on the cream of it to the pupils
about to begin the study of the stories themselves. He will in that way bring

them to a reasonable appreciation of the value of myths and their relation to
our civilization, and awaken in them anticipatory interest in the proposed
reading. It is a great mistake to plunge students of high-school age, without
preliminary orientation and a justification of the study, into a world which
may otherwise appear to them unreasonable in conception and unrelated in
experience. Pupils may, if time permits, read these concluding chapters, and
so obtain a systematic outlook upon the subject, during a brief review in the
senior year, but not earlier.
This book should be studied for its materials and the inspiration that it
affords,—not word by word for its style, or as a dictionary or scientific
authority; nor paragraph by paragraph with a painful committing to memory
of each myth and each episode in the myth. Discrimination must be made.
Some of these myths, and especially the episodes from the epics (Chapters
XXII-XXIX), are to be read rapidly and in large assignments, sometimes at
home with reports in class, sometimes in class and at sight, but always for
the enjoyment. Others are to be studied in detail, but solely when they are
of special and vital significance, historically, morally, or æsthetically.
Emphasis should be laid only occasionally and sparingly upon
interpretations of mythical materials. What both teacher and student should
aim at is the picture—manners, morals, ideals, heroic figures, epic events,
broad and vivid against the canvas of antiquity: that, and the reality of
classic order, grandeur, and restraint.
The myths are here presented in a logical and genealogical arrangement;
and they should be studied in this order, so that the pupil may carry away,
not a jumble of sporadic recollections, but some conception of the systems
of creative imagination which obtained in earlier civilizations. The
knowledge of the myths and the proper perspective of their relation, one to
another, may further be fixed by the study of the family ties that motivate
many of the incidents of mythical adventure, and that must have been
commonplaces of information to the inventors and narrators of these stories.
The myths may well be reproduced as exercises in narration, comparison,
description; and they may be regarded as stimulus for imaginative invention
concerning local wonders and beauties of nature. Pupils may also be
encouraged to consider, and to comment upon, the moral qualities of the
heroes and heroines of mythology. Thus they may be led to recognize the
difference between ancient and modern standards of right and wrong. To

this end, and for the supply of further nutriment, it is important that teachers
collect from their reading of the classic originals, or from translations of the
Iliad, the Odyssey, the Greek dramatists, the Æneid, the Metamorphoses,
etc., material supplementary to the text, and give it freely to their classes.
To facilitate this practice the sources of the myths have been indicated in
the footnotes of this volume, and a few of the best translations have been
mentioned in the Commentary. Instructors should also read to the classes
illustrative English poems, or portions of them based upon the myths under
consideration; and they should encourage the pupils to collect from their
English reading additional examples of the literary survival or adaptation of
ancient story. For this purpose special sections of the Commentary have
been prepared, indicating some of the best known literary applications of
each myth.
The Commentary is numbered in sections corresponding to those of the
text. The Textual Notes should be studied in connection with each lesson,
the Interpretative more sparingly, as I have said. They should not be
suffered to spoil the interest in the stories as such. They are of interest in
themselves only to maturer minds. Allusions and interpretations which the
younger pupil does not appreciate will, if the book is used for purposes of
reference in his further English, Latin, or Greek studies, be clear before the
end of his course.
From the outset care should be taken that pupils give to the classical names
their proper accent, and that they anglicize both vowels and consonants
according to the recognized rules laid down in the Latin grammars, the
English dictionaries, and the pages preceding the Index of this book.
Mythological and classical geography should not be neglected. The maps
accompanying this volume will be serviceable; but there should be in the
classroom one of Kiepert's maps of the World as Known to the Ancients
(Orbis Veteribus Notus), or maps of Ancient Italy, Greece, and Asia Minor.
The teacher will find the International Atlas (G. P. Putnam's Sons, New
York), A. Keith Johnston's School and College Atlas of Ancient Geography,
or the new edition of the same by James Cranstoun, issued as Ginn and
Company's Classical Atlas, indispensable in the prosecution of general
reading.

When it is the intention to study, in connection with the book, an Homeric
epic or a portion of it, the teacher should first make sure that the class has
an adequate preliminary training in general mythology (such, for instance,
as may be provided by the first twenty-one chapters); he should then outline
rapidly and entertainingly the epic as a whole, emphasizing its position in
the literature of the world and its relation to the world of its own times,
before proceeding to read it in detail with the class. Excellent suggestions as
to this method of study are offered in the Introduction to Maxwell &
Chubb's Pope's Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI, XXII, and XXIV (Longmans),
and in the Introduction to the Riverside Edition of the Odyssey: Ulysses
among the Phæacians (Houghton Mifflin Company).
The more important myths and the best illustrative poems should provide
not only nutriment for thought, but material for memory. Our youth in the
push for hasty achievement bolt their meals; they masticate little, swallow
everything, digest nothing,—and having agonized, forget. If fewer things
were dispatched, especially in the study of literature, and if more were
intrusted to the memory, there would be something to assimilate and time to
assimilate it; there would be less dyspepsia and more muscle. Teachers and
parents are over-considerate, nowadays, of the memory in children: they
approach it gingerly; they have feared so much to wring its withers that in
most children the memory has grown too soft for saddling. In our
apprehension lest pupils may turn out parrots, we have too often turned
them out loons. It is better that a few of the facts in their heads be wrong
than that no facts be there at all. With all our study of children and our
gabble about methods of teaching them, while we insist, properly enough,
that youth is the seedtime of observation, we seem to have forgotten that it
is also the harvest-time of memory. It is easy for children to remember what
they learn, it is a delight for them to commit to memory; we act criminally
when we send them forth with hardly a fact or a date or a glorious verse in
the memory of one out of ten of them. Such, unfortunately, is the case in
many of our schools; and such was not the case in the day of our fathers.
Pupils should be encouraged to recite memoriter the best poems and verses
that accompany the myths here given; and they should not be allowed to
pass allusions already explained without recalling verses that contain them.
But above all things should be cultivated, by means of this study, the
spiritual capabilities of our youth. Pabulum for thought, accurate habits of

memory, critical judgment, simplicity and directness of oral and written
expression, may all be furnished or developed by other educative agencies;
but what stimulus to fancy, to poetic sensitiveness and reflection, to a near
kinship with the spirit of nature humanized, can be found more cogent than
the contemplation of the poetic traditions that abide in verse? Mythology,
fraught with the fire of imagination, kindles the present from the past.
In this new world of ours, shall slopes and mountains, gorges, cañons,
flowery fields and forests, rivers, bays, Titanic lakes, and shoreless reach of
ocean be seen of eyes that lack insight, be known of men for whom nature
does not live? Surely the age of myth is not wholly past; surely the beauties
and the wonders of nature are a fable of things never fully revealed; surely
this new republic of ours, no less than her prototypes by Tyrrhenian and
Ægean seas, utters, in her queenly form and flowing robes, a spirit, a truth,
a potential poetry, and a beauty of art, the grace of which we Americans,
with deeper imaginative training and sympathy and awe, may yet more
highly value and more clearly comprehend.
2. Of the Classic Myths in their Relation to Art.[1] The illustration of a book
on ancient mythology offers great difficulties, because the modern reader
expects one thing and the ancient artist, on whose works one must rely,
intentionally offers a very different thing. We have grown to be a reading
people, forming our ideas largely on the written word, while in antiquity the
spoken word opened the door to understanding. A story which has been
committed to writing is fixed for all time, having lost its power of growth;
whereas a tale that passes from mouth to mouth, with no record by which to
check its accuracy in particulars, is free to expand. It changes with the
moods of those who tell it, and the intellectual and moral standards of those
who listen. People to-day are unimaginative and literal. They also expect
that the pictures which illustrate their books shall follow the individual
conceptions of the author closely. When the story is dramatized a certain
latitude is granted to the actor; the artist, however, who illustrates the book
has no such freedom. He is expected to take precisely the author's view of a
fictitious character, and, consequently, his individuality may show itself
only in the technique. In antiquity there were no standard books of fiction
or of myths. When writing came into use with the sixth century before
Christ, the individual versions of this or that great epic poem or drama were
preserved; but the great mass of the people knew them, not because they

had read the manuscripts, but because they had heard them acted or recited.
Book illustrations, therefore, were unknown. Yet so powerful was the
impression which the myths made on the people that most of the artists
drew their inspiration from them. Artists and poets alike wished to make
real the powerful characters of Greek tradition. To make a literally true
illustration of any one version of a great myth was not the aim of a classic
artist.
Another difficulty is found in the fact that few ancient myths continued to
be equally interesting to the people all the time. It is therefore necessary for
us, in choosing illustrations, to draw on all periods of ancient art, the crude
beginning and the decline as well as the brief span of fine art. The
comparatively meager store of genuinely classic works of art acts as one of
the greatest obstacles to the compilation of a continuous record of classic
myths in classic art. To give such a record, however, rather than to illustrate
his book, must be the aim of the author who publishes to-day a version of
ancient mythology together with such pictures or reliefs or statues as are
preserved. The modern reader of such a book should therefore appreciate
this fact: he must make allowance for the gradual development of ancient
art. The picture is not there for the sake of strengthening the written work,
but for its own sake. It often offers an independent version of the myth
which he reads, and at all times may give him an insight into the mental
make-up of the classic people.
Sculpture was the finest art of the Greeks, if one may judge by the remains.
In this province the artists worked according to the best principles of art,
making their appeal directly to the nobler side of man. Before an ancient
statue one feels the power of an idea immediately, and not by the circuitous
route of remembering a sequence of words which may have aimed to
suggest a similar idea. The Greeks were the least literal in their sculpture.
Their marbles, therefore, cannot yield illustrations which the modern editor
can use, except when they embody, like the Demeter of Knidos (Fig. 29) or
the Athena of Velletri (Fig. 10), a well-defined character-conception. The
modern reader, on the other hand, cannot fail to notice that this conception
never does justice to the character of the goddess as it appears in all the
myths, and very rarely even to that characteristic which may dominate the
particular version of any one myth. If such pictures, however, were entirely

omitted from the book, the best means of appreciating the essential nobility
of the Greek mind would be lost.
None of the Greek masterpieces of painting are extant. Their attenuated
influence, however, may be traced in the Italian wall paintings from
Pompeii and elsewhere. Painting permits greater literalness than sculpture.
The picture from Herculaneum, for instance,—Io, Argus, and Mercury (Fig.
47),—tells a definite story and one which is also told by the poets. But the
painter has considered the making of a pleasing picture first, and given only
a secondary thought to accuracy of tradition. This must be so; for while we
may without displeasure listen to the description of a monster, we cannot
see his actual representation without discomfort. When we hear how the
companions of Ulysses were turned into swine, the tragic note is never lost.
To paint this scene, however, and not to border on the ridiculous or the
burlesque is given only to the greatest artist—if it is at all possible.
Fortunately for our purposes of illustration, there was a class of secondary
artists in Greece which did not always shrink from selecting subjects ill
adapted for art, and from rendering them with slight variations so that they
are neither bad to look at nor altogether untrue. These were the painters of
vases. Some of them were masters of their craft (cf. Fig. 116), others were
of only mediocre skill. All, however, like their nobler brethren, were
primarily concerned with the decorative and technical side of their art and
but secondarily with their subject. If the story, for instance, called for four
persons and their space for five, they unhesitatingly added the fifth person,
and, vice versa, removed one without compunction if they had place for
fewer figures than the story demanded. Being, moreover, commercial
people, they painted according to fashion. Whatever version of a myth
happened to be popular, that they selected, so that it has been possible to
trace by their vases the changes which several myths underwent from the
sixth century onward.
A careful student notices the similarity of types in many of these pictures
and realizes that the ancient painter of vases started out with a certain stock-
in-trade which he altered as little as possible, adding something new only
where it was absolutely necessary.
From these observations it is clear that the works of men who were least
gifted artistically are the best adapted for the purposes of book illustrations;

for a painter is literal in the inverse ratio of his worth as artist. Nothing,
therefore, could be less fair than to judge Greek vase painting by the
collection of pictures here offered. Only paintings like Figures 85 and 101,
for instance, can give a hint of the best that these men produced.
Going gradually down the scale of artists one finally comes to the level of
the makers of Roman sarcophagi, in whose honor it can only be said that to
descend lower is impossible. Several myths, however,—the story of the fall
of Phaëthon (Fig. 59), for instance,—are not illustrated in art before the
decadent period of imperial Roman sculpture. It is therefore necessary to
draw also upon this source.
Of course unity of art or school or excellence cannot be preserved in a set of
pictures which groups the Demeter of Knidos (Fig. 29), the blinding of
Polyphemus (Fig. 171), and the fall of Phaëthon (Fig. 59). But individually
the pictures help to fix in memory the particular stories that they are chosen
to illustrate; and collectively they show how strongly the myths here retold
influenced the noblest fancy of the great artists as well as the receptive
minds of mediocre artisans. The suggestive power of classic myths,
moreover, was not confined to antiquity. When learning and culture
returned to the world in the Renaissance, this power also returned. Raphael
(see Fig. 12) and Michelangelo (see Fig. 183) were under its sway, and so
are many modern artists (see Figs. 72 and 154). They did not all understand
the classic spirit equally, therefore some of their pictures are modern in
everything save the title, while others have caught the truth with singular
accuracy and are modern only in technique. Adding these Italian and more
recent pictures to the collection further destroys mere unity, but it insures,
on the other hand, a full appreciation of the abiding and ennobling power of
ancient mythology.

FOOTNOTES:
[1] See Preface.

THE CLASSIC MYTHS

PART I
MYTHS OF DIVINITIES AND HEROES

CHAPTER I
GREEK MYTHS OF THE CREATION

1. Purpose of the Study. Interwoven with the fabric of our English
literature, of our epics, dramas, lyrics, and novels, of our essays and
orations, like a golden warp where the woof is only too often of silver, are
the myths of certain ancient nations. It is the purpose of this work to relate
some of these myths, and to illustrate the uses to which they have been put
in English literature, and, incidentally, in art.
2. The Fable and the Myth. Careful discrimination must be made between
the fable and the myth. A fable is a story, like that of King Log, or the Fox
and the Grapes, in which characters and plot, neither pretending to reality
nor demanding credence, are fabricated confessedly as the vehicle of moral
or didactic instruction. Dr. Johnson narrows still further the scope of the
fable: "It seems to be, in its genuine state, a narrative in which beings
irrational, and sometimes inanimate, are, for the purpose of moral
instruction, feigned to act and speak with human interests and passions."
Myths, on the other hand, are stories of anonymous origin, prevalent among
primitive peoples and by them accepted as true, concerning supernatural
beings and events, or natural beings and events influenced by supernatural
agencies. Fables are made by individuals; they may be told in any stage of a
nation's history,—by a Jotham when the Israelites were still under the
Judges, 1200 years before Christ, or by Christ himself in the days of the
most critical Jewish scholarship; by a Menenius when Rome was still
involved in petty squabbles of plebeians and patricians, or by Phædrus and
Horace in the Augustan age of Roman imperialism and Roman letters; by
an Æsop, well-nigh fabulous, to fabled fellow-slaves and Athenian tyrants,

or by La Fontaine to the Grand Monarch and the most highly civilized race
of seventeenth-century Europe.
Fables are vessels made to order into which a lesson may be poured. Myths
are born, not made. They are born in the infancy of a people. They owe
their features not to any one historic individual, but to the imaginative
efforts of generations of story-tellers. The myth of Pandora, the first
woman, endowed by the immortals with heavenly graces, and of
Prometheus, who stole fire from heaven for the use of man; the myth of the
earthborn giants that in the beginning contested with the gods the
sovereignty of the universe; of the moon-goddess who, with her buskined
nymphs, pursues the chase across the azure of the heavens, or descending to
earth cherishes the youth Endymion,—these myths, germinating in some
quaint and childish interpretation of natural events or in some fireside
fancy, have put forth unconsciously, under the nurture of the simple folk
that conceived and tended them, luxuriant branches and leaves of narrative,
and blossoms of poetic comeliness and form.
The myths that we shall relate present wonderful accounts of the creation,
histories of numerous divine beings, adventures of heroes in which magical
and ghostly agencies play a part, and where animals and inanimate nature
don the attributes of men and gods. Many of these myths treat of divinities
once worshiped by the Greeks and the Romans, and by our Norse and
German forefathers in the dark ages. Myths, more or less like these, may be
found in the literatures of nearly all nations; many are in the memories and
mouths of savage races at this time existent. But the stories here narrated
are no longer believed by any one. The so-called divinities of Olympus and
of Asgard have not a single worshiper among men. They dwell only in the
realm of memory and imagination; they are enthroned in the palace of art.
The stories of Greek, Roman, Norse, and German mythology that have
most influenced our English literature will follow in the order named. The
Romans, being by nature a practical, not a poetic, people, incorporated in
their literature the mythology of the Greeks. We shall, however, append to
our description of the Greek gods a brief account of the native Latin
divinities that retained an individuality in Roman literature.

Fig. 1. Jupiter surveying the World
3. Origin of the World.[2] There were among the Greeks several accounts
of the beginning of things. Homer tells us that River Ocean, a deep and
mighty flood, encircling land and sea like a serpent with its tail in its mouth,
was the source of all. According to other myths Night and Darkness were
the prime elements of Nature, and from them sprang Light. Still a third
theory, attributed to Orpheus, asserts that Time was in the beginning, but
had himself no beginning; that from him proceeded Chaos, a yawning abyss
wherein brooded Night and Mist and fiery air, or Æther; that Time caused
the mist to spin round the central fiery air till the mass, assuming the form
of a huge world egg, flew, by reason of its rapid rotation, into halves. Of
these, one was Heaven, the other Earth. From the center of the egg
proceeded Eros (Love) and other wondrous beings.
But the most consistent account of the origin of the world and of the gods is
given by the poet Hesiod, who tells us that Chaos, the yawning abyss,
composed of Void, Mass, and Darkness in confusion, preceded all things
else. Next came into being broad-bosomed Earth, and beautiful Love who
should rule the hearts of gods and men. But from Chaos itself issued
Erebus,[3] the mysterious darkness that is under Earth,—and Night,
dwelling in the remote regions of sunset.
From Mother Earth proceeded first the starry vault of Heaven, durable as
brass or iron, where the gods were to take up their abode. Earth brought
forth next the mountains and fertile fields, the stony plains, the sea, and the
plants and animals that possess them.
4. Origin of the Gods. So far we have a history of the throes and changes
of the physical world; now begins the history of gods and of men. For in the

heart of creation Love begins to stir, making of material things creatures
male and female, and bringing them together by instinctive affinity. First
Erebus and Night, the children of Chaos, are wedded, and from them spring
Light and Day; then Uranus, the personified Heaven, takes Gæa, the Earth,
to wife, and from their union issue Titans and hundred-handed monsters and
Cyclopes.
The Titans[4] appear to be the personification of mighty convulsions of the
physical world, of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. They played a
quarrelsome part in mythical history; they were instigators of hatred and
strife. Homer mentions specially two of them, Iapetus and Cronus; but
Hesiod enumerates thirteen. Of these, the more important are Oceanus and
Tethys, Hyperion and Thea, Cronus and Rhea, Iapetus, Themis, and
Mnemosyne. The three Cyclopes represented the terrors of rolling thunder,
of the lightning-flash, and of the thunderbolt; and, probably, for this reason,
one fiery eye was deemed enough for each. The hundred-handed monsters,
or Hecatonchires, were also three in number. In them, probably, the Greeks
imaged the sea with its multitudinous waves, its roar, and its breakers that
seem to shake the earth. These lightning-eyed, these hundred-handed
monsters, their father Uranus feared, and attempted to destroy by thrusting
them into Tartarus, the profound abysm of the earth. Whereupon Mother
Earth, or Gæa, indignant, called for help upon her elder children, the Titans.
None dared espouse her cause save Cronus, the crafty. With an iron sickle
he lay in wait for his sire, fell upon him, and drove him, grievously
wounded, from the encounter. From the blood of the mutilated Uranus
leaped into being the Furies, whose heads writhe with serpents; the Giants,
a novel race of monsters; and the Melic Nymphs, invidious maidens of the
ashen spear.
5. The Rule of Cronus. Now follows the reign of Cronus, lord of Heaven
and Earth. He is, from the beginning, of incalculable years. In works of art
his head is veiled, to typify his cunning and his reserve; he bears the sickle
not only as memento of the means by which he brought his father's tyranny
to end, but as symbol of the new period of growth and golden harvests that
he ushered in.
For unknown ages Cronus and Rhea, his sister-queen, governed Heaven and
Earth. To them were born three daughters, Vesta, Ceres, and Juno, and three
sons, Pluto, Neptune, and Jupiter. Cronus, however, having learned from his

parents that he should be dethroned by one of his own children, conceived
the well-intentioned but ill-considered device of swallowing each as it was
born. His queen, naturally desirous of discouraging the practice,—when it
came to the turn of her sixth child, palmed off on the insatiable Cronus a
stone carefully enveloped in swaddling clothes. Jupiter (or Zeus), the
rescued infant, was concealed in the island of Crete, where, nurtured by the
nymphs Adrastea and Ida, and fed on the milk of the goat Amalthea, he in
due season attained maturity. Then, assisted by his grandmother Gæa, he
constrained Cronus to disgorge the burden of his cannibal repasts. First
came to light the memorable stone, which was placed in safe keeping at
Delphi; then the five brothers and sisters of Jupiter, ardent to avenge
themselves upon the unnatural author of their existence and their captivity.
6. The War of the Titans. In the war which ensued Iapetus and all the
Titans, except Oceanus, ranged themselves on the side of their brother
Cronus against Jupiter and his recently recovered kinsfolk. Jupiter and his
hosts held Mount Olympus. For ages victory wavered in the balance.
Finally Jupiter, acting again under the advice of Gæa, released from
Tartarus, where Uranus had confined them, the Cyclopes and the
Hecatonchires. Instantly they hastened to the battle-field of Thessaly, the
Cyclopes to support Jupiter with their thunders and lightnings, the hundred-
handed monsters with the shock of the earthquake. Provided with such
artillery, shaking earth and sea, Jupiter issued to the onslaught. With the
gleam of the lightning the Titans were blinded, by the earthquake they were
laid low, with the flames they were well-nigh consumed: overpowered and
fettered by the hands of the Hecatonchires, they were consigned to the
yawning cave of Tartarus. Atlas, the son of Iapetus, was doomed to bear the
heavens on his shoulders. But a more famous son of the same Titan,
Prometheus, who had espoused the cause of Jove, acquired dignity hereafter
to be set forth.
7. The Division of Empire. In the council of the gods that succeeded,
Jupiter was chosen Sovereign of the World. He delegated to his brother
Neptune (or Poseidon) the kingdom of the sea and of all the waters; to his
brother Pluto (or Hades), the government of the underworld, dark, unseen,
mysterious, where the spirits of the dead should dwell, and of Tartarus,
wherein were held the fallen Titans. For himself Jupiter retained Earth and

the Heaven, into whose broad and sunny regions towered Olympus, the
favored mountain of the greater gods.[5]
8. The Reign of Jupiter. New conflicts, however, awaited this new dynasty
of Heaven—conflicts, the subject of many a tale among the ancients. Gæa,
though she had aided her grandson Jupiter in the war against Cronus, was
soon seized with compunctions of conscience; and contemplating the cruel
fate of her sons the Titans, she conceived schemes of vengeance upon their
conqueror. Another son was born to her—Typhon, a monster more awful
than his predecessors—whose destiny it was to dispute the sway of the
almighty Zeus. From the neck of Typhon dispread themselves a hundred
dragon-heads; his eyes shot fire, and from his black-tongued chaps
proceeded the hissing of snakes, the bellowing of bulls, the roaring of lions,
the barking of dogs, pipings and screams, and, at times, the voice and
utterance of the gods themselves. Against Heaven this horror lifted himself;
but quailing before the thunderbolt of Jove, he too descended to Tartarus,
his own place and the abode of his brethren. To this day, however, he
grumbles and hisses, thrusts upward a fiery tongue through the crater of a
volcano, or, breathing siroccos, scorches trees and men.
Later still, the Giants, offspring of the
blood that fell from the wounded Uranus,
renewed the revolt against the Olympian
gods. They were creatures nearer akin to
men than were the Titans, or the Cyclopes,
or Typhon. They clothed themselves in the
skins of beasts, and armed themselves with
rocks and trunks of trees. Their bodies and
lower limbs were of snakes. They were
awful to encounter or to look upon. They
were named, like men, the earthborn; and
their characteristics would suggest some
prehistoric brutish race, hotheaded, not
amenable to reason.[6] Of the Giants, the
more mighty were Alcyoneus of the winter
Fig. 2. Athena and Giant
storms and icebergs, Pallas, and
Enceladus, and Porphyrion the fire-king,—
leader of the crew. In the war against them, Juno and Minerva, divinities of

the new dynasty of Heaven, took active part,—and Hercules, an earthly son
of Jupiter, whose arrows aided in their defeat. It was from the overthrow of
Pallas that Athena (or Minerva) derived, according to certain records, her
proud designation of Pallas-Athena.[7] In due course, like the Titans and
Typhon, the Giants were buried in the abyss of eternal darkness. What other
outcome can be expected when mere physical or brute force joins issue with
the enlightened and embattled hosts of heaven?

Fig. 3. Zeus and Giants
9. The Origin of Man was a question which the Greeks did not settle so
easily as the Hebrews. Greek traditions do not trace all mankind to an
original pair. On the contrary, the generally received opinion was that men
grew out of trees and stones, or were produced by the rivers or the sea.
Some said that men and gods were both derived from Mother Earth, hence
both autochthonous; and some, indeed, claimed an antiquity for the human
race equal to that of the divinities. All narratives, however, agree in one
statement,—that the gods maintained intimate relations with men until,
because of the growing sinfulness and arrogance of mankind, it became
necessary for the immortals to withdraw their favor.
10. Prometheus, a Creator. There is a story which attributes the making of
man to Prometheus, whose father Iapetus had, with Cronus, opposed the
sovereignty of Jupiter. In that conflict, Prometheus, gifted with prophetic
wisdom, had adopted the cause of the Olympian deities. To him and his
brother Epimetheus was now committed the office of making man and
providing him and all other animals with the faculties necessary for their
preservation. Prometheus was to overlook the work of Epimetheus.
Epimetheus proceeded to bestow upon the different animals the various
gifts of courage, strength, swiftness, sagacity; wings to one, claws to
another, a shelly covering to a third. But Prometheus himself made a nobler
animal than these. Taking some earth and kneading it with water, he made
man in the image of the gods. He gave him an upright stature, so that while
other animals turn their faces toward the earth, man gazes on the stars. Then
since Epimetheus, always rash, and thoughtful when too late, had been so

prodigal of his gifts to other animals that no blessing was left worth
conferring upon the noblest of creatures, Prometheus ascended to heaven,
lighted his torch at the chariot of the sun, and brought down fire. With fire
in his possession man would be able to win her secrets and treasures from
the earth, to develop commerce, science, and the arts.

Fig. 4. Prometheus making Man
11. The Age of Gold. Whether in this or in other ways the world was
furnished with inhabitants, the first age was an age of innocence and
happiness. Truth and right prevailed, though not enforced by law, nor was
there any in authority to threaten or to punish. The forest had not yet been
robbed of its trees to yield timbers for vessels, nor had men built
fortifications round their towns. There were no such things as swords,
spears, or helmets. The earth brought forth all things necessary for man,
without his labor in plowing or sowing. Perpetual spring reigned, flowers
sprang up without seed, the rivers flowed with milk and wine, and yellow
honey distilled from the oaks. This Golden Age had begun in the reign of
Cronus.[8] And when these heroes fell asleep in death, they were translated
in a pleasant dream to a spiritual existence, in which, unseen by mortal
eyes, they still attended men as monitors and guardians.
12. The Silver Age came next, inferior to the golden. Jupiter shortened the
spring, and divided the year into seasons. Then, first, men suffered the
extremes of heat and cold, and houses became necessary. Caves were their
dwellings,—and leafy coverts of the woods, and huts woven of twigs.
Crops would no longer grow without planting. The farmer was constrained
to sow the seed, and the ox to draw the plow. This was a race of manly men,
but insolent and impious. And when they died, Jupiter made them ghosts of
the underworld, but withheld the privilege of immortal life.
13. Prometheus, Champion of Man. During this age when, as Hesiod
says, the altars of the blessed were neglected, and the gods were denied

their due, Prometheus stood forth—the champion of man against the
Olympians.[9] For the son of Cronus had grudged mortals the use of fire,
and was, in fact, contemplating their annihilation and the creation of a new
race. Therefore, once upon a time, when gods and men were in dispute at
Sicyon concerning the prerogatives of each, Prometheus, by an ingenious
trick, attempted to settle the question in favor of man. Dividing into two
portions a sacrificial bull, he wrapped all the eatable parts in the skin,
cunningly surmounted with uninviting entrails; but the bones he garnished
with a plausible mass of fat. He then offered Jupiter his choice. The king of
Heaven, although he perceived the intended fraud, took the heap of bones
and fat, and, forthwith availing himself of this insult as an excuse for
punishing mankind, deprived the race of fire. But Prometheus regained the
treasure, stealing it from Heaven in a hollow tube.
14. Pandora. Doubly enraged, Jupiter, in his turn, had recourse to
stratagem. He is declared to have planned for man a curse in the shape of
woman. How the race had persisted hitherto without woman is a mystery;
but that it had done so, with no slight degree of happiness, the experience of
the Golden Age would seem to prove. However, the bewitching evil was
fashioned,—in Heaven, properly enough,—and every god and goddess
contributed something to her perfection. One gave her beauty, another
persuasive charm, a third the faculty of music. And they named her
Pandora, "the gift of all the gods." Thus equipped, she was conveyed to
earth and presented to Epimetheus, who, without hesitation, accepted the
gift, though cautioned by his brother to beware of Jupiter and all his ways.
And the caution was not groundless. In the hand of Pandora had been
placed by the immortals a casket or vase which she was forbidden to open.
Overcome by an unaccountable curiosity to know what this vessel
contained, she one day lifted the cover and looked in. Forthwith there
escaped a multitude of plagues for hapless man—gout, rheumatism, and
colic for his body; envy, spite, and revenge for his mind—and scattered
themselves far and wide. Pandora hastened to replace the lid; but one thing
only remained in the casket, and that was hope.
15. Prometheus Bound. Because of his unselfish devotion to the cause of
humanity, Prometheus drew down on himself the anger of Olympian Jove,
by whose order he was chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus, and subjected
to the attack of an eagle (or a vulture) which, for ages, preyed upon his

liver, yet succeeded not in consuming it. This state of torment might have
been brought to an end at any time by Prometheus, if he had been willing to
submit to his oppressor; for he possessed a secret which involved the
stability of Jove's throne. This was that by a certain woman Jove would
beget a son who should displace him and end the sway of the Olympians.
The god naturally desired more accurate information of this decree of Fate.
But to reveal the secret Prometheus disdained. In this steadfastness the
Titan was supported by the knowledge that in the thirteenth generation there
should arrive a hero,—sprung from Jove himself,—to release him.[10] And
in fullness of time the hero did arrive: none other than the mighty Hercules
desirous of rendering the highest service to mankind. No higher service,
thinks this radiant and masterful personage,—who, as we shall see, had
already cleared the world of many a monster,—remains to be performed
than to free the champion of mankind, suffering through the ages because
he had brought light into the world. "The soul of man," says Hercules to the
Titan—

The soul of man can never be enslaved
Save by its own infirmities, nor freed
Save by its very strength and own resolve
And constant vision and supreme endeavor!
You will be free? Then, courage, O my brother!
O let the soul stand in the open door
Of life and death and knowledge and desire
And see the peaks of thought kindle with sunrise!
Then shall the soul return to rest no more,
Nor harvest dreams in the dark field of sleep—
Rather the soul shall go with great resolve
To dwell at last upon the shining mountains
In liberal converse with the eternal stars.[11]

And he kills the vulture; and sets Jove's victim free.
By his demeanor Prometheus has become the ensample of magnanimous
endurance, and of resistance to oppression.

Titan! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise,
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,
Which speaks but in its loneliness,
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless....

Thy godlike crime was to be kind,
To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
But, baffled as thou wert from high,
Still, in thy patient energy,
In the endurance and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,
Which earth and heaven could not convulse,
A mighty lesson we inherit[12]....
16. Longfellow's Prometheus. A happy application of the story of
Prometheus is made by Longfellow in the following verses:[13]

Of Prometheus, how undaunted
On Olympus' shining bastions
His audacious foot he planted,
Myths are told, and songs are chanted,
Full of promptings and suggestions.

Beautiful is the tradition
Of that flight through heavenly portals,
The old classic superstition
Of the theft and the transmission
Of the fire of the Immortals!

First the deed of noble daring,
Born of heavenward aspiration,
Then the fire with mortals sharing,
Then the vulture,—the despairing
Cry of pain on crags Caucasian.

All is but a symbol painted
Of the Poet, Prophet, Seer;
Only those are crowned and sainted
Who with grief have been acquainted,
Making nations nobler, freer.

In their feverish exultations,
In their triumph and their yearning,
In their passionate pulsations,
In their words among the nations,
The Promethean fire is burning.

Shall it, then, be unavailing,
All this toil for human culture?
Through the cloud-rack, dark and trailing,
Must they see above them sailing
O'er life's barren crags the vulture?

Such a fate as this was Dante's,
By defeat and exile maddened;
Thus were Milton and Cervantes,
Nature's priests and Corybantes,
By affliction touched and saddened.

But the glories so transcendent
That around their memories cluster,
And, on all their steps attendant,
Make their darkened lives resplendent
With such gleams of inward lustre!

All the melodies mysterious,
Through the dreary darkness chanted;

Thoughts in attitudes imperious,
Voices soft, and deep, and serious,
Words that whispered, songs that haunted!

All the soul in rapt suspension,
All the quivering, palpitating
Chords of life in utmost tension,
With the fervor of invention,
With the rapture of creating!

Ah, Prometheus! heaven-scaling!
In such hours of exultation
Even the faintest heart, unquailing,
Might behold the vulture sailing
Round the cloudy crags Caucasian!

Though to all there is not given
Strength for such sublime endeavor,
Thus to scale the walls of heaven,
And to leaven with fiery leaven
All the hearts of men forever;

Yet all bards, whose hearts unblighted
Honor and believe the presage,
Hold aloft their torches lighted,
Gleaming through the realms benighted,
As they onward bear the message!
17. The Brazen Age. Next to the Age of Silver came that of brass,[14] more
savage of temper and readier for the strife of arms, yet not altogether
wicked.
18. The Iron Age. Last came the hardest age and worst,—of iron. Crime
burst in like a flood; modesty, truth, and honor fled. The gifts of the earth
were put only to nefarious uses. Fraud, violence, war at home and abroad
were rife. The world was wet with slaughter; and the gods, one by one,
abandoned it, Astræa, following last, goddess of innocence and purity.

19. The Flood. Jupiter, observing the condition of things, burned with
anger. He summoned the gods to council. Obeying the call, they traveled
the Milky Way to the palace of Heaven. There, Jupiter set forth to the
assembly the frightful condition of the earth, and announced his intention of
destroying its inhabitants, and providing a new race, unlike the present,
which should be worthier of life and more reverent toward the gods.
Fearing lest a conflagration might set Heaven itself on fire, he proceeded to
drown the world. Not satisfied with his own waters, he called his brother
Neptune to his aid. Speedily the race of men, and their possessions, were
swept away by the deluge.
20. Deucalion and Pyrrha. Parnassus alone, of the mountains, overtopped
the waves; and there Deucalion, son of Prometheus, and his wife Pyrrha,
daughter of Epimetheus, found refuge—he a just man and she a faithful
worshiper of the gods. Jupiter, remembering the harmless lives and pious
demeanor of this pair, caused the waters to recede,—the sea to return to its
shores, and the rivers to their channels. Then Deucalion and Pyrrha,
entering a temple defaced with slime, approached the unkindled altar and,
falling prostrate, prayed for guidance and aid. The oracle[15] answered,
"Depart from the temple with head veiled and garments unbound, and cast
behind you the bones of your mother." They heard the words with
astonishment. Pyrrha first broke silence: "We cannot obey; we dare not
profane the remains of our parents." They sought the woods, and revolved
the oracle in their minds. At last Deucalion spoke: "Either my wit fails me
or the command is one we may obey without impiety. The earth is the great
parent of all; the stones are her bones; these we may cast behind us; this, I
think, the oracle means. At least, to try will harm us not." They veiled their
faces, unbound their garments, and, picking up stones, cast them behind
them. The stones began to grow soft and to assume shape. By degrees they
put on a rude resemblance to the human form. Those thrown by Deucalion
became men; those by Pyrrha, women. It was a hard race that sprang up,
and well adapted to labor.
21. The Demigods and Heroes. As preceding the Age of Iron, Hesiod
mentions an Age of Demigods and Heroes. Since, however, these demigods
and heroes were, many of them, reputed to have been directly descended
from Deucalion, their epoch must be regarded as subsequent to the deluge.
The hero, Hellen, son of Deucalion and Pyrrha, became the ancestor of the

Hellenes, or Greeks. The Æolians and Dorians were, according to legend,
descended from his sons Æolus and Dorus; from his son Xuthus, the
Achæans and Ionians derived their origin.
Another great division of the Greek people, the Pelasgic, resident in the
Peloponnesus or southern portion of the peninsula, was said to have sprung
from a different stock of heroes, that of Pelasgus, son of Phoroneus of
Argos and grandson of the river-god Inachus.
The demigods and heroes were of matchless worth and valor. Their
adventures form the subject of many of the succeeding chapters. The Older
Heroes, especially, were endowed with godlike qualities, which they
devoted to the service of mankind in the destruction of monsters, the
founding of cities, or the introduction of civilization. Such were Perseus,
the hero of Argos and his descendant Hercules, who came to be worshiped
as the national hero of the Greeks. Such, too, Cadmus, the founder of
Thebes, and Cecrops of Athens, and one of his successors, Theseus, a
"second Hercules." Each city of Greece had its patron hero, to whom it
accorded the honors of divinity. The Younger Heroes were chieftains in the
Theban and the Trojan wars and in numerous other military or predatory
expeditions.

Fig. 5. Poseidon, Dionysus, and
Goddess

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Supplementary information concerning many of the myths
may be found in the corresponding sections of the Commentary.
For the pronunciation of names see Index, and Rules preceding
the Index.
[3] So far as possible, Latin designations, or Latinized forms of
Greek names, are used.
[4] On the Titans, etc., Preller's Griech. Mythol. 1, 37.
[5] On signification of Uranus, Cronus, Zeus, see Preller, 1, 37,
38, and Commentary, §§ 4, 24.
[6] Roscher, Ausf. Lex., Article Giganten [J. Ilberg].
[7] The name more probably signifies Brandisher [of the Lance].
[8] Consequently the creation of these men could not be
assigned to Prometheus,—unless they were made by him before
the war of the Titans.
[9] There is uncertainty as to the mythical period of these events.
The order here given seems to me well grounded. Hes. Works
and Days, 180; Theog. 790-910.
[10] §§ 156, 161, 191 and Commentary, § 10.
[11] From Herakles, a drama by George Cabot Lodge.
[12] From Byron's Prometheus. See also his translation from the
Prometheus Vinctus of Æschylus, and his Ode to Napoleon
Buonaparte.
[13] Prometheus, or The Poet's Forethought. See Commentary.
[14] Compare Byron's political satire, The Age of Bronze.
[15] Oracles, see §§ 24, 30, and Commentary.

CHAPTER II
THE GODS OF HEAVEN[16]

22. Olympus. The heaven of the Greek gods was the summit of an ideal
mountain called Olympus.[17] A gate of clouds, kept by goddesses, the
Hours or Seasons, opened to permit the passage of the Celestials to earth,
and to receive them on their return. The gods had their separate dwellings;
but all, when summoned, repaired to the palace of Jupiter,—even the deities
whose usual abode was the earth, the waters, or the underworld. In the great
hall of the Olympian king the gods feasted each day on ambrosia and

nectar. Here they conversed of the affairs
of heaven and earth; and as they quaffed
the nectar that Hebe poured, Apollo
made melody with his lyre and the
Muses sang in responsive strain. When
the sun was set, the gods withdrew to
their respective dwellings for the night.
The following lines from the Odyssey
express the conception of Olympus
entertained by Homer:

So saying, Minerva, goddess,
azure-eyed,
Rose to Olympus, the reputed
seat
Eternal of the gods, which never
storms
Disturb, rains drench, or snow
invades, but calm
The expanse and cloudless shines Fig. 6. Two Hours
with purest day.
There the inhabitants divine rejoice
Forever.[18]

23. The Great Gods. The gods of Heaven were the following:[19]

Jupiter (Zeus).[20]
His daughter, Minerva (Athena), who sprang from his brain, full-
grown and full-armed.
His sister and wife, Juno (Hera).
His children by Juno,—Mars (Ares), Vulcan (Hephæstus), and Hebe.
His children by Latona,—Apollo, or Phœbus, and Diana (Artemis).
His daughter by Dione,—Venus (Aphrodite).[21]
His son by Maia,—Mercury (Hermes).
His sister, Vesta (Hestia), the oldest born of Cronus and Rhea.

Of these all were deities of the highest order save Hebe, who must be
ranked with the lesser gods. With the remaining ten "Great Gods" are
sometimes reckoned the other sister of Jupiter, Ceres (Demeter), properly a
divinity of earth, and Neptune (Poseidon), ruler of the sea.
24. Jupiter[22] (Zeus). The Greek name signifies the radiant light of
heaven. Jupiter was the supreme ruler of the universe, wisest of the
divinities and most glorious. In the Iliad he informs the other gods that their
united strength would not budge him: that, on the contrary, he could draw
them and earth and the seas to himself, and suspend all from Olympus by a
golden chain. Throned in the high, clear heavens, Jupiter was the gatherer
of clouds and snows, the dispenser of gentle rains and winds, the moderator
of light and heat and the seasons, the thunderer, the wielder of the
thunderbolt. Bodily strength and valor were dear to him. He was worshiped
with various rites in different lands, and to him were sacred everywhere the
loftiest trees and the grandest mountain peaks. He required of his
worshipers cleanliness of surroundings and person and heart. Justice was
his; his to repay violation of duty in the family, in social relations, and in
the state. Prophecy was his; and his will was made known at the oracle of
Dodona, where answers were given to those who inquired concerning the
future. This oracular shrine was the most ancient in Greece. According to
one account two black doves had taken wing from Thebes in Egypt. One
flew to Dodona in Epirus, and, alighting in a grove of oaks, proclaimed to
the inhabitants of the district that they should establish there an oracle of
Jupiter. The other dove flew to the temple of Jupiter Ammon in the Libyan
oasis, and delivered a similar command. According to another account,
these were not doves but priestesses who, carried off from Thebes by the
Phœnicians, set up oracles at Oasis and Dodona. The responses of the oracle
were given by the rustling of the oak trees in the wind. The sounds were
interpreted by priests.
That Jupiter himself, though wedded to the goddess Juno, should be
charged with numerous other love affairs, not only in respect of goddesses
but of mortals, is, in part, explained by the fact that to the supreme divinity
of the Greeks have been ascribed attributes and adventures of numerous
local and foreign divinities that were gradually identified with him. It is,
therefore, not wise to assume that the love affairs of Jupiter and of other
divinities always symbolize combinations of natural or physical forces that

have repeated themselves in ever-
varying guise. It is important to
understand that the more ideal
Olympian religion absorbed features
of inferior religions, and that Jupiter,
when represented as appropriating
the characteristics of other gods, was
sometimes, also, accredited with
their wives.
Beside the children of Jupiter
already enumerated, there should
here be mentioned, as of peculiar
consequence, Bacchus (Dionysus),
the god of wine, a deity of earth,—
Proserpine, the wife of Pluto and
queen of the underworld,—and
Hercules, the greatest of the heroes.
25. Conceptions of Jupiter. The
Greeks usually conceived the Jupiter
of war as riding in his thunder-car,
hurling the thunderbolt or lashing
his enemies with a scourge of
lightning. He wore a breastplate or Fig. 7. Zeus
shield of storm-cloud like the skin of
a gray goat (the Ægis), fearful to
behold, and made by the god of fire. His special messenger was the eagle. It
was, however, only with the passage of generations that the Greeks came to
represent their greatest of the gods by the works of men's hands. The statue
of Olympian Jove by Phidias was considered the highest achievement of
Grecian sculpture. It was of colossal dimensions and, like other statues of
the period, "chryselephantine," that is, composed of ivory and gold. For the
parts representing flesh were of ivory laid on a framework of wood, while
the drapery and ornaments were of gold. The height of the figure was forty
feet, of the pedestal twelve. The god was represented as seated on his
throne. His brows were crowned with a wreath of olive; he held in his right

hand a scepter, and in his left a
statue of Victory. The throne was of
cedar, adorned with gold and
precious stones.
The idea which the artist essayed to
embody was that of the supreme
deity of the Hellenic race,
enthroned as a conqueror, in perfect
majesty and repose, and ruling with
a nod the subject world. Phidias
informs us that the idea was
suggested by Homer's lines in the
first book of the Iliad:

Jove said, and nodded with Fig. 8. Zeus after Phidias
his shadowy brows;
Waved on th' immortal head
th' ambrosial locks,—
And all Olympus trembled at his nod.[23]

Unfortunately, our knowledge of this famous statue is confined to literary
descriptions, and to copies on coins. Other representations of Jove have
been obtained from Greek bronze statuettes, or the wall-paintings of
Herculaneum and Pompeii.
26. Juno[24] (Hera), sister and wife of Jupiter. According to some, the name
Hera means Splendor of Heaven, according to others, the Lady. Some think
it approves her goddess of earth; others, goddess of the air; still others, for
reasons by no means final, say that it signifies Protectress, and applies to
Juno in her original function of moon-goddess, the chosen guardian of
women, their aid in seasons of distress. Juno's union with Jupiter was the
prototype of earthly marriages. She is the type of matronly virtues and
dignity.
She was the daughter of Cronus and Rhea, but was brought up by Oceanus
and Tethys in their dwelling in the remote west beyond the sea. Without the
knowledge of her parents, she was wedded to Jupiter in this garden of the
gods where ambrosial rivers flowed, and where Earth sent up in honor of

the rite a tree of life, heavy
with apples golden like the
sunset. Juno was the most
worthy of the goddesses, the
most queenly; ox-eyed, says
Homer; says Hesiod, golden-
sandaled and golden-throned.
Glorious beyond compare was
her presence, when she had
harnessed her horses, and
driven forth the golden-
wheeled chariot that Hebe
made ready, and that the Hours
set aside. Fearful, too, could be
her wrath. For she was of a
jealous disposition, which was
not happily affected by the
vagaries of her spouse; and she
was, moreover, prone to
quarrels, self-willed, vengeful, Fig. 9. Hera of Argos
proud, even on occasion
deceitful. Once, indeed, she
conspired with Minerva and Neptune to bind the cloud-compeller himself.
More than once she provoked him to blows; and once to worse than blows,
—for her lord and master swung her aloft in the clouds, securing her wrists
in golden handcuffs and hanging anvils to her feet.
The cities that the ox-eyed goddess favored were Argos, Sparta, and
Mycenæ. To her the peacock and the cow were dear, and many a grove and
pasture rejoiced her sacred herds.

HERA OF THE VATICAN
27. Minerva (Athene or Athena), the virgin goddess. She sprang from the
brain of Jove, agleam with panoply of war, brandishing a spear and with her
battle-cry awakening the echoes of heaven and earth. She is goddess of the
lightning that leaps like a lance from the cloud-heavy sky, and hence,
probably, the name Athene.[25] She is goddess of the storms and of the
rushing thunderbolt, and is, therefore, styled Pallas. She is the goddess of
the thundercloud, which is symbolized by her tasseled breastplate of
goatskin, the ægis, whereon is fixed the head of Medusa, the Gorgon, that
turns to stone all beholders. She is also the goddess of war, rejoicing in
martial music and protecting the war horse and the warship. On the other
hand, she is of a gentle, fair, and thoughtful aspect. Her Latin name Minerva
is connected with the Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin words for mind. She is
eternally a virgin, the goddess of wisdom, of skill, of contemplation, of

spinning and weaving, of
horticulture and agriculture. She
is protectress of cities, and was
specially worshiped in her own
Athens, in Argos, in Sparta, and
in Troy. To her were sacrificed
oxen and cows. The olive tree,
created by her, was sacred to her,
and also the owl, the cock, the
serpent, and the crow.
28. Mars (Ares),[26] the war-god,
son of Jupiter and Juno. The
meaning of the name Ares is
uncertain; the most probable
significations are the Slayer, the
Avenger, the Curse. The Roman
god of war, Mars, is the bright
and burning one. Homer, in the
Iliad, represents Ares as the
insatiable warrior of the heroic
age, who, impelled by rage and
lust of violence, exults in the
noise of battle, revels in the
horror of carnage. Strife and Fig. 10. Athena Velletri
slaughter are the condition of his
existence. Where the fight is
thickest, there he rushes in without hesitation, without question as to which
side is right. In battle array he is resplendent,—on his head the gleaming
helmet and floating plume, on his arm the leathern shield, in his hand the
redoubtable spear of bronze. Well-favored, stately, swift, unwearied,
puissant, gigantic, he is still the foe of wisdom, the scourge of mortals.
Usually he fights on foot, sometimes from a chariot drawn by four horses,
—the offspring of the North Wind and a Fury. In the fray his sons attend
him,—Terror, Trembling, Panic, and Fear,—also his sister Eris, or Discord
(the mother of Strife), his daughter Enyo, ruiner of cities, and a retinue of
bloodthirsty demons. As typifying the chances of war, Mars is, of course,
not always successful. In the battles before Troy, Minerva and Juno bring

him more than once to grief; and when he complains to Jupiter, he is
snubbed as a renegade most hateful of all the gods.[27] His loved one and
mistress is the goddess of beauty herself. In her arms the warrior finds
repose. Their daughter Harmonia is the ancestress of the unquiet dynasty of
Thebes. The favorite land of Mars was, according to Homer, the rough,
northerly Thrace. His emblems are the spear and the burning torch; his
chosen animals are haunters of the battle field,—the vulture and the dog.
29. Vulcan (Hephæstus), son of Jupiter and
Juno, was the god of fire, especially of
terrestrial fire,—volcanic eruption, incendiary
flame, the glow of the forge or the hearth. But
as the fires of earth are derived from that of
heaven, perhaps the name Hephæstus (burning,
shining, flaming) referred originally to the
marvelous brilliance of the lightning. Vulcan
was the blacksmith of the gods, the finest
artificer in metal among them. His forge in
Olympus was furnished not only with anvils
and all other implements of the trade, but with
automatic handmaidens of silver and gold,
fashioned by Vulcan himself. Poets later than
Homer assign to Vulcan workshops under
various volcanic islands. From the crater of
Mount Ætna poured forth the fumes and flames
of his smithy. He built the dwellings of the
gods; he made the scepter of Jove, the shields
and spears of the Olympians, the arrows of Fig. 11. Ares Ludovisi
Apollo and Diana, the breastplate of Hercules,
the shield of Achilles.
He was lame of gait,—a figurative suggestion, perhaps, of the flickering,
unsteady nature of fire. According to his own story,[28] he was born halt;
and his mother, chagrined by his deformity, cast him from Heaven out of
the sight of the gods. Yet, again,[29] he says that, attempting once to save his
mother from Jupiter's wrath, he was caught by the foot and hurled by the
son of Cronus from the heavenly threshold: "All day I flew; and at the set of
sun I fell in Lemnos, and little life was left in me." Had he not been lame

before, he had good reason to limp
after either of these catastrophes.
He took part in the making of the
human race, and in the special
creation of Pandora. He assisted
also at the birth of Minerva, to
facilitate which he split Jupiter's
head open with an ax.
His wife, according to the Iliad and
Hesiod's Theogony, is Aglaia, the
youngest of the Graces; but in the
Odyssey it is Venus. He is a Fig. 12. Ares (Mars)
glorious, good-natured god, loved
and honored among men as the
founder of wise customs and the
patron of artificers; on occasion, as
a god of healing and of prophecy.
He seems to have been, when he
chose, the cause of
"inextinguishable laughter" to the
gods, but he was by no means a
fool. The famous god of the strong Fig. 13. The Forge of Vulcan
arms could be cunning, even
vengeful, when the emergency
demanded.
30. Apollo, or Phœbus Apollo, the son of Jupiter and Latona, was
preëminently the god of the sun. His name Phœbus signifies the radiant
nature of the sunlight; his name Apollo, perhaps, the cruel and destructive
heat of noonday. Soon after his birth, Jupiter would have sent him to Delphi
to inculcate righteousness and justice among the Greeks; but the golden god
Apollo chose first to spend a year in the land of the Hyperboreans, where
for six continuous months of the year there is sunshine and spring, soft
climate, profusion of herbs and flowers, and the very ecstasy of life. During
this delay the Delphians sang pæans,—hymns of praise,—and danced in
chorus about the tripod (or three-legged stool), where the expectant
priestess of Apollo had taken her seat. At last, when the year was warm,

came the god in his chariot drawn by swans,—
heralded by songs of springtide, of nightingales
and swallows and crickets. Then the crystal
fount of Castalia and the stream Cephissus
overflowed their bounds, and mankind made
grateful offerings to the god. But his advent was
not altogether peaceful. An enormous serpent,
Python, had crept forth from the slime with
which, after the flood, the Earth was covered;
and in the caves of Mount Parnassus this terror
of the people lurked. Him Apollo encountered
and after fearful combat slew, with arrows,
weapons which the god of the silver bow had
not before used against any but feeble animals,
—hares, wild goats, and such game. In
commemoration of this illustrious conquest, he
instituted the Pythian games, in which the victor
in feats of strength, swiftness of foot, or in the
chariot race, should be crowned with a wreath
of beech leaves. Apollo brought not only the
warm spring and summer, but also the blessings
of the harvest. He warded off the dangers and
diseases of summer and autumn; and he healed
the sick. He was patron of music and of poetry. Fig. 14. Apollo in the
Through his oracle at Delphi, on the slopes of Vatican
Parnassus in Phocis, the Pythian god made
known the future to those who consulted him.
He was a founder of cities, a promoter of colonization, a giver of good laws,
the ideal of fair and manly youth,—a pure and just god, requiring clean
hands and pure hearts of those that worshiped him. But though a god of life
and peace, the far-darter did not shun the weapons of war. When
presumption was to be punished, or wrong righted, he could bend his bow
and slay with the arrows of his sunlight. As in the days of his youth he slew
the Python, so, also, he slew the froward Tityus, and so the children of
Niobe. While Phœbus Apollo is the Olympian divinity of the sun, fraught
with light and healing, spiritual, creative, and prophetic, he must not be
confounded with a god of the older dynasty, Helios (offspring of Hyperion,

Titanic deity of light), who represented the sun in its daily and yearly
course, in its physical rather than spiritual manifestation. The bow of Apollo
was bound with laurel in memory of Daphne, whom he loved. To him were
sacred, also, many creatures,—the wolf, the roe, the mouse, the he-goat, the
ram, the dolphin, and the swan.[30]
31. Shelley's Hymn of Apollo.

The sleepless Hours who
watch me as I lie,
Curtained with star-
inwoven tapestries,
From the broad moonlight of
the sky,
Fanning the busy dreams
from my dim eyes,
—
Waken me when their
mother, the gray
Dawn,
Tells them that dreams and
that the moon is gone.

Then I arise, and climbing
Heaven's blue dome,
I walk over the mountains
and the waves,
Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam;
My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves
Are filled with my bright presence, and the air
Leaves the green earth to my embraces bare.

The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill
Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day;
All men who do or even imagine ill
Fly me, and from the glory of my ray
Good minds and open actions take new might,
Until diminished by the reign of night.

I feed the clouds,
the
rainbows,
and the
flowers
With their
ethereal
colors;
the
moon's
globe
And the pure stars
in their
eternal
bowers
Are cinctured
with my
power as
with a
robe; Fig. 16. Apollo
Whatever lamps
on Earth or
Heaven may shine,
Are portions of one power, which is mine.

I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven,
Then with unwilling steps I wander down
Into the clouds of the Atlantic even;
For grief that I depart they weep and frown:
What look is more delightful than the smile
With which I soothe them from the western isle?

I am the eye with which the universe
Beholds itself and knows itself divine;
All harmony of instrument or verse,
All prophecy, all medicine, are mine,
All light of art or nature;—to my song,

Victory and praise in their own right belong.
32. Diana (Artemis), twin sister of Apollo,
was born on Mount Cynthus in the island of
Delos. Latona, the future mother of Diana
and Apollo, flying from the wrath of Juno,
had besought, one after another, the islands
of the Ægean to afford her a place of rest;
but they feared too much the potent queen of
heaven. Delos alone consented to become
the birthplace of the future deities. This isle
was then floating and unstable; but on
Latona's arrival, Jupiter fastened it with
adamantine chains to the bottom of the sea,
that it might be a secure resting-place for his
beloved. The daughter of Latona is, as her
name Artemis indicates, a virgin goddess, Fig. 17. Diana. After
the ideal of modesty, grace, and maidenly Correggio
vigor. She is associated with her brother, the
prince of archery, in nearly all his
adventures, and in attributes she is his feminine counterpart. As he is
identified with sunlight, so is she, his fair-tressed sister, with the chaste
brilliance of the moon. Its slender arc is her bow; its beams are her arrows
with which she sends upon womankind a speedy and painless death. In her
prerogative of moon-goddess she is frequently identified with Selene,
daughter of Hyperion, just as Apollo is with Helios. Despising the weakness
of love, Diana imposed upon her nymphs vows of perpetual maidenhood,
any violation of which she was swift and severe to punish. Graceful in form
and free of movement, equipped for the chase, and surrounded by a bevy of
fair companions, the swift-rushing goddess was wont to scour hill, valley,
forest, and plain. She was, however, not only huntress, but guardian, of wild
beasts,—mistress withal of horses and kine and other domestic brutes. She
ruled marsh and mountain; her gleaming arrows smote sea as well as land.
Springs and woodland brooks she favored, for in them she and her
attendants were accustomed to bathe. She blessed with verdure the
meadows and arable lands, and from them obtained a meed of thanks. When
weary of the chase she turned to music and dancing; for the lyre and flute
and song were dear to her. Muses, Graces, nymphs, and the fair goddesses

themselves thronged the rites of the chorus-leading queen. But ordinarily a
woodland chapel or a rustic altar sufficed for her worship. There the hunter
laid his offering—antlers, skin, or edible portions of the deer that Artemis of
the golden arrows had herself vouchsafed him. The holy maid, however,
though naturally gracious, gentle, and a healer of ills, was, like her brother,
quick to resent injury to her sacred herds or insult to herself. To this stern
temper Agamemnon, Orion, and Niobe bore regretful testimony. They
found that the "fair-crowned queen of the echoing chase," though blithe and
gracious, was by no means a frivolous personage.
Diana was mistress of the brute creation,
protectress of youth, patron of
temperance in all things, guardian of
civil right. The cypress tree was sacred
to her; and her favorites were the bear,
the boar, the dog, the goat, and specially
the hind.
33. Jonson's Hymn to Cynthia
(Diana).

Queen and Huntress, chaste and
fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose; Fig. 18. Diana (Artemis) of
Cynthia's shining orb was made Versailles
Heaven to clear when day did
close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short
soever:
Thou that mak'st a day
of night,
Goddess excellently
bright.[31]
34. Venus (Aphrodite), goddess of
love and beauty, was, according to
the more ancient Greek conception,
a daughter of Jupiter and Dione;[32]
but Hesiod says that she arose from
the foam of the sea at the time of
the wounding of Uranus, and
therefore was called, by the Greeks, Fig. 19. Artemis
Aphrodite, the foam-born.[33]
Wafted by the west wind, and borne
upon the surge, she won first the island of Cythera; thence, like a dream,
she passed to Cyprus, where the grace and blossom of her beauty conquered
every heart. Everywhere, at the touch of her feet the herbage quivered into
flower. The Hours and Graces surrounded her, twining odorous garlands
and weaving robes for her that reflected the hues and breathed the perfume
of crocus and hyacinth, violet, rose, lily, and narcissus. To her influence is
ascribed the fruitfulness of the animal and of the vegetable creation. She is
goddess of gardens and flowers, of the rose, the myrtle, and the linden. The
heaths and slumberous vales, pleasant with spring and vernal breezes, are
hers. In her broidered girdle lurk "love and desire, and loving converse that
steals the wits even of the wise." For she is the mistress of feminine charm
and beauty, the golden, sweetly smiling Aphrodite, who rules the hearts of
men. She lends to mortals seductive form and fascination. To a few, indeed,
her favor is a blessing; but to many her gifts are treacherous, destructive of
peace. Her various influence is exemplified in the stories of Pygmalion and
Adonis, Paris and Æneas, Helen, Ariadne, Psyche, Procris, Pasiphaë, and
Phædra. Her power extended over sea as well as land, and her temples rose
from many a shore. On the waters swan and dolphin were beloved of her; in
air, the sparrow and the dove. She was usually attended by her winged son

Cupid, of whom much is to be told. Especially dear to her were Cyprus,
Cnidos, Paphos, Cythera, Abydos, Mount Eryx, and the city of Corinth.
35. The "Venus of Milo." Of artistic conceptions of Aphrodite, the most
famous are the statues called the Venus of Melos and the Venus of the
Medici.[34] A comparison of the two conceptions is instituted in the
following poem.[35] The worshiper apostrophizes the Venus of Melos, that
"inner beauty of the world," whose tranquil smile he finds more fair than
"The Medicean's sly and servile grace":

VENUS OF MELOS

From our low world no gods have taken wing;
Even now upon our hills the twain are wandering:[36]
The Medicean's sly and servile grace,
And the immortal beauty of thy face.
One is the spirit of all short-lived love
And outward, earthly loveliness:
The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's smile,
The sky, her laughing azure eyes above;

And, waiting for caress.
Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while
Her thrilling voice is heard
In song of wind and wave, and every flitting bird.
Not plainly, never quite herself she shows:
Just a swift glance of her illumined smile
Along the landscape goes;
Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile
A man from all his toil;
Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, to spoil
A morning's task with longing, wild and vain.
Then if across the parching plain
He seek her, she with passion burns
His heart to fever, and he hears
The west wind's mocking laughter when he turns,
Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears.
It is the Medicean: well I know
The arts her ancient subtlety will show,—
The stubble field she turns to ruddy gold;
The empty distance she will fold
In purple gauze; the warm glow she has kissed
Along the chilling mist:
Cheating and cheated love that grows to hate
And ever deeper loathing, soon or late.
Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest here
Upon the lifted hills:
Wherever that still thought within the breast
The inner beauty of the world hath moved;
In starlight that the dome of evening fills;
On endless waters rounding to the west:
For them who thro' that beauty's veil have loved
The soul of all things beautiful the best.
For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn,
Staring against the dark, the blank of space
Opens immeasurably, and thy face
Wavers and glimmers there and is withdrawn.
And many days, when all one's work is vain,

And life goes stretching on, a waste gray plain,
With even the short mirage of morning gone,
No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh
Where a weary man might lay him down and die,
Lo! thou art there before me suddenly,
With shade as if a summer cloud did pass,
And spray of fountains whispering to the grass.
Oh, save me from the haste and noise and heat
That spoil life's music sweet:
And from that lesser Aphrodite there—
Even now she stands
Close as I turn, and O my soul, how fair!
36. Mercury (Hermes), born in a cave of Mount
Cyllene in Arcadia, was the son of Jupiter and
Maia (the daughter of Atlas). According to
conjecture, his name Hermes means the Hastener.
Mercury, swift as the wind, was the servant and
herald of Jupiter and the other gods. On his ankles
(in plastic art), and his low-crowned, broad-
brimmed petasus, or hat, were wings. As
messenger of Heaven, he bore a wand (caduceus)
of wood or of gold, twined with snakes and
surmounted by wings, and possessed of magical Fig. 20. Hermes
powers over sleeping, waking, and dreams. He Psychopompos
was beautiful and ever in the prime of youthful
vigor. To a voice sweet-toned and powerful, he
added the persuasiveness of eloquence. But his skill was not confined to
speech; he was also the first of inventors—to him are ascribed the lyre and
the flute. He was the forerunner, too, of mathematicians and astronomers.
His agility and strength made him easily prince in athletic pursuits. His
cunning rendered him a dangerous foe; he could well play the trickster and
the thief, as Apollo found out to his vexation, and Argus, and many another
unfortunate. His methods, however, were not always questionable; although
the patron of gamblers and the god of chance, he, at the same time, was the
furtherer of lawful industry and of commerce by land and sea. The gravest
function of the Messenger was to conduct the souls of the dead, "that gibber
like bats as they fare, down the dank ways, past the streams of Oceanus,

past the gates of the sun and the land of dreams, to the mead of asphodel in
the dark realm of Hades, where dwell the souls, the phantoms of men
outworn."[37]
37. Vesta (Hestia), goddess of the hearth, public and private, was the first-
born child of Cronus and Rhea and, accordingly, the elder sister of Jupiter,
Juno, Neptune, Pluto, and Ceres. Vesta was an old maid by choice. Averse
to Venus and all her ways, she scorned the flattering advances of both
Neptune and Apollo, and resolved to remain single. Whereupon Jupiter
gave her to sit in the middle of his palace, to receive in Olympus the
choicest morsels of the feast, and, in the temples of the gods on earth,
reverence as the oldest and worthiest of Olympian divinities. As goddess of
the burning hearth, Vesta is the divinity of the home: of settled, in
opposition to nomadic, habits of life. She was worshiped first of the gods at
every feast. Before her shrine in city and state the holy flame was
religiously cherished. From her altars those of the other gods obtained their
fires. No new colony, no new home, was duly consecrated till on its central
hearth there glowed coals from her ancestral hearth. In her temple at Rome
a sacred fire, tended by six virgin priestesses called Vestals, was kept
religiously aflame. As the safety of the city was held to be connected with
its conservation, any negligence, by which it might go out, was severely
punished. Whenever the fire did die, it was rekindled from the rays of the
sun.
38. Of the Lesser Divinities of Heaven the most worthy of mention are:
1. Cupid (Eros), small but mighty god of love, the son of Venus and her
constant companion. He was often represented with eyes covered because
of the blindness of his actions. With his bow and arrows, he shot the darts of
desire into the bosoms of gods and men. Another deity named Anteros,
reputed the brother of Eros, was sometimes represented as the avenger of
slighted love, and sometimes as the symbol of reciprocal affection. Venus
was also attended at times by another brother of Eros, Himeros, or Longing,
and by Hymen, a beautiful youth of divine descent, the personification of
the wedding feast and leader of the nuptial chorus. Of Eros the poet Gosse
writes:

Within a forest, as I strayed
Far down a somber autumn glade,

I found the god of love;
His bow and arrows cast
aside,
His lovely arms extended
wide,
A depth of leaves above,
Beneath o'erarching boughs he
made
A place for sleep in russet shade.

His lips, more red than any rose,
Were like a flower that overflows
With honey pure and sweet;
And clustering round that
holy mouth,
The golden bees in eager
drouth
Plied busy wings and feet;
They knew, what every lover
knows,
There's no such honey-bloom that
blows.[38]
2. Hebe, daughter of Jupiter and Juno,
goddess of youth and cupbearer to the Fig. 21. Eros
gods. According to one story, she resigned
that office on becoming the wife of
Hercules. According to another, Hebe was dismissed from her position in
consequence of a fall which she met with one day when in attendance on
the gods. Her successor was Ganymede, a Trojan boy whom Jupiter, in the
disguise of an eagle, seized and carried off from the midst of his
playfellows on Mount Ida, bore up to Heaven, and installed in the vacant
place.
3. The Graces, daughters of Jove by Eurynome, daughter of Oceanus. They
were goddesses presiding over the banquet, the dance, all social pleasures,
and polite accomplishments. They were three in number,—Euphrosyne,
Aglaia, and Thalia. Spenser describes the office of the Graces thus:

These three on men all gracious gifts bestow
Which deck the body or adorn the mind,
To make them lovely or well-favored show;
As comely carriage, entertainment kind,
Sweet semblance, friendly offices that bind,
And all the complements of courtesy;
They teach us how to each degree and kind
We should ourselves demean, to low, to high,
To friends, to foes; which skill men call civility.

4. The Muses, daughters of
Jupiter and Mnemosyne
(Memory). They presided over
song and prompted the memory.
They are ordinarily cited as nine
in number; and to each of them
was assigned patronage in some
department of literature, art, or
science. Calliope was the muse of
epic poetry, Clio of history,
Euterpe of lyric poetry,
Melpomene of tragedy,
Terpsichore of choral dance and
song, Erato of love poetry,
Polyhymnia of sacred poetry,
Urania of astronomy, Thalia of
comedy.
5. Themis, one of the Titans, a
daughter of Uranus. She sat, as
Fig. 22. Rape of Ganymede
goddess of justice, beside Jupiter
on his throne. She was beloved of
the father of gods and men, and bore him the Hours, goddesses who
regulated the seasons, and the Fates.
6. The Fates, three in number,—Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos. Their office
was to spin the thread of human destiny, and they were provided with

shears with which they cut it off when they
pleased.[39] According to Hesiod, they were
daughters of Night.
7. Nemesis, daughter of Night. She
represented the righteous anger and
vengeance of the gods, particularly toward
the proud, the insolent, and breakers of the
law.
8. Æsculapius, son of Apollo. By his skill in
medicine he restored the dead to life. Being
killed by the lightning of Jove, he was
translated to the ranks of Heaven. His
function was the art of healing.
9. The Winds,—Boreas, or Aquilo, the north
wind; Zephyrus, or Favonius, the west;
Notus, or Auster, the south; and Eurus, the
east. The first two, chiefly, have been
celebrated by the poets, the former as the
type of rudeness, the latter of gentleness. It
is said that Boreas loved the nymph
Orithyia and tried to play the lover's part,
but met with poor success; for it was hard
for him to breathe gently, and sighing was Fig. 23. Polyhymnia
out of the question.
Weary at last of fruitless endeavors, he acted out his true character, seized
the maiden and bore her off. Their children were Zetes and Calaïs, winged
warriors, who accompanied the Argonautic expedition and did good service
in an encounter with those monstrous birds, the Harpies. Zephyrus was the
lover of Flora (Chloris).
Here, too, may be mentioned Æolus, the king of the winds, although he is
not a lesser divinity of Heaven. His palace was on the precipitous isle of
Æolia, where, with his six sons and six daughters, he kept eternal carouse.
The winds, which he confined in a cavern, he let loose as he saw fit or as he
was bidden by superior deities. He is sometimes called Hippotades.[40]

10. Helios, Selene, and Eos, children of the
Titan Hyperion. Helios and Selene were the
more ancient Greek divinities of Sun and
Moon respectively. Helios, the charioteer of
the sun, is, as has been already said,
frequently identified with his successor,
Apollo. The attributes and adventures of
Selene were merged in those of the more
modern Diana. Eos, or, in Latin
nomenclature, Aurora, the rosy-fingered
goddess of the Morn, was mother of the stars
and of the morning and evening breezes.
Saffron-robed she rises from the streams of
Ocean, to bring light to gods and men.
11. Phosphor, the morning-star, the star of Fig. 24. The Three Fates
Venus, son of Aurora and the hunter
From the painting by
Cephalus. Hesper, the evening-star, was
sometimes identified with Phosphor. He was Michelangelo(?)
king of the Western Land, and, say
some, father of the Hesperides, who
guarded the golden apples of the
sunset.
The Spirit in Milton's Comus tells
of

... the gardens
fair
Of Hesperus, and his
daughters three Fig. 25. Boreas
That sing about the golden
tree.
Along the crispèd shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces and the rosy-bosomed Hours
Thither all their bounties bring.
There eternal Summer dwells,

And west winds with musky
wing
About the cedarn alleys
fling
Nard and cassia's balmy
smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks,
that blow
Flowers of more mingled
Fig. 26. Zephyros
hue
Than her purfled scarf can
shew.
And Tennyson taking the lines as a text
has written the melodious and mystic
song of the Hesperides, beginning—

The golden apple, the golden
apple, the hallowed
fruit,
Guard it well, guard it warily,
Singing airily,
Standing about the charmèd
root.
Round about all is mute,
As the snowfield on the
mountain-peaks, Fig. 27. Boreas carrying off
As the sandfield at the Orithyia
mountain-foot.
Crocodiles in briny creeks
Sleep and stir not: all is mute.
If ye sing not, if ye make false measure,
We shall lose eternal pleasure,
Worth eternal want of rest.
Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure
Of the wisdom of the West.

Readers of this poem will notice that Tennyson follows the tradition by
which a sleepless dragon is introduced among the guardians of the
Hesperian fruit. Still other versions substitute for Hesperus, the Titan Atlas.
12. Various Other Personifications. The constellation Orion, whose story
will be narrated; Victoria (Nike), the goddess of Victory; Discors (Eris), the
goddess of Strife; and Iris, goddess of the rainbow, who is represented
frequently as a messenger of the gods.

Fig. 28. Iris carrying Child

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Consult, in general, corresponding sections of the
Commentary.
[17] Symbolized on earth by Mount Olympus in Thessaly.
[18] Cowper's translation.
[19] See Commentary, § 23, for Gladstone's latest utterance on
the number of the Olympians.
[20] The names included in parentheses represent the Greek, the
others being Roman equivalents, Latin names, or names
common to both Greek and Roman usage.

[21] See Commentary, § 34.
[22] On the Latin name, see Commentary, § 24.
[23] Iliad, I, 622-625, Earl of Derby's translation. See also the
passage in Chapman's translation.
[24] On the name Juno, see Commentary.
[25] For the names Athene and Minerva, see Commentary.
[26] See Commentary.
[27] Iliad, 5, 590. See also 21, 395.
[28] Iliad, 18, 395.
[29] Iliad, 1, 390.
[30] On the birth of Apollo, his adventures, names, festivals,
oracles, and his place in literature and art, see Commentary. For
other particulars, see sections on Myths of Apollo.
[31] From Cynthia's Revels.
[32] Iliad, 5, 370, etc.
[33] A popular etymology.
[34] For Venus in poetry and art, see Commentary.
[35] From the Venus of Milo, by E. R. Sill, formerly professor
of English Literature in the University of California.
[36] The references are to the Berkeley Hills, the Bay of San
Francisco, and the glimpses of the Pacific.
[37] Lang, Odyssey, 24, 1; adapted.
[38] Eros, by Edmund Gosse. For verses on the blindness of
Cupid, see Lyly's Cupid and Campaspe in Commentary.
[39] For description of their spinning, see translation of
Catullus, LXIV, in § 191.
[40] See Commentary.

CHAPTER III
THE GODS OF EARTH[41]

39. Conception of the World. The Greek poets believed the earth to be flat
and circular. In their opinion their own country occupied the middle of it,
and the central point was either Mount Olympus, the abode of the gods, or

Delphi, famous for its oracle. The
circular disk of the earth was
crossed from west to east and
divided into two equal parts by the
Sea, as they called the
Mediterranean and its continuation
the Euxine, the only seas with
which they were acquainted.
Around the earth flowed River
Ocean, from south to north on the
western side, in a contrary direction
on the eastern. It flowed in a steady,
equable current, unvexed by storm
or tempest. The sea and all the
rivers on earth received their waters
from it.
The northern portion of the earth
was inhabited by the Hyperboreans,
dwelling in bliss and everlasting
Fig. 29. Demeter of Knidos
spring beyond the mountains whose
caverns sent forth the piercing blasts
of the north wind. Their country was inaccessible by land or sea. They lived
exempt from disease or old age, from toils and warfare. "I come" sings one
of them,[42]—

I come from a land in the sun-bright deep,
Where golden gardens glow,
Where the winds of the north, becalmed in sleep,
Their conch-shells never blow.

On the south side of the earth, close to the stream of Ocean, dwelt the
Æthiopians, whom the gods held in such favor that they left at times the
Olympian abodes to partake of the Æthiopian sacrifices and banquets. On
the western margin of the earth, by the stream of Ocean, lay the Elysian
Plain, where certain mortals enjoyed an immortality of bliss.

The Dawn, the Sun, and the Moon were supposed to
rise out of Ocean on the eastern side and to drive
through the air, giving light to gods and men. The
stars, also, except those forming the Wain or Bear
and others near them, rose out of and sank into the
stream of Ocean. There the sun-god embarked in a
winged boat, which conveyed him by the northern
part of the earth back to his place of rising in the
east.
40. Ceres (Demeter), the goddess of sowing and
reaping, of harvest festivals, and of agriculture in
general, was sister of Jupiter and daughter of
Cronus and Rhea. She is connected through her
daughter Proserpine, queen of Hades, with the holy
ceremonies and rites of death and of the lower Fig. 30. Ceres
world. Of the institutions founded or favored by her
the most important were the mysteries celebrated at
Eleusis, concerning which we know that, in the presence of individuals
initiated in the secret ritual and perhaps with their coöperation, scenes were
enacted which represented the alternation of death and life in nature and,
apparently, forecast the resurrection and immortality of man. Sacred to
Ceres and to Proserpine were golden sheaves of corn and soporific poppies;
while, among animals, cows, sheep, and pigs were acceptable to them.
41. Gæa (Ge), the Mother Earth, wife of Uranus, belongs to the older order
of gods; so also, another goddess of the earth, Rhea, the wife of Cronus and
mother of Jupiter. In Phrygia, Rhea became identified with Cybele, whose
worship, as mother of the gods, was at a later period introduced into Rome.
The Greek mother, Rhea, was attended by the Curetes; the Phrygian mother
by the Corybantes, who celebrated her orgies with enthusiastic din of
trumpets, drums, and cymbals. Cybele presided over mountain fastnesses
and fortified places.
42. Bacchus (Dionysus), the god of wine, was the son of Jupiter and
Semele, daughter of Cadmus of Thebes. He was especially the god of
animal life and vegetation. He represented not only the intoxicating power
of wine but its social and beneficent influences, and was looked upon as a
promoter of civilization, a lawgiver, and a lover of peace. His forehead was

crowned with vine leaves or ivy. He rode upon
the tiger, the panther, or the lynx, or was
drawn by them in a car. His worshipers were
Bacchanals, or Bacchantes. He was attended
by Satyrs and Sileni and by women called
Mænads, who, as they danced and sang,
waved in the air the thyrsus, a staff entwined
with ivy and surmounted by a pine cone.
Ordinarily, as in the following verses by
Dryden, the convivial qualities of the god
overshadow all the rest:

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet
musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever
young.
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the
drums;
Flushed with a purple grace Fig. 31. Dionysus and the
He shows his honest face: Vine
Now give the hautboys breath; he
comes, he comes.
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure;
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.[43]

43. The Lesser Divinities of Earth were:
1. Pan, son of Mercury and a wood-nymph or Dryad. He was the god of
woods and fields, of flocks and shepherds. He dwelt in caves, wandered on
the mountains and in valleys, amused himself with the chase, led the dances
of the Dryads, and made love to them. But his suit was frequently of no
avail, for though good-natured he was not prepossessing; his hoofs and

horns did not enhance his comeliness. He was
fond of music and was himself inventor of the
syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, which he played in a
masterly manner. Like other gods who dwelt in
forests, he was dreaded by those whose
occupations caused them to pass through the
woods by night; for gloom and loneliness oppress
and appall the mind. Hence sudden unreasonable
fright was ascribed to Pan and called a Panic
terror.
2. The Nymphs. Pan's partners in the dance, the
Dryads, were but one of several classes of
nymphs. There were, beside them, the Oreads,
nymphs of mountains and grottoes; and the
Water-Nymphs, who are mentioned in later
sections.
3. The Satyrs, deities of the woods and fields. In
early art they appear as bearded creatures with
snub noses, goats' ears, and horses' tails. Later
they resemble youths, sometimes with sprouting
horns. The goat-legged satyr is found in Roman
poetry.
Fig. 32. Pan the
Hunter

Fig. 33. A Satyr

FOOTNOTES:

[41] For references to poetry and works of art, see
corresponding sections in Commentary.
[42] According to Thomas Moore's Song of a Hyperborean.
[43] From Alexander's Feast.

CHAPTER IV
THE GODS OF THE UNDERWORLD[44]

44. The Underworld was the region of darkness inhabited by the spirits of
the dead and governed by Pluto (Hades) and Proserpina, his queen.
According to the Iliad, this realm lay "beneath the secret places of the
earth."[45] And from the Odyssey we gather that it is not in the bowels of the
earth, but on the under side at the limits of the known world, across the
stream Oceanus, where is a waste shore, the land of the Cimmerians,
shrouded in mist and cloud, never lighted by the sun "neither when he
climbs up the starry heavens nor when again he turns earthward from the
firmament."[46] From that land one goes beside the stream till he reaches the
dank house of Hades. The realm of darkness is bounded by awful rivers: the
Styx, sacred even among the gods, for by it they sealed their oaths, and the
Acheron, river of woe,—with its tributaries, Phlegethon, river of fire, and
Cocytus, river of wailing. Hither past the White Rock, which perhaps
symbolizes the bleaching skeletons of the dead, and past the gates of the
sun, it is the duty of Hermes (Mercury) to conduct the outworn ghosts of
mortals. One of the Greek dramatists, Sophocles, tells us that this shore of
death is "down in the darkling west."[47] In later poems we read that
Charon, a grim boatman, received the dead at the River of Woe, and ferried
them across, if the money requisite for their passage had been placed in
their mouths and their bodies had been duly buried in the world above.[48]
Otherwise he left them gibbering on the hither bank. The abode of Pluto is
represented as wide-gated and thronged with guests. At the gate Cerberus, a
three-headed, serpent-tailed dog, lay on guard,—friendly to the spirits
entering, but inimical to those who would depart. The palace itself is dark
and gloomy, set in the midst of uncanny fields haunted by strange
apparitions. The groves of somber trees about the palace,—the meads of
Asphodel, barren or, at best, studded with futile bushes and pale-flowered
weeds, where wander the shades,—and the woods along the waste shore "of
tall poplars and willows that shed their fruit before the season" are, without
any particular discrimination, celebrated by the poets as the Garden of
Proserpine.

Fig. 34. The Greek Underworld

Here life has death for
neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds
labor,
Weak ships and spirits
steer;
They drive adrift, and
whither
They wot not who make
thither;
But no such winds blow
Fig. 35. Hermes conducting a Soul
hither,
to Charon
And no such things grow
here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,
Pale beds of blowing rushes,
Where no leaf blooms or blushes
Save this whereout she crushes
For dead men deadly wine.
* * * * *

Pale, beyond porch and portal,
Crowned with calm leaves, she stands
Who gathers all things mortal
With cold immortal hands;
Her languid lips are sweeter
Than love's, who fears to greet her,
To men that mix and meet her
From many times and lands.

She waits for each and
other,
She waits for all men
born;
Forgets the earth her
mother,
The life of fruits and
corn;
And spring and seed and
swallow
Take wing for her and
follow
Where summer song rings Fig. 36. Hypnos
hollow,
And flowers are put to scorn.
* * * * *
We are not sure of sorrow,
And joy was never sure;
To-day will die to-morrow;
Time stoops to no man's lure;
And love, grown faint and fretful,
With lips but half regretful
Sighs, and with eyes forgetful
Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light;
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight;
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal:
Only the sleep eternal
In an eternal night.[49]
45. Tartarus and the Elysian
Fields. With the ghosts of
Hades the living might but
rarely communicate, and only
through certain oracles of the
dead, situate by cavernous
spots and sheer abysms, deep
and melancholy streams, and
baleful marshes. These
naturally seemed to afford
access to the world below,
which with the later poets, such
as Virgil, comes to be regarded
as under the ground. One of
these descents to the
Underworld was near Tænarum
in Laconia; another, near
Cumæ in Italy, was Lake
Avernus, so foul in its
exhalations that, as its name Fig. 37. A Fury
portends, no bird could fly
across it.[50] Before the judges
of the lower world,—Minos, Æacus, and Rhadamanthus,—the souls of the

dead were brought to trial. The condemned were assigned to regions where
all manner of torment awaited them at the hands of monsters dire,—the
fifty-headed Hydra and the avenging Furies. Some evildoers, such as the
Titans of old, were doomed to languish in the gulf of Tartarus immeasurably
below. But the souls of the guiltless passed to the Elysian Fields, where
each followed the chosen pursuit of his former life in a land of spring,
sunlight, happiness, and song. And by the Fields there flowed the river
Lethe, from which the souls of those that were to return to the earth in other
bodies drank oblivion of their former lives.
46. The Islands of the Blest. Homer mentions, elsewhere, an Elysium of
the western seas, which is a happy land, "where life is easiest for men: no
snow is there, nor yet great storm, nor any rain; but always ocean sendeth
forth the breeze of the shrill West to blow cool on men."[51] Hither favored
heroes pass without dying, and live under the happy rule of Rhadamanthus.
The Elysium of Hesiod and Pindar is likewise in the Western Ocean, on the
Islands of the Blessed, the Fortunate Isles. From this dream of a western
Elysium may have sprung the legend of the island Atlantis. That blissful
region may have been wholly imaginary. It is, however, not impossible that
the myth had its origin in the reports of storm-driven mariners who had
caught a glimpse of occidental lands. In these Islands of the Blest, the
Titans, released from Tartarus after many years, dwelt under the golden
sway of the white-haired Cronus.[52]

There was no heavy heat, no cold,
The dwellers there wax never old,
Nor wither with the waning time,
But each man keeps that age he had
When first he won the fairy clime.
The night falls never from on high,
Nor ever burns the heat of noon;
But such soft light eternally
Shines, as in silver dawns of June
Before the sun hath climbed the sky!
* * * * *
All these their mirth and pleasure made
Within the plain Elysian,
The fairest meadow that may be,

With all green fragrant trees for shade,
And every scented wind to fan,
And sweetest flowers to strew the lea;
The soft winds are their servants fleet
To fetch them every fruit at will
And water from the river chill;
And every bird that singeth sweet,
Throstle, and merle, and nightingale,
Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,—
Lily, and rose, and asphodel,—
With these doth each guest twine his crown
And wreathe his cup, and lay him down
Beside some friend he loveth well.[53]
47. Pluto (Hades) was brother of Jupiter. To him fell the sovereignty of the
lower world and the shades of the dead. In his character of Hades, the
viewless, he is hard and inexorable.
By virtue of the helmet or cap given him by the Cyclopes, he moved hither
and yon, dark, unseen,—hated of mortals. He was, however, lord not only
of all that descends to the bowels of the earth, but of all that proceeds from
the earth; and in the latter aspect he was revered as Pluto, or the giver of
wealth. At his pleasure he visited the realms of day,—as when he carried off
Proserpina; occasionally he journeyed to Olympus; but otherwise he
ignored occurrences in the upper world, nor did he suffer his subjects, by
returning, to find them out. Mortals, when they called on his name, beat the
ground with their hands and, averting their faces, sacrificed black sheep to
him and to his queen. Among the Romans he is known also as Dis, Orcus,
and Tartarus. But Orcus is rather Death, or the Underworld, than ruler of the
shades.
48. Proserpina (Persephone) was the daughter of Ceres and Jupiter. She
was queen of Hades,—a name applied both to the ruler of the shades and to
his realm. When she is goddess of spring, dear to mankind, Proserpina bears
a cornucopia overflowing with flowers, and revisits the earth in duly
recurring season. But when she is goddess of death, sitting beside Pluto, she
directs the Furies, and, like her husband, is cruel, unyielding, inimical to
youth and life and hope. In the story of her descent to Hades will be found a
further account of her attributes and fortunes.

49. The Lesser Divinities of the
Underworld were:
1. Æacus, Rhadamanthus, and Minos, sons of
Jupiter and judges of the shades in the lower
world. Æacus had been during his earthly life
a righteous king of the island of Ægina.
Minos had been a famous lawgiver and king
of Crete. The life of Rhadamanthus was not
eventful.
2. The Furies (Erinyes or Eumenides),
Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megæra, born of the
blood of the wounded Uranus. They were
attendants of Proserpina. They punished with
the frenzies of remorse the crimes of those
who had escaped from or defied public
justice. The heads of the Furies were
wreathed with serpents.
3. Hecate, a mysterious divinity sometimes
Fig. 38. Hades
identified with Diana and sometimes with
Proserpina. As Diana represents the
moonlight splendor of night, so Hecate represents its darkness and terrors.
She haunted crossroads and graveyards, was the goddess of sorcery and
witchcraft, and wandered by night, seen only by the dogs whose barking
told of her approach.
4. Sleep, or Somnus (Hypnos), and Death (Thanatos), sons of Night.[54]
They dwell in subterranean darkness. The former brings to mortals solace
and fair dreams, and can lull the shining eyes of Jove himself; the latter
closes forever the eyes of men. Dreams, too, are sons of Night.[55] They
dwell beside their brother Death, along the Western Sea. Their abode has
two gates,—one of ivory, whence issue false and flattering visions; the
other of horn, through which true dreams and noble pass to men.[56]

Fig. 39. Death, Sleep, and Hermes laying a
Body in the Tomb

FOOTNOTES:

[44] For interpretation and illustration, see corresponding
sections of Commentary.
[45] Iliad, 22, 482; 9, 568; 20, 61.
[46] Odyssey, 10, 508; 11, 20; 24, 1.
[47] Sophocles, Œdipus Rex, 177.
[48] Æneid, 6, 295.
[49] From The Garden of Proserpine, by A. C. Swinburne.
[50] Æneid, 6.
[51] Odyssey, 4, 561.
[52] Hes. Works and Days, 169.
[53] From The Fortunate Islands, by Andrew Lang.
[54] Iliad, 14, 231; 16, 672.
[55] Odyssey, 24, 12; 19, 560. Æneid, 6, 893. Ovid, Metam. 11,
592.
[56] For genealogical table, see Commentary.

CHAPTER V
THE GODS OF THE WATERS[57]

50. The Older Dynasty. There were
two dynasties of the sea. The Older,
which flourished during the rule of
Cronus, was founded by the Titans,
Oceanus and Tethys, from whom
sprang three thousand rivers and
ocean-nymphs unnumbered. The
palace of Oceanus was beyond the
limits of the bountiful earth,[58]
surrounded by gardens and all things
fair. From ages immemorial another
dweller in the glimmering caves of
Ocean was Pontus (the deep sea or the
waterway), who became, by Mother
Earth, father of Nereus. This Nereus, a
genial old man of the sea, was
distinguished for his prophetic gifts,
his knowledge, his love of truth and
justice. Taking to wife one of the
daughters of Oceanus, the nymph
Doris, he was blessed with a family of
fifty fair daughters, the Nereïds.[59] Of
these daughters the most famous are
Panope, Galatea, Thetis, and Fig. 40. Poseidon
Amphitrite; the last of whom gave her
hand to Neptune (Poseidon), brother of
Jove, and thus united the Older and the Younger dynasties of the sea.
51. Of the Younger Dynasty of the waters Neptune and Amphitrite were the
founders. Neptune's palace was in the depths of the sea, near Ægæ in
Eubœa; but he made his home on Olympus when he chose. The symbol of
his power was the trident, or three-pronged spear, with which he could
shatter rocks, call forth or subdue storms, and shake the shores of earth. He
created the horse and was the patron of horse races. His own steeds were

brazen-hoofed and golden-maned. They drew his chariot over the sea,
which became smooth before him, while dolphins and other monsters of the
deep gamboled about his path. In his honor black and white bulls, white
boars, and rams were sacrificed.

Fig. 41. Wedding of Poseidon and Amphitrite
52. The Lesser Divinities of the Waters[60] were:
1. Triton, the son of Neptune and Amphitrite, trumpeter of Ocean. By his
blast on the sea-shell he stirred or allayed the waves.
2. Proteus, an attendant and, according to certain traditions, a son of
Neptune. Like Nereus, he was a little old man of the sea. He possessed the
prophetic gift and the power of changing his shape at will.
3. The Harpies, foul creatures, with heads of maidens, bodies, wings, and
claws of birds, and faces pale with hunger. They are the offspring of
Thaumas, a son of Pontus and Gæa.
4. The uncanny offspring of Phorcys and Ceto,—children of Pontus,—who
rejoiced in the horrors of the sea:
a. The Grææ, three hoary witches, with one eye between them which they
used in turn.
b. The Gorgons, whose glance was icy death.
c. The Sirens, muses of the sea and of death, who by their sweet singing
enticed seafarers to destruction.
d. Scylla, also destructive to mariners, a six-headed monster whose lower
limbs were serpents and ever-barking dogs.

Fig. 42. Triton carrying off a Nymph
5. Atlas, who stood in the far west, bearing on his shoulders the vault of
heaven. He was once regarded as a divinity of the sea, but later as a
mountain. He was the son of Iapetus and the father of three classes of
nymphs,—the Pleiads, the Hyads, and, according to some stories, the
Hesperids. The last-mentioned, assisted by their mother Hesperis and a
dragon, guarded the golden apples of the tree that had sprung up to grace
the wedding of Jove and Juno. The daughters of Atlas were not themselves
divinities of the sea.
6. The Water-Nymphs. Beside the Oceanids and the Nereïds, who have
already been mentioned, of most importance were the Naiads, daughters of
Jupiter. They presided over brooks and fountains. Other lesser powers of the
Ocean were Glaucus, Leucothea, and Melicertes, of whom more is said in
another section.
In the following statement of the difference between ancient and modern
conceptions of nature, the poet lends new charm to the fabled rulers of the
sea.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are upgathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.[61]

FOOTNOTES:

[57] For references to poetry and works of art, see
corresponding sections of Commentary.
[58] Iliad, 14, 303.
[59] Iliad, 18, 30-50.
[60] For genealogical table, see Commentary.
[61] Wordsworth, Miscellaneous Sonnets.

CHAPTER VI
THE ROMAN DIVINITIES

53. Gods Common to Greece and Italy. Of the deities already mentioned,
the following, although they were later identified with certain Greek gods
and goddesses[62] whose characteristics and adventures they assumed, had
developed an independent worship in Italy: Jupiter (Zeus); Juno (Hera);
Minerva (Athene); Diana (Artemis); Mars (Ares); Venus (Aphrodite);
Vulcanus, or Mulciber (Hephæstus); Vesta (Hestia); Mercurius (Hermes);
Neptunus (Poseidon); Ceres (Demeter); Liber (Bacchus); Libera
(Persephone); Magna Mater, the great mother of the gods (Rhea, Cybele);
Orcus (Pluto, Hades); Tellus, the Earth (Gæa).
54. Italian Gods. There were also divinities always peculiar to Roman
mythology.[63] Of these the more important are:

1. Saturn, an ancient Italian deity (as his name indicates) of seeds and
sowing, the introducer of agriculture. Fanciful attempts were made to
identify him with the Grecian god Cronus; and it was fabled that after his
dethronement by Jupiter he fled to Italy, where he reigned during the
Golden Age. In memory of his dominion, the feast of Saturnalia was held
every year in the winter season. Then all public business was suspended;
declarations of war and criminal executions were postponed; friends made
presents to one another; and even slaves were indulged with great liberties.
A feast was given them at which they sat at table while their masters served,
to show the natural equality of men, and that all things belonged equally to
all in the reign of Saturn. The wife of Saturn was Ops, goddess of sowing
and harvest (later confounded with Rhea). Another Roman deity of earth
was Consus, whose name means "the keeper of the stores." He is the god of
the stored-up harvest; and his altar is said to have been discovered
underground by Romulus. It was in the Circus Maximus and was uncovered
only on the days of his festivals, the harvest home of August and the
granary feast of December. The underground altar is a reminiscence of the
ancient custom of storing corn underground or at any rate of burying the
sacrifices offered to deities of the earth. The harvest festival was celebrated
with horse races, which, originating in a very simple way with the primitive
farmers, became in time the distinctive feature of the Circus Maximus.
2. Janus, whose name is derived from the Latin root which means "going"
and is connected with janua, a passage or door, is the most distinctive and
most important of the native Italic deities. He is not only the god of doors,
or material openings, but more truly of beginnings,—especially of good
beginnings which insure good endings. Hence undoubtedly he is
represented as facing both ways; for the Romans very properly believed that
beginning and ending were of the same piece, and that an undertaking ill
begun could not achieve success. His temple, or covered passage, in the
Forum had doors facing east and west for the beginning and ending of the
day; and between stood his two-faced statue. In every home the morning
prayer was addressed to him; in every domestic enterprise his assistance
was implored. He was the god, also, of the opening year; hence his month,
January, on the first day of which words only of good omen were uttered,
and gifts were given (strenae, a name still preserved in the French word for
New Year's presents, étrennes), and, for good luck, some stroke of work
was bestowed on every undertaking planned for the year. He was publicly

invoked not only on New Year's
day, but on the first day of each
month, by priests and people alike;
and in these prayers his name was
mentioned even before that of
Jupiter. He is the god of
civilization, and is sometimes called
Consivius, or the Sower.[64] Of
course he was invoked when wars
were commenced. And during their
progress the doors of his temple
stood always open. In peace they
were closed; but they were shut
only once between the reign of
Numa and that of Augustus. It was
Fig. 43. Bearded Janus
natural that his worship should
gradually absorb that of Sol, the
Sun, who opens the day and completes the year and blesses with his rays
the seeds that are sown; and such was the case. But Janus and his wife Jana
were not originally connected even in name with Dianus (Sol, Apollo) and
Diana (the moon).
3. Quirinus, a war-god, said to be no other than Romulus, the founder of
Rome, exalted after his death to a place among the immortals.
4. Bellona, a war-goddess.
5. Lucina, the goddess who brings to light, hence the goddess of childbirth:
a title bestowed upon both Juno and Diana.
6. Terminus, the god of landmarks. His statue was a rude stone or post, set
in the ground to mark the boundaries of fields.
7. Faunus, the grandson of Saturn. He was worshiped as a god of fields and
shepherds and also of prophecy. His name in the plural, Fauni, expressed a
class of gamesome deities, like the Satyrs of the Greeks. There was also a
goddess called Fauna, or Bona Dea (good goddess). To Maia, wife of
Vulcan, this designation, Bona Dea, was sometimes applied.
8. Sylvanus, presiding over forest-glades and plowed fields.

9. Pales, the goddess presiding over cattle and pastures. Flora, the goddess
of flowers. Pomona, presiding over fruit trees. Vertumnus, the husband of
Pomona, was guardian of fruit trees, gardens, and vegetables.

Pomona loves the orchard,
And Liber loves the vine,
And Pales loves the straw-built shed
Warm with the breath of kine;
And Venus loves the whisper
Of plighted youth and maid
In April's ivory moonlight,
Beneath the chestnut shade.[65]

10. The Penates, gods who were supposed to attend to the welfare and
prosperity of the family. Their name is derived from Penus, the storehouse
or inner chamber, which was sacred to them. Every master of a family was
the priest to the Penates of his own house.
The Lares, or Lars, were also tutelary deities, but they differed from the
Penates since they were regarded as the deified spirits of ancestors, who
watched over and protected their descendants. The Lares were more
particularly divinities presiding over the household or family; but there
were also public Lares, or guardian spirits of the city, Lares of the precincts,
Lares of the fields, Lares of the highways, and Lares of the sea. To the
Penates, to the domestic Lares (whose images were preserved in a private
shrine), and to the Manes (shades that hovered over the place of burial), the
family prayers of the Romans were addressed. Other spirits, the Lemures
and Larvæ, more nearly correspond to our ghosts.
The Romans believed that every
man had his Genius and every
woman her Juno; that is, a spirit
who had given them being and was
regarded as a protector through life.
On birthdays men made offerings to
their Genius, women to their Juno.
11. Other Italian deities were the
gods of the rivers, such as Father
Tiber, and the goddesses of the
springs and brooks, such as
Juturna, whose pool in the Forum

was sacred. This nymph was also a Fig. 44. Genius Loci
goddess of healing and, according
to later tradition, was beloved by
Jupiter. Earlier stories, however, make her the wife of Janus and the mother
of Fontus, the god of flowing waters, who had an altar on the Janiculan hill
and was worshiped at an annual festival called the Fontinalia, when the
wells were wreathed with garlands. Held in especial honor were the
Camenæ, fountain-nymphs, goddesses of prophecy and healing (later
identified with the Muses). The leader of them was Carmenta, who sang
both the future and the past. With her is sometimes associated the nymph
Egeria, from whom the Roman king Numa is said to have received
instruction concerning the forms of worship which he introduced.
12. The Romans worshiped, also, Sol, the Sun; Luna, the Moon; Mater
Matuta, the Dawn; Juventus, Youth; Fides, Honesty; Feronia, goddess of
groves and freedmen; and a great number of personified abstractions of
conduct and experience, such as Fortune and Health.
Many of these Latin divinities were derived from the earlier cult and ritual
of the Etruscan inhabitants of Italy.

FOOTNOTES:

[62] Names of the corresponding Greek divinities are in
parentheses.
[63] For illustrative material, see Commentary.
[64] Gellius, 5, 12. Ovid, Fasti, 1, 179. Macrobius, Sat. 1, 9-15.
[65] From Macaulay's Prophecy of Capys.

CHAPTER VII
MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN

55. Myths of Jupiter and Juno. Not a few of the adventures of Jupiter turn
upon his love affairs. Among the immortals his queen had rivals in his

affection; for instance, Latona, a goddess of darkness, daughter of the Titans
Cœus and Phœbe. This goddess became, as we have already seen, the
mother of Apollo and Diana. The ire of Juno against her was never
appeased. In consequence of it, numerous trials were visited upon Latona,
some of which find a place among the adventures of her children.
56. Love Affairs of Jupiter. Not only with
immortals but with mortals were Jupiter's
relations sometimes of a dubious character. His
devotion to the beautiful daughters of men
involved him in frequent altercations with his
justly jealous spouse. Of his fondness for Danaë,
whom he approached in a shower of gold,
particulars are given in the story of her son
Perseus; of his love for Alcmene, the
granddaughter of that Perseus, we are informed in
the myths of her son Hercules; and of his Fig. 45. Ganymede
attentions to Leda, whom he wooed in guise of a
swan, we learn in the accounts of their children
Pollux and Helen. Other love passages, upon which narratives depend,
concern Io, Callisto, Europa, Semele, Ægina, and Antiope.

GREECE IN THE FIFTH CENTURY B.C.

57. Io[66] was of divine ancestry. Her father was the river-god Inachus, son
of Oceanus. It is said that Juno one day, perceiving the skies suddenly
overcast, surmised that her husband had raised a cloud to hide some
escapade. She brushed away the darkness and saw him on the banks of a
glassy river with a beautiful heifer standing near. Juno suspected, with
reason, that the heifer's form concealed some fair nymph of mortal mold. It
was Io, whom Jupiter, when he became aware of the approach of his wife,
had changed into that form.
The ox-eyed goddess
joined her husband,
noticed the heifer,
praised its beauty, and
asked whose it was and
of what herd. Jupiter, to
stop questions, replied
that it was a fresh
creation from the earth.
Juno begged it as a gift. Fig. 46. Hermes Kills Argus
What could the king of
gods and men do? He
was loath to surrender his sweetheart to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling
a present as a heifer? He could not, without exciting suspicion, and he
therefore consented. The goddess delivered the heifer to Argus, to be
strictly watched.
Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with
more than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly. He suffered
her to graze through the day and at night tied a rope round her neck. She
would have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but that she
had no arms to stretch out and her voice was a bellow. She yearned in vain
to make herself known to her father. At length she bethought herself of
writing, and inscribed her name—it was a short one—with her hoof on the
sand. Inachus recognized it, and, discovering that his daughter whom he
had long sought in vain was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her.
While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, drove her away and took his seat
on a bank from whence he could see in every direction.

Jupiter, grieved by the sufferings of his
mistress, sent Mercury to dispatch Argus.
Mercury took his sleep-producing wand
and presented himself on earth as a
shepherd driving his flock. As he
strolled, he blew upon his syrinx or
Pandean pipes. Argus listened with
delight. "Young man," said he, "come
and take a seat by me on this stone.
There is no better place for your flock to
graze in than hereabouts, and here is a
pleasant shade such as shepherds love."
Mercury sat down, talked, told stories till
it grew late, and played upon his pipes
his most soothing strains, hoping to lull
the watchful eyes to sleep, but in vain; Fig. 47. Io, Argus, and
for Argus still contrived to keep some of Mercury
his eyes open, though he shut the rest.
But among other stories, Mercury told him how the instrument on which he
played was invented. "There was a certain nymph," said he, "whose name
was Syrinx,—much beloved by the satyrs and spirits of the wood. She
would have none of them, but was a faithful worshiper of Diana and
followed the chase. Pan, meeting her one day, wooed her with many
compliments, likening her to Diana of the silver bow. Without stopping to
hear him she ran away. But on the bank of the river he overtook her. She
called for help on her friends, the water-nymphs. They heard and consented.
Pan threw his arms around what he supposed to be the form of the nymph
and found he embraced only a tuft of reeds. As he breathed a sigh, the air
sounded through the reeds and produced a plaintive melody. Whereupon the
god, charmed with the novelty and with the sweetness of the music, said,
'Thus, then, at least, you shall be mine.' Taking some of the reeds of unequal
lengths and placing them together, side by side, he made an instrument and
called it Syrinx, in honor of the nymph." Before Mercury had finished his
story he saw the eyes of Argus all asleep. At once he slew him and set Io
free. The eyes of Argus Juno took and scattered as ornaments on the tail of
her peacock, where they remain to this day.

But the vengeance of Juno was not yet satiated. She sent a gadfly to torment
Io, who, in her flight, swam through the sea, named after her, Ionian.
Afterward, roaming over many lands, she reached at last the banks of the
Nile. Then Jupiter interceded for her; and upon his engaging not to pay her
any further attention, Juno consented to restore her to her form.
In a poem dedicated to Leigh Hunt, by Keats, the following allusion to the
story of Pan and Syrinx occurs:

So did he feel who pulled the boughs aside,
That we might look into a forest wide, ...
Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled
Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread.
Poor nymph—poor Pan—how he did weep to find
Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind
Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,
Full of sweet desolation, balmy pain.

58. Callisto of Arcadia was another maiden who excited the jealousy of
Juno. Her the goddess changed into a bear. Often, frightened by the dogs,
Callisto, though lately a huntress, fled in terror from the hunters. Often, too,
she fled from the wild beasts, forgetting that she was now a wild beast
herself; and, bear as she was, she feared the bears.
One day a youth espied her as he was hunting. She saw him and recognized
him as her son Arcas, grown to manhood. She stopped and felt inclined to
embrace him. He, alarmed, raised his hunting spear and was on the point of
transfixing her, but Jupiter arrested the crime and, snatching away both of
them, placed them in the heavens as the Great and Little Bear.
Juno, enraged at seeing her rival so set in honor, hastened to ancient Tethys
and Oceanus and, complaining that she was supplanted in Heaven, cried,
"So do my punishments result—such is the extent of my power! I forbade
her to wear human form,—she and her hateful son are placed among the
stars. Better that she should have resumed her former shape, as I permitted
Io to do. Perhaps my husband means to take her to wife, and put me away!
But you, my foster parents, if you feel for me, and see with displeasure this
unworthy treatment of me, show it, I beseech you, by forbidding this guilty
couple from coming into your waters." The powers of the Ocean assented,

and consequently the two constellations of the Great and Little Bear move
round and round in the neighborhood of the pole, but never sink, as do the
other stars, beneath the Ocean.[67]
59. Europa was the daughter of Agenor, king of Phœnicia, son of the god
Neptune. The story of Jupiter's love for her is thus told by the idyllic poet,
Moschus:
To Europa, princess of Asia, once on a time, a sweet dream was
sent by Cypris.... Then she beheld two continents at strife for her
sake, Asia and the further shore, both in the shape of women. Of
these one had the guise of a stranger, the other of a lady of that
land, and closer still she clung about her maiden, and kept
saying how she was her mother, and herself had nursed Europa.
But that other with mighty hands, and forcefully, kept haling the
maiden, nothing loth; declaring that, by the will of ægis-bearing
Jupiter, Europa was destined to be her prize.
But Europa leaped forth from her strown bed in terror, with
beating heart, in such clear vision had she beheld the dream....
And she said, "Ah! who was the alien woman that I beheld in
my sleep? How strange a longing for her seized my heart, yea,
and how graciously she herself did welcome me, and regard me
as it had been her own child! Ye blessed gods, I pray you,
prosper the fulfillment of the dream!"
Therewith she arose, and began to seek the dear maidens of her
company, girls of like age with herself, born in the same year,
beloved of her heart, the daughters of noble sires, with whom
she was always wont to sport, when she was arrayed for the
dance, or when she would bathe her bright body at the mouths
of the rivers, or would gather fragrant lilies on the leas....
Now the girls, so soon as they were come to the flowering
meadows, took great delight in various sorts of flowers, whereof
one would pluck sweet-breathed narcissus, another the hyacinth,
another the violet, a fourth the creeping thyme; and on the
ground there fell many petals of the meadows rich with spring.
Others, again, were emulously gathering the fragrant tresses of
the yellow crocus; but in the midst of them all the princess

culled with her hand the splendor of the crimson rose, and shone
preëminent among them all like the foam-born goddess among
the Graces. Verily, she was not for long to set her heart's delight
upon the flowers.... For of a truth, the son of Cronus, so soon as
he beheld her, was troubled, and his heart was subdued by the
sudden shafts of Cypris, who alone can conquer even Jupiter.
Therefore, both to avoid the wrath of jealous Juno, and being
eager to beguile the maiden's tender heart, he concealed his
godhead, and changed his shape, and became a bull....

Fig. 48. Europa on the Bull

He came into the meadow, and his coming terrified not the
maidens, nay, within them all wakened desire to draw nigh the
lovely bull, and to touch him, and his heavenly fragrance was
scattered afar, exceeding even the sweet perfume of the
meadows. And he stood before the feet of fair Europa, and kept
licking her neck, and cast his spell over the maiden. And she still
caressed him, and gently with her hands she wiped away the
deep foam from his lips, and kissed the bull. Then he lowed so
gently, ye would think ye heard the Mygdonian flute uttering a
dulcet sound.
He bowed himself before her feet, and bending back his neck,
he gazed on Europa, and showed her his broad back. Then she
spake among her deep-tressed maidens, saying,—

"Come, dear playmates, maidens of like age with me, let us
mount the bull here and take our pastime, for, truly, he will bear
us on his back, and carry all of us! And how mild he is, and dear,
and gentle to behold, and no whit like other bulls! A mind as
honest as a man's possesses him, and he lacks nothing but
speech."
So she spake, and smiling, she sat down on the back of the bull,
and the others were about to follow her. But the bull leaped up
immediately, now he had gotten her that he desired, and swiftly
he sped to the deep. The maiden turned, and called again and
again to her dear playmates, stretching out her hands, but they
could not reach her. The strand he gained, and forward he sped
like a dolphin, faring with unwetted hooves over the wide
waves. And the sea, as he came, grew smooth, and the sea
monsters gamboled around, before the feet of Jupiter; and the
dolphin rejoiced, and rising from the deeps, he tumbled on the
swell of the sea. The Nereïds arose out of the salt water, and all
of them came on in orderly array, riding on the backs of sea
beasts. And himself, the thunderous shaker of the world,
appeared above the sea, and made smooth the wave, and guided
his brother on the salt sea path, and round him were gathered the
Tritons, these hoarse trumpeters of the deep, blowing from their
long conchs a bridal melody.
Meanwhile, Europa, riding on the back of the divine bull, with
one hand clasped the beast's great horn, and with the other
caught up the purple fold of her garment, lest it might trail and
be wet in the hoar sea's infinite spray. And her deep robe was
swelled out by the winds, like the sail of a ship, and lightly still
did waft the maiden onward. But when she was now far off from
her own country, and neither sea-beat headland nor steep hill
could now be seen, but above, the air, and beneath, the limitless
deep, timidly she looked around, and uttered her voice, saying,
—

Fig. 49. Nereïds on Sea Beasts
"Whither bearest thou me, bull god? What art thou? How dost
thou fare on thy feet through the path of the sea beasts, nor
fearest the sea? The sea is a path meet for swift ships that
traverse the brine, but bulls dread the salt sea ways. What drink
is sweet to thee, what food shalt thou find from the deep? Nay,
art thou then some god, for godlike are these deeds of thine." ...
So spake she, and the horned bull made answer to her again:
"Take courage, maiden, and dread not the swell of the deep.
Behold, I am Jupiter, even I, though, closely beheld, I wear the
form of a bull, for I can put on the semblance of what thing I
will. But 'tis love of thee that has compelled me to measure out
so great a space of the salt sea, in a bull's shape. So Crete shall
presently receive thee, Crete that was mine own foster-mother,
where thy bridal chamber shall be."[68]
According to tradition, from this princess the continent of Europe acquired
its name. Her three sons are famous in Greek myth: Minos, who became
king of Crete, and after his death a judge in the lower world;
Rhadamanthus, who also was regarded as king and judge in the world of
ghosts; and Sarpedon, who was ancestor of the Lycians.
The adventures of Europa's brother Cadmus, who by the command of his
father went forth in quest of the lost maiden, fall under the myths of Mars.
[69]

60. Semele was the daughter of Cadmus, founder of Thebes. She was
descended, through both parents, from the gods; for her mother Harmonia
was daughter to Mars and the laughter-loving Venus. To Semele Jupiter had

appeared, and had paid court in
unostentatious manner and simple
guise. But Juno, to gratify her
resentment against this new rival for
her lord's affections, contrived a plan
for her destruction. Assuming the form
of Beroë, the aged nurse of Semele,
she insinuated doubts whether it was
indeed Jove himself who came as a
lover. Heaving a sigh, she said, "I
hope it will turn out so, but I can't help
being afraid. People are not always
what they pretend to be. If he is indeed
Jove, make him give some proof of it.
Ask him to come arrayed in all his
splendors, such as he wears in
Heaven. That will put the matter
beyond a doubt." Semele was
persuaded to try the experiment. She
asks a favor, without naming what it Fig. 50. Bacchus embracing
is. Jove gives his promise, and Semele
confirms it with the irrevocable oath,
attesting the river Styx, terrible to the
gods themselves. Then she made known her request. The god would have
stopped her as she spake, but she was too quick for him. The words
escaped, and he could neither unsay his promise nor her request. In deep
distress he left her and returned to the upper regions. There he clothed
himself in his splendors, not putting on all his terrors, as when he overthrew
the giants, but what is known among the gods as his lesser panoply. With
thunders and lightnings he entered the chamber of Semele. Her mortal
frame could not endure the splendors of the immortal radiance. She was
consumed to ashes.[70] Her son was the god Bacchus.[71] Semele, in the
blissful seats of Heaven, whither she was transported by the sorrowful Jove,
has been represented as recounting thus the story of her doom:

What were the garden-bowers of Thebes to me?
What cared I for their dances and their feasts,

Whose heart awaited an immortal doom?
The Greek youths mocked me, since I shunned in scorn
Them and their praises of my brows and hair.
The light girls pointed after me, who turned
Soul-sick from their unending fooleries....

There came a change: a glory fell to me.
No more 'twas Semele, the lonely girl,
But Jupiter's Beloved, Semele.
With human arms the god came clasping me:
New life streamed from his presence; and a voice,
That scarce could curb itself to the smooth Greek,
Now and anon swept forth in those deep nights,
Thrilling my flesh with awe; mysterious words—
I knew not what; hints of unearthly things
That I had felt on solemn summer noons,
When sleeping Earth dreamed music, and the heart
Went crooning a low song it could not learn,
But wandered over it, as one who gropes
For a forgotten chord upon a lyre.

Yea, Jupiter! But why this mortal guise,
Wooing as if he were a milk-faced boy?
Did I lack lovers? Was my beauty dulled,
The golden hair turned dross, the lithe limbs shrunk?
The deathless longings tamed, that I should seethe
My soul in love like any shepherd girl?
One night he sware to grant whate'er I asked:
And straight I cried, "To know thee as thou art!
To hold thee on my heart as Juno does!
Come in thy thunder—kill me with one fierce
Divine embrace!—Thine oath!—Now, Earth, at last!"

The Heavens shot one swift sheet of lurid flame;
The world crashed: from a body scathed and torn
The soul leapt through, and found his breast, and died.
Died?—So the Theban maidens think, and laugh,

Saying, "She had her wish, that Semele!"
But sitting here upon Olympus' height,
I look down, through that oval ring of stars,
And see the far-off Earth, a twinkling speck—
Dust-mote whirled up from the Sun's chariot wheel—
And pity their small hearts that hold a man
As if he were a god; or know the god—
Or dare to know him—only as a man!
O human love! art thou forever blind?[72]
61. Ægina. The extent to which those who were concerned only indirectly
in Jupiter's love affairs might yet be involved in the consequences of them
is illustrated by the fortunes of Ægina. This maiden, the daughter of
Asopus, a river-god, attracted the attention of Jupiter, who straightway ran
off with her. Now, on the one hand, Sisyphus, king of Corinth, having
witnessed the intrigue, was indiscreet enough to disclose it. Forthwith the
vengeance of the king of gods and men fell upon him. He was condemned
to Hades and, attempting to escape thence, had resort to a series of
deceptions that resulted in his eternal punishment.[73] On the other hand, the
inhabitants of the island that had the misfortune to bear Ægina's name
incurred the displeasure of Juno, who devastated their land with a plague.
The following account of this calamity is placed in the mouth of Æacus,
king of the island:[74]
"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 oxen fell in the midst of their work. The wool dropped from the
bleating sheep. The horse groaned at his stall and died an inglorious death.
Everything languished; dead bodies lay in the roads, the fields, and the
woods; the air was poisoned by them. 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. Nor could the physicians help, for the disease

attacked them also. At last men learned to look upon death as the only
deliverer from disease. All restraint laid aside, they crowded round the wells
and fountains, and drank, without quenching thirst, till they died. On all
sides lay my people strewn like over-ripened apples beneath the tree, or
acorns under the storm-shaken oak. You see yonder a temple on the height.
It is sacred to Jupiter. 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.

FARNESE BULL
"Standing before the altar, I raised my eyes to Heaven. 'O Jupiter,' I said, 'if
thou art indeed my father, 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. By
chance there grew by the place where I stood an oak with wide-spreading
branches, sacred to Jupiter. I observed on it a troop of ants busy with their
labor. Observing their numbers with admiration, I said, 'Give me, O father,

citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my empty city.' The tree shook,
and the branches rustled, though no wind agitated them. Night came on.
The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all
covered with living, moving creatures, which, falling to the ground,
appeared to gain in size, and by and by to stand erect, and finally to assume
the human form. Then I awoke. My attention was caught by the sound of
many voices without. 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. 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. I
called them Myrmidons from the ant (myrmex), from which they sprang.
They are a diligent and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of
their gains."
The Myrmidons were the soldiers of Achilles, the grandson of King Æacus,
in the Trojan War.
62. Antiope was, according to the Odyssey, another daughter of Asopus,
therefore a sister of Ægina. But later poets make this darling of Jove
daughter of Nycteus, king of Thebes. While she was engaged in the Mænad
dances, Jupiter as a satyr wooed and won her. She bore him two sons,
Amphion and Zethus, who, being exposed at birth on Mount Cithæron,
grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. After various
adventures Antiope fell into the hands of her uncle Lycus, the usurping king
of Thebes, who, egged on by his wife Dirce, treated her with extreme
cruelty. Finally, when doomed by Dirce to be dragged to death behind a
bull, Antiope found means to inform her children of her kinship to them. As
it happened, they had been ordered to execute the cruel sentence upon their
mother. But with a band of their fellow herdsmen, they attacked and slew
Lycus instead, and, tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let her
perish by her own device.[75]
While among the herdsmen, Amphion had been the special care of Mercury,
who gave him a lyre and taught him to play upon it. His brother Zethus had
occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Amphion himself is one
of the most famous of mythical musicians. Having become king of Thebes,

it is said that when he played on his lyre, stones moved of their own accord
and took their places in the wall with which he was fortifying the city.

Fig. 51. Amphion and
Zethus

... 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue,
Such happy intonation,
Wherever he sat down and sung
He left a small plantation;
Wherever in a lonely grove
He set up his forlorn pipes,
The gouty oak began to move,
And flounder into hornpipes.

The mountain stirred its bushy crown,
And, as tradition teaches,
Young ashes pirouetted down
Coquetting with young beeches;
And briony-vine and ivy-wreath
Ran forward to his rhyming,
And from the valleys underneath
Came little copses climbing.

The linden broke her ranks and rent
The woodbine wreaths that bind her,
And down the middle, buzz! she went
With all her bees behind her:
The poplars, in long order due,
With cypress promenaded,
The shock-head willows, two and two,
By rivers gallopaded.

Came wet-shot alder from the wave,
Came yews, a dismal coterie;
Each plucked his one foot from the grave,
Poussetting with a sloe-tree:
Old elms came breaking from the vine,
The vine streamed out to follow,
And, sweating rosin, plumped the pine
From many a cloudy hollow.

And wasn't it a sight to see,
When, ere his song was ended,
Like some great landslip, tree by tree,
The country-side descended;
And shepherds from the mountain-eaves
Looked down, half-pleased, half-frightened,
As dashed about the drunken leaves
The random sunshine lightened.[76]
The musician's life was, however, not all harmony and happiness. Owing to
the pride of his wife Niobe, daughter of King Tantalus, there befell him and
his house a crushing calamity, which is narrated among the exploits of
Apollo and Diana.
63. Jupiter, a Friend of Man. The kindly interest evinced by the Thunderer
toward mortals is displayed in the story of Baucis and Philemon. Once on a
time Jupiter, in human shape, visited the land of Phrygia, and with him
Mercury, without his wings.
They presented themselves as weary travelers at many a door, seeking rest
and shelter, but found all closed; for it was late, and the inhospitable

inhabitants would not rouse themselves to open for their reception. At last a
small thatched cottage received them, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and
her husband Philemon had grown old together. Not ashamed of their
poverty, they made it endurable by moderate desires and kind dispositions.
When the two guests crossed the humble threshold and bowed their heads
to pass under the low door, the old man placed a seat, on which Baucis,
bustling and attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then
she raked out the coals from the ashes, kindled a fire, and prepared some
pot-herbs and bacon for them. A beechen bowl was filled with warm water,
that their guests might wash. While all was doing, they beguiled the time
with conversation.
The old woman with trembling hand set the table. One leg was shorter than
the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the level. When it was steady
she rubbed the table down with sweet-smelling herbs. Upon it she set some
of chaste Minerva's olives, some cornel berries preserved in vinegar, and
added radishes and cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. The meal
was served in earthen dishes; and an earthenware pitcher, with wooden
cups, stood beside them. When all was ready the stew, smoking hot, was set
on the table. Some wine, not of the oldest, was added, and for dessert,
apples and wild honey.
Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to see that
the wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in the pitcher of its
own accord. Struck with terror, Baucis and Philemon recognized their
heavenly guests, fell on their knees, and with clasped hands implored
forgiveness for their poor entertainment. There was an old goose, which
they kept as the guardian of their humble cottage, and they bethought them
to make this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too nimble
for the old folk, with the aid of feet and wings eluded their pursuit and at
last took shelter between the gods themselves. They forbade it to be slain,
and spoke in these words: "We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay
the penalty of its impiety; you alone shall go free from the chastisement.
Quit your house and come with us to the top of yonder hill." They hastened
to obey. The country behind them was speedily sunk in a lake, only their
own house left standing. While they gazed with wonder at the sight, that old
house of theirs was changed. Columns took the place of the corner posts,
the thatch grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became

marble, the doors were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then
spoke Jupiter in benignant accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy
of such a husband, speak, tell us your wishes. What favor have you to ask of
us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few moments, then declared to
the gods their common wish. "We ask to be priests and guardians of this thy
temple, and that one and the same hour may take us both from life." Their
prayer was granted. When they had attained a great age, as they stood one
day before the steps of the sacred edifice and were telling the story of the
place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and Philemon saw
Baucis changing in like manner. While still they exchanged parting words, a
leafy crown grew over their heads. "Farewell, dear spouse," they said
together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their mouths. The
Tyanean shepherd still shows the two trees,—an oak and a linden, standing
side by side.[77]
The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift in a burlesque
style, the actors in the change being two wandering saints, and the house
being changed into a church, of which Philemon is made the parson:

... They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widened and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below;
In vain, for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,

The number made the motion slower;
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turned round so quick you scarce could see 't;
But slackened by some secret power,
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side.
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares
By a shrill voice at noon declares,
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl,
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews,
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep.
64. Juno's Best Gift. What the queen of heaven deemed the greatest
blessing reserved for mortals is narrated in the beautiful myth of Biton and
Cleobis. One Cydippe, an ancient priestess of the white-armed goddess, had
desired to behold the famous new statue of Hera at Argos. Her sons testified
their affection for their mother by yoking themselves, since no oxen were at
hand, to her chariot, and so dragging her through heat and dust many a
weary league till they reached the temple, where stood the gold and ivory
masterwork of Polyclitus. With admiration the devoted priestess and her
pious sons were received by the populace crowding round the statue. The
priest officiating in the solemn rites thought meet that so reverend a
worshiper should herself approach the goddess,—ay, should ask of Hera
some blessing on her faithful sons:

... Slowly old Cydippe rose and cried:
"Hera, whose priestess I have been and am,
Virgin and matron, at whose angry eyes
Zeus trembles, and the windless plain of heaven
With hyperborean echoes rings and roars,
Remembering thy dread nuptials, a wise god,
Golden and white in thy new-carven shape,
Hear me! and grant for these my pious sons,
Who saw my tears, and wound their tender arms
Around me, and kissed me calm, and since no steer
Stayed in the byre, dragged out the chariot old,
And wore themselves the galling yoke, and brought
Their mother to the feast of her desire,
Grant them, O Hera, thy best gift of gifts!"

Whereat the statue from its jeweled eyes
Lightened, and thunder ran from cloud to cloud
In heaven, and the vast company was hushed.
But when they sought for Cleobis, behold,
He lay there still, and by his brother's side
Lay Biton, smiling through ambrosial curls,
And when the people touched them they were dead.[78]

65. Myths of Minerva. Minerva, as we have seen,[79] presided over the
useful and ornamental arts, both those of men—such as agriculture and
navigation—and those of women—spinning, weaving, and needlework. She
was also a warlike divinity, but favored only defensive warfare. With Mars'
savage love of violence and bloodshed she, therefore, had no sympathy.
Athens, her chosen seat, her own city, was awarded to her as the prize of a
peaceful contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it. In the reign of
Cecrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities had contended for the
possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to the
one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the horse;
Minerva produced the olive. The gods awarded the city to the goddess, and
after her Greek appellation, Athena, it was named.
66. Arachne. In another contest, a mortal dared to come into competition
with the gray-eyed daughter of Jove. This was Arachne, a maiden who had

attained such skill in the arts of carding and spinning, 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 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 appeared to
Arachne and kindly advised her to challenge her fellow mortals if she
would, but at once to ask forgiveness of the goddess. Arachne bade the old
dame to keep her counsel for others. "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. A sudden color
dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale; but she stood to her resolve and
rushed on her fate. 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. Wool of Tyrian dye is contrasted with that of
other colors, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the joining
deceives the eye. And the effect is like the bow whose long arch tinges the
heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower,[80] in which,
where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the
point of contact are wholly different.
Minerva wove the scene of her contest with Neptune (Poseidon). Twelve of
the heavenly powers were represented, Jupiter, with august gravity, sitting
in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, held his trident and appeared to
have just smitten the earth, from which a horse had leaped forth. The bright-
eyed goddess depicted herself with helmed head, her ægis covering her
breast, as when she had created the olive tree with its berries and its dark
green leaves.

Fig. 52. Contest of Athena and Poseidon

Amongst these leaves she made a Butterfly,
With excellent device and wondrous slight,
Fluttering among the olives wantonly,
That seemed to live, so like it was in sight;
The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken down with which his back is dight,
His broad outstretchèd horns, his hairy thighs,
His glorious colors, and his glistering eyes.

Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid
And masterèd with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonished long, ne aught gainsaid;
And with fast-fixèd eyes on her did stare.[81]

So wonderful was the central circle of Minerva's web; 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 from Minerva to her rival to give up the contest before it
was too late.
But Arachne did not yield. She filled her web with subjects designedly
chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented
Leda caressing the swan; and another, Danaë and the golden shower. Still
another depicted Europa deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Its
appearance was that of a real bull, so naturally was it wrought and so
natural the water in which it swam.

With such subjects Arachne filled her canvas, wonderfully well done but
strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear
to admire, yet was indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her
shuttle and rent it in pieces; then, touching the forehead of Arachne, she
made her realize her guilt. It was more than mortal could bear; and
forthwith Arachne hanged herself. "Live, guilty woman," said Minerva, "but
that thou mayest preserve the memory of this lesson continue to hang, both
thou and thy descendants, to all future times." Then, sprinkling her with the
juices of aconite, the goddess transformed her into a spider, forever
spinning the thread by which she is suspended.[82]
67. Myths of Mars. The relations of Mars to other deities may be best
illustrated by passages from the Iliad, which, generally speaking, presents
him in no very favorable light.
68. Mars and Diomede. In the war of the Greeks and the Trojans,[83] the
cause of the former was espoused by Minerva, of the latter by Mars. Among
the chieftains of the Greeks in a certain battle, Diomede, son of Tydeus, was
prominent. Now when Mars, scourge of mortals, beheld noble Diomede, he
made straight at him.
... And when they were come nigh in onset on one another, first
Mars thrust over the yoke and horses' reins with spear of bronze,
eager to take away his life. But the bright-eyed goddess Minerva
with her hand seized the spear and thrust it up over the car, to
spend itself in vain. Next Diomede of the loud war cry attacked
with spear of bronze; and Minerva drave it home against Mars'
nethermost belly, where his taslets were girt about him. There
smote he him and wounded him, rending through his fair skin,—
and plucked forth the spear again. Then brazen Mars bellowed
loud as nine thousand warriors or ten thousand cry in battle as
they join in strife and fray. Thereat trembling gat hold of
Achæans and Trojans for fear, so mightily bellowed Mars
insatiate of battle.
Even as gloomy mist appeareth from the clouds when after heat
a stormy wind ariseth, even so to Tydeus' son Diomede brazen
Mars appeared amid clouds, faring to wide Heaven. Swiftly
came he to the gods' dwelling, steep Olympus, and sat beside

Jupiter, son of Cronus, with
grief at heart, and showed the
immortal blood flowing from
the wound, and piteously
spake to him winged words:
"Father Jupiter, hast thou no
indignation to behold these
violent deeds? For ever
cruelly suffer we gods by one
another's devices, in showing
men grace. With thee are we
all at variance, because thou
didst beget that reckless
maiden and baleful, whose
thought is ever of iniquitous
deeds. For all the other gods
that are in Olympus hearken
to thee, and we are subject
every one; only her thou
chaste-nest not, neither in
deed nor word, but settest her
on, because this pestilent one
is thine own offspring. Now
hath she urged on Tydeus' FIG. 53. ATHENA
son, even overweening
Diomede, to rage furiously
against the immortal gods. The Cyprian first he wounded in
close fight, in the wrist of her hand, and then assailed he me,
even me, with the might of a god. Howbeit my swift feet bare
me away; else had I long endured anguish there amid the grisly
heaps of dead, or else had lived strengthless from the smitings of
the spear."
Then Jupiter the cloud-gatherer looked sternly at him, and said:
"Nay, thou renegade, sit not by me and whine. Most hateful to
me art thou of all gods that dwell in Olympus; thou ever lovest
strife and wars and battles. Truly thy mother's spirit is
intolerable, unyielding, even Juno's; her can I scarce rule with

words. Therefore I deem that by her prompting thou art in this
plight. Yet will I no longer endure to see thee in anguish; mine
offspring art thou, and to me thy mother bare thee. But wert thou
born of any other god unto this violence, long ere this hadst thou
been lower than the sons of Heaven."
So spake he and bade Pæan heal him. And Pæan laid assuaging
drugs upon the wound, and healed him, seeing he was in no wise
of mortal mold. Even as fig juice maketh haste to thicken white
milk, that is liquid but curdleth speedily as a man stirreth, even
so swiftly healed he impetuous Mars. And Hebe bathed him and
clothed him in gracious raiment, and he sate down by Jupiter,
son of Cronus, glorying in his might.
Then fared the twain back to the mansion of great Jupiter, even
Juno and Minerva, having stayed Mars, scourge of mortals, from
his man-slaying.[84]
69. Mars and Minerva. It would seem that the insatiate son of Juno should
have learned by this sad experience to avoid measuring arms with the ægis-
bearing Minerva. But he renewed the contest at a later period in the fortunes
of the Trojan War:
... Jupiter knew what was coming as he sat upon Olympus, and
his heart within him laughed pleasantly when he beheld that
strife of gods. Then no longer stood they asunder, for Mars,
piercer of shields, began the battle and first made for Minerva
with his bronze spear, and spake a taunting word: "Wherefore, O
dogfly, dost thou match gods with gods in strife, with stormy
daring, as thy great spirit moveth thee? Rememberest thou not
how thou movedst Diomede, Tydeus' son, to wound me, and
thyself didst take a visible spear and thrust it straight at me and
pierce through my fair skin? Therefore deem I now that thou
shalt pay me for all that thou hast done."
Thus saying, he smote on the dread tasseled ægis that not even
the lightning of Jupiter can overcome—thereon smote blood-
stained Mars with his long spear. But she, giving back, grasped
with stout hand a stone that lay upon the plain, black, rugged,
huge, which men of old time set to be the landmark of a field;

this hurled she, and smote impetuous Mars on the neck, and
unstrung his limbs. Seven roods he covered in his fall, and
soiled his hair with dust, and his armor rang upon him. And
Minerva laughed, and spake to him winged words exultingly:
"Fool, not even yet hast thou learnt how far better than thou I
claim to be, that thus thou matchest thy might with mine. Thus
shalt thou satisfy thy mother's curses, who deviseth mischief
against thee in her wrath, for that thou hast left the Achæans and
givest the proud Trojans aid."
Thus having said, she turned from him her shining eyes. Him
did Venus, daughter of Jupiter, take by the hand and lead away,
groaning continually, for scarce gathered he his spirit back to
him.[85]
70. The Fortunes of Cadmus. Toward mortals Mars could show himself,
on occasion, as vindictive as his fair foe, the unwearied daughter of Jove.
This fact not only Cadmus, who slew a serpent sacred to Mars, but all the
family of Cadmus found out to their cost.

Fig. 54. Cadmus slaying the
Dragon
When Europa was carried away by Jupiter in the guise of a bull, her father
Agenor commanded his son Cadmus to go in search of her and not to return
without her. Cadmus sought long and far; then, not daring to return
unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he

should settle in. The oracle informed him that he would find a cow in the
field, should follow her wherever she might wander, and where she stopped
should build a city and call it Thebes. Cadmus had hardly left the Castalian
cave, from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a young cow
slowly walking before him. He followed her close, offering at the same time
his prayers to Phœbus. The cow went on till she passed the shallow channel
of Cephissus and came out into the plain of Panope. There she stood still.
Cadmus gave thanks, and stooping down kissed the foreign soil, then lifting
his eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to
his protecting deity, Minerva, he sent his servants to seek pure water for a
libation. Near by there stood an ancient grove which had never been
profaned by the ax, in the midst of which was a cave thick covered with the
growth of bushes, its roof forming a low arch from beneath which burst
forth a fountain of purest water. But in the cave lurked a serpent with
crested head, and scales glittering like gold; his eyes shone like fire; his
body was swollen with venom; he vibrated a triple tongue and showed a
triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their pitchers in the
fountain and the in-gushing waters had made a sound, than the monster,
twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, darted upon them and destroyed
some with his fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous
breath.
Cadmus, having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in search
of them. When he entered the wood and saw their lifeless bodies and the
dragon with his bloody jaws, not knowing that the serpent was sacred to
Mars, scourge of mortals, he lifted a huge stone and threw it with all his
force at the monster. The blow made no impression. Minerva, however, was
present, unseen, to aid her worshiper. Cadmus next threw his javelin, which
penetrated the serpent's scales and pierced through to his entrails. The
monster 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. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding his
spear opposite to the serpent's opened jaws. At last, watching his chance,
the hero thrust the spear at a moment when the animal's head thrown back
came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side.

While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size, a
voice was heard (from whence he knew not, but it was Minerva's)
commanding him to take the dragon's teeth and sow them in the earth.
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; next, the shoulders and breasts and limbs of men with weapons,
and in time a harvest of armed warriors. Cadmus 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 earthborn 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 but five fell slain. These five joined with Cadmus in building
his city, to which they gave the name appointed.
As penance for the
destruction of this
sacred serpent, Cadmus
served Mars for a
period of eight years.
After he had been
absolved of his
impiety, Minerva set
him over the realm of
Thebes, and Jove gave FIG. 55. Harmonia in Company of Deities
him to wife Harmonia,
the daughter of Venus
and Mars. 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. Of this marriage were born four daughters, Semele, Ino,
Autonoë, and Agave, and one son, Polydorus. But in spite of the atonement
made by Cadmus, a fatality hung over the family. The very necklace of
Vulcan seemed to catch the spirit of ill luck and convey a baleful influence
to such as wore it. Semele, Ino, Actæon the son of Autonoë, and Pentheus
the son of Agave, all perished by violence. Cadmus and Harmonia quitted
Thebes, 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 weighing upon their minds,
Cadmus one day 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, beholding it, prayed the gods to let
her share his fate. Both became serpents. It is said that, mindful of their
origin, they neither avoid the presence of man nor do they injure any one.
But the curse appears not to have passed from their house until the sons of
their great-great-grandson Œdipus had by fraternal strife ended themselves
and the family.[86]

Fig. 56. The Forge of Vulcan
From the painting by Velasquez
71. Myths of Vulcan. The stories of Vulcan are few, although incidents
illustrating his character are sufficiently numerous. According to an account
already given, Vulcan, because of his lameness, was cast out of Heaven by
his mother Juno. The sea-goddesses Eurynome and Thetis took him
mercifully to themselves, and for nine years cared for him, while he plied
his trade and gained proficiency in it. In order to revenge himself upon the
mother who had so despitefully used him, he fashioned in the depths of the
sea a throne of cunning device, which he sent to his mother. She, gladly
accepting the glorious gift, sat down upon it, to find out that straightway all
manner of invisible chains and fetters wound and clasped themselves about
her so that she could not rise. The assistance of the gods was of no avail to
release her. Then Mars sought to bring Vulcan to Heaven by force that he
might undo his trickery; but before the flames of the fire-god, the impetuous
warrior speedily retreated. One god, however, the jovial Bacchus, was dear
to the blacksmith. He drenched Vulcan with wine, conducted him to

Olympus, and by persuasion caused him to set the queen of gods and men at
liberty.
That Vulcan was not permanently
hostile to Juno is shown by the
services that on various occasions
he rendered her. He forged the
shield of her favorite Achilles; and,
at her instance, he undertook a
contest against the river Xanthus.
Homer[87] describes the burning of
elms and willow trees and
tamarisks, the parching of the
plains, the bubbling of the waters,
that signalized the fight, and how
the eels and other fish were afflicted FIG. 57. A Sacrifice to Apollo
by Vulcan till Xanthus in anguish
cried for quarter.
72. Myths of Apollo. The myths which cluster about the name of Phœbus
Apollo illustrate, first, his birth and the wanderings of his mother, Latona;
secondly, his victory over darkness and winter; thirdly, his gifts to man,—
youth and vigor, the sunshine of spring, and the vegetation of early summer;
fourthly, his baleful influence,—the sunstroke and drought of midsummer,
the miasma of autumn; fifthly, his life on earth, as friend and counselor of
mankind,—healer, soothsayer, and musician, prototype of manly beauty,
and lover of beautiful women.
73. The Wanderings of Latona. Persecuted by the jealousy of the white-
armed Juno, Latona fled from land to land. At last, bearing in her arms the
infant progeny of Jove, she reached Lycia, weary with her burden and
parched with thirst. There the following adventure ensued. By chance the
persecuted goddess espied in the bottom of the valley a pond of clear water,
where the country people were at work gathering willows and osiers. She
approached and kneeling on the bank would have slaked her thirst in the
cool stream, but the rustics forbade her. "Why do you refuse me water?"
said she. "Water is free to all. Yet I ask it of you as a favor. I have no
intention of washing my limbs in it, weary though they be, but only of
quenching my thirst. A draft of water would be nectar to me, and I would

own myself indebted to you for life itself. Let these infants move your pity,
who stretch out their little arms as if to plead for me."
But the clowns persisted in their rudeness; they added jeers, and threatened
violence if she did not leave the place. They waded into the pond and stirred
up the mud with their feet, so as to make the water unfit to drink. Enraged,
the goddess no longer supplicated the clowns, but lifting her hands to
Heaven exclaimed, "May they never quit that pool but pass their lives
there!" And it came to pass accordingly. They still live in the water,
sometimes totally submerged, then raising their heads above the surface or
swimming upon it; sometimes coming out upon the bank, but soon leaping
back again into the water. Their voices are harsh, their throats bloated, their
mouths distended by constant railing; their necks have shrunk up and
disappeared, and their heads are joined to their bodies. Their backs are
green, their disproportioned bellies white. They dwell as frogs in the slimy
pool.[88]
74. Apollo, the Light Triumphant. Soon after his birth the sun-god spent a
year among the Hyperboreans, whose shining land has been already
described.[89] On his return, slaying with his golden arrows the Python that
had infested the slopes near Delphi, he sang for the first time that song of
victory which, as the Pæan, is still among all nations synonymous with
jubilation, praise, and thanksgiving. In his conflict with another monster of
darkness and winter, the god of the silver bow had the assistance of his
sister Diana. By their unerring fiery darts they subdued the giant Tityus,
who not only had obstructed the peaceful ways to the oracle of Delphi, but
had ventured to insult the mother of the twin deities. They overthrew also
the Aloadæ, Otus and Ephialtes, sons of Iphimedia and Neptune. These
monsters, the reputed sons of Aloeus, represent, perhaps, the unregulated
forces of vegetation; they were renowned for their strength, stature, and
courage. They grew at the rate of three cubits in height and one in breadth
every year; and, when nine years of age, they attempted, by piling Mount
Ossa upon Olympus, and Mount Pelion on top, to scale the skies and
dethrone the immortals. It is reported that not Apollo and Diana, but Jupiter
himself with his lightning slew them. They atoned for their presumption in
Hades, where, bound by serpents to a pillar, they were tormented by the
perpetual hooting of a screech owl.[90]

75. Hyacinthus. The fiery force of the
Far-darter was not felt by the monsters
of darkness alone. His friendship for the
young and the vigorous was frequently
as dangerous as it was dear to the
objects of it. He was, for instance,
passionately fond of a youth named
Hyacinthus. The god of the silver bow
accompanied the lad in his sports,
carried the nets when he went fishing,
led the dogs when he went to hunt,
followed him in his excursions in the
mountains, and neglected for him both
lyre and arrows. One day they played a
game of quoits; Apollo, heaving aloft
the discus with strength mingled with
skill, sent it high and far. Hyacinthus,
excited with the sport and eager to make
his throw, ran forward to seize the
missile; but it bounded from the earth
and struck him in the forehead. He
fainted and fell. The god, as pale as
himself, raised him and tried all his art
to stanch the wound and retain the Fig. 58. Apollo with
flitting life, but in vain. As when one Hyacinthus
has broken the stem of a lily in the
garden it hangs its head and turns its
flowers to the earth, so the head of the dying boy, as if too heavy for his
neck, fell over on his shoulder. "Thou diest, Hyacinth," spake Phœbus,
"robbed of thy youth by me. Would that I could die for thee! But since that
may not be, my lyre shall celebrate thee, my song shall tell thy fate, and
thou shalt become a flower inscribed with my regret." While the golden god
spoke, the blood which had flowed on the ground and stained the herbage
ceased to be blood; and a flower of hue more beautiful than the Tyrian
sprang up, resembling the lily, save that this is purple and that silvery white.
Phœbus then, to confer still greater honor, marked the petals with his

sorrow, inscribing "Ai! ai!" upon them. The flower bears the name of
Hyacinthus, and with returning spring revives the memory of his fate.[91]
It was said that Zephyrus (the west wind), who was also fond of Hyacinthus
and jealous of his preference of Apollo, blew the quoit out of its course to
make it strike Hyacinthus.
While this youth met his death by accident, another of Apollo's favorites,
his own son, brought death upon himself by presumption. The story is as
follows:
76. Phaëthon[2] was the son of Apollo and the nymph Clymene. One day
Epaphus, the son of Jupiter and Io,[92] scoffed at the idea of Phaëthon's
being the son of a god. Phaëthon complained of the insult to his mother
Clymene. She sent him to Phœbus to ask for himself whether he had not
been truly informed concerning his parentage. Gladly Phaëthon traveled
toward the regions of sunrise and gained at last the palace of the Sun. He
approached his father's presence, but stopped at a distance, for the light was
more than he could bear. Phœbus Apollo, arrayed in purple, sat on a throne
that glittered with diamonds. Beside him stood the Day, the Month, the
Year, the Hours, and the Seasons. Surrounded by these attendants, the Sun
beheld the youth dazzled with the novelty and splendor of the scene, and
inquired the purpose of his errand. The youth replied, "Oh, light of the
boundless world, Phœbus, my father—if thou dost yield me that name—
give me some proof, I beseech thee, by which I may be known as thine!"
He ceased. His father, laying aside the beams that shone around his head,
bade him approach, embraced him, owned him for his son, and swore by
the river Styx[93] that whatever proof he might ask should be granted.
Phaëthon immediately asked to be permitted for one day to drive the chariot
of the sun. The father repented of his promise and tried to dissuade the boy
by telling him the perils of the undertaking. "None but myself," he said,
"may drive the flaming car of day. Not even Jupiter, whose terrible right
arm hurls the thunderbolts. The first part of the way is steep and such as the
horses when fresh in the morning can hardly climb; the middle is high up in
the heavens, whence I myself can scarcely, without alarm, look down and
behold the earth and sea stretched beneath me. The last part of the road
descends rapidly and requires most careful driving. Tethys, who is waiting
to receive me, often trembles for me lest I should fall headlong. Add to this

that the heaven is all the time turning round and carrying the stars with it.
Couldst thou keep thy course while the sphere revolved beneath thee? The
road, also, is through the midst of frightful monsters. Thou must pass by the
horns of the Bull, in front of the Archer, and near the Lion's jaws, and where
the Scorpion stretches its arms in one direction and the Crab in another. Nor
wilt thou find it easy to guide those horses, with their breasts full of fire that
they breathe forth from their mouths and nostrils. Beware, my son, lest I be
the donor of a fatal gift; recall the request while yet thou canst." He ended;
but the youth rejected admonition and held to his demand. So, having
resisted as long as he might, Phœbus at last led the way to where stood the
lofty chariot.
It was of gold, the gift of Vulcan,—the axle of gold, the pole and wheels of
gold, the spokes of silver. Along the seat were rows of chrysolites and
diamonds, reflecting the brightness of the sun. While the daring youth
gazed in admiration, the early Dawn threw open the purple doors of the east
and showed the pathway strewn with roses. The stars withdrew, marshaled
by the Daystar, which last of all retired also. The father, when he saw the
earth beginning to glow and the Moon preparing to retire, ordered the Hours
to harness up the horses. They led forth from the lofty stalls the steeds full
fed with ambrosia, and attached the reins. Then the father, smearing the face
of his son with a powerful unguent, made him capable of enduring the
brightness of the flame. He set the rays on the lad's head, and, with a
foreboding sigh, told him to spare the whip and hold tight the reins; not to
take the straight road between the five circles, but to turn off to the left; to
keep within the limit of the middle zone and avoid the northern and the
southern alike; finally, to keep in the well-worn ruts and to drive neither too
high nor too low, for the middle course was safest and best.[94]
Forthwith the agile youth sprang into the chariot, stood erect, and grasped
the reins with delight, pouring out thanks to his reluctant parent. But the
steeds soon perceived that the load they drew was lighter than usual; and as
a ship without ballast is tossed hither and thither on the sea, the chariot,
without its accustomed weight, was dashed about as if empty. The horses
rushed headlong and left the traveled road. Then, for the first time, the
Great and Little Bears were scorched with heat, and would fain, if it were
possible, have plunged into the water; and the Serpent which lies coiled
round the north pole, torpid and harmless, grew warm, and with warmth felt

its rage revive. Boötes, they say, fled away, though encumbered with his
plow and unused to rapid motion.
When hapless Phaëthon looked down upon the earth, now spreading in vast
extent beneath him, he grew pale, and his knees shook with terror. He lost
his self-command and knew not whether to draw tight the reins or throw
them loose; he forgot the names of the horses. But when he beheld the
monstrous forms scattered over the surface of heaven,—the Scorpion
extending two great arms, his tail, and his crooked claws over the space of
two signs of the zodiac,—when the boy beheld him, reeking with poison
and menacing with fangs, his courage failed, and the reins fell from his
hands. The horses, unrestrained, went off into unknown regions of the sky
in among the stars, hurling the chariot over pathless places, now up in high
heaven, now down almost to the earth. The moon saw with astonishment
her brother's chariot running beneath her own. The clouds began to smoke.
The forest-clad mountains burned,—Athos and Taurus and Tmolus and
Œte; Ida, once celebrated for fountains; the Muses' mountain Helicon, and
Hæmus; Ætna, with fires within and without, and Parnassus, with his two
peaks, and Rhodope, forced at last to part with his snowy crown. Her cold
climate was no protection to Scythia; Caucasus burned, and Ossa and
Pindus, and, greater than both, Olympus,—the Alps high in air, and the
Apennines crowned with clouds.

Fig. 59. The Fall of Phaëthon
Phaëthon beheld the world on fire and felt the heat intolerable. Then, too, it
is said, the people of Æthiopia became black because the blood was called
by the heat so suddenly to the surface; and the Libyan desert was dried up
to the condition in which it remains to this day. The Nymphs of the
fountains, with disheveled hair, mourned their waters, nor were the rivers
safe beneath their banks; Tanaïs smoked, and Caïcus, Xanthus, and
Mæander; Babylonian Euphrates and Ganges, Tagus, with golden sands,

and Caÿster, where the swans resort. Nile fled away and hid his head in the
desert, and there it still remains concealed. Where he used to discharge his
waters through seven mouths into the sea, seven dry channels alone
remained. The earth cracked open, and through the chinks light broke into
Tartarus and frightened the king of shadows and his queen. The sea shrank
up. Even Nereus and his wife Doris with the Nereïds, their daughters,
sought the deepest caves for refuge. Thrice Neptune essayed to raise his
head above the surface and thrice was driven back by the heat. Earth,
surrounded as she was by waters, yet with head and shoulders bare,
screening her face with her hand, looked up to heaven, and with husky
voice prayed Jupiter, if it were his will that she should perish by fire, to end
her agony at once by his thunderbolts, or else to consider his own Heaven,
how both the poles were smoking that sustained his palace, and that all
must fall if they were destroyed.
Earth, overcome with heat and thirst, could say no more. Then Jupiter,
calling the gods to witness that all was lost unless some speedy remedy
were applied, thundered, brandished a lightning bolt in his right hand,
launched it against the charioteer, and struck him at the same moment from
his seat and from existence. Phaëthon, with his hair on fire, fell headlong,
like a shooting star which marks the heavens with its brightness as it falls,
and Eridanus, the great river, received him and cooled his burning frame.
His sisters, the Heliades, as they lamented his fate, were turned into poplar
trees on the banks of the river; and their tears, which continued to flow,
became amber as they dropped into the stream. The Italian Naiads reared a
tomb for him and inscribed these words upon the stone:

Driver of Phœbus' chariot, Phaëthon,
Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone.
He could not rule his father's car of fire,
Yet was it much so nobly to aspire.[95]

77. The Plague sent upon the Greeks before Troy. It was not, however,
only by accident, or by the ill-advised action of those whom he loved, that
Apollo's gifts of light and heat were turned into misfortunes. Mortals who
offended him were leveled by the cruel sunstroke, by arrows of malarial
venom, of manifold sickness and death.

When the host of the Achæans was encamped before Troy, the king of men,
Atrides, unjustly declined to restore his captive, Chryseïs of the fair cheeks,
to her father Chryses, the priest of far-darting Apollo. Then the aged
Chryses went apart and prayed aloud, "Hear me, god of the silver bow, ...
let the Danaans pay by thine arrows for my tears!"
So spake he in prayer; and Phœbus Apollo heard him, and came
down from the peaks of Olympus wroth at heart, bearing on his
shoulders his bow and covered quiver. And the arrows clanged
upon his shoulders in his wrath, as the god moved; and he
descended like to night. Then he sate him aloof from the ships,
and let an arrow fly; and there was heard a dread clanging of the
silver bow. First did he assail the mules and fleet dogs, but
afterward, aiming at the men his piercing dart, he smote; and the
pyres of the dead burnt continually in multitude. Nor until
Agamemnon had sent back his winsome captive to her father did
Apollo remove from the Danaans the loathsome pestilence.[96]
78. The Punishment of Niobe is another illustration of the swift and awful
vengeance of Apollo, and also of his sister Diana. This Niobe was the
daughter of a certain Tantalus, king of Phrygia, who had been received at
the table of the gods by his father Jupiter. But there was a strain of
ingratitude and conceit in both father and daughter. The father not only
betrayed the secrets of the gods, but, to ridicule their reputed omniscience,
attempted at a banquet to deceive them into eating the roasted flesh of his
own son Pelops. The gods were not deceived. Pelops was restored to life,—
Tantalus consigned to Tartarus. The daughter Niobe, although she owed her
happy marriage with Jupiter's son Amphion, and her seven stalwart sons
and seven blooming daughters, to the favor of the gods and of Latona in
particular, boasted of her birth, her marriage, and her offspring, bragged of
her superiority to Latona, and, on one occasion, scoffed at the annual
celebration in honor of the goddess and her two children. Surveying the
people of Thebes with haughty glance, she said, "What folly to prefer
beings whom you have never seen to those who stand before your eyes!
Will you prefer to me this Latona, the Titan's daughter, with her two
children? I have seven times as many. Were I to lose some of my children, I
should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Put off the laurel

from your brows,—have done with this worship!" The people left the
sacred services uncompleted.
The goddess was indignant. On
the Cynthian mountain top she
thus addressed her son and
daughter: "My children, I who
have been so proud of you both
and have been used to hold
myself second to none of the
goddesses except Juno alone,
begin now to doubt whether I am
indeed a goddess. I shall be
deprived of my worship
altogether unless you protect
me." She was proceeding in this
strain, but Apollo interrupted her.
"Say no more," said he; "speech
only delays punishment." So said
Diana also. Darting through the
air, veiled in clouds, they alighted
on the towers of the city. Spread
out before the gates was a broad
plain where the youth of the city
pursued their warlike sports. The
sons of Niobe were there with the
rest,—some mounted on spirited Fig. 60. A Son of Niobe
horses richly caparisoned, some
driving gay chariots. Ismenos, the
first-born, as he guided his foaming steeds was struck by an arrow from
above. "Ah me!" he cried,—dropped the reins and fell lifeless. Another,
hearing the sound of the bow, gave the rein to his horses and attempted to
escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. Two others, younger,
stood wrestling breast to breast: one arrow pierced them both. Alphenor, an
elder brother, hastened to the spot to render assistance, but fell in the act of
brotherly duty. One only was left, Ilioneus. "Spare me, ye gods!" he cried,
addressing all of them, in his ignorance that all needed not his supplication;

and Apollo would have spared him, but the arrow had already left the string,
and it was too late.

Fig 61. The Children of Niobe
When Niobe was acquainted with what had taken place, she was indignant
that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her
husband Amphion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. But the
mother knelt over the lifeless bodies and kissed them. Raising her pallid
arms to heaven, "Cruel Latona," said she, "satiate thy hard heart while I
follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is thy triumph? Bereaved as I
am, I am still richer than thou, my conqueror." Scarce had she spoken, when
the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Niobe's alone. She
was brave from excess of grief. Her daughters stood in garments of
mourning over the biers of their dead brothers. One after another they fell,
struck by arrows, beside the corpses that they were bewailing. Only one
remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms and covered, as it
were, with her whole body. "Spare me one and that the youngest! Oh, spare
me one of so many!" she cried; and while she spoke, that one fell dead.
Desolate she sat among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed
torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek,
her eyes glared fixed and immovable, there was no sign of life about her.
Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth and her veins ceased to
convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her
foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears
continued to flow; and borne on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she
still remains, a mass of rock from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute
of her never-ending grief.[97]

Fig. 62. Niobe and her Youngest
Daughter

Amid nine daughters slain by Artemis
Stood Niobe; she rais'd her head above
Those beauteous forms which had brought down the scath
Whence all nine fell, rais'd it, and stood erect,
And thus bespake the goddess enthroned on high:
"Thou heardest, Artemis, my daily prayer
That thou wouldst guide these children in the pass
Of virtue, through the tangling wilds of youth,
And thou didst ever guide them: was it just
To smite them for a beauty such as thine?
Deserv'd they death because thy grace appear'd
In ever modest motion? 'twas thy gift,
The richest gift that youth from heaven receives.
True, I did boldly say they might compare
Even with thyself in virgin purity:
May not a mother in her pride repeat

What every mortal said?
One prayer remains
For me to offer yet.
Thy quiver holds
More than nine arrows: bend thy bow; aim here!
I see, I see it glimmering through a cloud.
Artemis, thou at length art merciful:
My children will not hear the fatal twang."[98]
79. The Lamentation for Linus. How the people of Argos fell under the
displeasure of Apollo is told in the story of Linus, a beautiful son of Apollo
and Psamathe. In fear of her father the king, Psamathe exposed the child on
the mountains where, brought up by shepherds among the lambs, he was in
tender youth torn to pieces by dogs. Meanwhile, Psamathe herself was
driven from her father's home; wherefore Apollo sent against the land of the
Argives a monster that for a season destroyed the children, but at last was
slain by a noble youth named Corœbus. To appease the wrathful deity, a
shrine was erected midway between Argos and Delphi; and every year
Linus and his mother were bewailed in melancholy lays by the mothers and
children of Argos, especially by such as had lost by death their own
beloved. The fate of Linus, like that of Hyacinthus and others who succumb
in the springtime of life under the excessive love of some shining deity,[99]
typifies the sudden withering of herbs and flowers and of animal life,—the
calves and lambs, young children too, under the fierce shafts of summer.
The very name of Linus is taken from the refrain ai-linon, or "woe is me,"
of the lament anciently sung by the country people when thus afflicted by
the unhealthy heats, because of which the crops fail and the dogs go mad
and tear the little lambs to pieces. In the Iliad there is a beautiful picture
which shows us that the song was not reserved completely for the dog days.
It is of a vineyard teeming plenteously with clusters:
And there was a pathway through it by which the vintagers
might go. And maidens and striplings in childish glee bare the
sweet fruit in plaited baskets. And in the midst of them a boy
made pleasant music on a clear-toned viol, and sang thereto a
sweet Linos-song with delicate voice; while the rest with feet
falling together kept time with the music and song.[100]

80. Æsculapius. The Thessalian princess Coronis
(or the Messenian, Arsinoë) bore to Apollo a child
who was named Æsculapius. On his mother's
death the infant was intrusted to the charge of
Chiron, most famous of the Centaurs, himself
instructed by Apollo and Diana in hunting,
medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. When
the sage returned to his home bearing the infant,
his daughter Ocyrrhoë came forth to meet him,
and at sight of the child burst into a prophetic
strain, foretelling, the glory that he should
achieve. Æsculapius, when grown up, became a
renowned physician; in one instance he even
succeeded in restoring the dead to life. Pluto
resented this, and, at his request, Jupiter struck the
bold physician with lightning and killed him, but
after his death received him into the number of
the gods.[101]
81. Apollo in Exile. Apollo, indignant at the Fig. 63. Æsculapius
destruction of this son, wreaked his vengeance on
the innocent workmen who had made the
thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who had their workshop under
Mount Ætna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are
constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, a deed which so
incensed Jupiter that he condemned him to serve a mortal for the space of
one year. Accordingly, Apollo went into the service of Admetus, king of
Thessaly, and pastured his flocks for him on the verdant banks of the river
Amphrysus. How the god lived among men, and what they thought of him,
is well told in the following verses.
82. Lowell's Shepherd of King Admetus.

There came a youth upon the earth,
Some thousand years ago,
Whose slender hands were nothing worth,
Whether to plow, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-shell
He stretched some chords, and drew
Music that made men's bosoms swell
Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had
Pure taste by right divine,
Decreed his singing not too bad
To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well pleased with being soothed
Into a sweet half-sleep,
Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough,
And yet he used them so,
That what in other mouths was rough
In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw;
And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all,
For idly, hour by hour,
He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things
Did teach him all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs
He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise,
But, when a glance they caught
Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,

They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone
And e'en his memory dim,
Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother as a god.
83. Admetus and Alcestis.[102] Admetus
was a suitor, with others, for the hand of
Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, who
promised her to him who should come for
her in a chariot drawn by lions and boars.
This task Admetus performed by the
assistance of his divine herdsman, and was
made happy in the possession of Alcestis.
But Admetus falling ill and being near to
death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to
spare him on condition that some one
should consent to die in his stead.
Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve,
thought little of the ransom, and, perhaps
remembering the declarations of Fig. 64. Admetus must Die
attachment which he had often heard from
his courtiers and dependents, fancied that
it would be easy to find a substitute. But it was not so. Brave warriors, who
would willingly have periled their lives for their prince, shrunk from the
thought of dying for him on the bed of sickness; and old servants who had
experienced his bounty and that of his house from their childhood up were
not willing to lay down the scanty remnant of their days to show their
gratitude. Men asked, "Why does not one of his parents do it? They cannot
in the course of nature live much longer, and who can feel like them the call
to rescue the life they gave from an untimely end?" But the parents,
distressed though they were at the thought of losing him, shrunk from the

call. Then Alcestis, with a generous self-devotion, proffered herself as the
substitute. Admetus, fond as he was of life, would not have submitted to
receive it at such a cost; but there was no remedy. The condition imposed
by the Fates had been met, and the decree was irrevocable. As Admetus
revived, Alcestis sickened, rapidly sank, and died.
Just after the funeral procession had left the palace, Hercules, the son of
Jupiter and Alcmena, arrived. He, to whom no labor was too arduous,
resolved to attempt her rescue. Said he:

"I will go lie in wait for Death, black-stoled
King of the corpses![103] I shall find him, sure,
Drinking, beside the tomb, o' the sacrifice:
And if I lie in ambuscade, and leap
Out of my lair, and seize—encircle him
Till one hand join the other round about—
There lives not who shall pull him out from me,
Rib-mauled, before he let the woman go!
But even say I miss the booty,—say,
Death comes not to the boltered blood,—why, then,
Down go I, to the unsunned dwelling-place
Of Koré[104] and the king there,—make demand,
Confident I shall bring Alkestis back,
So as to put her in the hands of him
My host, that housed me, never drove me off:
Though stricken with sore sorrow hid the stroke,
Being a noble heart and honoring me!
Who of Thessalians, more than this man, loves
The stranger? Who that now inhabits Greece?
Wherefore he shall not say the man was vile
Whom he befriended,—native noble heart!"
So, one look upward, as if Zeus might laugh
Approval of his human progeny,—
One summons of the whole magnific frame,
Each sinew to its service,—up he caught,
And over shoulder cast the lion-shag,
Let the club go,—for had he not those hands?
And so went striding off, on that straight way

Leads to Larissa and the suburb tomb.
Gladness be with thee, Helper of our world!
I think this is the authentic sign and seal
Of Godship that it ever waxes glad,
And more glad, until gladness blossoms, bursts
Into a rage to suffer for mankind,
And recommence at sorrow: drops like seed
After the blossom, ultimate of all.
Say, does the seed scorn earth and seek the sun?
Surely it has no other end and aim
Than to drop, once more die into the ground,
Taste cold and darkness and oblivion there:
And thence rise, tree-like grow through pain to joy,
More joy and most joy,—do man good again.
So to the struggle off strode Herakles.
Long time the Thessalians waited and mourned. As for Herakles, no doubt
they supposed him dead. When—but can it be?

... Ay, he it was advancing! In he strode,
And took his stand before Admetos,—turned
Now by despair to such a quietude,
He neither raised his face nor spoke, this time,
The while his friend surveyed him steadily.
That friend looked rough with fighting: had he strained
Worst brute to breast was ever strangled yet?
Somehow, a victory—for there stood the strength,
Happy, as always; something grave, perhaps;
The great vein-cordage on the fret-worked front,
Black-swollen, beaded yet with battle-dew
The golden hair o' the hero!—his big frame
A-quiver with each muscle sinking back
Into the sleepy smooth it leaped from late.
Under the great guard of one arm, there leant
A shrouded something, live and woman-like,
Propped by the heartbeats 'neath the lion-coat.
When he had finished his survey, it seemed,
The heavings of the heart began subside,

The helpful breath returned,
and last the smile
Shone out, all Herakles was
back again,
As the words followed the
saluting hand.
"Admetus," said he, "take and keep this
woman, my captive, till I come thy
way again." But Admetus would admit
no woman into the hall that Alcestis
had left empty. Then cried Herakles,
"Take hold of her. See now, my friend,
if she look not somewhat like that wife
thou hast lost."

Ah, but the tears come, find the
words at fault!
There is no telling how the hero
twitched
The veil off; and there stood,
with such fixed eyes
And such slow smile, Alkestis'
silent self!
It was the crowning grace of
that great heart,
To keep back joy: procrastinate
the truth
Until the wife, who had made Fig. 65. Heracles
proof and found
The husband wanting, might
essay once more,
Hear, see, and feel him renovated now—
Able to do now all herself had done,
Risen to the height of her: so, hand in hand,
The two might go together, live and die.

Beside, when he found speech, you guess the speech.

He could not think he saw his wife again:
It was some mocking God that used the bliss
To make him mad! Till Herakles must help:
Assure him that no specter mocked at all;
He was embracing whom he buried once,
Still,—did he touch, might he address the true,
True eye, true body of the true live wife?
... And Herakles said little, but enough—
How he engaged in combat with that king
O' the dæmons: how the field of contest lay
By the tomb's self: how he sprang from ambuscade,
Captured Death, caught him in that pair of hands.

But all the time, Alkestis moved not once
Out of the set gaze and the silent smile;
And a cold fear ran through Admetos' frame:
"Why does she stand and front me, silent thus?"
Herakles solemnly replied, "Not yet
Is it allowable thou hear the things
She has to tell thee; let evanish quite
That consecration to the lower Gods,
And on our upper world the third day rise!
Lead her in, meanwhile; good and true thou art,
Good, true, remain thou! Practice piety
To stranger-guests the old way! So, farewell!
Since forth I fare, fulfill my urgent task
Set by the king, the son of Sthenelos."[105]
84. Apollo, the Musician. Not only in Arcadia, Laconia, and Thessaly did
Apollo care as a herdsman for the cattle of a mortal master; in Mount Ida,
too, by the order of Jupiter he herded for a year the "shambling, crook-
horned kine" of King Laomedon, and, playing on the lyre, aided Neptune to
build the walls of Troy, just as Amphion, in his turn, had aided in the
building of Thebes. Apollo's life as herdsman was spent in establishing wise
laws and customs, in musical contests on the flute and the lyre, or in
passages of love with nymphs and maidens of mortal mold.

85. Apollo, Pan, and Midas.[106] It is said that
on a certain occasion Pan had the temerity to
compare his music with that of Apollo and to
challenge the god of the lyre to a trial of skill.
The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the
mountain-god, was chosen umpire. The senior
took his seat and cleared away the trees from his
ears to listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his
pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great
satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower
Midas, who happened to be present. Then
Tmolus turned his head toward the sun-god, and
all his trees turned with him. Apollo rose, his
brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his
robe of Tyrian purple swept the ground. In his
left hand he held the lyre and with his right hand
struck the strings. Tmolus at once awarded the
victory to the lyric god, and all but Midas
acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented and
questioned the justice of the award. Apollo Fig. 66. The Palatine
promptly transformed his depraved pair of ears Apollo
into those of an ass.
King Midas tried to hide his misfortune under an ample turban. But his hair-
dresser found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; he dug a
hole in the ground and, stooping down, whispered the story, and covered it
up. But a thick bed of reeds springing up in the meadow began whispering
the story, and has continued to do so from that day to this, every time a
breeze passes over the place.
86. Shelley's Hymn of Pan. In the following verses Pan taunts Apollo as he
might have done when Midas was sitting contentedly by:

From the forests and highlands
We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings.

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,
The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was
Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneüs was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay,
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,
Speeded by my sweet pipings.
The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,
And the Nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
And the brink of the dewy caves,
And all that did then attend and follow
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal Earth,
And of Heaven—and the giant wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth,—
And then I changed my pipings,—
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden, and clasp'd a reed:
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus!
It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed:
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.
87. Marsyas also was unfortunate enough to underrate Apollo's musical
ability. It seems that the flute, an invention of Minerva's, had been thrown
away by that goddess because Cupid laughed at the grimaces which she
made while playing it. Marsyas found the instrument, blew upon it, and

elicited such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo
himself to a musical contest. The god, of course, triumphed, and he
punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
88. The Loves of Apollo. Beside Psamathe of Argos, Coronis of Thessaly,
and the nymph Clymene, who have been already mentioned, Apollo loved
the muse Calliope, who bore him Orpheus,[107] and the nymph Cyrene,
whose son was Aristæus.[108] Of his relations with other maidens the
following myths exist.
89. Daphne.[109] The lord of the silver bow was not always prosperous in
his wooing. His first love, which, by the way, owed its origin to the malice
of Cupid, was specially unfortunate. It appears that Apollo, seeing the boy
playing with his bow and arrows, had tauntingly advised him to leave
warlike weapons for hands worthy of them and content himself with the
torch of love. Whereupon the son of Venus had rejoined, "Thine arrows may
strike all things else, Apollo, but mine shall strike thee."

APOLLO AND DAPHNE

So saying, he took his stand on a rock of Parnassus, and drew from his
quiver two arrows of different workmanship,—one to excite love, the other
to repel it. The former was of gold and sharp pointed, the latter blunt and
tipped with lead. With the leaden shaft he struck the nymph Daphne, the
daughter of the river-god Peneüs, and with the golden one Apollo, through
the heart. Forthwith the god was seized with love for the maiden, but she,
more than ever, abhorred the thought of loving. Her delight was in
woodland sports and in the spoils of the chase. Spurning all lovers, she
prayed her father that she might remain always unmarried, like Diana. He
consented, but, at the same time, warned her that her beauty would defeat
her purpose. It was the face of this huntress maiden that Apollo saw. He saw
the charming disorder of her hair, and would have arranged it; he saw her
eyes bright as stars; he saw her lips, and was not satisfied with only seeing
them. He longed for Daphne. He followed her; she fled swifter than the
wind, nor delayed a moment at his entreaties. "Stay," said he, "daughter of
Peneüs; I am not a foe. It is for love I pursue thee. I am no clown, no rude
peasant. Jupiter is my father. I am lord of Delphi and Tenedos. I know all
things, present and future. I am the god of song and the lyre. My arrows fly
true to the mark; but alas! an arrow more fatal than mine has pierced my
heart! I am the god of medicine and know the virtues of all healing plants.
Alas! I suffer a malady that no balm can cure."
The nymph continues her flight and leaves his plea half-uttered. But even as
she flies she charms him. The wind catches her garments, and her unbound
hair streams loose behind her. The god, sped by Cupid, gains upon her in
the race. His panting breath blows upon her hair. Her strength begins to fail,
and, ready to sink, she calls upon her father, the river-god: "Help me,
Peneüs! open the earth to inclose me, or change my form, which has
brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken when a stiffness
seized her limbs; and little by little she took on the appearance of a laurel
tree. Apollo embraced the branches and lavished kisses on the wood. The
branches shrank from his lips. "Since thou canst not be my wife," said he,
"thou shalt assuredly be my tree. I will wear thee for my crown. I will
decorate with thee my harp and my quiver. When the Roman conquerors
conduct the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, thou shalt be woven into
wreaths for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, thou also shalt be
always green, and thy leaf know no decay." The laurel tree bowed its head
in grateful acknowledgment.

The delicious humor of Lowell's extravaganza
upon the story amply justifies the following
citation:

Phœbus, sitting one day in a laurel tree's
shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was
made,
For the god being one day too warm in his
wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers
she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a
trunk;
And, though 't was a step into which he
had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven
her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a
tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play
the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs Fig. 67. Daphne
that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when
he thought of her.
"My case is like Dido's," he sometimes remarked;
"When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as she thought—but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,—
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?—who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,—

Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue had a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite."[110]
90. Marpessa. Another maiden who declined Apollo's love was Marpessa.
[1] She is called by Homer "the fair-ankled daughter of Evenus."

The god Apollo from the heaven of heavens
Her mortal sweetness through the air allured;[2]

but Idas, "that was strongest of men that were then on earth,"[111] carried her
off, assisted by Poseidon who gave him a winged chariot. Her father Evenus
vainly tried to catch up with the fleeing lovers; but Apollo found them in
Messene, and wrested the maiden away. Then Jupiter, while the lovers were
engaged in combat, separated them, saying, "Let her decide."

They three together met; on the one side,
Fresh from diffusing light on all the world
Apollo; on the other without sleep
Idas, and in the midst Marpessa stood.
Just as a flower after drenching rain,
So from the falling of felicity
Her human beauty glowed, and it was new;
The bee too near her bosom drowsed and dropped.[2]

According to the story as romantically told by the English poet Phillips,
first spoke Apollo. The god told her that he dreaded that one so fair should
ever taste of sorrow and death; how, if she lived with him, she should bide

In mere felicity above the world
In peace alive and moving, where to stir
Is ecstasy, and thrilling is repose,[112]

immortal, scattering joy without intermission, lighting the world, bringing
bliss to struggling men and sorrowing women, dispelling shadows and
shadowy fear.
Then Idas, humbly,—

"After such argument what can I plead?
Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is
In women to pity rather than to aspire,
A little will I speak."

And he tells her simply that he loves her,—loves her not only for her
beauty, but

"Because Infinity upon thee broods;
And thou art full of whispers and of shadows;—"

and because her voice is music, her face mystery beyond his power to
comprehend;

"O beauty lone and like a candle clear
In this dark country of the world! Thou art
My woe, my early light, my music dying."

And Marpessa?—

As he was speaking, she with lips apart
Breathed, and with dimmer eyes leaned through the air
As one in dream, and now his human hand
Took in her own; and to Apollo spoke,—

saying that she knew how sweet it might be forever with a god to aid
suffering men and women and "gild the face that from its dead looks up";
but still she feared immortality, for, though dying not, she must grow old,
and her god lover would tire of her when once her youth was faded. And as
for that "existence without tears for evermore" which he promised,—

"Yet I being human, human sorrow miss.
The half of music, I have heard men say,

Is to have grieved."
To sorrow she was born. It is out of sadness that men have made this world
beautiful. If she chooses Idas, then they two will prosper together, grow old
together, and last descend into the "natural ground," and "leave behind a
wholesome memory on the earth."

When she had spoken, Idas with one cry
Held her, and there was silence; while the god
In anger disappeared. Then slowly they,
He looking downward, and she gazing up,
Into the evening green wandered away.

91. Clytie.[113] In the story of Clytie the conditions are reversed. She 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 sustenance. 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 eyes fixed constantly on him. At
last, they say, her limbs took root in the ground and her face became a
flower, turning on its stem to follow the journeying sun.
In the following lines, Thomas Moore uses the flower as an emblem of
constancy:

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.

92. Myths of Diana. In company with her
radiant brother, we find Diana subduing
Tityus and the Python and assisting in the
punishment of Niobe. The speedy
transformation of Daphne has been attributed
to this goddess, the champion of
maidenhood. According to some, it was she,
too, that changed Callisto into a bear, when
for love of Jupiter that nymph deserted the
huntress-band. Numerous are the myths that
celebrate the severity of the goddess of the
unerring bow toward those who offended her.
How she served Agamemnon for slaying one
of her hinds is told in the story of Troy;[114]
how she punished Œneus for omitting a
sacrifice to her is narrated in the episode of
the Calydonian hunt.[115] Similar attributes of
the goddess are exemplified in the myths of
Arethusa, Actæon, and Orion. It is only when
she is identified with Selene, the peaceful
moonlight, that we perceive a softer side of
character, such as that displayed in her
relations with Endymion.
Fig. 68. Artemis
93. The Flight of Arethusa.[116] A woodland
nymph of Elis was this Arethusa; she
delighted not in her comeliness, but in the joys of the chase. One day,
returning from the wood heated with exercise, she descended to a stream
silently flowing, so clear that you might count the pebbles on the bottom.
She laid aside her garments; but while she sported in the water, she heard an
indistinct murmur rising as out of the depths of the stream. She made haste
to reach the nearest bank. A voice followed her, "Why flyest thou,

Arethusa? Alpheüs am I, the god of this stream." The nymph ran, the god
pursued. Arethusa, at last exhausted, cried for help to Diana, who, hearing,
wrapped her votary in a thick cloud. Perplexed, the river-god still sought the
trembling maiden. But a cold sweat came over her. In less time than it takes
to tell, she had become a fountain. Alpheüs attempted then to mingle his
stream with hers. But the Cynthian queen cleft the ground, and Arethusa,
still endeavoring to escape, plunged into the abyss and, passing through the
bowels of the earth, came out in Sicily, still followed by the passionate
river-god.
94. Shelley's Arethusa. In the
following version of the pursuit,
Arethusa was already a river when
Alpheüs espied her.

Arethusa arose
From her couch of
snows
In the Acroceraunian
mountains,—
From cloud and
from crag,
With many a jag,
Shepherding her bright
fountains,
She leapt down the Fig 69. Arethusa
rocks,
With her rainbow locks
Streaming among the streams;—
Her steps paved with green
The downward ravine
Which slopes to the western gleams:
And gliding and springing
She went, ever singing,
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her,
And Heaven smiled above her,
As she lingered towards the deep.

Then Alpheüs bold
On his glacier cold,
With his trident the mountain strook
And opened a chasm
In the rocks;—with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
It concealed behind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
Did rend in sunder
The bars of the springs below;
The beard and the hair
Of the River-god were
Seen through the torrent's sweep,
As he followed the light
Of the fleet nymph's flight
To the brink of the Dorian deep.

"Oh,
s

Fig. 70. A Young River-god

ave me! Oh, guide me!
And bid the deep hide me,
For he grasps me now by the hair!"
The loud Ocean heard,
To its blue depth stirred,
And divided at her prayer;
And under the water
The Earth's white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
Her billows unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:—
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main,
Alpheüs rushed behind,—
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearlèd thrones,
Through the coral woods
Of the weltering floods,
Over heaps of unvalued stones;
Through the dim beams
Which amid the streams
Weave a network of colored light;
And under the caves,
Where the shadowy waves
Are as green as the forest's night:
Outspeeding the shark,
And the swordfish dark,
Under the ocean foam,
And up through the rifts
Of the mountain clifts
They past to their Dorian home.

And now from their fountains
In Enna's mountains,
Down one vale where the morning basks,
Like friends once parted
Grown single-hearted,
They ply their watery tasks.
At sunrise they leap
From their cradles steep
In the cave of the shelving hill;
At noontide they flow
Through the woods below
And the meadows of Asphodel:
And at night they sleep
In the rocking deep
Beneath the Ortygian shore;—
Like spirits that lie
In the azure sky
When they love but live no more.
95. The Fate of Actæon.[117] Diana's severity toward young Actæon,
grandson of Cadmus whose kindred fell under the curse of Mars, is thus
narrated.

Fig. 71. Actæon
One day, having repaired to a valley inclosed by cypresses and pines, where
gushed a fountain of sparkling water, the chaste Diana handed her javelin,

her quiver, and her bow to one nymph, her robe to another, while a third
unbound the sandals from her feet. Then Crocale, the most skillful of them,
arranged her hair, and Nephele, Hyale, and the rest drew water in capacious
urns. While the huntress queen was thus employed in the labors of the
toilet, Actæon, the son of Autonoë and Aristæus, having quitted his
companions of the chase and rambling without any especial object, came to
the place, led thither by his destiny. As he presented himself at the entrance
of the cave, the nymphs, seeing a man, screamed and rushed towards the
goddess to hide her with their bodies. But she was taller than the rest and
overtopped them all by a head. Such a color as tinges the clouds at sunset or
at dawn came over the countenance of Diana, thus taken by surprise.
Surrounded as she was by her nymphs, she yet turned half away and sought
with a sudden impulse for her arrows. As they were not at hand, she dashed
the water into the face of the intruder, saying, "Now go and tell, if you can,
that you have seen Diana unappareled." Immediately a pair of branching
stag's horns grew out of the huntsman's head, his neck gained in length, his
ears grew sharp-pointed, his hands became feet, his arms, his long legs, and
his body were covered with a hairy spotted hide. Fear took the place of his
former boldness, and the hero fled. What should he do?—go home to the
palace or lie hid in the woods? While he hesitated his dogs saw him. Over
rocks and cliffs, through mountain gorges that seemed impracticable, he
fled, and they followed. The air resounded with the bark of the dogs.
Presently one fastened on his back, another seized his shoulder; the rest of
the pack came up and buried their teeth in his flesh. His friends and fellow-
huntsmen cheered on the dogs, and, looking everywhere for Actæon, called
on him to join the sport. At the sound of his name, he turned his head and
heard them regret that he should be away. He earnestly wished he was. But
Diana had no pity for him, nor was her anger appeased till the dogs had torn
his life out.
96. The Fortunes and Death of Orion. Orion, the son of Neptune, was a
giant and a mighty hunter, whose prowess and manly favor gained for him
the rare good will of Diana.
It is related that he loved Merope, the daughter of Œnopion, king of Chios,
and sought her in marriage. He cleared the island of wild beasts and brought
the spoils of the chase as presents to his beloved; but as Œnopion constantly
deferred his consent, Orion attempted to gain possession of the maiden by

violence. Her father, incensed at his conduct, made Orion drunk, deprived
him of his sight, and cast him out on the seashore. The blinded hero,
instructed by an oracle to seek the rays of morning, followed the sound of a
Cyclops' hammer till he reached Lemnos, where Vulcan, taking pity on him,
gave him Cedalion, one of his men, to be his guide to the abode of the sun.
Placing Cedalion on his shoulders, Orion proceeded to the east, and there
meeting the sun-god, was restored to sight by his beam.[118]
After this he dwelt as a hunter with the queen of the echoing chase; and it
was even hinted that she loved him. Her brother, highly displeased, often
chid her, but to no purpose. One day, therefore, observing Orion as he
waded through the sea with his head just above the water, Apollo pointed
out the black object to his sister, and maintained that she could not hit it.
The archer goddess discharged a shaft with fatal aim: the waves rolled the
dead body of Orion to the land. Then bewailing her fatal error with many
tears, Diana placed him among the stars, where he appears as a giant, with a
girdle, sword, lion's skin, and club.
Sirius, his dog, follows him, and the Pleiads fly before him.[119] In the
beginning of winter, all through the night, Orion follows the chase across
the heavens; but with dawn he sinks toward the waters of his father
Neptune. In the beginning of summer, he may be seen with daybreak in the
eastern sky, where, beloved by Aurora, he remains gradually paling before
the light of day till, finally, Diana, jealous of his happiness, draws her gentle
darts and slays him.

Fig. 72. The Pleiades
From the painting by Vedder

97. The Pleiads,[120] who still fly before Orion in the heavens, were
daughters of Atlas, and nymphs of Diana's train. One day Orion saw them in
Bœotia, became enamored of them, and gave pursuit. In their distress they
prayed to the gods to change their form. Jupiter, accordingly, turned them
into pigeons, and made them a constellation. Though their number was
seven, only six stars are visible; for Electra, it is said, left her place that she
might not behold the ruin of Troy, which had been founded by her son
Dardanus. The sight had such an effect on her sisters that they blanched,
and have been pale ever since. But Electra became a comet; her hair
floating wildly behind her, she still inconsolably ranges the expanse of
heaven. According to some, the lost Pleiad is Merope, who was vested with
mortality in consequence of her marriage with the mortal Sisyphus, king of
Corinth.
Tennyson's reference to the Pleiads, in "Locksley Hall," is of course
familiar to all readers.
98. Endymion. The frequent absence of Diana
from her duties in heaven is said to have
awakened suspicion among the deities of
Olympus, who doubted whether she actually
occupied these intervals with hunting. It is easy
to imagine the satisfaction with which Venus,
who so often had been reproached by Diana
with her undue fondness of beautiful youths,
would welcome news of a corresponding
weakness on the part of the cold-hearted and
apparently unyielding huntress queen. And
such satisfaction Venus once enjoyed, if we
may trust the later classical and the modern
poets who have identified Diana with Selene,
the more ancient goddess of the moon.
Fig. 73. Endymion
For, one calm, clear night Selene looked down
upon the beautiful Endymion, who fed his
flock on Mount Latmos, and saw him sleeping. The heart of the goddess
was unquestionably warmed by his surpassing beauty. She came down to
him; she kissed him; she watched over him while he slept. She visited him
again and again. But her secret could not long be hidden from the company

of Olympus. For more and more frequently she was absent from her station
in the sky, and toward morning she was ever paler and more weary with her
watching. When, finally, her love was discovered, Jupiter gave Endymion,
who had been thus honored, a choice between death in any manner that was
preferable, or perpetual youth united with perpetual sleep. Endymion chose
the latter. He still sleeps in his Carian cave, and still the mistress of the
moon slips from her nocturnal course to visit him. She takes care, too, that
his fortunes shall not suffer by his inactive life: she yields his flock
increase, and guards his sheep and lambs from beasts of prey.[121]
Keats, whose Endymion journeys on a mission under sea, thus describes a
meeting of the goddess and her lover:

On gold sand impearled
With lily shells and pebbles milky white,
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm
Of his heart's blood: 'twas very sweet; he stayed
His wandering steps, and half-entrancèd laid
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds,
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads,
Lashed from the crystal roof by fishes' tails.
And so he kept, until the rosy veils,
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fanned
Into sweet air; and sobered morning came
Meekly through billows:—when like taper-flame
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air,
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare
Along his fated way.[122]

99. Myths of Venus. Round the goddess of love cluster romances of her
own tender passion, of the affairs of the winged Cupid, and of the loves of
the worshipers at her shrine. Of the affection of Venus for Mars and of her
relations with Anchises,[123] the father of Æneas, mention is elsewhere
made. The following is the myth of Venus and Adonis.

100. Adonis.[124] The sweetly smiling goddess, playing one day with her
boy Cupid, wounded her bosom with one of his arrows. Before the wound
healed, she looked upon Adonis, the son of Cinyras and Myrrha, and was
captivated by him. She no longer took any interest in her favorite resorts,—
Paphos, and Cnidos, and Amathus, rich in metals. She absented herself even
from Olympus, for Adonis was dearer to her than heaven. Him she followed
and bore him company. She who loved to recline in the shade, with no care
but to cultivate her charms, now rambled through the woods and over the
hills, girt like the huntress Diana. She chased game that is safe to hunt, but
kept clear of the wolves and bears. She charged Adonis, too, to beware of
dangerous animals. "Be brave toward the timid," she would say, "courage
against the courageous is not safe." Having thus, on one occasion, warned
him, she mounted her chariot drawn by swans and drove away through the
air. But Adonis was too noble to heed such counsels. The dogs had roused a
wild boar from his lair, and the youth threw his spear and wounded the
animal with a sidelong stroke. The beast drew out the weapon with his jaws,
and, rushing after Adonis, buried his tusks in the lad's side, and stretched
him dying upon the plain. The rest of the story is thus recounted:

THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS[125]

... Low on the hills is lying the lovely Adonis, and his thigh with
the boar's tusk, his white thigh with the boar's tusk, is wounded;
and sorrow on Cypris he brings, as softly he breathes his life
away.
His dark blood drips down his skin of snow; beneath his brows
his eyes wax heavy and dim; and the rose flees from his lip, and
thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that Cypris will never
forego.

PETWORTH APHRODITE
... She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her
sacred beauty. Fair was the form of Cypris while Adonis was
living, but her beauty has died with Adonis! Woe, woe for
Cypris, the mountains all are saying. And the oak trees answer,
Woe for Adonis! And the rivers bewail the sorrows of Aphrodite,
and the wells are weeping Adonis on the mountains. The flowers
flush red for anguish, and Cytherea through all the mountain-
knees, through every dell, doth shrill the piteous dirge:

Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!
... When she saw, when she marked the unstanched wound of
Adonis, when she saw the bright red blood about his languid
thigh, she cast her arms abroad, and moaned, "Abide with me,
Adonis, hapless Adonis, abide!... Awake, Adonis, for a little
while, and kiss me yet again, the latest kiss!... This kiss will I
treasure, even as thyself, Adonis, since, ah, ill-fated, thou art
fleeing me, thou art fleeing far, Adonis, and art faring to
Acheron, to that hateful king and cruel, while wretched I yet
live, being a goddess, and may not follow thee! Persephone,
take thou my lover, my lord, for thyself art stronger than I, and
all lovely things drift down to thee. But I am ill-fated,
inconsolable is my anguish; and I lament mine Adonis, dead to
me, and I have no rest for sorrow.
"Thou diest, oh, thrice-desired, and my desire hath flown away
as a dream! Nay, widowed is Cytherea, and idle are the Loves
along the halls! With thee has the girdle of my beauty perished.
For why, ah, overbold, didst thou follow the chase, and being so
fair, why wert thou thus overhardy to fight with beasts?"
So Cypris bewailed her, the Loves join in the lament:
Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!

Fig. 74. The Death of Adonis
A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and
tears and blood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood
brings forth the rose; the tears, the wind-flower.
Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis!

... Cease, Cytherea, from thy lamentations, to-day refrain from
thy dirges. Thou must again bewail him, again must weep for
him another year.
101. Cupid and Psyche.[126] A certain king and queen had three daughters.
The charms of the two elder were more than common, but the beauty of the
youngest was such that the poverty of language is unable to express its
praise. In fact, Venus found her altars deserted, while men paid their vows
to this virgin. When Psyche passed, the people sang her praises and strewed
her way with chaplets and flowers.
This perversion of homage gave great offense to Venus, who complained
that Paris might just as well not have yielded her the palm of beauty over
Pallas and Juno, if a mortal were thus to usurp her honors. Wherefore she
called Cupid and, pointing out Psyche to him, bade him infuse into the
bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low, unworthy being.
There were in Venus's garden two fountains,—one of sweet waters, the
other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber vases, one from each fountain, and
suspending them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of
Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter
fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity;
and then he touched her side with the point of his arrow. She awoke, and
opening her eyes upon Cupid (himself invisible), so startled him that in his
confusion he wounded himself with his arrow. Heedless of his wound, his
thought now was to repair the mischief he had done. He poured, at once, the
waters of joy over her silken ringlets.
But Psyche, henceforth frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from
her charms. Her two elder sisters had long been married to princes; but
Psyche's beauty failed to awaken love. Consequently her parents, afraid that
they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted the oracle of
Apollo.
They received answer, "The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal
lover. Her husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster
whom neither gods nor men can resist."
This dreadful decree of the oracle filled the people with dismay; but, at
Psyche's request, preparations for her fate were made. The royal maid took

her place in a procession, which more resembled a funeral than a nuptial
pomp, and with her parents, amid the lamentations of their subjects,
ascended the mountain, where she was left alone.
While Psyche stood there, panting with fear and with eyes full of tears, the
gentle Zephyr lifted her and, with an easy motion, bore her to a flowery
dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on
the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke refreshed with sleep, she beheld
near by a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. Entering, she discovered in
the midst a fountain, and fast by a palace whose august front showed that it
was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some god. She
approached the building and entered. Every object she met filled her with
pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the
walls were enriched with carvings and paintings that represented beasts of
the chase and rural scenes. Other apartments were filled with still other
beautiful and precious productions of nature and art.
While her eyes were thus occupied, the voice of an invisible being
addressed her: "Sovereign lady, all that thou beholdest is thine. We whose
voices thou dost hear are thy servants. Retire, we pray thee, to thy chamber,
repose on thy bed of down, and when it may please thee repair to the bath.
Food awaits in the adjoining alcove."
After repose and the refreshment of the bath, Psyche seated herself in the
alcove, where, without any visible aid, a table immediately presented itself,
covered with delicacies and nectareous wines. Her ears, too, were delighted
with music from invisible performers.
For a long time she did not see her husband. He came in the hours of
darkness and fled before the dawn of morning; but his accents were full of
love and inspired a like passion in her. Often she begged him to stay and let
her behold him, but he would not consent. "Having looked upon me," he
said, "mayhap thou wouldst fear, mayhap adore, me; but all I ask of thee is
love. I would rather thou shouldst love me as an equal than adore me as a
god." This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time. But the thought
of her parents and of her sisters, left in ignorance of her fate, preyed on her
mind to such a degree that at last, telling her distress to her lord, she drew
from him an unwilling consent that her sisters should be brought to see her.

Zephyr, promptly obedient, soon brought them
across the mountain down to their sister's valley.
They embraced her. She returned their caresses,
and then committed them to the care of her
attendant voices, who should refresh them in her
bath and at her table, and show them her
treasures. The view of these delights caused
envy to enter their bosoms. They plied their
fortunate sister with questions about her
husband. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful
youth, who generally spent the daytime in
hunting upon the mountains. The sisters, not
satisfied with this reply, soon made her confess
that she had never seen him. Then they
proceeded to fill her bosom with dark
suspicions. Probably her husband was a dreadful Fig. 75. Psyche at the
monster, such as the Pythian oracle had Couch of Cupid
prophesied. Probably he was a direful serpent, From the painting by
who nourished her now to devour her by and by. Thumann
They advised her to provide herself against the
night with a lamp and a sharp knife, told her
what to do if her husband turned out the monster that they surmised, and, so
saying, departed.
These persuasions Psyche resisted as well as she could, but they did not fail
to have their effect on her mind. She prepared a lamp and a sharp knife, and
hid them out of sight of her husband. That night, when he had fallen into his
first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp—

Scarce kept back a cry
At what she saw; for there before her lay
The very Love brighter than dawn of day;
And as he lay there smiling, her own name
His gentle lips in sleep began to frame,
And, as to touch her face, his hand did move;
O then, indeed, her faint heart swelled for love,
And she began to sob, and tears fell fast
Upon the bed.—But as she turned at last

To quench the lamp, there happed a little thing
That quenched her new delight, for flickering
The treacherous flame cast on his shoulder fair
A burning drop; he woke, and seeing her there
The meaning of that sad sight knew full well,
Nor was there need the piteous tale to tell.[127]
Without a word, Cupid spread his white wings, and flew out of window.
Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow, fell to the earth. For but an instant
Cupid, staying, reproached her with distrust of him. "No other punishment
inflict I than to leave thee forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion." And
so he flew away.
When Psyche had recovered some degree of composure, she looked around
her. The palace and gardens had vanished. She found herself not far from
the city where her sisters dwelt. Thither she repaired, and told them the
story of her misfortunes, whereat they inwardly rejoiced. "For now,"
thought they, "he will perhaps choose one of us." With this idea, they rose
early the next morning and, ascending the mountain, each called upon
Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord; then, leaping up, failed of the
support of Zephyr, fell down the precipice, and was dashed to pieces.
Psyche, meanwhile, wandered day and night, without food or repose, in
search of her husband. But he was lying heartsick in the chamber of his
mother; and that goddess was absent upon her own affairs. Then the white
sea gull which floats over the waves dived into the middle deep,

And rowing with his glistening wings arrived
At Aphrodite's bower beneath the sea.

She, as yet unaware of her son's mischance, was joyously consorting with
her handmaidens; but he, the sea gull,

But he with garrulous and laughing tongue
Broke up his news; how Eros fallen sick
Lay tossing on his bed, to frenzy stung
By such a burn as did but barely prick:
A little bleb, no bigger than a pease,
Upon his shoulder 'twas, that killed his ease,

Fevered his heart, and made his breathing thick.

"For which disaster hath he not been seen
This many a day at all in any place:
And thou, dear mistress," said he, "hast not been
Thyself among us now a dreary space:
And pining mortals suffer from a dearth
Of love; and for this sadness of the earth
Thy family is darkened with disgrace....

"'Tis plain that, if thy pleasure longer pause,
Thy mighty rule on earth hath seen its day:
The race must come to perish, and no cause
But that thou sittest with thy nymphs at play,
While on the Cretan hills thy truant boy
Has with his pretty mistress turned to toy,
And, less for pain than love, now pines away."[128]
And Venus cried angrily, "My son, then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche,
who witched away my beauty and was the rival of my godhead, whom he
loves!"
Therewith she issued from the sea, and, returning to her golden chamber,
found there the lad sick, as she had heard, and cried from the doorway,
"Well done, truly! to trample thy mother's precepts under foot, to spare my
enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay, unite her to thyself, child as
thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who hates me! I will make thee
repent of thy sport, and the savor of thy marriage bitter. There is one who
shall chasten this body of thine, put out thy torch, and unstring thy bow. Not
till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these hands have
smoothed the golden light, and sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the
injury done me avenged." And with this she hastened in anger from the
doors.
And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her
troubled countenance. "Ye come in season," she cried; "I pray you, find for
me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my house."
And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her anger,
saying, "What fault, Mistress, hath thy son committed, that thou wouldst

destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of age? Because
he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever to be a child? Wilt
thou forever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son, always accusing his
wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine
own?" Thus, in secret fear of the boy's bow, did they seek to please him
with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light taking of her
wrongs, turned her back upon them, and with hasty steps made her way
once more to the sea.[129]
And soon after, Psyche herself reached the temple of Ceres, where she won
the favor of the goddess by arranging in due order the heaps of mingled
grain and ears and the carelessly scattered harvest implements that lay
there. The holy Ceres then counseled her to submit to Venus, to try humbly
to win her forgiveness, and, mayhap, through her favor regain the lover that
was lost.
Obeying the commands of Ceres, Psyche took her way to the temple of the
golden-crowned Cypris. That goddess received her with angry countenance,
called her an undutiful and faithless servant, taunted her with the wound
given to her husband, and insisted that for so ill-favored a girl there was no
way of meriting a lover save by dint of industry. Thereupon she ordered
Psyche to be led to the storehouse of the temple, where was laid up a great
quantity of wheat, barley, millet, vetches, beans, and lentils prepared for
food for her pigeons, and gave order, "Take and separate all these grains,
putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves,—and see that thou
get it done before evening." This said, Venus departed and left the girl to her
task. But Psyche, in perfect consternation at the enormous task, sat stupid
and silent; nor would the work have been accomplished had not Cupid
stirred up the ants to take compassion on her. They separated the pile,
sorting each kind to its parcel and vanishing out of sight in a moment.
At the approach of twilight, Cytherea returned from the banquet of the
gods, breathing odors and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she
promptly exclaimed, "This is no work of thine, wicked one, but his, whom
to thine own and his misfortune thou hast enticed,"—threw the girl a piece
of black bread for her supper, and departed.
Next morning, however, the goddess, ordering Psyche to be summoned,
commanded her to fetch a sample of wool gathered from each of the

golden-shining sheep that fed beyond a neighboring river. Obediently the
princess went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to execute the
command. But the god of that stream inspired the reeds with harmonious
murmurs that dissuaded her from venturing among the golden rams while
they raged under the influence of the rising sun. Psyche, observing the
directions of the compassionate river-god, crossed when the noontide sun
had driven the cattle to the shade, gathered the woolly gold from the bushes
where it was clinging, and returned to Venus with her arms full of the
shining fleece. But, far from commending her, that implacable mistress
said, "I know very well that by the aid of another thou hast done this; not
yet am I assured that thou hast skill to be of use. Here, now, take this box to
Proserpine and say, 'My mistress Venus entreats thee to send her a little of
thy beauty, for in tending her sick son she hath lost some of her own.'"
Psyche, satisfied that her destruction was at hand, doomed as she was to
travel afoot to Erebus, thought to shorten the journey by precipitating
herself at once from the summit of a tower. But a voice from the tower,
restraining her from this rash purpose, explained how by a certain cave she
might reach the realm of Pluto; how she might avoid the peril of the road,
pass by Cerberus, and prevail on Charon to take her across the black river
and bring her back again. The voice, also, especially cautioned her against
prying into the box filled with the beauty of Proserpine.
So, taking heed to her ways, the unfortunate girl traveled safely to the
kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Proserpine, where,
contenting herself with plain fare instead of the delicious banquet that was
offered her, she delivered her message from Venus. Presently the box, filled
with the precious commodity, was restored to her; and glad was she to come
out once more into the light of day.
But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a desire
seized her to examine the contents of the box, and to spread the least bit of
the divine beauty on her cheeks that she might appear to more advantage in
the eyes of her beloved husband.

Therewith down by the wayside did she sit
And turned the box round, long regarding it;
But at the last, with trembling hands, undid
The clasp, and fearfully raised up the lid;

But what was there she saw not, for her head
Fell back, and nothing she rememberèd
Of all her life, yet nought of rest she had,
The hope of which makes hapless mortals glad;
For while her limbs were sunk in deadly sleep
Most like to death, over her heart 'gan creep
Ill dreams; so that for fear and great distress
She would have cried, but in her helplessness
Could open not her mouth, or frame a word.[130]
But Cupid, now recovered from his wound, slipped through a crack in the
window of his chamber, flew to the spot where his beloved lay, gathered up
the sleep from her body and inclosed it again in the box, then waked Psyche
with the touch of an arrow. "Again," said he, "hast thou almost perished by
thy curiosity. But now perform the task imposed upon thee by my mother,
and I will care for the rest."
Then Cupid, swift as lightning penetrating the
heights of heaven, presented himself before
Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a
favoring ear and pleaded the cause of the lovers
with Venus. Gaining her consent, he ordered
Mercury to convey Psyche to the heavenly
abodes. On her advent, the king of the
immortals, handing her a cup of ambrosia, said,
"Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal. Thy
Cupid shall never break from the knot in which
he is tied; these nuptials shall indeed be
perpetual."
Thus Psyche was at last united to Cupid; and in
due season a daughter was born to them whose
name was Pleasure. Fig. 76. Psyche and
The allegory of Cupid and Psyche is well Cupid on Mount
presented in the following lines: Olympus
From the painting by
They wove bright fables in the days of Thumann
old,

When reason borrowed fancy's painted wings;
When truth's clear river flowed o'er sands of gold,
And told in song its high and mystic things!
And such the sweet and solemn tale of her
The pilgrim-heart, to whom a dream was given,
That led her through the world,—Love's worshiper,—
To seek on earth for him whose home was heaven!

EROS WITH BOW

In the full city,—by the haunted fount,—
Through the dim grotto's tracery of spars,—
'Mid the pine temples, on the moonlit mount,
Where silence sits to listen to the stars;
In the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove,
The painted valley, and the scented air,
She heard far echoes of the voice of Love,
And found his footsteps' traces everywhere.

But never more they met! since doubts and fears,
Those phantom-shapes that haunt and blight the earth,
Had come 'twixt her, a child of sin and tears,
And that bright spirit of immortal birth;
Until her pining soul and weeping eyes
Had learned to seek him only in the skies;

Till wings unto the weary heart were given,
And she became Love's angel bride in heaven![131]
The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apuleius, a
writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more recent
date than most of the classic myths.
102. Keats' Ode to Psyche. To this fact allusion is made in the following
poem:

O Goddess! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear,
And pardon that thy secrets should be sung
Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear:
Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see
The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes?
I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly,
And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise,
Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side
In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof
Of leaves and tumbled blossoms, where there ran
A brooklet, scarce espied!

'Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers, fragrant-eyed,
Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian,
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass;
Their arms embracèd, and their pinions, too;
Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu,
As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber,
And ready still past kisses to outnumber
At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love:
The wingèd boy I knew:
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove?
His Psyche true!

O latest born and loveliest vision far
Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy!
Fairer than Phœbe's sapphire-regioned star,

Or Vesper, amorous glowworm of the sky;
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none,
Nor altar heaped with flowers;
Nor virgin-choir to make delicious moan
Upon the midnight hours;
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet
From chain-swung censer teeming;
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

O brightest! though too late for antique vows
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre,
When holy were the haunted forest boughs,
Holy the air, the water, and the fire;
Yet even in these days so far retired
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans,
Fluttering among the faint Olympians,
I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired.
So let me be thy choir, and make a moan
Upon the midnight hours;
Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet
From swingèd censer teeming,
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat
Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming.

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark clustered trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lulled to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreathèd trellis of a working brain,
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,

With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!
The loves of the devotees of Venus are as the sands of the sea for number.
Below are given the fortunes of a few: Hippomenes, Hero, Pygmalion,
Pyramus, and Phaon. The favor of the goddess toward Paris, who awarded
her the palm of beauty in preference to Juno and Minerva, will occupy our
attention in connection with the story of the Trojan War.
103. Atalanta's Race.[132] Atalanta, the daughter of Schœneus of Bœotia,
had been warned by an oracle that marriage would be fatal to her happiness.
Consequently she fled the society of men and devoted herself to the sports
of the chase. Fair, fearless, swift, and free, in beauty and in desire she was a
Cynthia,—of mortal form and with a woman's heart. To all suitors (for she
had many) she made answer: "I will be the prize of him only who shall
conquer me in the race; but death must be the penalty of all who try and
fail." In spite of this hard condition some would try. Of one such race
Hippomenes was to be judge. It was his thought, at first, that these suitors
risked too much for a wife. But when he saw Atalanta lay aside her robe for
the race with one of them, he changed his mind and began to swell with
envy of whomsoever seemed likely to win.
The virgin darted forward. As she ran she looked more beautiful than ever.
The breezes gave wings to her feet; her hair flew over her shoulders, and
the gay fringe of her garment fluttered behind her. A ruddy hue tinged the
whiteness of her skin, such as a crimson curtain casts on a marble wall. Her
competitor was distanced and was put to death without mercy. Hippomenes,
not daunted by this result, fixed his eyes on the virgin and said, "Why boast
of beating those laggards? I offer myself for the contest." Atalanta looked at
him with pity in her face and hardly knew whether she would rather
conquer so goodly a youth or not. While she hesitated, the spectators grew
impatient for the contest and her father prompted her to prepare. Then
Hippomenes addressed a prayer to Cypris: "Help me, Venus, for thou hast
impelled me." Venus heard and was propitious.

Fig. 77. Artemis of Gabii

Fig. 78. Atalanta's Race
From the painting by Poynter
She gathered three golden apples from the garden of her temple in her own
island of Cyprus and, unseen by any, gave them to Hippomenes, telling him
how to use them. Atalanta and her lover were ready. The signal was given.

They both started; he, by one stride, first,
For she half pitied him so beautiful,
Running to meet his death, yet was resolved
To conquer: soon she near'd him, and he felt
The rapid and repeated gush of breath
Behind his shoulder.
From his hand now dropt
A golden apple: she lookt down and saw
A glitter on the grass, yet on she ran.
He dropt a second; now she seem'd to stoop:
He dropt a third; and now she stoopt indeed:
Yet, swifter than a wren picks up a grain
Of millet, rais'd her head: it was too late,
Only one step, only one breath, too late.
Hippomenes had toucht the maple goal
With but two fingers, leaning pronely forth.
She stood in mute despair; the prize was won.
Now each walkt slowly forward, both so tired,
And both alike breathed hard, and stopt at times.
When he turn'd round to her, she lowered her face
Cover'd with blushes, and held out her hand,
The golden apple in it.

"Leave me now,"
Said she, "I must walk homeward."
He did take
The apple and the hand.
"Both I detain,"
Said he, "the other two I dedicate
To the two Powers that soften virgin hearts,
Eros and Aphrodite; and this one
To her who ratifies the nuptial vow."
She would have wept to see her father weep;
But some God pitied her, and purple wings
(What God's were they?) hovered and interposed.[133]
But the oracle was yet to be fulfilled. The lovers, full of their own
happiness, after all, forgot to pay due honor to Aphrodite, and the goddess
was provoked at their ingratitude. She caused them to give offense to
Cybele. That powerful goddess took from them their human form: the
huntress heroine, triumphing in the blood of her lovers, she made a lioness;
her lord and master a lion,—and yoked them to her car, where they are still
to be seen in all representations in statuary or painting of the goddess
Cybele.
104 Hero and Leander were star-crossed lovers of later classical fiction.
[134]
Although their story is not of supernatural beings, or of events
necessarily influenced by supernatural agencies, and therefore not mythical
in the strict sense of the word, it deserves to be included here both because
of its pathetic beauty and its long literary tradition. The poet Marlowe puts
the story into English thus:

On Hellespont, guilty of true love's blood,
In view and opposite two cities stood,
Sea-borderers, disjoin'd by Neptune's might
The one Abydos, the other Sestos hight.
At Sestos Hero dwelt; Hero the fair,
Whom young Apollo courted for her hair,
And offer'd as a dower his burning throne,
Where she should sit, for men to gaze upon....
Some say, for her the fairest Cupid pin'd,

And, looking in her face, was strooken blind.
But this is true: so like was one the other,
As he imagined Hero was his mother;
And oftentimes into her bosom flew,
About her naked neck his bare arms threw,
And laid his childish head upon her breast,
And, with still panting rockt, there took his rest.
In Abydos dwelt the manly Leander, who, as luck would have it, bethought
himself one day of the festival of Venus in Sestos, and thither fared to do
obeisance to the goddess.

On this feast-day,—O cursèd day and hour!—
Went Hero through Sestos, from her tower
To Venus' temple, where unhappily,
As after chanc'd, they did each other spy.
So fair a church as this had Venus none;
The walls were of discolored jasper-stone, ...
And in the midst a silver altar stood:
There Hero, sacrificing turtle's blood,
Vail'd to the ground, veiling her eyelids close;
And modestly they opened as she rose:
Thence flew Love's arrow with the golden head;
And thus Leander was enamourèd.
Stone-still he stood, and evermore he gaz'd,
Till with the fire, that from his countenance blaz'd,
Relenting Hero's gentle heart was strook:
Such power and virtue hath an amorous look.

It lies not in our power to love or hate,
For will in us is overrul'd by fate.
When two are stript long e'er the course begin,
We wish that one should lose, the other win;
And one especially do we affect
Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:
The reason no man knows; let it suffice,
What we behold is censur'd by our eyes.
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight?

He kneel'd; but unto her devoutly prayed:
Chaste Hero to herself thus softly said,
"Were I the saint he worships, I would hear him";
And, as she spake those words, came somewhat near him.
He started up; she blush'd as one asham'd;
Wherewith Leander much more was inflam'd.
He touch'd her hand; in touching it she trembled:
Love deeply grounded, hardly is dissembled....
So they conversed by touch of hands, till Leander, plucking up courage,
began to plead with words, with sighs and tears.

These arguments he us'd, and many more;
Wherewith she yielded, that was won before.
Hero's looks yielded, but her words made war:
Women are won when they begin to jar.
Thus having swallow'd Cupid's golden hook,
The more she striv'd, the deeper was she strook:
Yet, evilly feigning anger, strove she still,
And would be thought to grant against her will.
So having paus'd awhile, at last she said,
"Who taught thee rhetoric to deceive a maid?
Ay me! such words as these should I abhor,
And yet I like them for the orator."
With that Leander stoop'd to have embrac'd her,
But from his spreading arms away she cast her,
And thus bespake him: "Gentle youth, forbear
To touch the sacred garments which I wear." ...

Then she told him of the turret by the murmuring sea where all day long she
tended Venus' swans and sparrows:

"Come thither." As she spake this, her tongue tripp'd,
For unawares, "Come thither," from her slipp'd;
And suddenly her former color chang'd,
And here and there her eyes through anger rang'd;

And, like a planet moving several ways
At one self instant, she, poor soul, assays,
Loving, not to love at all, and every part
Strove to resist the motions of her heart:
And hands so pure, so innocent, nay, such
As might have made Heaven stoop to have a touch,
Did she uphold to Venus, and again
Vow'd spotless chastity; but all in vain;
Cupid beats down her prayers with his wings....

Fig. 79. Hero and Leander
From the painting by
Keller
For a season all went well. Guided by a torch which his mistress reared
upon the tower, he was wont of nights to swim the strait that he might enjoy
her company. 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 into the sea and perished.
A picture of the drowning Leander is thus described by Keats:[135]

Come hither all sweet maidens soberly,
Down looking aye, and with a chasten'd light,

Hid in the fringe of your eyelids white,
And meekly let your fair hands joinèd 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.
O horrid dream! see how his body dips
Dead-heavy; arms and shoulders gleam awhile;
He's gone; up bubbles all his amorous breath!
105. Pygmalion and the Statue.[136] Pygmalion saw so much to blame in
women, that he came at last to abhor the sex and resolved to live unmarried.
He was a sculptor, and had made with wonderful skill a statue of ivory, so
beautiful that no living woman was to compare with it. It was indeed the
perfect semblance of a maiden that seemed to be alive and that was
prevented from moving only by modesty. His art was so perfect that it
concealed itself, and its product looked like the workmanship of nature.
Pygmalion at last fell in love with his counterfeit creation. Oftentimes he
laid his hand upon it as if to assure himself whether it were living or not,
and could not even then believe that it was only ivory.
The festival of Venus was at hand,—a festival celebrated with great pomp at
Cyprus. Victims were offered, the altars smoked, and the odor of incense
filled the air. When Pygmalion had performed his part in the solemnities, he
stood before the altar and, according to one of our poets, timidly said:

O Aphrodite, kind and fair,
That what thou wilt canst give,
Oh, listen to a sculptor's prayer,
And bid mine image live!
For me the ivory and gold
That clothe her cedar frame
Are beautiful, indeed, but cold;
Ah, touch them with thy flame!
Oh, bid her move those lips of rose,

Bid float that golden hair,
And let her choose me, as I chose,
This fairest of the fair!
And then an altar in thy court
I'll offer, decked with gold;
And there thy servants shall resort,
Thy doves be bought and sold![137]
According to another version of the story, he said not, "bid mine image
live," but "one like my ivory virgin." At any rate, with such a prayer he
threw incense on the flame of the altar. Whereupon Venus, as an omen of
her favor, caused the flame to shoot up thrice a fiery point into the air.
When Pygmalion reached his home, to his amazement he saw before him
his statue garlanded with flowers.

Yet while he stood, and knew not what to do
With yearning, a strange thrill of hope there came,
A shaft of new desire now pierced him through,
And therewithal a soft voice called his name,
And when he turned, with eager eyes aflame,
He saw betwixt him and the setting sun
The lively image of his lovèd one.

He trembled at the sight, for though her eyes,
Her very lips, were such as he had made,
And though her tresses fell but in such guise
As he had wrought them, now was she arrayed
In that fair garment that the priests had laid
Upon the goddess on that very morn,
Dyed like the setting sun upon the corn.

Speechless he stood, but she now drew anear,
Simple and sweet as she was wont to be,
And once again her silver voice rang clear,
Filling his soul with great felicity,
And thus she spoke, "Wilt thou not come to me,
O dear companion of my new-found life,

For I am called thy lover and thy wife?...

"My sweet," she said, "as yet I am not wise,
Or stored with words aright the tale to tell,
But listen: when I opened first mine eyes
I stood within the niche thou knowest well,
And from my hand a heavy thing there fell
Carved like these flowers, nor could I see things clear,
But with a strange, confusèd noise could hear.

"At last mine eyes could see a woman fair,
But awful as this round white moon o'erhead,
So that I trembled when I saw her there,
For with my life was born some touch of dread,
And therewithal I heard her voice that said,
'Come down and learn to love and be alive,
For thee, a well-prized gift, to-day I give.'"[138]
A fuller account of Venus' address to the statue is the following:

O maiden, in mine image made!
O grace that shouldst endure!
While temples fall, and empires fade,
Immaculately pure:
Exchange this endless life of art
For beauty that must die,
And blossom with a beating heart
Into mortality!
Change, golden tresses of her hair,
To gold that turns to gray;
Change, silent lips, forever fair,
To lips that have their day!
Oh, perfect arms, grow soft with life,
Wax warm, ere cold ye wane;
Wake, woman's heart, from peace to strife,
To love, to joy, to pain![139]

The maiden was called Galatea. Venus blessed the nuptials, and from the
union Paphos was born, by whose name the city, sacred to Venus, is known.
106. Pyramus and Thisbe.[140] Pyramus was the handsomest youth and
Thisbe the fairest maiden in Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their
parents occupied adjoining houses. Propinquity brought the young people
together, and acquaintance ripened into love. They would gladly have
married, but their parents forbade. One thing, however, parents could not
forbid (for Venus and Cupid favored the match),—that love should glow
with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They conversed by signs and
glances, and the fire burned the more intensely that it was covered. In the
wall between the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in the
structure. It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages passed
back and forth through the gap. When night came and they must say
farewell, the lovers pressed their lips upon the wall, she on her side, he on
his.
One morning, when Aurora had put out the
stars and the sun had melted the frost from
the grass, they met at the accustomed spot
and arranged a meeting for that night at a
well-known edifice, standing without the
city's bounds,—the Tomb of Ninus. The one
who first arrived should await the other at the
foot of a white mulberry tree near a cool
spring. Evening came. Thisbe, arriving first,
sat alone by the monument in the dim light of
the evening. Suddenly she descried a lioness,
her jaws reeking with recent slaughter,
approaching the fountain to slake her thirst.
The maiden fled at the sight, dropping her
veil as she ran. The lioness, after drinking at
the spring, turned toward the woods, and, Fig. 80. Thisbe
seeing the veil on the ground, tossed and rent From the painting by
it with her bloody mouth. Edward Burne-Jones
Now Pyramus approached the place of
meeting. He saw in the sand the footsteps of the lion. He found the veil all
rent and bloody. "O, hapless girl," cried he, "I have been the cause of thy

death; but I follow thee!" So saying, he drew his sword and plunged it into
his heart. The blood spurted from the wound and tinged the white
mulberries of the tree all red, and, sinking into the earth, reached the roots,
so that the sanguine hue mounted through the trunk to the fruit.
By this time Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to disappoint
her lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for the youth, eager to
tell him the danger she had escaped. When she came to the spot and saw the
changed color of the mulberries, she doubted whether it was the same place.
While she hesitated, she saw the form of her lover struggling in the agonies
of death. She screamed and beat her breast, she embraced the lifeless body,
poured tears into its wounds, and imprinted kisses on the cold lips. "O,
Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? It is thine own Thisbe that
speaks." At the name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them
again. She saw her veil stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its
sword. "Thine own hand has slain thee, and for my sake," she said. "I, too,
can be brave for once, and my love is as strong as thine. But ye, unhappy
parents of us both, deny us not our united request. As love and death have
joined us, let one tomb contain us. And thou, tree, retain the marks of
slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our blood." So saying,
she plunged the sword into her breast. The two bodies were buried in one
sepulcher, and the tree henceforth produced purple berries.
107. Phaon ferried a boat between Lesbos and Chios. One day the queen of
Paphos and Amathus,[141] in the guise of an ugly crone, begged a passage,
which was so good-naturedly granted that in recompense she bestowed on
the ferryman a salve possessing magical properties of youth and beauty. As
a consequence of the use made of it by Phaon, the women of Lesbos went
wild for love of him. None, however, admired him more than the poetess
Sappho, who addressed to him some of her warmest and rarest love-songs.
108. The Vengeance of Venus. Venus did not fail to follow with her
vengeance those who dishonored her rites or defied her power. The youth
Hippolytus who, eschewing love, preferred Diana to her, she brought
miserably to his ruin. Polyphonte she transformed into an owl, Arsinoë into
a stone, and Myrrha into a myrtle tree.[142] Her influence in the main was of
mingled bane and blessing, as in the cases of Helen, Œnone, Pasiphaë,

Ariadne, Procris, Eriphyle, Laodamia, and others whose stories are
elsewhere told.[143]
109. Myths of Mercury. According to Homer,[144] Maia bore Mercury at
the peep of day,—a schemer subtle beyond all belief. He began playing on
the lyre at noon; for, wandering out of the lofty cavern of Cyllene, he found
a tortoise, picked it up, bored the life out of the beast, fitted the shell with
bridge and reeds, and accompanied himself therewith as he sang a strain of
unpremeditated sweetness. At evening of the same day he stole the oxen of
his half brother Apollo from the Pierian mountains, where they were
grazing. He covered their hoofs with tamarisk twigs, and, still further to
deceive the pursuer, drove them backward into a cave at Pylos. There
rubbing laurel branches together, he made fire and sacrificed, as an example
for men to follow, two heifers to the twelve gods (himself included). Then
home he went and slept, innocent as a new-born child! To his mother's
warning that Apollo would catch and punish him, this innocent replied, in
effect, "I know a trick better than that!" And when the puzzled Apollo,
having traced the knavery to this babe in swaddling clothes, accused him of
it, the sweet boy swore a great oath by his father's head that he stole not the
cows, nor knew even what cows might be, for he had only that moment
heard the name of them. Apollo proceeded to trounce the baby, with scant
success, however, for Mercury persisted in his assumption of ignorance. So
the twain appeared before their sire, and Apollo entered his complaint: he
had not seen nor ever dreamed of so precocious a cattle-stealer, liar, and
full-fledged knave as this young rascal. To all of which Mercury responded
that he was, on the contrary, a veracious person, but that his brother Apollo
was a coward to bully a helpless little new-born thing that slept, nor ever
had thought of "lifting" cattle. The wink with which the lad of Cyllene
accompanied this asseveration threw Jupiter into uncontrollable roars of
laughter. Consequently, the quarrel was patched up: Mercury gave Apollo
the new-made lyre; Apollo presented the prodigy with a glittering whiplash
and installed him herdsman of his oxen. Nay even, when Mercury had
sworn by sacred Styx no more to try his cunning in theft upon Apollo, that
god in gratitude invested him with the magic wand of wealth, happiness,
and dreams (the caduceus), it being understood, however, that Mercury
should indicate the future only by signs, not by speech or song as did
Apollo. It is said that the god of gain avenged himself for this enforced

rectitude upon others: upon Venus, whose girdle he purloined; upon
Neptune, whose trident he filched; upon Vulcan, whose tongs he borrowed;
and upon Mars, whose sword he stole.

HERMES OF PRAXITELES

Fig. 81. Hermes and Dog
The most famous exploit of the Messenger, the slaughter of Argus, has
already been narrated.

FOOTNOTES:

[66] Ovid, Metam. I, 700 et seq.
[67] Ovid, Metam. 2, 410 et seq.
[68] Translated by Andrew Lang: Theocritus, Bion, and
Moschus, London, 1880.
[69] § 70.
[70] Ovid, Metam. 3, 260 et seq.
[71] §§ 42, 110-113.
[72] From E. R. Sill's Semele.
[73] Commentary, §§ 118, 255.
[74] Ovid, Metam. 7, 172 et seq.
[75] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 3, 379 [Schirmer]. Originals in
Pausanias, Apollodorus, and Hyginus.
[76] From Tennyson's Amphion. See Horace, Ars Poet. 394.
[77] Ovid, Metam. 8, 620-724.
[78] From The Sons of Cydippe, by Edmund Gosse in his On
Viol and Flute.

[79] § 27, and Commentary.
[80] From Ovid.
[81] From Spenser's Muiopotmos.
[82] Ovid, Metam. 6, 1-145.
[83] § 200.
[84] Iliad, 5, 850 et seq. (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation). In
accordance with the system of nomenclature adopted in this
work, Latin equivalents are given, wherever possible, for Greek
names.
[85] Iliad, 21, 390 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[86] Ovid, Metam. 3, 1-137; 4, 563-614.
[87] Iliad, 2, 1335.
[88] Ovid, Metam. 6, 313-381.
[89] § 30.
[90] Roscher, Ausf. Lex. Lfg. 2, 254, Article Aloadæ [Schultz].
[91] Ovid, Metam. 10, 162-219.
[92] Ovid, Metam. 2, 1-400.
[93] § 44.
[94] Medio tutissimus ibis.—Ovid.
[95]

Hic situs est Phaëthon, currus auriga paterni,
Quem si non tenuit, magnis tamen excidit ausis.—Ovid.

[96] Iliad, 1, 43-52 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[97] Ovid, Metam. 6, 165-312.
[98] From W. S. Landor's Niobe.
[99] See Commentary, §§ 64, 80.
[100] Iliad, 18, 564 (Lang, Leaf, and Myers' translation).
[101] Cicero, Natura Deorum, 3, 22.
[102] See Commentary.
[103] From Browning's Balaustion's Adventure. The Greek form
of the proper names has been retained.
[104] Proserpine.
[105] For the originals, see Iliad, 2, 715, and the Alcestis of
Euripides.
[106] Ovid, Metam. 11, 146-193.
[107] § 118.

[108] § 145.
[109] Ovid, Metam. 1, 452-567.
[110] From the Fable for Critics.
[111] Iliad, 9, 561; Apollodorus, 1, 7, § 8.
[112] Stephen Phillips, Marpessa.
[113] Ovid, Metam. 4, 256-270.
[114] § 196.
[115] § 168.
[116] Ovid, Metam. 5, 585-641.
[117] Ovid, Metam. 3, 138-252.
[118] Apollodorus, 1, 4, § 3.
[119] Ovid, Fasti, 5, 537; Iliad, 18, 486, and 22, 29; Odyssey, 5,
121, 274.
[120] The story is told by Hyginus in his Fables, and in his
Poetical Astronomy.
[121] Authorities are Pausanias, 5, 1, §§ 2-4; Ovid, Ars. Am. 3,
83; Tristia, 2, 299; Apollonius, and Apollodorus.
[122] From the Endymion, Bk. 3.
[123] § 194.
[124] Ovid, Metam. 10, 503-559, 708-739.
[125] From an elegy intended to be sung at one of the spring
celebrations in memory of Adonis. Translated from Bion by
Andrew Lang. Cypris, Cytherea, and the Paphian refer to Venus.
See Commentary. This elegy is also translated by Mrs.
Browning and by Sir Edwin Arnold.
[126] Apuleius, Metam. Golden Ass, 4, 28, etc.
[127] William Morris, The Story of Cupid and Psyche, in The
Earthly Paradise.
[128] Robert Bridges, Eros and Psyche.
[129] The last three paragraphs are from Pater's version in
Marius the Epicurean.
[130] William Morris, The Earthly Paradise.
[131] By T. K. Hervey.
[132] Ovid, Metam. 10, 560-680.
[133] From W. S. Landor's Hippomenes and Atalanta.
[134] The poetical passages are from Marlowe's Hero and
Leander, First Sestiad. Marlowe's narrative was completed by
Chapman. See Musæus of Alexandria, De Amore Herois et

Leandri; Virg. Georg. 3, 258; Ovid, Her. 18, 19; Stat. Theb. 6,
770.
[135] Sonnet, On a Picture of Leander.
[136] Ovid, Metam. 10, 243-297.
[137] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion.
[138] From William Morris, Pygmalion and the Image, in The
Earthly Paradise.
[139] Andrew Lang, The New Pygmalion, or The Statue's
Choice. A witty and not unpoetic bit of burlesque.
[140] Ovid, Metam. 4, 55-166.
[141] § 100, and Commentary.
[142] Murray, Manual of Mythology, p. 87; Ovid, Metam. 10,
298-502.
[143] See Index for sections.
[144] Hymn to Mercury (Hermes).

CHAPTER VIII
MYTHS OF THE GREAT DIVINITIES OF EARTH

110. Myths of Bacchus. Since the adventures of Ceres, although she was a
goddess of earth, are intimately connected with the life of the underworld,
they will be related in the sections pertaining to Proserpine and Pluto. The
god of vernal sap and vegetation, of the gladness that comes of youth or of
wine, the golden-curled, sleepy-eyed Bacchus (Dionysus),—his
wanderings, and the fortunes of mortals brought under his influence
(Pentheus, Acetes, Ariadne, and Midas), here challenge our attention.
111. The Wanderings of Bacchus. After the death of Semele,[145] Jove took
the infant Bacchus and gave him in charge to the Nysæan nymphs, who
nourished his infancy and childhood and for their care were placed by
Jupiter, as the Hyades, among the stars. Another guardian and tutor of
young Bacchus was the pot-bellied, jovial Silenus, son of Pan and a nymph,
and oldest of the Satyrs. Silenus was probably an indulgent preceptor. He
was generally tipsy and would have broken his neck early in his career, had
not the Satyrs held him on his ass's back as he reeled along in the train of

his pupil. After Bacchus was of age, he
discovered the culture of the vine and the mode
of extracting its precious juice; but Juno struck
him with madness and drove him forth a
wanderer through various parts of the earth. In
Phrygia the goddess Rhea cured him and taught
him her religious rites; and then he set out on a
progress through Asia, teaching the people the
cultivation of the vine. The most famous part of
his wanderings is his expedition to India, which
is said to have lasted several years. Returning in
triumph, he undertook to introduce his worship
into Greece, but was opposed by certain princes
who dreaded the disorders and madness it
brought with it. Finally, he approached his native
city Thebes, where his own cousin, Pentheus, son
of Agave and grandson of Harmonia and
Cadmus, was king. Pentheus, however, had no
respect for the new worship and forbade its rites
to be performed.[146] But when it was known that Fig. 82. Silenus
Bacchus was advancing, men and women, young taking Dionysus to

and old, poured forth to meet him and to join his School
triumphal march.

Fauns with youthful Bacchus follow;
Ivy crowns that brow, supernal
As the forehead of Apollo,
And possessing youth eternal.

Round about him fair Bacchantes,
Bearing cymbals, flutes, and thyrses,
Wild from Naxian groves or Zante's
Vineyards, sing delirious verses.[147]

It was in vain Pentheus remonstrated, commanded, and threatened. His
nearest friends and wisest counselors begged him not to oppose the god.
Their remonstrances only made him the more violent.

112. The Story of Acetes. Soon the
attendants returned who had been
dispatched to seize Bacchus. They
had succeeded in taking one of the
Bacchanals prisoner, whom, with his
hands tied behind him, they brought
before the king. Pentheus, threatening
him with death, commanded him to
tell who he was and what these new
rites were that he presumed to
celebrate.
The prisoner, unterrified, replied that
he was Acetes of Mæonia; that his
parents, being poor, had left him their
fisherman's trade, which he had Fig. 83. Bearded Dionysus and
followed till he had acquired the Satyr
pilot's art of steering his course by
the stars. It once happened that he
had touched at the island of Dia and
had sent his men ashore for fresh
water. They returned, bringing with
them a lad of delicate appearance
whom they had found asleep.
Judging him to be a noble youth,
they thought to detain him in the
hope of liberal ransom. But Acetes
suspected that some god was
concealed under the youth's
exterior, and asked pardon for the
violence done. Whereupon the Fig. 84. Satyr and Mænad with
sailors, enraged by their lust of Child Dionysus
gain, exclaimed, "Spare thy prayers
for us!" and, in spite of the
resistance offered by Acetes, thrust the captive youth on board and set sail.
Then Bacchus (for the youth was indeed he), as if shaking off his
drowsiness, asked what the trouble was and whither they were carrying

him. One of the mariners replied, "Fear nothing; tell us where thou wouldst
go, and we will convey thee thither." "Naxos is my home," said Bacchus;
"take me there, and ye shall be well rewarded." They promised so to do;
but, preventing the pilot from steering toward Naxos, they bore away for
Egypt, where they might sell the lad into slavery. Soon the god looked out
over the sea and said in a voice of weeping, "Sailors, these are not the
shores ye promised me; yonder island is not my home. It is small glory ye
shall gain by cheating a poor boy." Acetes wept to hear him, but the crew
laughed at both of them and sped the vessel fast over the sea. All at once it
stopped in mid-sea, as fast as if it were fixed on the ground. The men,
astonished, pulled at their oars and spread more sail, but all in vain. Ivy
twined round the oars and clung to the sails, with heavy clusters of berries.
A vine laden with grapes ran up the mast and along the sides of the vessel.
The sound of flutes was heard, and the odor of fragrant wine spread all
around. The god himself had a chaplet of vine leaves and bore in his hand a
spear wreathed with ivy. Tigers crouched at his feet, and forms of lynxes
and spotted panthers played around him. The whole crew became dolphins
and swam about the ship. Of twenty men Acetes alone was left. "Fear not,"
said the god; "steer towards Naxos." The pilot obeyed, and when they
arrived there, kindled the altars and celebrated the sacred rites of Bacchus.
So far had Acetes advanced in his
narrative, when Pentheus,
interrupting, ordered him off to his
death. But from this fate the pilot,
rendered invisible by his patron
deity, was straightway rescued.
Meanwhile, the mountain Cithæron
seemed alive with worshipers, and
the cries of the Bacchanals
resounded on every side. Pentheus,
angered by the noise, penetrated
through the wood and reached an
open space where the chief scene of
the orgies met his eyes. At the same
moment the women saw him, Fig. 85. Dionysus at Sea
among them his mother Agave, and

Autonoë and Ino, her sisters. Taking him for a wild boar, they rushed upon
him and tore him to pieces,—his mother shouting, "Victory! Victory! the
glory is ours!"
So the worship of Bacchus was established in Greece.
It was on the island of Naxos that Bacchus afterward found Ariadne, the
daughter of Minos, king of Crete, who had been deserted by her lover,
Theseus. How Bacchus comforted her is related in another section. How the
god himself is worshiped is told by Edmund Gosse in the poem from which
the following extracts are taken:

Fig. 86. Bacchic Procession

Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,
And down the vales a lyric people flows;
Dancing to music, in their dance they fling
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,
The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire;
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,
With ivy circling their abundant hair;
Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,
With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows,
And all the while their tribute-songs they bring,
And newer glories of the past disclose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

... But oh! within the heart of this great flight,
Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre?
What form is this of more than mortal height?
What matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire!
The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,
And harmonize their steps with stately care;
Bent to the morning, like a living rose,
The immortal splendor of his face he shows,
And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing....[148]

Fig. 87. Dionysus visiting a Poet
113. The Choice of King Midas.[149] Once Silenus, having wandered from
the company of Bacchus in an intoxicated condition, was found by some
peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas entertained him
royally and on the eleventh day restored him in safety to his divine pupil.
Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of a reward. The king asked
that whatever he might touch should be changed into gold. Bacchus
consented. Midas hastened to put his new-acquired power to the test. A twig
of an oak, which he plucked from the branch, became gold in his hand. He
took up a stone; it changed to gold. He touched a sod with the same result.
He took an apple from the tree; you would have thought he had robbed the
garden of the Hesperides. He ordered his servants, then, to set an excellent
meal on the table. But, to his dismay, when he touched bread, it hardened in
his hand; when he put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth. He took a
glass of wine, but it flowed down his throat like melted gold.
He strove to divest himself of his power; he hated the gift he had lately
coveted. He raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus,

begging to be delivered from this glittering destruction. The merciful deity
heard and sent him to wash away his fault and its punishment in the
fountainhead of the river Pactolus. Scarce had Midas touched the waters,
before the gold-creating power passed into them, and the river sands
became golden, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country and
became a worshiper of Pan, the god of the fields. But that he had not gained
common sense is shown by the decision that he delivered somewhat later in
favor of Pan's superiority, as a musician, over Apollo.[150]

FOOTNOTES:

[145] § 60.
[146] Ovid, Metam. 3, 511-733.
[147] Longfellow, Drinking Song.
[148] From The Praise of Dionysus.
[149] Ovid, Metam. 11, 85-145.
[150] See § 85.

Fig. 88. Rape of Proserpina

CHAPTER IX
FROM THE EARTH TO THE UNDERWORLD

114. Myths of Ceres, Pluto, and Proserpine. The search of Ceres for
Proserpine, and of Orpheus for Eurydice, are stories pertaining both to
Earth and Hades.
115. The Rape of Proserpine.[151] When the giants were imprisoned by
Jupiter under Mount Ætna, Pluto (Hades) feared lest the shock of their fall

might expose his kingdom to the light of day. Under this apprehension, he
mounted his chariot drawn by black horses, and made a circuit of inspection
to satisfy himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged,
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, espied
him and said, "My son, take thy darts which subdue all, even Jove himself,
and send one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of
Tartarus. Dost thou not see that even in heaven some despise our power?
Minerva and Diana defy us; and there is that daughter of Ceres, goddess of
earth, who threatens to follow their example. Now, if thou regardest thine
own interest or mine, join these two in one." The boy selected his sharpest
and truest arrow, and sped it right to the heart of Pluto.
In the vale of Enna is a lake embowered in woods, where Spring reigns
perpetual. Here Proserpine (Persephone) was playing with her companions,
gathering lilies and violets, and singing, one may imagine, such words as
our poet Shelley puts into her mouth:

Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom,
Gods, and men, and beasts, have birth,
Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child, Proserpine.

If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers
Till they grow, in scent and hue,
Fairest children of the hours,
Breathe thine influence most divine
On thine own child, Proserpine.[152]

Pluto saw her, loved her, and carried her off. She screamed for help to her
mother and her companions; but the ravisher urged on his steeds and
outdistanced pursuit. When he reached the river Cyane, it opposed his
passage, whereupon he struck the bank with his trident, and the earth
opened and gave him a passage to Tartarus.

116. The Wanderings of Ceres.[153] Ceres (Demeter) sought her daughter
all the world over. Bright-haired Aurora, when she came forth in the
morning, and Hesperus, when he led out the stars in the evening, found her
still busy in the search. At length, weary and sad, she sat down upon a
stone, and remained nine days and nights in the open air, under the sunlight
and moonlight and falling showers. It was where now stands the city of
Eleusis, near the home of an old man named Celeus. His little girl, pitying
the old woman, said to her, "Mother,"—and the name was sweet to the ears
of Ceres,—"why sittest thou here alone upon the rocks?" The old man
begged her to come into his cottage. She declined. He urged her. "Go in
peace," she replied, "and be happy in thy daughter; I have lost mine." But
their compassion finally prevailed. Ceres rose from the stone and went with
them. As they walked, Celeus said that his only son lay sick of a fever. The
goddess stooped and gathered some poppies. Then, entering the cottage,
where all was in distress,—for the boy Triptolemus seemed past recovery,
—she restored the child to life and health with a kiss. In grateful happiness
the family spread the table and put upon it curds and cream, apples, and
honey in the comb. While they ate, Ceres mingled poppy juice in the milk
of the boy. When night came, she arose and, taking the sleeping boy,
molded his limbs with her hands, and uttered over him three times a solemn
charm, then went and laid him in the ashes. His mother, who had been
watching what her guest was doing, sprang forward with a cry and snatched
the child from the fire. Then Ceres assumed her own form, and a divine
splendor shone all around. While they were overcome with astonishment,
she said, "Mother, thou hast been cruel in thy fondness; for I would have
made thy son immortal. Nevertheless, he shall be great and useful. He shall
teach men the use of the plow and the rewards which labor can win from
the soil." So saying, she wrapped a cloud about her and mounting her
chariot rode away.
Ceres continued her search for her daughter till at length she returned to
Sicily, whence she first had set out, and stood by the banks of the river
Cyane. The river nymph would have told the goddess all she had witnessed,
but dared not, for fear of Pluto; so she ventured merely to take up the girdle
which Proserpine had dropped in her flight, and float it to the feet of the
mother. Ceres, seeing this, laid her curse on the innocent earth in which her
daughter had disappeared. Then succeeded drought and famine, flood and
plague, until, at last, the fountain Arethusa made intercession for the land.

For she had seen that it opened only
unwillingly to the might of Pluto; and she
had also, in her flight from Alpheüs through
the lower regions of the earth, beheld the
missing Proserpine. She said that the
daughter of Ceres seemed sad, but no longer
showed alarm in her countenance. Her look
was such as became a queen,—the queen of
Erebus; the powerful bride of the monarch
of the realms of the dead.

Fig. 89. Hades and
Persephone

Fig. 90. Sacrifice to Demeter and
Persephone
When Ceres heard this, she stood awhile like one stupefied; then she
implored Jupiter to interfere to procure the restitution of her daughter.
Jupiter consented on condition that Proserpine should not during her stay in
the lower world have taken any food; otherwise, the Fates forbade her
release. Accordingly, Mercury was sent, accompanied by Spring, to demand
Proserpine of Pluto. The wily monarch consented; but alas! the maiden had

taken a pomegranate which Pluto offered her, and had sucked the sweet
pulp from a few of the seeds. A compromise, however, was effected by
which she was to pass half the time with her mother, and the rest with the
lord of Hades.
Of modern poems upon the story of the maiden seized in the vale of Enna,
none conveys a lesson more serene of the beauty of that dark lover of all
fair life, Death, than the Proserpine of Woodberry, from which we quote the
three following stanzas. "I pick," says the poet wandering through the vale
of Enna,

I pick the flowers that Proserpine let fall,
Sung through the world by every honeyed muse:
Wild morning-glories, daisies waving tall,
At every step is something new to choose;
And oft I stop and gaze
Upon the flowery maze;
By yonder cypresses on that soft rise,
Scarce seen through poppies and the knee-deep wheat,
Juts the dark cleft where on her came the fleet
Thunder-black horses and the cloud's surprise
And he who filled the place.
Did marigolds bright as these, gilding the mist,
Drop from her maiden zone? Wert thou last kissed,
Pale hyacinth, last seen, before his face?
* * * * *
Oh, whence has silence stolen on all things here,
Where every sight makes music to the eye?
Through all one unison is singing clear;
All sounds, all colors in one rapture die.
Breathe slow, O heart, breathe slow!
A presence from below
Moves toward the breathing world from that dark deep,
Whereof men fabling tell what no man knows,
By little fires amid the winter snows,
When earth lies stark in her titanic sleep
And doth with cold expire;
He brings thee all, O Maiden flower of earth,

Her child in whom all nature comes to birth,
Thee, the fruition of all dark desire.
* * * * *
O Proserpine, dream not that thou art gone
Far from our loves, half-human, half-divine;
Thou hast a holier adoration won
In many a heart that worships at no shrine.
Where light and warmth behold me,
And flower and wheat infold me,
I lift a dearer prayer than all prayers past:
He who so loved thee that the live earth clove
Before his pathway unto light and love,
And took thy flower-full bosom,—who at last
Shall every blossom cull,—
Lover the most of what is most our own,
The mightiest lover that the world has known,
Dark lover, Death,—was he not beautiful?[154]

Fig. 91. Triptolemus and the Eleusinian
Deities
117. Triptolemus and the Eleusinian Mysteries. Ceres, pacified with this
arrangement, restored the earth to her favor. Now she remembered, also,
Celeus and his family, and her promise to his infant son Triptolemus. She
taught the boy the use of the plow and how to sow the seed. She took him in
her chariot, drawn by winged dragons, through all the countries of the earth;
and under her guidance he imparted to mankind valuable grains and the
knowledge of agriculture. After his return Triptolemus built a temple to
Ceres in Eleusis and established the worship of the goddess under the name

of the Eleusinian mysteries, which in the splendor and solemnity of their
observance surpassed all other religious celebrations among the Greeks.
118. Orpheus and Eurydice.[155] Of mortals
who have visited Hades and returned, none has
a sweeter or sadder history than Orpheus, son
of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. Presented by
his father with a lyre and taught to play upon it,
he became the most famous of musicians, and
not only his fellow mortals but even the wild
beasts were softened by his strains. The very
trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. And
so also was Eurydice,—whom he loved and
won.
Hymen was called to bless with his presence
the nuptials of Orpheus with Eurydice, but he
conveyed no happy omens with him. His torch
smoked and brought tears into the eyes. In Fig. 92. Demeter,
keeping with such sad prognostics, Eurydice, Triptolemus, and
shortly after her marriage, was seen by the Proserpina
shepherd Aristæus, who was struck with her
beauty and made advances to her. As she fled
she trod upon a snake in the grass, and was
bitten in the foot. She died. Orpheus sang his
grief to all who breathed the upper air, both
gods and men, and finding his complaint of no
avail, resolved to seek his wife in the regions
of the dead. He descended by a cave situated
on the side of the promontory of Tænarus, and
arrived in the Stygian realm. He passed
through crowds of ghosts and presented
himself before the throne of Pluto and
Proserpine. Accompanying his words with the
lyre, he sang his petition for his wife. Without
her he would not return. In such tender strains
he sang that the very ghosts shed tears.
Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a

moment his efforts for water, Ixion's wheel Fig. 93. Orpheus and
stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant's Eurydice
liver, the daughters of Danaüs rested from From the painting by
their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Lord Leighton
Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen.[156] Then for
the first time, it is said, the cheeks of the
Furies were wet with tears. Proserpine could not resist and Pluto himself
gave way. Eurydice was called. She came from among the new-arrived
ghosts, limping with her wounded foot. Orpheus was permitted to take her
away with him on condition that he should not turn round to look at her till
they should have reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded
on their way, he leading, she following. Mindful of his promise, without let
or hindrance the bard passed through the horrors of hell. All Hades held its
breath.

Fig. 94. Farewell of
Orpheus and Eurydice

... On he slept,
And Cerberus held agape his triple jaws;
On stept the bard. Ixion's wheel stood still.
Now, past all peril, free was his return,
And now was hastening into upper air
Eurydice, when sudden madness seized
The incautious lover; pardonable fault,
If they below could pardon: on the verge
Of light he stood, and on Eurydice
(Mindless of fate, alas! and soul-subdued)
Lookt back.

There, Orpheus! Orpheus! there was all
Thy labor shed, there burst the Dynast's bond,
And thrice arose that rumor from the lake.
"Ah, what!" she cried, "what madness hath undone
Me! and, ah, wretched! thee, my Orpheus, too!
For lo! the cruel Fates recall me now;
Chill slumbers press my swimming eyes.... Farewell!
Night rolls intense around me as I spread
My helpless arms ... thine, thine no more ... to thee."

She spake, and, like a vapor, into air
Flew, nor beheld him as he claspt the void
And sought to speak; in vain; the ferry-guard
Now would not row him o'er the lake again,
His wife twice lost, what could he? whither go?
What chant, what wailing, move the Powers of Hell?
Cold in the Stygian bark and lone was she.

Beneath a rock o'er Strymon's flood on high,
Seven months, seven long-continued months, 'tis said,
He breath'd his sorrows in a desert cave,
And sooth'd the tiger, moved the oak, with song.[157]
The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their
advances. Finally, excited by the rites of Bacchus, one of them exclaimed,
"See yonder our despiser!" and threw at him her javelin. The weapon, as
soon as it came within the sound of his lyre, fell harmless at his feet; so also
the stones that they threw at him. But the women, raising a scream,
drowned the voice of the music, and overwhelmed him with their missiles.
Like maniacs they tore him limb from limb; then cast his head and lyre into
the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music to which
the shores responded. The Muses buried the fragments of his body at
Libethra, where the nightingale is said to sing over his grave more sweetly
than in any other part of Greece. His lyre was placed by Jupiter among the
stars; but the shade of the bard passed a second time to Tartarus and
rejoined Eurydice.
Other mortals who visited the Stygian realm and returned were Hercules,
Theseus, Ulysses, and Æneas.[158]

FOOTNOTES:

[151] Ovid, Metam. 5, 341-347.
[152] Song of Proserpine, while gathering flowers on the plain
of Enna.
[153] Ovid, Metam. 5. 440, 642; Apollodorus, 1, 5, § 2;
Hyginus, Fab. 147.

[154] From Proserpine, stanzas written by Lake Pergusa; by
George E. Woodberry (Century Magazine, July, 1909).
[155] Ovid, Metam. 10, 1-77.
[156] See Commentary
[157] From W. S. Landor's Orpheus and Eurydice in Dry Sticks.
[158] See Index.

CHAPTER X
MYTHS OF NEPTUNE, RULER OF THE WATERS

119. Lord of the Sea. Neptune (Poseidon) was lord both of salt waters and
of fresh. The myths that turn on his life as lord of the sea illustrate his
defiant invasions of lands belonging to other gods, or his character as earth
shaker and earth protector. Of his contests with other gods, that with
Minerva for Athens has been related. He contested Corinth with Helios,
Argos with Juno, Ægina with Jove, Naxos with Bacchus, and Delphi with
Apollo. That he did not always make encroachments in person upon the
land that he desired to possess or to punish, but sent some monster instead,
will be seen in the myth of Andromeda[159] and in the following story of
Hesione,[160] the daughter of Laomedon of Troy.
Neptune and Apollo had fallen under the displeasure of Jupiter after the
overthrow of the giants. They were compelled, it is said, to resign for a
season their respective functions and to serve Laomedon, then about to
build the city of Troy. They aided the king in erecting the walls of the city
but were refused the wages agreed upon. Justly offended, Neptune ravaged
the land by floods and sent against it a sea monster, to satiate the appetite of
which the desperate Laomedon was driven to offer his daughter Hesione.
But Hercules appeared upon the scene, killed the monster, and rescued the
maiden. Neptune, however, nursed his wrath; and it was still warm when
the Greeks marched against Troy.
Of a like impetuous and ungovernable temper were the sons of Neptune by
mortal mothers. From him were sprung the savage Læstrygonians, Orion,
the Cyclops Polyphemus, the giant Antæus whom Hercules slew,

Procrustes, and many another
redoubtable being whose fortunes are
elsewhere recounted.[161]
120. Lord of Streams and
Fountains. As earth shaker, the ruler
of the deep was known to effect
convulsions of nature that made
Pluto leap from his throne lest the
firmament of the underworld might
be falling about his ears. But as god
of the streams and fountains,
Neptune displayed milder
characteristics. When Amymone,
sent by her father Danaüs to draw
water, was pursued by a satyr,
Neptune gave ear to her cry for help,
dispatched the satyr, made love to
the maiden, and boring the earth with
his trident called forth the spring that
still bears the Danaïd's name. He
loved the goddess Ceres also,
through whose pastures his rivers
strayed; and Arne the shepherdess,
daughter of King Æolus, by whom Fig. 95. Poseidon
he became the forefather of the
Bœotians. His children, Pelias and
Neleus, by the princess Tyro, whom he wooed in the form of her lover
Enipeus, became keepers of horses—animals especially dear to Neptune.
Perhaps it was the similarity of horse-taming to wave-taming that attracted
the god to these quadrupeds; perhaps it was because they increased in
beauty and speed on the pastures watered by his streams. It is said, indeed,
that the first and fleetest of horses, Arion, was the offspring of Neptune and
Ceres, or of Neptune and a Fury.
121. Pelops and Hippodamia.[162] To Pelops, brother of Niobe, Neptune
imparted skill in training and driving horses,—and with good effect. For it
happened that Pelops fell in love with Hippodamia, daughter of Œnomaüs,

king of Elis and son of Mars,—a girl of whom it was reported that none
could win her save by worsting the father in a chariot race, and that none
might fail in that race and come off alive. Since an oracle, too, had warned
Œnomaüs to beware of the future husband of his daughter, he had provided
himself with horses whose speed was like the cyclone. But Pelops,
obtaining from Neptune winged steeds, entered the race and won it,—
whether by the speed of his horses or by the aid of Hippodamia, who, it is
said, bribed her father's charioteer, Myrtilus, to take a bolt out of the chariot
of Œnomaüs, is uncertain. At any rate, Pelops married Hippodamia. He was
so injudicious, however, as to throw Myrtilus into the sea; and from that
treachery sprang the misfortunes of the house of Pelops. For Myrtilus,
dying, cursed the murderer and his race.

Fig. 96. Pelops winning the Race, Hippodamia
looking on

FOOTNOTES:

[159] § 154.
[160] Iliad, 5, 649; Apollodorus, 3, 12, § 7.
[161] See Index.
[162] Hyginus, Fab. 84, 253; Pindar, Olymp. 1, 114.

CHAPTER XI
MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF HEAVEN

122. Myths of Stars and Winds. The tales of Stars and Winds and the
other lesser powers of the celestial regions are closely interwoven. That the
winds which sweep heaven should kiss the stars is easy to understand. The
stories of Aurora (Eos) and of Aura, of Phosphor and of Halcyone, form,
therefore, a ready sequence.

Fig. 97. Phosphor, Eos, and Helios (the Sun)
rising from the Sea

123. Cephalus and Procris.[163] Aurora, the goddess of the dawn, fell in
love with Cephalus, a young huntsman. She stole him away, lavished her
love upon him, tried to content him, but in vain. He cared for his young
wife Procris more than for the goddess. Finally, Aurora dismissed him in
displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep thy wife; but thou shalt
one day be sorry that thou didst ever see her again."
Cephalus returned and was as happy as before in his wife. She, being a
favorite of Diana, had received from her for the chase a dog and a javelin,
which she handed over to her husband. Of the dog it is told that when about
to catch the swiftest fox in the country, he was changed with his victim into
stone. For the heavenly powers, who had made both and rejoiced in the
speed of both, were not willing that either should conquer. The javelin was
destined to a sad office. It appears that Cephalus, when weary of the chase,
was wont to stretch himself in a certain shady nook to enjoy the breeze.
Sometimes he would say aloud, "Come, gentle Aura, sweet goddess of the
breeze, come and allay the heat that burns me." Some one, foolishly
believing that he addressed a maiden, told the secret to Procris. Hoping
against hope, she stole out after him the next morning and concealed herself

in the place which the informer had indicated. Cephalus, when tired with
sport, stretched himself on the green bank and summoned fair Aura as
usual. Suddenly he heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the
bushes. Supposing it to proceed from some wild animal, he threw his
javelin at the spot. A cry told him that the weapon had too surely met its
mark. He rushed to the place and raised his wounded Procris from the earth.
She, at last, opened her feeble eyes and forced herself to utter these words:
"I implore thee, if thou hast ever loved me, if I have ever deserved kindness
at thy hands, my husband, grant me this last request; marry not that odious
Breeze!" So saying, she expired in her lover's arms.

Fig. 98. Sun, rising, preceded by Dawn
From the painting by Guido Reni

Fig. 99. Sunrise; Eos pursuing Cephalus
124. Dobson's The Death of Procris. A different version of the story is
given in the following:

Procris, the nymph, had wedded Cephalus;—
He, till the spring had warmed to slow-winged days
Heavy with June, untired and amorous,

Named her his love; but now, in unknown ways,
His heart was gone; and evermore his gaze
Turned from her own, and even farther ranged
His woodland war; while she, in dull amaze,
Beholding with the hours her husband changed,
Sighed for his lost caress, by some hard god estranged.

So, on a day, she rose and found him not.
Alone, with wet, sad eye, she watched the shade
Brighten below a soft-rayed sun that shot
Arrows of light through all the deep-leaved glade;
Then, with weak hands, she knotted up the braid
Of her brown hair, and o'er her shoulders cast
Her crimson weed; with faltering fingers made
Her golden girdle's clasp to join, and past
Down to the trackless wood, full pale and overcast.

And all day long her slight spear devious flew,
And harmless swerved her arrows from their aim,
For ever, as the ivory bow she drew,
Before her ran the still unwounded game.
Then, at the last, a hunter's cry there came,
And, lo! a hart that panted with the chase.
Thereat her cheek was lightened as with flame,
And swift she gat her to a leafy place,
Thinking, "I yet may chance unseen to see his face."

Leaping he went, this hunter Cephalus,
Bent in his hand his cornel bow he bare,
Supple he was, round-limbed and vigorous,
Fleet as his dogs, a lean Laconian pair.
He, when he spied the brown of Procris' hair
Move in the covert, deeming that apart
Some fawn lay hidden, loosed an arrow there;
Nor cared to turn and seek the speeded dart,
Bounding above the fern, fast following up the hart.

But Procris lay among the white wind-flowers,

Shot in the throat. From out the little wound
The slow blood drained, as drops in autumn showers
Drip from the leaves upon the sodden ground.
None saw her die but Lelaps, the swift hound,
That watched her dumbly with a wistful fear,
Till, at the dawn, the hornèd wood-men found
And bore her gently on a sylvan bier,
To lie beside the sea,—with many an uncouth tear.
125. Ceyx and Halcyone. The son of Aurora and Cephalus was Phosphor,
the Star of Morning. His son Ceyx, king of Trachis in Thessaly, had married
Halcyone, daughter of Æolus.[164] Their reign was happy until the brother
of Ceyx met his death. The direful prodigies that followed this event made
Ceyx feel that the gods were hostile to him. He thought best therefore to
make a voyage to Claros in Ionia to consult the oracle of Apollo. In spite of
his wife's entreaties (for as daughter of the god of winds she knew how
dreadful a thing a storm at sea was), Ceyx set sail. He was shipwrecked and
drowned. His last prayer was that the waves might bear his body to the sight
of Halcyone, and that it might receive burial at her hands.
In the meanwhile, Halcyone counted the days till her husband's promised
return. To all the gods she offered frequent incense, but more than all to
Juno. The goddess, at last, could not bear to be further pleaded with for one
already dead. Calling Iris, she enjoined her to approach the drowsy dwelling
of Somnus and bid him send a vision to Halcyone in the form of Ceyx, to
reveal the sad event.
Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tinging the sky with her bow,
seeks the cave near the Cimmerian country, which is the abode of the dull
god, Somnus. Here Phœbus dare not come. Clouds and shadows are
exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers faintly. The cock never
there calls aloud to Aurora, nor watchdog nor goose disturbs the silence. No
wild beast, nor cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human
conversation breaks the stillness. From the bottom of the rock the river
Lethe flows, and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow before the
door of the cave, from whose juices Night distills slumbers which she
scatters over the darkened earth. There is no gate to creak on its hinges, nor
any watchman. In the midst, on a couch of black ebony adorned with black
plumes and black curtains the god reclines, his limbs relaxed in sleep.

Around him lie dreams, resembling all
various forms, as many as the harvest bears
stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore
sand grains.
Brushing away the dreams that hovered
around her, Iris lit up the cave and delivered
her message to the god, who, scarce opening
his eyes, had great difficulty in shaking
himself free from himself.
Then Iris hasted away from the drowsiness
creeping over her, and returned by her bow as
she had come. But Somnus called one of his
sons, Morpheus, the most expert in
counterfeiting forms of men, to perform the
command of Iris; then laid his head on his
pillow and yielded himself again to grateful
repose.
Morpheus flew on silent wings to the
Hæmonian city, where he assumed the form Fig. 100. The God of
of Ceyx. Pale like a dead man, naked and Sleep
dripping, he stood before the couch of the
wretched wife and told her that the winds of the Ægean had sunk his ship,
that he was dead.
Weeping and groaning, Halcyone sprang from sleep and, with the dawn,
hastening to the seashore, descried an indistinct object washed to and fro by
the waves. As it floated nearer she recognized the body of her husband. In
despair, leaping from the mole, she was changed instantly to a bird, and
poured forth a song of grief as she flew. By the mercy of the gods Ceyx was
likewise transformed. For seven days before and seven days after the winter
solstice, Jove forbids the winds to blow. Then Halcyone broods over her
nest; then the way is safe to seafarers. Æolus confines the winds that his
grandchildren may have peace.
126. Aurora and Tithonus.[165] Aurora seems frequently to have been
inspired with the love of mortals. Her greatest favorite, and almost her
latest, was Tithonus, son of Laomedon, king of Troy. She stole him away

and prevailed on Jupiter to grant him immortality; but forgetting to have
youth joined in the gift, after some time she began to discern, to her great
mortification, that he was growing old. When his hair was white she left his
society; but he still had the range of her palace, lived on ambrosial food,
and was clad in celestial raiment. In time he lost the power of using his
limbs; and then she shut him up in his chamber, whence his feeble voice
might at times be heard. Finally, she turned him into a grasshopper.
127. Tennyson's Tithonus. The following is, according to a fine poetic
conception, the lament of the old man when but a white-haired shadow:

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapors weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
And after many a summer dies the swan.
Me only cruel immortality
Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms,
Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream
The ever silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.

Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man—
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality."
Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,
Like wealthy men who care not how they give;
But thy strong Hours indignant work'd their wills,
And beat me down and marr'd and wasted me,
And tho' they could not end me, left me maim'd
To dwell in presence of immortal youth,
Immortal age beside immortal youth,
And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,
Thy beauty, make amends, tho' even now,
Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,
Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears

To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:
Why should a man desire in any way
To vary from the kindly race of men,
Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance
Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes
A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.
Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals
From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure,
And bosom beating with a heart renew'd.
Thy cheek begins to redden thro' the gloom,
Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine,
Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team
Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise,
And shake the darkness from their loosen'd manes,
And beat the twilight into flakes of fire.

Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful
In silence, then before thine answer given
Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek.
Why wilt them ever scare me with thy tears,
And make me tremble lest a saying learnt
In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true?
"The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts."

Ay me! ay me! with what another heart
In days far-off, and with what other eyes
I used to watch—if I be he that watched—
The lucid outline forming round thee; saw
The dim curls kindle into sunny rings;
Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood
Glow with the glow that slowly crimson'd all
Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay,
Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm
With kisses balmier than half-opening buds
Of April, and could hear the lips that kiss'd

Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,
Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,
While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not forever in thine East:
How can my nature longer mix with thine?
Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold
Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet
Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam
Floats up from those dim fields about the homes
Of happy men that have the power to die,
And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
Release me, and restore me to the ground;
Thou seëst all things, thou wilt see my grave:
Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn;
I earth in earth forget these empty courts,
And thee returning on thy silver wheels.
128. Memnon, the son of Aurora and Tithonus, was king of the Æthiopians.
He went with warriors to assist his kindred in the Trojan War, and was
received by King Priam with honor. He fought bravely, slew Antilochus, the
brave son of Nestor, and held the Greeks at bay until Achilles appeared.
Before that hero he fell.
Then Aurora, seeing her son's fate, directed his brothers, the Winds, to
convey his body to the banks of the river Æsepus in Mysia. In the evening
Aurora, accompanied by the Hours and the Pleiads, bewept her son. Night
spread the heaven with clouds; all nature mourned for the offspring of the
Dawn. The Æthiopians raised his tomb on the banks of the stream in the
grove of the Nymphs, and Jupiter caused the sparks and cinders of his
funeral pile to be turned into birds, which, dividing into two flocks, fought
over the pile till they fell into the flame. Every year at the anniversary of his
death they celebrated his obsequies in like manner. Aurora remained
inconsolable. The dewdrops are her tears.[166]
The kinship of Memnon to the Dawn is certified even after his death. On
the banks of the Nile are two colossal statues, one of which is called
Memnon's; and it was said that when the first rays of morning fell upon this
statue, a sound like the snapping of a harp-string issued therefrom.[167]

So to the sacred Sun in
Memnon's fane
Spontaneous concords
choired the matin
strain;
Touched by his orient beam
responsive rings
The living lyre and vibrates
all its strings;
Accordant aisles the tender
tones prolong,
And holy echoes swell the
adoring song.[168]

Fig. 101. The Death of Memnon

FOOTNOTES:

[163] Ovid, Metam. 7, 394 et seq.
[164] Ovid, Metam. 11, 583-748.
[165] Homeric Hymn to Venus; Horace, Odes, 1, 22; 2, 16;
Apollodorus, 3, 12, § 4.
[166] Ovid, Metam. 13, 622, etc. Odyssey, 4, 188; 11, 522.
Pindar, Pyth. 6, 30.
[167] Pausanias, 1, 42, § 2.
[168] Darwin, Botanic Garden.

CHAPTER XII
MYTHS OF THE LESSER DIVINITIES OF EARTH, ETC.

129. Pan, and the Personification of Nature. It was a pleasing trait in the
old paganism that it loved to trace in every operation of nature the agency
of deity. The imagination of the Greeks peopled the regions of earth and sea

with divinities, to whose agency it attributed the phenomena that our
philosophy ascribes to the operation of natural law. So Pan, the god of
woods and fields,[169] whose name seemed to signify all, came to be
considered a symbol of the universe and a personification of Nature.
"Universal Pan," says Milton in his description of the creation:

Universal Pan,
Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance,
Led on the eternal Spring.

Later, Pan came to be regarded as a representative of all the Greek gods and
of paganism itself. Indeed, according to an early Christian tradition, when
the heavenly host announced to the shepherds the birth of Christ, a deep
groan, heard through the isles of Greece, told that great Pan was dead, that
the dynasty of Olympus was dethroned, and the several deities sent
wandering in cold and darkness.

The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edged with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower-inwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.[170]

Many a poet has lamented the change. For even if the head did profit for a
time by the revolt against the divine prerogative of nature, it is more than
possible that the heart lost in due proportion.
His sorrow at this loss of imaginative sympathy among the moderns
Wordsworth expresses in the sonnet, already cited, beginning "The world is
too much with us." Schiller, also, by his poem, The Gods of Greece, has
immortalized his sorrow for the decadence of the ancient mythology.

Ah, the beauteous world while yet ye ruled it,—
Yet—by gladsome touches of the hand;
Ah, the joyous hearts that still ye governed,

Gods of Beauty, ye, of Fable-
land!
Then, ah, then, the mysteries
resplendent
Triumphed.—Other was it then,
I ween,
When thy shrines were odorous
with garlands,
Thou, of Amathus the queen.

Then the gracious veil, of fancy
woven,
Fell in folds about the fact
uncouth;
Through the universe life flowed
in fullness, Fig. 102. Pan Blowing His
What we feel not now was felt Pipe, Echo Answering
in sooth:
Man ascribed nobility to Nature,
Rendered love unto the earth he trod,
Everywhere his eye, illuminated,
Saw the footprints of a God.
* * * * *
Lovely world, where art thou? Turn, oh, turn thee,
Fairest blossom-tide of Nature's spring!
Only in the poet's realm of wonder
Liv'st thou, still,—a fable vanishing.
Reft of life the meadows lie deserted;
Ne'er a godhead can my fancy see:
Ah, if only of those living colors
Lingered yet the ghost with me![171]
* * * * *
It was the poem from which these stanzas are taken that provoked the well-
known reply of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, contained in The Dead Pan.
Her argument may be gathered from the following stanzas:

By your beauty which confesses

Some chief Beauty conquering you,
By our grand heroic guesses
Through your falsehood at the True,
We will weep not! earth shall roll
Heir to each god's aureole,
And Pan is dead.

Earth outgrows the mythic fancies
Sung beside her in her youth;
And those debonair romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phœbus' chariot course is run!
Look up, poets, to the sun!
Pan, Pan is dead.
130. Stedman's Pan in Wall Street.[172] That Pan, however, is not yet dead
but alive even in the practical atmosphere of our western world, the poem
here appended, written by one of our recently deceased American poets,
would indicate.

Just where the Treasury's marble front
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont
To throng for trade and last quotations;
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter chimes, serenely tolled
From Trinity's undaunted steeple,—

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain
Sound high above the modern clamor,
Above the cries of greed and gain,
The curbstone war, the auction's hammer;
And swift, on Music's misty ways,
It led, from all this strife for millions,
To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days
Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it still'd the multitude,
And yet more joyous rose, and
shriller,
I saw the minstrel where he stood
At ease against a Doric pillar:
One hand a droning organ play'd,
The other held a Pan's pipe
(fashioned
Like those of old) to lips that made
The reeds give out that strain
impassioned.

'T was Pan himself had wandered
here,
A-strolling through the sordid city,
And piping to the civic ear
The prelude of some pastoral ditty!
The demigod had cross'd the seas,—
From haunts of shepherd, nymph,
and satyr, Fig. 103. The Music
And Syracusan times,—to these Lesson
Far shores and twenty centuries
later.

A ragged cap was on his head:
But—hidden thus—there was no doubting
That, all with crispy locks o'erspread,
His gnarlèd horns were somewhere sprouting;
His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes,
Were cross'd, as on some frieze you see them.
And trousers, patched of divers hues,
Conceal'd his crooked shanks beneath them.

Fig. 104. Bacchic Dance

He filled the quivering reeds with sound,
And o'er his mouth their changes shifted,
And with his goat's-eyes looked around
Where'er the passing current drifted;
And soon, as on Trinacrian hills
The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him,
Even now the tradesmen from their tills,
With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

The bulls and bears together drew
From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley,
As erst, if pastorals be true,
Came beasts from every wooded valley;
The random passers stay'd to list,—
A boxer Ægon, rough and merry,—
Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst
With Naïs at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long
In tatter'd cloak of army pattern,
And Galatea joined the throng,—
A blowsy, apple-vending slattern;
While old Silenus stagger'd out
From some new-fangled lunch-house handy
And bade the piper, with a shout,
To strike up "Yankee Doodle Dandy!"

A newsboy and a peanut girl