“. . . That Nyseian isle,Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,Hid Amalthea and her florid son,Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye.”
“. . . That Nyseian isle,Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,Hid Amalthea and her florid son,Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye.”
“. . . That Nyseian isle,Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,Hid Amalthea and her florid son,Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye.”
“. . . That Nyseian isle,
Girt with the river Triton, where old Cham,
Whom Gentiles Ammon call, and Libyan Jove,
Hid Amalthea and her florid son,
Young Bacchus, from his stepdame Rhea’s eye.”
Æsculapius, the son of Apollo, was endowed by his father with such skill in the healing art that he evenrestored the dead to life. At this Pluto took alarm, and prevailed on Jupiter to launch a thunderbolt at Æsculapius. Apollo was indignant at the destruction of his son, and wreaked his vengeance on the innocent workmen who had made the thunderbolt. These were the Cyclopes, who have their workshop under Mount Ætna, from which the smoke and flames of their furnaces are constantly issuing. Apollo shot his arrows at the Cyclopes, which so incensed Jupiter that he condemned him as a punishment to become the servant of 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 Amphrysos.
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 fell ill, and being near to death, Apollo prevailed on the Fates to spare him on condition that some one would consent to die in his stead. Admetus, in his joy at this reprieve, thought little of the ransom, and perhaps remembering the declarations of 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 perilled 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 nothave 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. Alcestis sickened as Admetus revived, and she was rapidly sinking to the grave.
Just at this time Hercules arrived at the palace of Admetus, and found all the inmates in great distress for the impending loss of the devoted wife and beloved mistress. Hercules, to whom no labor was too arduous, resolved to attempt her rescue. He went and lay in wait at the door of the chamber of the dying queen, and when Death came for his prey, he seized him and forced him to resign his victim. Alcestis recovered, and was restored to her husband.
Milton alludes to the story of Alcestis in his Sonnet “on his deceased wife”:
“Methought I saw my late espoused saintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.”
“Methought I saw my late espoused saintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.”
“Methought I saw my late espoused saintBrought to me like Alcestis from the grave,Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.”
“Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.”
J. R. Lowell has chosen the “Shepherd of King Admetus” for the subject of a short poem. He makes that event the first introduction of poetry to men.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother was a god.”
“And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother was a god.”
“And day by day more holy grewEach spot where he had trod,Till after-poets only knewTheir first-born brother was a god.”
“And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod,
Till after-poets only knew
Their first-born brother was a god.”
A large proportion both of the interesting persons and of the exalted acts of legendary Greece belongs to the female sex. Antigone was as bright an example of filial and sisterly fidelity as was Alcestis of connubialdevotion. She was the daughter of Œdipus and Jocasta, who with all their descendants were the victims of an unrelenting fate, dooming them to destruction. Œdipus in his madness had torn out his eyes, and was driven forth from his kingdom Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all men, as an object of divine vengeance. Antigone, his daughter, alone shared his wanderings and remained with him till he died, and then returned to Thebes.
Her brothers, Eteocles and Polynices, had agreed to share the kingdom between them, and reign alternately year by year. The first year fell to the lot of Eteocles, who, when his time expired, refused to surrender the kingdom to his brother. Polynices fled to Adrastus, king of Argos, who gave him his daughter in marriage, and aided him with an army to enforce his claim to the kingdom. This led to the celebrated expedition of the “Seven against Thebes,” which furnished ample materials for the epic and tragic poets of Greece.
Amphiaraus, the brother-in-law of Adrastus, opposed the enterprise, for he was a soothsayer, and knew by his art that no one of the leaders except Adrastus would live to return. But Amphiaraus, on his marriage to Eriphyle, the king’s sister, had agreed that whenever he and Adrastus should differ in opinion, the decision should be left to Eriphyle. Polynices, knowing this, gave Eriphyle the collar of Harmonia, and thereby gained her to his interest. This collar or necklace was a present which Vulcan had given to Harmonia on her marriage with Cadmus, and Polynices had taken it with him on his flight from Thebes. Eriphyle could not resist so tempting a bribe, and by her decision the war was resolved on, and Amphiaraus went to his certain fate. He bore his part bravely in the contest, but could not avert his destiny. Pursued by the enemy, he fled along the river, when a thunderbolt launched by Jupiter opened the ground, and he, his chariot, and his charioteer were swallowed up.
It would not be in place here to detail all the acts of heroism or atrocity which marked the contest; but we must not omit to record the fidelity of Evadne asan offset to the weakness of Eriphyle. Capaneus, the husband of Evadne, in the ardor of the fight declared that he would force his way into the city in spite of Jove himself. Placing a ladder against the wall he mounted, but Jupiter, offended at his impious language, struck him with a thunderbolt. When his obsequies were celebrated, Evadne cast herself on his funeral pile and perished.
Early in the contest Eteocles consulted the soothsayer Tiresias as to the issue. Tiresias in his youth had by chance seen Minerva bathing. The goddess in her wrath deprived him of his sight, but afterwards relenting gave him in compensation the knowledge of future events. When consulted by Eteocles, he declared that victory should fall to Thebes if Menœceus, the son of Creon, gave himself a voluntary victim. The heroic youth, learning the response, threw away his life in the first encounter.
The siege continued long, with various success. At length both hosts agreed that the brothers should decide their quarrel by single combat. They fought and fell by each other’s hands. The armies then renewed the fight, and at last the invaders were forced to yield, and fled, leaving their dead unburied. Creon, the uncle of the fallen princes, now become king, caused Eteocles to be buried with distinguished honor, but suffered the body of Polynices to lie where it fell, forbidding every one on pain of death to give it burial.
Antigone, the sister of Polynices, heard with indignation the revolting edict which consigned her brother’s body to the dogs and vultures, depriving it of those rites which were considered essential to the repose of the dead. Unmoved by the dissuading counsel of an affectionate but timid sister, and unable to procure assistance, she determined to brave the hazard, and to bury the body with her own hands. She was detected in the act, and Creon gave orders that she should be buried alive, as having deliberately set at naught the solemn edict of the city. Her lover, Hæmon, the son of Creon, unable to avert her fate, would not survive her, and fell by his own hand.
Antigone forms the subject of two fine tragedies of the Grecian poet Sophocles. Mrs. Jameson, in her “Characteristics of Women,” has compared her character with that of Cordelia, in Shakspeare’s “King Lear.” The perusal of her remarks cannot fail to gratify our readers.
The following is the lamentation of Antigone over Œdipus, when death has at last relieved him from his sufferings:
“Alas! I only wished I might have diedWith my poor father; wherefore should I askFor longer life?O, I was fond of misery with him;E’en what was most unlovely grew belovedWhen he was with me. O my dearest father,Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou stillWast dear, and shalt be ever.”—Francklin’s Sophocles.
“Alas! I only wished I might have diedWith my poor father; wherefore should I askFor longer life?O, I was fond of misery with him;E’en what was most unlovely grew belovedWhen he was with me. O my dearest father,Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou stillWast dear, and shalt be ever.”—Francklin’s Sophocles.
“Alas! I only wished I might have diedWith my poor father; wherefore should I askFor longer life?O, I was fond of misery with him;E’en what was most unlovely grew belovedWhen he was with me. O my dearest father,Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou stillWast dear, and shalt be ever.”—Francklin’s Sophocles.
“Alas! I only wished I might have diedWith my poor father; wherefore should I askFor longer life?O, I was fond of misery with him;E’en what was most unlovely grew belovedWhen he was with me. O my dearest father,Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou stillWast dear, and shalt be ever.”—Francklin’s Sophocles.
“Alas! I only wished I might have died
With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
For longer life?
O, I was fond of misery with him;
E’en what was most unlovely grew beloved
When he was with me. O my dearest father,
Beneath the earth now in deep darkness hid,
Worn as thou wert with age, to me thou still
Wast dear, and shalt be ever.”
—Francklin’s Sophocles.
Penelope is another of those mythic heroines whose beauties were rather those of character and conduct than of person. She was the daughter of Icarius, a Spartan prince. Ulysses, king of Ithaca, sought her in marriage, and won her, over all competitors. When the moment came for the bride to leave her father’s house, Icarius, unable to bear the thoughts of parting with his daughter, tried to persuade her to remain with him, and not accompany her husband to Ithaca. Ulysses gave Penelope her choice, to stay or go with him. Penelope made no reply, but dropped her veil over her face. Icarius urged her no further, but when she was gone erected a statue to Modesty on the spot where they parted.
Ulysses and Penelope had not enjoyed their union more than a year when it was interrupted by the events which called Ulysses to the Trojan war. During his long absence, and when it was doubtful whether he still lived, and highly improbable that he would ever return, Penelope was importuned by numerous suitors, from whom there seemed no refuge but in choosing one ofthem for her husband. Penelope, however, employed every art to gain time, still hoping for Ulysses’ return. One of her arts of delay was engaging in the preparation of a robe for the funeral canopy of Laertes, her husband’s father. She pledged herself to make her choice among the suitors when the robe was finished. During the day she worked at the robe, but in the night she undid the work of the day. This is the famous Penelope’s web, which is used as a proverbial expression for anything which is perpetually doing but never done. The rest of Penelope’s history will be told when we give an account of her husband’s adventures.
————
Orpheuswas the son of Apollo and the Muse Calliope. He was presented by his father with a Lyre and taught to play upon it, which he did to such perfection that nothing could withstand the charm of his music. Not only his fellow-mortals but wild beasts were softened by his strains, and gathering round him laid by their fierceness, and stood entranced with his lay. Nay, the very trees and rocks were sensible to the charm. The former crowded round him and the latter relaxed somewhat of their hardness, softened by his notes.
Hymen had been called to bless with his presence the nuptials of Orpheus with Eurydice; but though he attended, he brought no happy omens with him. His very torch smoked and brought tears into their eyes. In coincidence with such prognostics, Eurydice, shortly after her marriage, while wandering with the nymphs, her companions, was seen by the shepherd Aristæus, who was struck with her beauty and made advances toher. She fled, and in flying trod upon a snake in the grass, was bitten in the foot, and died. Orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and finding it all unavailing 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 at the Stygian realm. He passed through crowds of ghosts and presented himself before the throne of Pluto and Proserpine. Accompanying the words with the lyre, he sung, “O deities of the underworld, to whom all we who live must come, hear my words, for they are true. I come not to spy out the secrets of Tartarus, nor to try my strength against the three-headed dog with snaky hair who guards the entrance. I come to seek my wife, whose opening years the poisonous viper’s fang has brought to an untimely end. Love has led me here, Love, a god all powerful with us who dwell on the earth, and, if old traditions say true, not less so here. I implore you by these abodes full of terror, these realms of silence and uncreated things, unite again the thread of Eurydice’s life. We all are destined to you, and sooner or later must pass to your domain. She too, when she shall have filled her term of life, will rightly be yours. But till then grant her to me, I beseech you. If you deny me I cannot return alone; you shall triumph in the death of us both.”
As he sang these tender strains, the very ghosts shed tears. Tantalus, in spite of his thirst, stopped for a moment his efforts for water, Ixion’s wheel stood still, the vulture ceased to tear the giant’s liver, the daughters of Danaüs rested from their task of drawing water in a sieve, and Sisyphus sat on his rock to listen. 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 one condition, that he should not turn around to look at her till they should have reached the upper air. Under this condition they proceeded ontheir way, he leading, she following, through passages dark and steep, in total silence, till they had nearly reached the outlet into the cheerful upper world, when Orpheus, in a moment of forgetfulness, to assure himself that she was still following, cast a glance behind him, when instantly she was borne away. Stretching out their arms to embrace each other, they grasped only the air! Dying now a second time, she yet cannot reproach her husband, for how can she blame his impatience to behold her? “Farewell,” she said, “a last farewell,”—and was hurried away, so fast that the sound hardly reached his ears.
Orpheus endeavored to follow her, and besought permission to return and try once more for her release; but the stern ferryman repulsed him and refused passage. Seven days he lingered about the brink, without food or sleep; then bitterly accusing of cruelty the powers of Erebus, he sang his complaints to the rocks and mountains, melting the hearts of tigers and moving the oaks from their stations. He held himself aloof from womankind, dwelling constantly on the recollection of his sad mischance. The Thracian maidens tried their best to captivate him, but he repulsed their advances. They bore with him as long as they could; but finding him insensible one day, 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 did also the stones that they threw at him. But the women raised a scream and drowned the voice of the music, and then the missiles reached him and soon were stained with his blood. The maniacs tore him limb from limb, and threw his head and his lyre into the river Hebrus, down which they floated, murmuring sad music, to which the shores responded a plaintive symphony. The Muses gathered up the fragments of his body and buried them 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. His shade passed a second time to Tartarus, where he sought out his Eurydice and embraced herwith eager arms. They roam the happy fields together now, sometimes he leading, sometimes she; and Orpheus gazes as much as he will upon her, no longer incurring a penalty for a thoughtless glance.
The story of Orpheus has furnished Pope with an illustration of the power of music, for his “Ode for St. Cecilia’s Day.” The following stanza relates the conclusion of the story:
“But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love.Now under hanging mountains,Beside the falls of fountains,Or where Hebrus wanders,Rolling in meanders,All alone,He makes his moan,And calls her ghost,Forever, ever, ever lost!Now with furies surrounded,Despairing, confounded,He trembles, he glows,Amidst Rhodope’s snows.See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries;Ah, see, he dies!Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:Eurydice the woodsEurydice the floodsEurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”
“But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love.Now under hanging mountains,Beside the falls of fountains,Or where Hebrus wanders,Rolling in meanders,All alone,He makes his moan,And calls her ghost,Forever, ever, ever lost!Now with furies surrounded,Despairing, confounded,He trembles, he glows,Amidst Rhodope’s snows.See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries;Ah, see, he dies!Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:Eurydice the woodsEurydice the floodsEurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”
“But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love.Now under hanging mountains,Beside the falls of fountains,Or where Hebrus wanders,Rolling in meanders,All alone,He makes his moan,And calls her ghost,Forever, ever, ever lost!Now with furies surrounded,Despairing, confounded,He trembles, he glows,Amidst Rhodope’s snows.See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries;Ah, see, he dies!Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:Eurydice the woodsEurydice the floodsEurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”
“But soon, too soon the lover turns his eyes;
Again she falls, again she dies, she dies!
How wilt thou now the fatal sisters move?
No crime was thine, if ’tis no crime to love.
Now under hanging mountains,
Beside the falls of fountains,
Or where Hebrus wanders,
Rolling in meanders,
All alone,
He makes his moan,
And calls her ghost,
Forever, ever, ever lost!
Now with furies surrounded,
Despairing, confounded,
He trembles, he glows,
Amidst Rhodope’s snows.
See, wild as the winds o’er the desert he flies;
Hark! Hæmus resounds with the Bacchanals’ cries;
Ah, see, he dies!
Yet even in death Eurydice he sung,
Eurydice still trembled on his tongue:
Eurydice the woods
Eurydice the floods
Eurydice the rocks and hollow mountains rung.”
The superior melody of the nightingale’s song over the grave of Orpheus is alluded to by Southey in his “Thalaba”:
“Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellowed songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote;The murmuring of the leafy groves;The single nightingalePerched in the rosier by, so richly toned,That never from that most melodious birdSinging a love song to his brooding mate,Did Thracian shepherd by the graveOf Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,Though there the spirit of the sepulchreAll his own power infuse, to swellThe incense that he loves.”
“Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellowed songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote;The murmuring of the leafy groves;The single nightingalePerched in the rosier by, so richly toned,That never from that most melodious birdSinging a love song to his brooding mate,Did Thracian shepherd by the graveOf Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,Though there the spirit of the sepulchreAll his own power infuse, to swellThe incense that he loves.”
“Then on his ear what soundsOf harmony arose!Far music and the distance-mellowed songFrom bowers of merriment;The waterfall remote;The murmuring of the leafy groves;The single nightingalePerched in the rosier by, so richly toned,That never from that most melodious birdSinging a love song to his brooding mate,Did Thracian shepherd by the graveOf Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,Though there the spirit of the sepulchreAll his own power infuse, to swellThe incense that he loves.”
“Then on his ear what sounds
Of harmony arose!
Far music and the distance-mellowed song
From bowers of merriment;
The waterfall remote;
The murmuring of the leafy groves;
The single nightingale
Perched in the rosier by, so richly toned,
That never from that most melodious bird
Singing a love song to his brooding mate,
Did Thracian shepherd by the grave
Of Orpheus hear a sweeter melody,
Though there the spirit of the sepulchre
All his own power infuse, to swell
The incense that he loves.”
Man avails himself of the instincts of the inferior animals for his own advantage. Hence sprang the art of keeping bees. Honey must first have been known as a wild product, the bees building their structures in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, or any similar cavity that chance offered. Thus occasionally the carcass of a dead animal would be occupied by the bees for that purpose. It was no doubt from some such incident that the superstition arose that the bees were engendered by the decaying flesh of the animal; and Virgil, in the following story, shows how this supposed fact may be turned to account for renewing the swarm when it has been lost by disease or accident:
Aristæus, who first taught the management of bees, was the son of the water-nymph Cyrene. His bees had perished, and he resorted for aid to his mother. He stood at the river-side and thus addressed her: “O mother, the pride of my life is taken from me! I have lost my precious bees. My care and skill have availed me nothing, and you my mother have not warded off from me the blow of misfortune.” His mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river, with her attendant nymphs around her. They were engaged in female occupations, spinning and weaving, while one told stories to amuse the rest. The sad voice of Aristæus interrupting their occupation, one of them put her head above the water and seeing him, returned and gave information to his mother, who ordered that he should be brought into her presence. The river at her command opened itself and let him pass in, while it stood curled like a mountain on either side. He descended to the region where the fountains of the great rivers lie; he saw the enormous receptacles of watersand was almost deafened with the roar, while he surveyed them hurrying off in various directions to water the face of the earth. Arriving at his mother’s apartment, he was hospitably received by Cyrene and her nymphs, who spread their table with the richest dainties. They first poured out libations to Neptune, then regaled themselves with the feast, and after that Cyrene thus addressed him: “There is an old prophet named Proteus, who dwells in the sea and is a favorite of Neptune, whose herd of sea-calves he pastures. We nymphs hold him in great respect, for he is a learned sage and knows all things, past, present, and to come. He can tell you, my son, the cause of the mortality among your bees, and how you may remedy it. But he will not do it voluntarily, however you may entreat him. You must compel him by force. If you seize him and chain him, he will answer your questions in order to get released, for he cannot by all his arts get away if you hold fast the chains. I will carry you to his cave, where he comes at noon to take his midday repose. Then you may easily secure him. But when he finds himself captured, his resort is to a power he possesses of changing himself into various forms. He will become a wild boar or a fierce tiger, a scaly dragon or lion with yellow mane. Or he will make a noise like the crackling of flames or the rush of water, so as to tempt you to let go the chain, when he will make his escape. But you have only to keep him fast bound, and at last when he finds all his arts unavailing, he will return to his own figure and obey your commands.” So saying she sprinkled her son with fragrant nectar, the beverage of the gods, and immediately an unusual vigor filled his frame, and courage his heart, while perfume breathed all around him.
The nymph led her son to the prophet’s cave and concealed him among the recesses of the rocks, while she herself took her place behind the clouds. When noon came and the hour when men and herds retreat from the glaring sun to indulge in quiet slumber, Proteus issued from the water, followed by his herd of sea-calves which spread themselves along the shore. He sat on the rock and counted his herd; then stretched himself onthe floor of the cave and went to sleep. Aristæus hardly allowed him to get fairly asleep before he fixed the fetters on him and shouted aloud. Proteus, waking and finding himself captured, immediately resorted to his arts, becoming first a fire, then a flood, then a horrible wild beast, in rapid succession. But finding all would not do, he at last resumed his own form and addressed the youth in angry accents: “Who are you, bold youth, who thus invade my abode, and what do you want of me?” Aristæus replied, “Proteus, you know already, for it is needless for any one to attempt to deceive you. And do you also cease your efforts to elude me. I am led hither by divine assistance, to know from you the cause of my misfortune and how to remedy it.” At these words the prophet, fixing on him his gray eyes with a piercing look, thus spoke: “You receive the merited reward of your deeds, by which Eurydice met her death, for in flying from you she trod upon a serpent, of whose bite she died. To avenge her death, the nymphs, her companions, have sent this destruction to your bees. You have to appease their anger, and thus it must be done: Select four bulls, of perfect form and size, and four cows of equal beauty, build four altars to the nymphs, and sacrifice the animals, leaving their carcasses in the leafy grove. To Orpheus and Eurydice you shall pay such funeral honors as may allay their resentment. Returning after nine days, you will examine the bodies of the cattle slain and see what will befall.” Aristæus faithfully obeyed these directions. He sacrificed the cattle, he left their bodies in the grove, he offered funeral honors to the shades of Orpheus and Eurydice; then returning on the ninth day he examined the bodies of the animals, and, wonderful to relate! a swarm of bees had taken possession of one of the carcasses and were pursuing their labors there as in a hive.
In “The Task,” Cowper alludes to the story of Aristæus, when speaking of the ice-palace built by the Empress Anne of Russia. He has been describing the fantastic forms which ice assumes in connection with waterfalls, etc.:
“Less worthy of applause though more admiredBecause a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the north. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its storesT’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floodsAnd make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear.”
“Less worthy of applause though more admiredBecause a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the north. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its storesT’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floodsAnd make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear.”
“Less worthy of applause though more admiredBecause a novelty, the work of man,Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,The wonder of the north. No forest fellWhen thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its storesT’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floodsAnd make thy marble of the glassy wave.In such a palace Aristæus foundCyrene, when he bore the plaintive taleOf his lost bees to her maternal ear.”
“Less worthy of applause though more admired
Because a novelty, the work of man,
Imperial mistress of the fur-clad Russ,
Thy most magnificent and mighty freak,
The wonder of the north. No forest fell
When thou wouldst build, no quarry sent its stores
T’ enrich thy walls; but thou didst hew the floods
And make thy marble of the glassy wave.
In such a palace Aristæus found
Cyrene, when he bore the plaintive tale
Of his lost bees to her maternal ear.”
Milton also appears to have had Cyrene and her domestic scene in his mind when he describes to us Sabrina, the nymph of the river Severn, in the Guardian-spirit’s Song in “Comus”:
“Sabrina fair!Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent waveIn twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honor’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake!Listen and save.”
“Sabrina fair!Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent waveIn twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honor’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake!Listen and save.”
“Sabrina fair!Listen where thou art sittingUnder the glassy, cool, translucent waveIn twisted braids of lilies knittingThe loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;Listen for dear honor’s sake,Goddess of the silver lake!Listen and save.”
“Sabrina fair!
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;
Listen for dear honor’s sake,
Goddess of the silver lake!
Listen and save.”
The following are other celebrated mythical poets and musicians, some of whom were hardly inferior to Orpheus himself:
Amphion was the son of Jupiter and Antiope, queen of Thebes. With his twin brother Zethus he was exposed at birth on Mount Cithæron, where they grew up among the shepherds, not knowing their parentage. Mercury gave Amphion a lyre and taught him to play upon it, and his brother occupied himself in hunting and tending the flocks. Meanwhile Antiope, their mother, who had been treated with great cruelty by Lycus, the usurping king of Thebes, and by Dirce, his wife, found means to inform her children of their rights and to summon them to her assistance. With a band of their fellow-herdsmen they attacked and slew Lycus, and tying Dirce by the hair of her head to a bull, let him drag hertill she was dead. Amphion, having become king of Thebes, fortified the city with a wall. It is said that when he played on his lyre the stones moved of their own accord and took their places in the wall.
See Tennyson’s poem of “Amphion” for an amusing use made of this story.
Linus was the instructor of Hercules in music, but having one day reproved his pupil rather harshly, he roused the anger of Hercules, who struck him with his lyre and killed him.
An ancient Thracian bard, who in his presumption challenged the Muses to a trial of skill, and being overcome in the contest, was deprived by them of his sight. Milton alludes to him with other blind bards, when speaking of his own blindness, “Paradise Lost,” Book III., 35.
Minerva invented the flute, and played upon it to the delight of all the celestial auditors; but the mischievous urchin Cupid having dared to laugh at the queer face which the goddess made while playing, Minerva threw the instrument indignantly away, and it fell down to earth, and was found by Marsyas. He blew upon it, and drew from it such ravishing sounds that he was tempted to challenge Apollo himself to a musical contest. The god of course triumphed, and punished Marsyas by flaying him alive.
Melampus was the first mortal endowed with prophetic powers. Before his house there stood an oak tree containing a serpent’s nest. The old serpents were killed by the servants, but Melampus took care of the young ones and fed them carefully. One day when he was asleep under the oak the serpents licked his earswith their tongues. On awaking he was astonished to find that he now understood the language of birds and creeping things. This knowledge enabled him to foretell future events, and he became a renowned soothsayer. At one time his enemies took him captive and kept him strictly imprisoned. Melampus in the silence of the night heard the woodworms in the timbers talking together, and found out by what they said that the timbers were nearly eaten through and the roof would soon fall in. He told his captors and demanded to be let out, warning them also. They took his warning, and thus escaped destruction, and rewarded Melampus and held him in high honor.
A semi-mythological personage who was represented by one tradition to be the son of Orpheus. He is said to have written sacred poems and oracles. Milton couples his name with that of Orpheus in his “Il Penseroso”:
“But O, sad virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what love did seek.”
“But O, sad virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what love did seek.”
“But O, sad virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musæus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,And made Hell grant what love did seek.”
“But O, sad virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek.”
————
Thepoets whose adventures compose this chapter were real persons some of whose works yet remain, and their influence on poets who succeeded them is yet more important than their poetical remains. The adventures recorded of them in the following stories rest on the same authority as other narratives of the “Age of Fable,” that is, of the poets who have told them. In their present form, the first two are translated fromthe German, Arion from Schlegel, and Ibycus from Schiller.
Arion was a famous musician, and dwelt in the court of Periander, king of Corinth, with whom he was a great favorite. There was to be a musical contest in Sicily, and Arion longed to compete for the prize. He told his wish to Periander, who besought him like a brother to give up the thought. “Pray stay with me,” he said, “and be contented. He who strives to win may lose.” Arion answered, “A wandering life best suits the free heart of a poet. The talent which a god bestowed on me, I would fain make a source of pleasure to others. And if I win the prize, how will the enjoyment of it be increased by the consciousness of my widespread fame!” He went, won the prize, and embarked with his wealth in a Corinthian ship for home. On the second morning after setting sail, the wind breathed mild and fair. “O Periander,” he exclaimed, “dismiss your fears! Soon shall you forget them in my embrace. With what lavish offerings will we display our gratitude to the gods, and how merry will we be at the festal board!” The wind and sea continued propitious. Not a cloud dimmed the firmament. He had not trusted too much to the ocean—but he had to man. He overheard the seamen exchanging hints with one another, and found they were plotting to possess themselves of his treasure. Presently they surrounded him loud and mutinous, and said, “Arion, you must die! If you would have a grave on shore, yield yourself to die on this spot; but if otherwise, cast yourself into the sea.” “Will nothing satisfy you but my life?” said he. “Take my gold, and welcome. I willingly buy my life at that price.” “No, no; we cannot spare you. Your life would be too dangerous to us. Where could we go to escape from Periander, if he should know that you had been robbed by us? Your gold would be of little use to us, if on returning home, we could never more be free from fear.” “Grant me, then,” said he, “a last request, since nought will avail to save my life, that Imay die, as I have lived, as becomes a bard. When I shall have sung my death song, and my harp-strings shall have ceased to vibrate, then I will bid farewell to life, and yield uncomplaining to my fate.” This prayer, like the others, would have been unheeded,—they thought only of their booty,—but to hear so famous a musician, that moved their rude hearts. “Suffer me,” he added, “to arrange my dress. Apollo will not favor me unless I be clad in my minstrel garb.”
He clothed his well-proportioned limbs in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors. His left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. Like one inspired, he seemed to drink the morning air and glitter in the morning ray. The seamen gazed with admiration. He strode forward to the vessel’s side and looked down into the deep blue sea. Addressing his lyre, he sang, “Companion of my voice, come with me to the realm of shades. Though Cerberus may growl, we know the power of song can tame his rage. Ye heroes of Elysium, who have passed the darkling flood,—ye happy souls, soon shall I join your band. Yet can ye relieve my grief? Alas, I leave my friend behind me. Thou, who didst find thy Eurydice, and lose her again as soon as found; when she had vanished like a dream, how didst thou hate the cheerful light! I must away, but I will not fear. The gods look down upon us. Ye who slay me unoffending, when I am no more, your time of trembling shall come. Ye Nereids, receive your guest, who throws himself upon your mercy!” So saying, he sprang into the deep sea. The waves covered him, and the seamen held on their way, fancying themselves safe from all danger of detection.
But the strains of his music had drawn round him the inhabitants of the deep to listen, and Dolphins followed the ship as if chained by a spell. While he struggled in the waves, a Dolphin offered him his back, and carried him mounted thereon safe to shore. At thespot where he landed, a monument of brass was afterwards erected upon the rocky shore, to preserve the memory of the event.
When Arion and the dolphin parted, each to his own element, Arion thus poured forth his thanks: “Farewell, thou faithful, friendly fish! Would that I could reward thee; but thou canst not wend with me, nor I with thee. Companionship we may not have. May Galatea, queen of the deep, accord thee her favor, and thou, proud of the burden, draw her chariot over the smooth mirror of the deep.”
Arion hastened from the shore, and soon saw before him the towers of Corinth. He journeyed on, harp in hand, singing as he went, full of love and happiness, forgetting his losses, and mindful only of what remained, his friend and his lyre. He entered the hospitable halls, and was soon clasped in the embrace of Periander. “I come back to thee, my friend,” he said. “The talent which a god bestowed has been the delight of thousands, but false knaves have stripped me of my well-earned treasure; yet I retain the consciousness of wide spread fame.” Then he told Periander all the wonderful events that had befallen him, who heard him with amazement. “Shall such wickedness triumph?” said he. “Then in vain is power lodged in my hands. That we may discover the criminals, you must remain here in concealment, and so they will approach without suspicion.” When the ship arrived in the harbor, he summoned the mariners before him. “Have you heard anything of Arion?” he inquired. “I anxiously look for his return.” They replied, “We left him well and prosperous in Tarentum.” As they said these words, Arion stepped forth and faced them. His well-proportioned limbs were arrayed in gold and purple fair to see, his tunic fell around him in graceful folds, jewels adorned his arms, his brow was crowned with a golden wreath, and over his neck and shoulders flowed his hair perfumed with odors; his left hand held the lyre, his right the ivory wand with which he struck its chords. They fell prostrate at his feet, as if a lightning bolt had struck them. “We meant to murder him, and he has becomea god. O Earth, open and receive us!” Then Periander spoke. “He lives, the master of the lay! Kind Heaven protects the poet’s life. As for you, I invoke not the spirit of vengeance; Arion wishes not your blood. Ye slaves of avarice, begone! Seek some barbarous land, and never may aught beautiful delight your souls!”
Spenser represents Arion, mounted on his dolphin, accompanying the train of Neptune and Amphitrite:
“Then was there heard a most celestial soundOf dainty music which did next ensue,And, on the floating waters as enthroned,Arion with his harp unto him drewThe ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;Even when as yet the dolphin which him boreThrough the Ægean Seas from pirates’ view,Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.”
“Then was there heard a most celestial soundOf dainty music which did next ensue,And, on the floating waters as enthroned,Arion with his harp unto him drewThe ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;Even when as yet the dolphin which him boreThrough the Ægean Seas from pirates’ view,Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.”
“Then was there heard a most celestial soundOf dainty music which did next ensue,And, on the floating waters as enthroned,Arion with his harp unto him drewThe ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;Even when as yet the dolphin which him boreThrough the Ægean Seas from pirates’ view,Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.”
“Then was there heard a most celestial sound
Of dainty music which did next ensue,
And, on the floating waters as enthroned,
Arion with his harp unto him drew
The ears and hearts of all that goodly crew;
Even when as yet the dolphin which him bore
Through the Ægean Seas from pirates’ view,
Stood still, by him astonished at his lore,
And all the raging seas for joy forgot to roar.”
Byron, in his “Childe Harold,” Canto II., alludes to the story of Arion, when, describing his voyage, he represents one of the seamen making music to entertain the rest:
“The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;Such be our fate when we return to land!Meantime some rude Arion’s restless handWakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;A circle there of merry listeners stand,Or to some well-known measure featly moveThoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove.”
“The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;Such be our fate when we return to land!Meantime some rude Arion’s restless handWakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;A circle there of merry listeners stand,Or to some well-known measure featly moveThoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove.”
“The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;Such be our fate when we return to land!Meantime some rude Arion’s restless handWakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;A circle there of merry listeners stand,Or to some well-known measure featly moveThoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove.”
“The moon is up; by Heaven a lovely eve!
Long streams of light o’er dancing waves expand;
Now lads on shore may sigh and maids believe;
Such be our fate when we return to land!
Meantime some rude Arion’s restless hand
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love;
A circle there of merry listeners stand,
Or to some well-known measure featly move
Thoughtless as if on shore they still were free to rove.”
In order to understand the story of Ibycus which follows it is necessary to remember, first, that the theatres of the ancients were immense fabrics capable of containing from ten to thirty thousand spectators, and as they were used only on festival occasions, and admission was free to all, they were usually filled. They were without roofs and open to the sky, and the performances were in the daytime. Secondly, the appalling representation of the Furies is not exaggeratedin the story. It is recorded that Æschylus, the tragic poet, having on one occasion represented the Furies in a chorus of fifty performers, the terror of the spectators was such that many fainted and were thrown into convulsions, and the magistrates forbade a like representation for the future.
Ibycus, the pious poet, was on his way to the chariot races and musical competitions held at the Isthmus of Corinth, which attracted all of Grecian lineage. Apollo had bestowed on him the gift of song, the honeyed lips of the poet, and he pursued his way with lightsome step, full of the god. Already the towers of Corinth crowning the height appeared in view, and he had entered with pious awe the sacred grove of Neptune. No living object was in sight, only a flock of cranes flew overhead taking the same course as himself in their migration to a southern clime. “Good luck to you, ye friendly squadrons,” he exclaimed, “my companions from across the sea. I take your company for a good omen. We come from far and fly in search of hospitality. May both of us meet that kind reception which shields the stranger guest from harm!”
He paced briskly on, and soon was in the middle of the wood. There suddenly, at a narrow pass, two robbers stepped forth and barred his way. He must yield or fight. But his hand, accustomed to the lyre, and not to the strife of arms, sank powerless. He called for help on men and gods, but his cry reached no defender’s ear. “Then here must I die,” said he, “in a strange land, unlamented, cut off by the hand of outlaws, and see none to avenge my cause.” Sore wounded, he sank to the earth, when hoarse screamed the cranes overhead. “Take up my cause, ye cranes,” he said, “since no voice but yours answers to my cry.” So saying he closed his eyes in death.
The body, despoiled and mangled, was found, and though disfigured with wounds, was recognized by the friend in Corinth who had expected him as a guest. “Is it thus I find you restored to me?” he exclaimed. “I who hoped to entwine your temples with the wreath of triumph in the strife of song!”
The guests assembled at the festival heard the tidings with dismay. All Greece felt the wound, every heart owned its loss. They crowded round the tribunal of the magistrates, and demanded vengeance on the murderers and expiation with their blood.
But what trace or mark shall point out the perpetrator from amidst the vast multitude attracted by the splendor of the feast? Did he fall by the hands of robbers or did some private enemy slay him? The all-discerning sun alone can tell, for no other eye beheld it. Yet not improbably the murderer even now walks in the midst of the throng, and enjoys the fruits of his crime, while vengeance seeks for him in vain. Perhaps in their own temple’s enclosure he defies the gods, mingling freely in this throng of men that now presses into the amphitheatre.
For now crowded together, row on row, the multitude fill the seats till it seems as if the very fabric would give way. The murmur of voices sounds like the roar of the sea, while the circles widening in their ascent rise tier on tier, as if they would reach the sky.
And now the vast assemblage listens to the awful voice of the chorus personating the Furies, which in solemn guise advances with measured step, and moves around the circuit of the theatre. Can they be mortal women who compose that awful group, and can that vast concourse of silent forms be living beings?
The choristers, clad in black, bore in their fleshless hands torches blazing with a pitchy flame. Their cheeks were bloodless, and in place of hair writhing and swelling serpents curled around their brows. Forming a circle, these awful beings sang their hymns, rending the hearts of the guilty, and enchaining all their faculties. It rose and swelled, overpowering the sound of the instruments, stealing the judgment, palsying the heart, curdling the blood.
“Happy the man who keeps his heart pure from guilt and crime! Him we avengers touch not; he treads the path of life secure from us. But woe! woe! to him who has done the deed of secret murder. We the fearful family of Night fasten ourselves upon his wholebeing. Thinks he by flight to escape us? We fly still faster in pursuit, twine our snakes around his feet, and bring him to the ground. Unwearied we pursue; no pity checks our course; still on and on, to the end of life, we give him no peace nor rest.” Thus the Eumenides sang, and moved in solemn cadence, while stillness like the stillness of death sat over the whole assembly as if in the presence of superhuman beings; and then in solemn march completing the circuit of the theatre, they passed out at the back of the stage.
Every heart fluttered between illusion and reality, and every breast panted with undefined terror, quailing before the awful power that watches secret crimes and winds unseen the skein of destiny. At that moment a cry burst forth from one of the uppermost benches—“Look! look! comrade, yonder are the cranes of Ibycus!” And suddenly there appeared sailing across the sky a dark object which a moment’s inspection showed to be a flock of cranes flying directly over the theatre. “Of Ibycus! did he say?” The beloved name revived the sorrow in every breast. As wave follows wave over the face of the sea, so ran from mouth to mouth the words, “Of Ibycus! him whom we all lament, whom some murderer’s hand laid low! What have the cranes to do with him?” And louder grew the swell of voices, while like a lightning’s flash the thought sped through every heart, “Observe the power of the Eumenides! The pious poet shall be avenged! the murderer has informed against himself. Seize the man who uttered that cry and the other to whom he spoke!”
The culprit would gladly have recalled his words, but it was too late. The faces of the murderers, pale with terror, betrayed their guilt. The people took them before the judge, they confessed their crime, and suffered the punishment they deserved.
Simonides was one of the most prolific of the early poets of Greece, but only a few fragments of his compositions have descended to us. He wrote hymns, triumphalodes, and elegies. In the last species of composition he particularly excelled. His genius was inclined to the pathetic, and none could touch with truer effect the chords of human sympathy. The “Lamentation of Danaë,” the most important of the fragments which remain of his poetry, is based upon the tradition that Danaë and her infant son were confined by order of her father, Acrisius, in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards the island of Seriphus, where both were rescued by Dictys, a fisherman, and carried to Polydectes, king of the country, who received and protected them. The child, Perseus, when grown up became a famous hero, whose adventures have been recorded in a previous chapter.
Simonides passed much of his life at the courts of princes, and often employed his talents in panegyric and festal odes, receiving his reward from the munificence of those whose exploits he celebrated. This employment was not derogatory, but closely resembles that of the earliest bards, such as Demodocus, described by Homer, or of Homer himself, as recorded by tradition.
On one occasion, when residing at the court of Scopas, king of Thessaly, the prince desired him to prepare a poem in celebration of his exploits, to be recited at a banquet. In order to diversify his theme, Simonides, who was celebrated for his piety, introduced into his poem the exploits of Castor and Pollux. Such digressions were not unusual with the poets on similar occasions, and one might suppose an ordinary mortal might have been content to share the praises of the sons of Leda. But vanity is exacting; and as Scopas sat at his festal board among his courtiers and sycophants, he grudged every verse that did not rehearse his own praises. When Simonides approached to receive the promised reward Scopas bestowed but half the expected sum, saying, “Here is payment for my portion of thy performance; Castor and Pollux will doubtless compensate thee for so much as relates to them.” The disconcerted poet returned to his seat amidst the laughter which followed the great man’s jest. In a little time he received a message that two young men onhorseback were waiting without and anxious to see him. Simonides hastened to the door, but looked in vain for the visitors. Scarcely, however, had he left the banqueting hall when the roof fell in with a loud crash, burying Scopas and all his guests beneath the ruins. On inquiring as to the appearance of the young men who had sent for him, Simonides was satisfied that they were no other than Castor and Pollux themselves.
Sappho was a poetess who flourished in a very early age of Greek literature. Of her works few fragments remain, but they are enough to establish her claim to eminent poetical genius. The story of Sappho commonly alluded to is that she was passionately in love with a beautiful youth named Phaon, and failing to obtain a return of affection she threw herself from the promontory of Leucadia into the sea, under a superstition that those who should take that “Lover’s-leap” would, if not destroyed, be cured of their love.
Byron alludes to the story of Sappho in “Childe Harold,” Canto II.: