For the first plain fact about myth making is one which has been most
strangely
lost sight of, — that you cannot make a myth unless you have something to make it of.
Universal Anthology - v01
I'll go there myself, I'll take away the stone, take the money, and let Woe out from beneath the stone.
Let him hound my brother to death if he likes.
"
No sooner said than done. The rich man took leave of his brother ; but instead of going home he went to the stone. He pulled and tugged at it, and managed at last to push it a little to one side, so as to be able to peep into the coffer ; but before he could pull his head back again, Woe had already skipped out, and was sitting on his neck. Our rich man felt the grievous burden on his shoulders, looked round, and saw the frightful monster bestriding him. And Woe shrieked in his ear, " A pretty fellow you are ! You wanted to starve me to death in there, did you ? You shall not shake me off again in a hurry, I warrant you. " I'll never leave you again. "
" Oh, senseless Woe ! cried the rich man, " indeed 'twas not I who placed you beneath that stone, and 'tis not me, the
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES. 345
rich man, you should cleave to ; go hence, and torment my brother. "
But Woeful Woe would not listen to him. "No," it screeched, " you lie ! You deceived me once, but you shan't do it a second time. "
And so the rich man carried Woe home with him, and all his wealth turned to dust and ashes. But the poor brother now lives in peace and plenty, and sings jesting ditties of Woe the outwitted.
The Woman Accuser.
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old woman was not a bad old woman, but there was this one bad thing about her — she did not know how to hold her tongue. Whatever she might hear from her husband, or what ever might happen at home, she was sure to spread it over the whole village ; she even doubled everything in the telling, and so things were told which never happened at all. Not unfre- quently the old man had to chastise the old woman, and her back paid for the faults of her tongue.
One day the old man went into the forest for wood. He had just got to the border of the forest, when his foot, in tread ing on a certain place, sank right into the ground. " Why, what's this? " thought the old man. "Come, now, I'll dig a bit here ; maybe I shall be lucky enough to dig out something. " He dug several times, and saw, buried in the ground, a little caldron quite full of silver and gold. " Look, now, what good luck has befallen me ! But what am I to do with it? I cannot hide it from that good wife of mine at home, and she will be sure to blab to all the world about my lucky find, and thou wilt repent the day thou didst ever see it. "
For a long time the old man sat brooding over his treasure, and at last he made up his mind what to do. He buried the treasure, threw a lot of wood over it, and went to town. There he bought at the bazaar a live pike and a live hare, returned to the wood, and hung the pike upon a tree, at the very top of it ; and carried the hare to the stream, where he had a fish basket, and he put the hare into it in a shallow place.
Then he went off home, whipped up his little nag for pure lightness of heart, and so entered his hut. " Wife, wife," he cried, " such a piece of luck has befallen me that I cannot de scribe it ! "
346
" What is tell me? "
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
what it, hubby darling Why dost thou not
"
"
" What's the good, when thou wilt only blab
all about? swear it. thou dost
" On my word, I'll say nothing to anybody. I'll take the holy image from the wall and kiss not believe me. " "
" Well, well, all right. Listen, old woman
down towards her ear and whispered, " caldron full of silver and gold. "
and he bent have found in the wood
" Then why didst thou not bring
hither
" Because we had both better go together, and so bring
home. " And the old man went with his old woman to the forest.
" They went along the road, and the peasant said to his wife,
From what hear, old woman, and from what people told me the other day, would seem that fish are now to be found growing on trees, while the beasts of the forest live in the water. "
" Why, what art thou thinking about, little hubby People nowadays are much given to lying. "
" Lying, dost thou call Then come and see for thyself. " And he pointed to the tree where the pike was hanging.
" "Why, what marvel this? " screamed the old woman.
However did that pike get there " Or have the people been speaking the truth to thee after all
But the peasant stood there, and moved his arms about, and shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, as he could not
believe his own eyes. " " Why dost thou keep standing there
said the old woman. "Go up the tree, rather, and take the pike 'twill do for
supper. "
So the peasant took the pike, and then they went on further.
They passed by the stream, and the peasant stopped his horse. But his wife began screeching at him, and said, "What art gaping at now? let us make haste and go on. "
" Nay, but look see something struggling about all round
my fish basket. I'll go and see what is. " So he ran, looked
into the fish basket, and called to his wife. " Just come and
look here, old woman Why, hare has got into our fishing
"
Fetch out quickly will do for dinner on the feast day. "
basket
"Then people must have told thee the truth after all.
it
!
! I ;
! it
is
?
a
it
it ? ?
it
;
!
?
I
if
it I it
?
I it
it, is
it
a
?
if
?
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
347
The old man took up the hare, and then went straight to wards the treasure. He pitched away the wood, digged wide and deep, dragged the caldron out of the earth, and they took it home.
The old man and the old woman grew rich, they lived right merrily, and the old woman did not improve ; she went to invite guests every day, and gave such banquets that she nearly drove her husband out of the house. " The old man tried to correct her. " What's come to thee ? he cried. " Canst thou not listen to me ? "
" Don't order me about," said she. " I found the treasure as well as thou, and have as much right to make merry with it. " The old man put up with it for a very long time, but at last
he said to the old woman straight out, " Do as best thou canst, but I'm not going to give thee any more money to cast to the winds. "
But the old woman immediately fell foul of him. " I what thou art up to," screeched she ; " thou wouldst keep all the money for thyself. No, thou rogue, I'll drive thee whither the crows will pick thy bones. Thou wilt have no good from thy money. "
The old man would have chastised her, but the old woman thrust him aside, and went straight to the magistrate to lay a complaint against her husband. " I have come to throw my self on thy honor's compassion, and to present my petition against my good-for-nothing husband. Ever since he found that treasure there is no living with him. Work he won't, and he spends all his time in drinking and gadding about. Take away all his gold from him, father. What a vile thing is gold whenitruinsaman so! "
The magistrate was sorry for the old woman, and he sent his eldest clerk to him, and bade him judge between the hus band and wife. The clerk assembled all the village elders, and went to the peasant and said to him, " The magistrate has sent me to thee, and bids thee deliver up all thy treasure into my hands. " " "
The peasant only shrugged his shoulders. What treasure ? said he. " I know nothing whatever about any treasure. "
" Not know ? Why, thy old woman has just been to com plain to the magistrate, and I tell thee what, friend, if thou deniest it, 'twill be worse for thee. If thou dost not give up the whole treasure to the magistrate, thou must give an account
see
848 RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
of thyself for daring to search for treasures, and not revealing them to the authorities. "
" But I cry your pardon, honored sirs ! what is this treas ure you are talking of ? My wife must have seen this treasure in her sleep ; she has told you a pack of nonsense, and you listen to her. " "
" Nonsense !
sense, but a whole caldron full of gold and silver ! "
burst forth the old woman ; " it is not non
"Thou art out of thy senses, dear wife. Honored sirs, I cry your pardon. Cross-examine her thoroughly about the affair, and if she proves this thing against me, I will answer for it with all my goods. "
" And dost thou think that I cannot prove it against thee ? Thou rascal, I will prove it. This is how the matter went, Mr.
Clerk," began the old woman ; "
went to the forest, and we saw a pike on a tree. "
I remember it, bit. We every
"A pike ? " roared the clerk at the old woman ; "or dost
thouwanttomake afoolofme? "
" Nay, I am not making a fool of thee, Mr. Clerk ;
I am
speaking the simple truth. "
"There, honored sirs," said the old man, "how can you
believe her if she goes on talking such rubbish ? "
" I am not talking rubbish, yokel !
—or hast thou forgotten how we found a hare in thy fishing basket in the stream ? "
All the elders rolled about for laughter ; even the clerk smiled, and began to stroke down his long beard. The peasant again said to his wife, " Recollect thyself, old woman : dost thou not see that every one is laughing at thee ? But ye, hon ored gentlemen, can now see for yourselves how far you can believe my wife. "
" Yes," cried all the elders, with one voice, " long as we have lived in the world, we have never heard of hares living in rivers, and fish hanging on the trees of the forest. " The clerk himself saw that this was a matter he could not get to the bottom of, so he dismissed the assembly with a wave of his hand, and went off to town to the magistrate.
And everybody laughed so much at the old woman that she was forced to bite her own tongue and listen to her husband ; and the husband bought wares with his treasure, went to live in the town, and began to trade there, exchanged his wares for money, grew rich and prosperous, and was as happy as the day was long.
I am speaking the truth
GREEK MYTHS. 349
GREEK MYTHS.
By JOHN RUSKIN. (From "The Queen of the Air. ")
[John Ruskin : English critic and essayist ; born at London, February 8, 1819. In 1839 he took the Newdigate prize for a poem. During his Oxford days he published many verses over the signature "J. R. " In 1850 his poems were col lected and privately printed. A reprint was made of them in New York in 1882. He studied art, but rather for the purposes of criticism. In 1843 appeared the first part of "Modern Painters," which was a vehement eulogy of J. M. W. Turner; the last volume in 1856. "The Seven Lamps of Architecture," 1849, and " The Stones of Venice," 1851-1853, are his best-known works. Among his popular lectures have been " Munera Pulveris," 1862-1863 ; " Sesame and Lilies," 1865 ; " Crown of Wild Olive," 1866 ; and " The Queen of the Air," 1869. His works include dozens of other titles on artistic, social, and economic subjects. His "Prseterita," 1885, is autobiographical. ]
1. I will not ask your pardon for endeavoring to interest you in the subject of Greek Mythology ; but I must ask your permission to approach it in a temper differing from that in which it is frequently treated. We cannot justly interpret the religion of any people, unless we are prepared to admit that we ourselves, as well as they, are liable to error in matters of faith ; and that the convictions of others, however singular, may in some points have been well founded; while our own, however reasonable, may in some particulars be mistaken. You must forgive me, therefore, for not always distinctively calling the creeds of the past " superstition," and the creeds of the pres ent day "religion" ; as well as for assuming that a faith now confessed may sometimes be superficial, and that a faith long forgotten may once have been sincere. It is the task of the Divine to condemn the errors of antiquity, and of the philolo
I will only pray you to read, with
gists to account for them ;
patience, and human sympathy, the thoughts of men who lived without blame in a darkness they could not dispel ; and to remember that, whatever charge of folly may justly attach to the saying, "There is no God," the folly is prouder, deeper, and less pardonable, in saying, "There is no God but for me. "
2. A myth, in its simplest definition, is a story with a mean ing attached to it other than it seems to have at first ; and the fact that it has such a meaning is generally marked by some of its circumstances being extraordinary, or, in the common use
. of the word, unnatural. Thus if I tell you that Hercules killed
350 GREEK MYTHS.
a water serpent in the lake of Lerna, and if I mean, and you understand, nothing more than that fact, the story, whether true or false, is not a myth. But if by telling you this, I mean that Hercules purified the stagnation of many streams from deadly miasmata, my story, however simple, is a true myth ; only, as, if I left it in that simplicity, you would probably look for nothing beyond, it will be wise in me to surprise your attention by adding some singular circumstance ; for instance, that the water snake had several heads, which revived as fast as they were killed, and which poisoned even the foot that trod upon them as they slept. And in proportion to the fullness of intended meaning I shall probably multiply and refine upon these improbabilities ; as, suppose, if, instead of desiring only to tell you that Hercules purified a marsh, I wished you to understand that he contended with the venom and vapor of envy and evil ambition, whether in other men's souls or in his own, and choked that malaria only by supreme toil, — I might tell you that this serpent was formed by the goddess whose pride was in the trial of Hercules ; and that its place of abode was by a palm tree ; and that for every head of it that was cut off, two rose up with renewed life ; and that the hero found at last he could not kill the creature at all by cutting its heads off or crushing them, but only by burning them down ; and that the midmost of them could not be killed even that way, but had to be buried alive. Only in proportion as I mean more, I shall certainly appear more absurd in my statement ; and at last when I get unendurably significant, all practical persons will agree that I was talking mere nonsense from the beginning, and never meant anything at all.
3. It is just possible, however, also, that the story-teller may all along have meant nothing but what he said ; and that, incredible as the events may appear, he himself literally be lieved — and expected you also to believe — all this about Her cules, without any latent moral or history whatever. And it is very necessary, in reading traditions of this kind, to deter mine, first of all, whether you are listening to a simple person, who is relating what, at all events, he believes to be true (and may, therefore, possibly have been so to some extent), or to a reserved philosopher, who is veiling a theory of the universe under the grotesque of a fairy tale. It is, in general, more likely that the first supposition should be the right one : simple and credulous persons are, perhaps fortunately, more common
-
St. George and the Dragon
From a has relief made iu 1508 from the Chateau de Gaillon, by Michael Colombe (1431-1515)
GREEK MYTHS.
351
than philosophers ; and it is of the highest importance that you should take their innocent testimony as it was meant, and not efface, under the graceful explanation which your cultivated ingenuity may suggest, either the evidence their story may contain (such as it is worth) of an extraordinary event having really taken place, or the unquestionable light which it will cast upon the character of the person by whom it was frankly believed. And to deal with Greek religion honestly, you must at once understand that this literal belief was, in the mind of the general people, as deeply rooted as ours in the legends of our own sacred book ; and that a basis of unmiraculous event was as little suspected, and an explanatory symbolism as rarely traced, by them, as by us.
You must, therefore, observe that I deeply degrade the position which such a myth as that just referred to occupied in the Greek mind, by comparing it (for fear of offending you) to our story of St. George and the Dragon. Still, the analogy is perfect in minor respects ; and though it fails to give you any notion of the vitally religious earnestness of the Greek faith, it will exactly illustrate the manner in which faith laid hold of its objects.
4. This story of Hercules and the Hydra, then, was to the general Greek mind, in its best days, a tale about a real hero and a real monster. Not one in a thousand knew anything of the way in which the story had arisen, any more than the Eng lish peasant generally is aware of the plebeian original of St. George ; or supposes that there were once alive in the world, with sharp teeth and claws, real, and very ugly, flying dragons. On the other hand, few persons traced any moral or symbolical meaning in the story, and the average Greek was as far from imagining any interpretation like that I have just given you, as an average Englishman is from seeing in St. George the Red Cross Knight of Spenser, or in the Dragon the Spirit of Infidel ity. But, for all that, there was a certain undercurrent of con sciousness in all minds that the figures meant more than they at first showed ; and, according to each man's own faculties of sentiment, he judged and read them ; just as a Knight of the Garter reads more in the jewel on his collar than the George and Dragon of a public house expresses to the host or to his customers. Thus, to the mean person the myth always meant little ; to the noble person, much ; and the greater their famil iarity with the more contemptible became to one, and the
it,
it
352
GREEK MYTHS.
more sacred to the other ; until vulgar commentators explained it entirely away, while Virgil made it the crowning glory of his choral hymn to Hercules.
Around thee, powerless to infect thy soul, Rose, in his crested crowd, the Lerna worm.
Non te rationis egentem Lernaeus turba capitum circumstetit anguis.
And although, in any special toil of the hero's life, the moral interpretation was rarely with definiteness attached to its event, yet in the whole course of the life, not only a symbolical mean ing, but the warrant for the existence of a real spiritual power, was apprehended of all men. Hercules was no dead hero, to be remembered only as a victor over monsters of the past — harm less now as slain. He was the perpetual type and mirror of heroism, and its present and living aid against every ravenous form of human trial and pain.
5. But, if we seek to know more than this and to ascertain the manner in which the story first crystallized into its shape, we shall find ourselves led back generally to one or other of two sources — either to actual historical events, represented by the fancy under figures personifying them ; or else to natural phenomena similarly endowed with life by the imaginative power usually more or less under the influence of terror. The historical myths we must leave the masters of history to follow ; they, and the events they record, being yet involved in great, though attractive and penetrable, mystery. But the stars, and hills, and storms are with us now, as they were with others of old ; and it only needs that we look at them with the earnest ness of those childish eyes to understand the first words spoken of them by the children of men, and then, in all the most beauti ful and enduring myths, we shall find, not only a literal story
of a real person, not only a parallel imagery of moral principle, but an underlying worship of natural phenomena, out of which both have sprung, and in which both forever remain rooted. Thus, from the real sun, rising and setting, — from the real atmosphere, calm in its dominion of unfading blue, and fierce in its descent of tempest, —the Greek forms first the idea of two entirely personal and corporeal gods, whose limbs are clothed in divine flesh, and whose brows are crowned with divine beauty ; yet so real that the quiver rattles at their shoulder, and the
GREEK MYTHS.
353
chariot bends beneath their weight. And, on the other hand, collaterally with these corporeal images, and never for one instant separated from them, he conceives also two omnipresent spiritual influences, of which one illuminates, as the sun, with a constant fire, whatever in humanity is skillful and wise ; and the other, like the living air, breathes the calm of heavenly fortitude, and strength of righteous anger, into every human breast that is pure and brave.
6. Now, therefore, in nearly every myth of importance, you have to discern these three structural parts, —the root and the two branches : the root, in physical existence, sun, or sky, or cloud, or sea ; then the personal incarnation of that, becoming a trusted and companionable deity, with whom you may walk hand in hand, as a child with its brother or its sister ; and, lastly, the moral significance of the image, which is in all the great myths eternally and beneficently true.
7. The great myths ; that is to say, myths made by great people.
For the first plain fact about myth making is one which has been most strangely lost sight of, — that you cannot make a myth unless you have something to make it of. You cannot tell a secret which you don't know. If the myth is about the sky, it must have been made by somebody who had looked at the sky. If the myth is about justice and fortitude, it must have been made by some one who knew what it was to be just or patient. According to the quantity of under standing in the person will be the quantity of significance in his fable ; and the myth of a simple and ignorant race must necessarily mean little, because a simple and ignorant race have little to mean. So the great question in reading a story is always, not what wild hunter dreamed, or what childish race first dreaded it ; but what wise man first perfectly told, and what strong people first perfectly lived by it. And the real meaning of any myth is that which it has at the noblest age of the nation among whom it is current. The farther back you pierce, the less significance you will find, until you come to the first narrow thought, which, indeed, contains the germ of the accomplished tradition; but only as the seed contains the flower. As the intelligence and passion of the race develop, they cling to and nourish their beloved and sacred legend ; leaf by leaf it expands under the touch of more pure affections, and more delicate imagination, until at last the perfect fable bourgeons out into symmetry of milky stem and honeyed bell.
354 GREEK MYTHS.
8. But through whatever changes it may pass, remember that our right reading of it is wholly dependent on the mate rials we have in our own minds for an intelligent answering sympathy. If it first arose among a people who dwelt under stainless skies, and measured their journeys by ascending and declining stars, we certainly cannot read their story, if we have never seen anything above us in the day but smoke, nor any thing around us in the night but candles. If the tale goes on to change clouds or planets into living creatures, — to invest them with fair forms and inflame them with mighty passions, —we can only understand the story of the human-hearted things, in so far as we ourselves take pleasure in the perfect- ness of visible form, or can sympathize, by an effort of imagina tion, with the strange people who had other loves than that of wealth, and other interests than those of commerce. And, lastly, if the myth complete itself to the fulfilled thoughts of the nation, by attributing to the gods, whom they have carved out of their fantasy, continual presence with their own souls ; and their every effort for good is finally guided by the sense of the companionship, the praise, and the pure will of immortals, we shall be able to follow them into this last circle of their faith only in the degree in which the better parts of our own beings have been also stirred by the aspects of nature, or strengthened by her laws. It may be easy to prove that the ascent of Apollo in his chariot signifies nothing but the rising of the sun. But what does the sunrise itself signify to us ?
return to frivolous amusement, or fruitless labor, it will, indeed, not be easy for us to conceive the power, over a Greek, of the name of Apollo. But for us also, as for the Greek, the sun rise means daily restoration to the sense of passionate gladness and of perfect life, —— means the thrilling of new strength through every nerve, the shedding over us of better peace than the peace of night, in the power of the dawn, — and the purging of evil vision and fear by the baptism of its dew — the sun itself an influence, to us also, of spiritual good — and becomes thus in reality, not in imagination, to us also, spirit ual power, —we may then soon overpass the narrow limit of conception which kept that power impersonal, and rise with the Greek to the thought of an angel who rejoiced as strong man to run his course, whose voice calling to life and to labor rang round the earth, and whose going forth was to the ends of heaven.
If only languid
a
a
is
a
;
if
if it
if,
BALLADE OF THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST. 355
BALLADE OF THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST.
By THEODORE DE BANVILLE. (Translated by Andrew Lang. )
[Theodore Faullain de Banville, French novelist and poet, was born at Moulins, March 14, 1823 ; died at Paris, March 13, 1891. He was the son of a naval officer ; became a Parisian man of letters. His best-known works were the volumes of poetry, "The Caryatides" (1842), "The Stalactites" (1846), "Odes Funambulesques " (1857), "New Odes Funambulesques " (1868), " Russian Idyls " (1872), and "Thirty-six Merry Ballads" (1873). He wrote also prose tales and sketches; as, "The Poor Mountebanks" (1853), "The Parisians of Paris" (1866), " Tales for Women" (1881), and "The Soul of Paris " (1890). He published his autobiography, " My Recollections," in 1882.
For biography of Andrew Lang, the distinguished scholar, poet, and man of letters, see " Calypso," Vol. 2. ]
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly tree ;
The west wind breathes upon them pure and cold, And still wolves dread Diana roving free,
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray ; Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood, Dian thrids her way.
With waterweeds twined in their locks of gold The strange cold forest fairies dance in glee ;
Sylphs overtimorous and overbold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy :
Then, 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers passed away ; The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright,
And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.
She gleans her sylvan trophies ; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee,
Mixed with the music of the hunting rolled : But her delight is all in archery,
And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
More than the hounds that follow on the flight ;
35G
THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
The tall nymph draws a golden bow of might, And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay,
She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And Dian through the dim wood thrids her way.
Envoi.
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,
The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight ;
Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight,
And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. By Sib GEORGE W. COX (rewritten).
Deceived by the evil advice of Ate, the "mischief-maker of the gods, Jupiter said to Juno his queen, This day a child shall be born of the race of Perseus, who shall be the mightiest of all on earth. " He meant his son Hercules ; but Juno had a crafty trick in her mind to lay a heavy curse on that son, whom naturally she hated for his being such. She asked Jupi ter if what he had just said should surely be so, and he gave the nod which meant the vow that could not be recalled ; then she went to the Fates and induced them to have Eurystheus born first, so that he should be the one mortal more powerful than Hercules, though he was a weak, jealous, and spiteful man.
So the lot was fixed that all his life long Hercules should toil at the will of a mean and envious master. He was matchless in strength, courage, and beauty ; but he was to have neither profit nor comfort from them till he should pass from the land of mortals. But Jupiter was enraged at the ruin of his plans for the child by Juno's plot ; he cast forth Ate from the halls of Olympus and forbade her to dwell again among the gods, and ordained that Hercules should dwell with the gods in Olympus as soon as his days of toils on earth were ended.
So Hercules grew up in the house of Amphitryon husband of Alcmena, the mother of the baby demigod), full of beauty and wonderful might. One day, as he lay sleeping, two huge serpents came into the chamber, twisted their coils round
(the
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. 357
the cradle, and gazed on him with their cold, glassy eyes, till the sound of their hissing woke him; but instead of being frightened, he stretched out his little arms, caught hold of the serpents' necks, and strangled them to death. All knew by this sign that he was to have terrible struggles with the evil things of the world, but was to come off the victor.
As he grew up, no one could compare with him for strength of arm and swiftness of foot, in taming horses, or in wrestling. The best men in Argos were his teachers ; and the wise cen taur Chiron was his friend, and taught him always to help the weak and take their part against any who oppressed them. For all his great strength, none were more gentle than Hercu les ; none more full of pity for those bowed down by pain and labor.
But it was bitter to him that he must spend his life slaving for Eurystheus, while others were rich in joy and pleasures, feasts and games. One day, thinking of these things, he sat down by the wayside where two paths met, in a lonely valley far from the dwellings of men. Suddenly lifting up his eyes, he saw two women coming toward him, each from a different road. Both were fair to look upon : but one had a soft and gentle face, and was clad in pure white. The other looked boldly at Hercules ; her face was ruddier, and her eyes shone with a hot and restless glitter ; her thin, embroidered robe, streaming in long folds from her shoulders, clung about her voluptuous figure, revealing more than it hid. With a quick and eager step she hastened to him, so as to be the first to
I know, man of toils and grief, that your heart is sad within you, and that you know not which way to turn. Come with me, and I will lead you on a soft
speak. And she said : "
and pleasant road, where no storms shall vex you and no sor rows shall trouble you. You shall never hear of wars or fight ing ; sickness and pain shall not come near you : but you shall feast all day long at rich banquets and listen to the songs of minstrels. You shall not want for sparkling wine, soft robes, or pleasant couches ; you shall not lack the delights of love, for the bright eyes of maidens shall look gently upon you, and their song shall lull you to sleep. "
Hercules said : " You promise me pleasant things, lady, and I am sorely pressed down by a hard master. What is your name ? "
" My friends," said she, " call me Pleasure ; those who look
358 THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
Then the other said : " Hercules, I too know who you are and the doom laid on you, and how you have toiled and endured even from childhood ; that is the very reason I feel sure you will give me your love. If you do so, men will speak of your good deeds in future times, and my name will be still more exalted. But I have no fine words to cheat you with. Noth ing good is ever reached, nothing great is ever won, without toil. If you seek for fruit from the earth, you must tend and till it ; if you would have the favor of the gods, you must come before them with prayers and offerings ; if you long for the love of men, you must do them good. " "
on me with disfavor have given me more than one bad name and an ill repute, but they speak falsely. "
You see, Hercules, that Virtue seeks to lead you on a long and weary path ; but
Then the other broke in and said :
my broad and easy road leads quickly to happiness. "
" Virtue answered with a flash of anger in her pure eyes : Wretched thing, what good thing have you to give, and what pleasure can you feel, who know not what it is to toil ? Your
lusts are satiated, your taste is dulled into indifference or nau sea. You drink the wine before you are thirsty, and fill your self with dainties before you are hungry. Though you are numbered among the immortals, the gods have cast you forth out of heaven, and good men scorn you. The sweetest of all sounds, when a man's heart praises him, you have never heard ; the sweetest of all sights, when a man looks on his good deeds, you have never seen. Those who bow down to you are weak and feeble in youth, and wretched and loathsome in old age. But I dwell with the gods in heaven, and with good men on the earth ; and without me nothing good can be done or thought. More than all others I am honored by the gods and cherished by the men who love me. In peace and in war, in health and in sickness, I am the aid of all who seek me ; and my help never fails. My children know the purest of all pleasures, when the hour of rest comes after the toil of day. In youth they are strong, and their limbs are quick with health ; in old age they look back upon a happy life ; and when they lie down to the sleep of death, their name is cherished among men for
their good and useful deeds. Love me, therefore, Hercules, and obey my words, and when your labors are ended you shall dwell with me in the home of the immortal gods. "
Hercules bowed his head and swore to follow Virtue's counsels,
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. 359
and went forth with a good courage to his labor and suffering. He lived and wrought in many lands to obey Eurystheus' orders. He did good deeds for men; but he gained nothing by them except the love of the gentle Iole. Far away in CEchalia, where the sun rises from the eastern sea, he saw the maiden in the halls of Eurytus, and sought to win her love. But Jupiter's vow to Juno gave him no rest. Eurystheus sent him to other lands, and he saw the maiden no more.
But Hercules kept up a good heart, and the glory of his great deeds became spread abroad through all the earth. Minstrels sang how he slew the monsters and savage beasts who vexed the sons of men ; how he smote the Hydra in the land of Lerna, and the wild boar which haunted the groves of Erymanthus, and the Harpies who lurked in the swamps of Stymphalus. They told how he traveled far away to the land of the setting sun, where Eurystheus bade him pluck the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides : how over hill and dale, across marsh and river, through thicket and forest, he came to the western sea, and crossed to the African land where Atlas lifts up his white head to the high heaven; how he smote the dragon which guarded the brazen gates, and brought the apples to King Eurystheus. They sang of his weary journey when he roamed through the land of the Ethiopians and came to the wild and desolate heights of Caucasus ; how he saw a giant form high on the naked rock, and the vulture which gnawed the Titan's heart with its beak ; how he slew the bird, and smote off the cruel chains, and set Prometheus free. They sang how Eurystheus laid on him a fruitless task, by sending him down to the dark land of King Hades to bring up the monster Cerberus ; how upon the shore of the gloomy Acheron he found the mighty hound who guards the home of Hades and Persephone, seized him and brought him to Eurystheus. They sang of the days when he worked in the land of Queen Omphale beneath the Libyan sun ; how he destroyed the walls of Ilion when Laome- don was king ; how he was bid to cleanse the vast stables where King Augeas had kept a thousand horses for thirty years with out removing a spadeful of the filth, and accomplished the task by turning a river through them ; and how he went to Calydon and wooed and won Dejanira, the daughter of the chieftain (Eneus.
He dwelt a long time in Calydon, and the people there loved him for his kindly deeds. But one day he accidentally killed
360 THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
with his spear the boy Eunomus. The father held no grudge against Hercules, knowing that he did not intend the death ; but Hercules was so grieved for the death that he left the country, and went again on his travels. On the banks of the Evenus he wounded with a poisoned arrow the centaur Nessus, for attempting to assault Dejanira. As the poison ran through the centaur's veins, he was frenzied with a desire to revenge himself on Hercules ; and under guise of forgiveness and good will to Dejanira, he advised her to fill a shell with his blood, and if ever she lost the love of Hercules, to spread it on a robe for him to wear, and the love would return.
So Nessus died ; and Hercules went to the land of Trachis, and there Dejanira remained while he journeyed to the far East. Years passed, and he did not return. At last news came of great deeds he had done in distant lands ; among them that he had slain Eurytus, the king of CEchalia, and taken a willing captive his daughter Iole, the most beautiful maiden in the land.
Then the words of Nessus came back to Dejanira: she thought Hercules' love had gone from her, and to win it back she smeared a richly embroidered robe with the centaur's blood, and with a message full of heartfelt love and honor sent it to him to wear. The messenger found him offering sacrifice to his father Jupiter, and gave him the robe in token of Dejanira's love. Hercules wrapped it round him, and stood by the altar while the black smoke rolled up toward heaven. Presently the vengeance of Nessus was accomplished : the poison began to burn fiercely through Hercules' veins. He strove in vain to tear off the robe : it had become as part of his own skin, and he only tore pieces out of his own flesh in the attempt ; as he writhed in agony, the blood poured from his body in streams.
Then the maiden Iole came to his side, and sought to soothe his agony with her gentle hands and to cheer him with pitying words. Then once more his face flushed with a deep joy, and his eye glanced with a pure light, as in the days of his young might ; and he said : " Ah, Iole, my first and best love, your voice is my comfort as I sink down into the sleep of death. I loved you in my morning time ; but Fate would not give you to me for a companion in my long wanderings. But I will waste none of my short final happiness in grieving now : you are with me to be the last thing I see or hear or think of in life. "
HYMN OF APOLLO. 361
Then he made them carry him to the high crest of Mount (Eta and gather wood. When all was ready, he lay down to rest on the huge pyre, and they kindled it. The shades were dark ening the sky, but Hercules tried still to pierce them with his eyes to gaze on Iole's face and cheer her in her sorrow. " Weep not, Iole," he said ; "my labors are done, and now is the time for rest. I shall see you again in the land where night never comes. "
Darker and darker grew the evening shades ; and only the blazing of the funeral pile on the mountain top pierced the black ness of the gloom. Then a thundercloud came down from heaven and its bolt crashed through the air. So Jupiter carried his child home, and the halls of Olympus were opened to wel come the hero, who rested at last from his matchless labors.
HYMN OF APOLLO. By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
[Percy Btsbhe Shelley, English poet, was born in Sussex, August 4, 1792, and educated at Eton and at University College, Oxford, whence he was expelled for a tract on the "Necessity of Atheism. " His first notable poem, "Queen Mab," was privately printed in 1813. He succeeded to his father's estate in 1815. " Alastor " was completed in 1816 ; " The Revolt of Islam," " Rosalind and Helen," and "Julian and Maddalo," in 1818; "Prometheus Unbound," "The Cenci," "The Coliseum," "Peter Bell the Third," and the "Mask of Anarchy," in 1819 ; " CEdipus Tyrannus " and the " Witch of Atlas," in 1820 ; "Epipsychidion," "The Defense of Poetry," "Adonais," and "Hellas," in 1822. He was drowned at sea July 8, 1822. ]
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.
362
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
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 ;
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 its own right belong.
THE GOLDEN APPLES. By WILLIAM MORRIS. (From " The Earthly Paradise. ")
[William Morris, English poet and art reformer, was born March 24, 1834 ; educated at Oxford, and was one of the Preraphaelites. His best-known poem is "The Earthly Paradise"; he has also written "The Defense of Guinevere," "The Life and Death of Jason," "Sigurd the Volsung," "The Fall of the Niblungs," and smaller ones. In prose he wrote " The House of the Wolfings," "The Glittering Plain," etc. He founded a manufactory of house hold decorations to reform public taste, and a printing house for artistic typog raphy. He was also a fervent Socialist. He died October 3, 1896. ]
As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty
In fair Mycenae ; midmost of whose day
It once befell that in a quiet bay
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar.
863
Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole
Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll
Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound
Of shepherd folk and sheep and questing hound;
For in the first dip of the hillside there
Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.
Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune
Of pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beat That mixed with dewy flowers its odor sweet, The shipmen labored, till the sail unfurled Swung round the prow to meet another world.
But ere the anchor had come home, a shout
Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed. Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt
That they without some needful thing had sailed ; When, lo ! from where the cliffs' steep gray sides failed Into a ragged, stony slip, came twain
Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain.
Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down Unto the surf was a man huge of limb,
Gray-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown ; Who had a lion's skin cast over him,
So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore
A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er.
Panting there followed him a gray old man, Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue, Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked, and wan, Who, when unto his fellow's side he drew,
Said faintly : "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; This is the ship. " Then in the other's eye
A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily :
" Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, And after that still nearer to the sun ;
And since Fate bids me look to die by fire,
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done,
To know what from earth's hottest can be won ; And this old man, my kinsman, would with me. How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea ? "
"What is thy name ? " the master said : "And know That we are merchants, and for naught give naught ; What wilt thou pay ? — thou seem'st full rich, I trow. " The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught
At something in the sand : " E'en so I thought," The younger said, " when I set out from home — As to my name, perchance in days to come
"Thou shalt know that — but have heed, take this toy_. And call me the Strong Man. " And as he spake
The master's deep brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy,
For from his arm a huge ring did he take,
And cast it on the deck, where it did break A water jar, and in the wet shards lay Golden, and gleaming like the end of day.
But the old man held out a withered hand, Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair, And said, "If any nigher I might stand,
Then mightst thou see the things I give thee here — And for name — a many names I bear,
But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide,
And for more knowledge with a good will bide. "
From one to the other turned the master's eyes ; The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise ; But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best
To bid them come aboard, and take such rest As they might have of the untrusty sea, 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be.
Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straight Caught up the elder in his arms, and so,
Making no whit of all that added weight,
Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low,
And catching at the rope that they did throw Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship : Then did the master let the hawser slip.
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green, And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen;
And many deemed it no light thing to face
The splendor of his eyen, though they did blaze With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped.
Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew
Unto the southeast ; but as failed the land,
Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew, And, silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand,
As though his heart found rest ; but 'mid the band Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat,
Telling them tales that no man there forgat.
As one who had beheld, he told them there Of the sweet singer, who, for his song's sake,
The dolphins back from choking death did bear ; How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak
O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake ; How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose
The cold sea grew as any June-loved close ;
While on the flowery shore all things alive Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give Glad welcome to the glory of that sight :
He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst,
A world once good, now come unto its worst.
And then he smiled, and said, " And yet ye won, Ye men, and tremble not on days like these,
Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees
From high Parnassus : slipping through the seas
Ye never think, ye men folk, how ye seem
From down below through the green waters' gleam. "
Dusk was it now when these last words he said, And little of his visage might they see,
But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, They knew not why ; yet ever quietly
They sailed that night; nor might a morning be
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Fairer than was the next morn; and they went Along their due course after their intent.
The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land ; Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast
A look askance, and he straight took his stand Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore,
Till cloud flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er.
The morn grown cold ; then small rain 'gan to fall, And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small ; Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again ;
Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about ; and then
Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan.
Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they drave Through sea and sky grown one ; the Strong Man wrought With mighty hands, and seemed a god to save ;
But on the prow, heeding all weather naught,
The elder stood, nor any prop he sought,
But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings He there were set above the wrack of things.
And westward still they drave ; and if they saw Land upon either side, as on they sped,
'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw
Anigh, and fade, and leave naught in their stead ; And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread
To sick despair ; they deemed they should drive on Till the world's edge and empty space were won.
But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might They toiled on still ; and he sang to the wind,
And spread his arms to meet the waters white,
As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind
The brine-drenched shipmen ; nor with eye unkind He gazed up at the lightning ; nor would frown When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down.
And they, who at the last had come to think
Their guests were very gods, with all their fear Feared naught belike that their good ship would sink
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Amid the storm ; but rather looked to hear
The last moan of the wind that them should bear Into the windless stream of ocean gray,
Where they should float till dead was every day.
Yet their fear mocked them ; for the storm 'gan die About the tenth day, though unto the west
They drave on still ; soon fair and quietly
The morn would break ; and though amid their rest Naught but long evil wandering seemed the best
That they might hope for ; still, despite their dread, Sweet was the quiet sea and goodlihead
Of the bright sun at last come back again ; And as the days passed, less and less fear grew, If without cause, till faded all their pain ;
And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew,
Yet durst ask naught of what that evil drew Upon their heads ; or of returning speak. Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak.
And now as at the first the elder was,
And sat and told them tales of yore agone ;
But ever the Strong Man up and down would pass About the deck, or on the prow alone
Would stand and stare out westward ; and still on Through a fair summer sea they went, nor thought
Of what would come when these days turned to naught.
And now when twenty days were well passed o'er They made a new land ; cloudy mountains high
Rose from the sea at first ; then a green shore
Spread fair below them : as they drew anigh
No sloping, stony strand could they espy,
And no surf breaking ; the green sea and wide Wherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide.
Dark fell ere they might set their eager feet
Upon the shore ; but night-long their ship lay
As in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweet
That flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed away. But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day, And turned the western mountain tops to gold,
Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold.
THE GOLDEN APPLE*
For as a dream seemed all ; too fair for those Who needs must die ; moreover they could see,
A furlong off, 'twixt apple tree and rose,
A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrously
In the young sun, and seemed right long to be ;
And memory of all marvels lay upon
Their shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won.
But when unto the nameless guests they turned, Who stood together nigh the plank shot out Shoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burned A wild light, as the other one in doubt
He eyed a moment ; then with a great shout Leaped into the blossomed grass ; the echoes rolled Back from the hills, harsh still and overbold.
Slowly the old man followed him, and still
The crew held back : they knew now they were brought Over the sea the purpose to fulfill
Of these strange men ; and in their hearts they thought, " Perchance we yet shall live, meddling naught
With dreams, we bide here till these twain come back But prying eyes the fire blast seldom lack. "
Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young, Who, looking each upon the other's face,
Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung,
And went ashore, and at gentle pace
Followed the strangers, who unto the place
Where the wall gleamed had turned peace and desire Mingled together in their hearts, as nigher
They drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear Fair wrought was, as though with bricks of brass And images upon its face there were,
Stories of things long while come to pass
Nor that alone — as looking in glass
Its maker knew the tales of what should be,
And wrought them there for bird and beast to see.
So on they went the many birds sang sweet
Through all that blossomed thicket from above,
And unknown flowers bent down before their feet
The very air, cleft by the gray-winged dove,
Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with love.
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THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Slowly they went till those twain stayed before A strangely wrought and iron-covered door.
They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird, And falling flower, there rang a mighty shout
As the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared, And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout,
Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out,
Till shattered on the ground the great door lay,
And into the guarded place bright poured the day.
The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed Leaning against a tree trunk as they deemed.
They faltered now, and yet all things being weighed Went on again ; and thought they must have dreamed Of the old man, for now the sunlight streamed
Full on the tree he had been leaning on, And him they saw not go, yet was he gone :
Only a slim green lizard flitted there
Amidst the dry leaves ; him they noted naught,
But, trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer,
And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught,
Only a garden fair beyond all thought.
And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man went On some long-sought-for end belike intent.
No sooner said than done. The rich man took leave of his brother ; but instead of going home he went to the stone. He pulled and tugged at it, and managed at last to push it a little to one side, so as to be able to peep into the coffer ; but before he could pull his head back again, Woe had already skipped out, and was sitting on his neck. Our rich man felt the grievous burden on his shoulders, looked round, and saw the frightful monster bestriding him. And Woe shrieked in his ear, " A pretty fellow you are ! You wanted to starve me to death in there, did you ? You shall not shake me off again in a hurry, I warrant you. " I'll never leave you again. "
" Oh, senseless Woe ! cried the rich man, " indeed 'twas not I who placed you beneath that stone, and 'tis not me, the
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES. 345
rich man, you should cleave to ; go hence, and torment my brother. "
But Woeful Woe would not listen to him. "No," it screeched, " you lie ! You deceived me once, but you shan't do it a second time. "
And so the rich man carried Woe home with him, and all his wealth turned to dust and ashes. But the poor brother now lives in peace and plenty, and sings jesting ditties of Woe the outwitted.
The Woman Accuser.
There was once upon a time an old man and an old woman. The old woman was not a bad old woman, but there was this one bad thing about her — she did not know how to hold her tongue. Whatever she might hear from her husband, or what ever might happen at home, she was sure to spread it over the whole village ; she even doubled everything in the telling, and so things were told which never happened at all. Not unfre- quently the old man had to chastise the old woman, and her back paid for the faults of her tongue.
One day the old man went into the forest for wood. He had just got to the border of the forest, when his foot, in tread ing on a certain place, sank right into the ground. " Why, what's this? " thought the old man. "Come, now, I'll dig a bit here ; maybe I shall be lucky enough to dig out something. " He dug several times, and saw, buried in the ground, a little caldron quite full of silver and gold. " Look, now, what good luck has befallen me ! But what am I to do with it? I cannot hide it from that good wife of mine at home, and she will be sure to blab to all the world about my lucky find, and thou wilt repent the day thou didst ever see it. "
For a long time the old man sat brooding over his treasure, and at last he made up his mind what to do. He buried the treasure, threw a lot of wood over it, and went to town. There he bought at the bazaar a live pike and a live hare, returned to the wood, and hung the pike upon a tree, at the very top of it ; and carried the hare to the stream, where he had a fish basket, and he put the hare into it in a shallow place.
Then he went off home, whipped up his little nag for pure lightness of heart, and so entered his hut. " Wife, wife," he cried, " such a piece of luck has befallen me that I cannot de scribe it ! "
346
" What is tell me? "
RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
what it, hubby darling Why dost thou not
"
"
" What's the good, when thou wilt only blab
all about? swear it. thou dost
" On my word, I'll say nothing to anybody. I'll take the holy image from the wall and kiss not believe me. " "
" Well, well, all right. Listen, old woman
down towards her ear and whispered, " caldron full of silver and gold. "
and he bent have found in the wood
" Then why didst thou not bring
hither
" Because we had both better go together, and so bring
home. " And the old man went with his old woman to the forest.
" They went along the road, and the peasant said to his wife,
From what hear, old woman, and from what people told me the other day, would seem that fish are now to be found growing on trees, while the beasts of the forest live in the water. "
" Why, what art thou thinking about, little hubby People nowadays are much given to lying. "
" Lying, dost thou call Then come and see for thyself. " And he pointed to the tree where the pike was hanging.
" "Why, what marvel this? " screamed the old woman.
However did that pike get there " Or have the people been speaking the truth to thee after all
But the peasant stood there, and moved his arms about, and shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head, as he could not
believe his own eyes. " " Why dost thou keep standing there
said the old woman. "Go up the tree, rather, and take the pike 'twill do for
supper. "
So the peasant took the pike, and then they went on further.
They passed by the stream, and the peasant stopped his horse. But his wife began screeching at him, and said, "What art gaping at now? let us make haste and go on. "
" Nay, but look see something struggling about all round
my fish basket. I'll go and see what is. " So he ran, looked
into the fish basket, and called to his wife. " Just come and
look here, old woman Why, hare has got into our fishing
"
Fetch out quickly will do for dinner on the feast day. "
basket
"Then people must have told thee the truth after all.
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RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
347
The old man took up the hare, and then went straight to wards the treasure. He pitched away the wood, digged wide and deep, dragged the caldron out of the earth, and they took it home.
The old man and the old woman grew rich, they lived right merrily, and the old woman did not improve ; she went to invite guests every day, and gave such banquets that she nearly drove her husband out of the house. " The old man tried to correct her. " What's come to thee ? he cried. " Canst thou not listen to me ? "
" Don't order me about," said she. " I found the treasure as well as thou, and have as much right to make merry with it. " The old man put up with it for a very long time, but at last
he said to the old woman straight out, " Do as best thou canst, but I'm not going to give thee any more money to cast to the winds. "
But the old woman immediately fell foul of him. " I what thou art up to," screeched she ; " thou wouldst keep all the money for thyself. No, thou rogue, I'll drive thee whither the crows will pick thy bones. Thou wilt have no good from thy money. "
The old man would have chastised her, but the old woman thrust him aside, and went straight to the magistrate to lay a complaint against her husband. " I have come to throw my self on thy honor's compassion, and to present my petition against my good-for-nothing husband. Ever since he found that treasure there is no living with him. Work he won't, and he spends all his time in drinking and gadding about. Take away all his gold from him, father. What a vile thing is gold whenitruinsaman so! "
The magistrate was sorry for the old woman, and he sent his eldest clerk to him, and bade him judge between the hus band and wife. The clerk assembled all the village elders, and went to the peasant and said to him, " The magistrate has sent me to thee, and bids thee deliver up all thy treasure into my hands. " " "
The peasant only shrugged his shoulders. What treasure ? said he. " I know nothing whatever about any treasure. "
" Not know ? Why, thy old woman has just been to com plain to the magistrate, and I tell thee what, friend, if thou deniest it, 'twill be worse for thee. If thou dost not give up the whole treasure to the magistrate, thou must give an account
see
848 RUSSIAN FAIRY TALES.
of thyself for daring to search for treasures, and not revealing them to the authorities. "
" But I cry your pardon, honored sirs ! what is this treas ure you are talking of ? My wife must have seen this treasure in her sleep ; she has told you a pack of nonsense, and you listen to her. " "
" Nonsense !
sense, but a whole caldron full of gold and silver ! "
burst forth the old woman ; " it is not non
"Thou art out of thy senses, dear wife. Honored sirs, I cry your pardon. Cross-examine her thoroughly about the affair, and if she proves this thing against me, I will answer for it with all my goods. "
" And dost thou think that I cannot prove it against thee ? Thou rascal, I will prove it. This is how the matter went, Mr.
Clerk," began the old woman ; "
went to the forest, and we saw a pike on a tree. "
I remember it, bit. We every
"A pike ? " roared the clerk at the old woman ; "or dost
thouwanttomake afoolofme? "
" Nay, I am not making a fool of thee, Mr. Clerk ;
I am
speaking the simple truth. "
"There, honored sirs," said the old man, "how can you
believe her if she goes on talking such rubbish ? "
" I am not talking rubbish, yokel !
—or hast thou forgotten how we found a hare in thy fishing basket in the stream ? "
All the elders rolled about for laughter ; even the clerk smiled, and began to stroke down his long beard. The peasant again said to his wife, " Recollect thyself, old woman : dost thou not see that every one is laughing at thee ? But ye, hon ored gentlemen, can now see for yourselves how far you can believe my wife. "
" Yes," cried all the elders, with one voice, " long as we have lived in the world, we have never heard of hares living in rivers, and fish hanging on the trees of the forest. " The clerk himself saw that this was a matter he could not get to the bottom of, so he dismissed the assembly with a wave of his hand, and went off to town to the magistrate.
And everybody laughed so much at the old woman that she was forced to bite her own tongue and listen to her husband ; and the husband bought wares with his treasure, went to live in the town, and began to trade there, exchanged his wares for money, grew rich and prosperous, and was as happy as the day was long.
I am speaking the truth
GREEK MYTHS. 349
GREEK MYTHS.
By JOHN RUSKIN. (From "The Queen of the Air. ")
[John Ruskin : English critic and essayist ; born at London, February 8, 1819. In 1839 he took the Newdigate prize for a poem. During his Oxford days he published many verses over the signature "J. R. " In 1850 his poems were col lected and privately printed. A reprint was made of them in New York in 1882. He studied art, but rather for the purposes of criticism. In 1843 appeared the first part of "Modern Painters," which was a vehement eulogy of J. M. W. Turner; the last volume in 1856. "The Seven Lamps of Architecture," 1849, and " The Stones of Venice," 1851-1853, are his best-known works. Among his popular lectures have been " Munera Pulveris," 1862-1863 ; " Sesame and Lilies," 1865 ; " Crown of Wild Olive," 1866 ; and " The Queen of the Air," 1869. His works include dozens of other titles on artistic, social, and economic subjects. His "Prseterita," 1885, is autobiographical. ]
1. I will not ask your pardon for endeavoring to interest you in the subject of Greek Mythology ; but I must ask your permission to approach it in a temper differing from that in which it is frequently treated. We cannot justly interpret the religion of any people, unless we are prepared to admit that we ourselves, as well as they, are liable to error in matters of faith ; and that the convictions of others, however singular, may in some points have been well founded; while our own, however reasonable, may in some particulars be mistaken. You must forgive me, therefore, for not always distinctively calling the creeds of the past " superstition," and the creeds of the pres ent day "religion" ; as well as for assuming that a faith now confessed may sometimes be superficial, and that a faith long forgotten may once have been sincere. It is the task of the Divine to condemn the errors of antiquity, and of the philolo
I will only pray you to read, with
gists to account for them ;
patience, and human sympathy, the thoughts of men who lived without blame in a darkness they could not dispel ; and to remember that, whatever charge of folly may justly attach to the saying, "There is no God," the folly is prouder, deeper, and less pardonable, in saying, "There is no God but for me. "
2. A myth, in its simplest definition, is a story with a mean ing attached to it other than it seems to have at first ; and the fact that it has such a meaning is generally marked by some of its circumstances being extraordinary, or, in the common use
. of the word, unnatural. Thus if I tell you that Hercules killed
350 GREEK MYTHS.
a water serpent in the lake of Lerna, and if I mean, and you understand, nothing more than that fact, the story, whether true or false, is not a myth. But if by telling you this, I mean that Hercules purified the stagnation of many streams from deadly miasmata, my story, however simple, is a true myth ; only, as, if I left it in that simplicity, you would probably look for nothing beyond, it will be wise in me to surprise your attention by adding some singular circumstance ; for instance, that the water snake had several heads, which revived as fast as they were killed, and which poisoned even the foot that trod upon them as they slept. And in proportion to the fullness of intended meaning I shall probably multiply and refine upon these improbabilities ; as, suppose, if, instead of desiring only to tell you that Hercules purified a marsh, I wished you to understand that he contended with the venom and vapor of envy and evil ambition, whether in other men's souls or in his own, and choked that malaria only by supreme toil, — I might tell you that this serpent was formed by the goddess whose pride was in the trial of Hercules ; and that its place of abode was by a palm tree ; and that for every head of it that was cut off, two rose up with renewed life ; and that the hero found at last he could not kill the creature at all by cutting its heads off or crushing them, but only by burning them down ; and that the midmost of them could not be killed even that way, but had to be buried alive. Only in proportion as I mean more, I shall certainly appear more absurd in my statement ; and at last when I get unendurably significant, all practical persons will agree that I was talking mere nonsense from the beginning, and never meant anything at all.
3. It is just possible, however, also, that the story-teller may all along have meant nothing but what he said ; and that, incredible as the events may appear, he himself literally be lieved — and expected you also to believe — all this about Her cules, without any latent moral or history whatever. And it is very necessary, in reading traditions of this kind, to deter mine, first of all, whether you are listening to a simple person, who is relating what, at all events, he believes to be true (and may, therefore, possibly have been so to some extent), or to a reserved philosopher, who is veiling a theory of the universe under the grotesque of a fairy tale. It is, in general, more likely that the first supposition should be the right one : simple and credulous persons are, perhaps fortunately, more common
-
St. George and the Dragon
From a has relief made iu 1508 from the Chateau de Gaillon, by Michael Colombe (1431-1515)
GREEK MYTHS.
351
than philosophers ; and it is of the highest importance that you should take their innocent testimony as it was meant, and not efface, under the graceful explanation which your cultivated ingenuity may suggest, either the evidence their story may contain (such as it is worth) of an extraordinary event having really taken place, or the unquestionable light which it will cast upon the character of the person by whom it was frankly believed. And to deal with Greek religion honestly, you must at once understand that this literal belief was, in the mind of the general people, as deeply rooted as ours in the legends of our own sacred book ; and that a basis of unmiraculous event was as little suspected, and an explanatory symbolism as rarely traced, by them, as by us.
You must, therefore, observe that I deeply degrade the position which such a myth as that just referred to occupied in the Greek mind, by comparing it (for fear of offending you) to our story of St. George and the Dragon. Still, the analogy is perfect in minor respects ; and though it fails to give you any notion of the vitally religious earnestness of the Greek faith, it will exactly illustrate the manner in which faith laid hold of its objects.
4. This story of Hercules and the Hydra, then, was to the general Greek mind, in its best days, a tale about a real hero and a real monster. Not one in a thousand knew anything of the way in which the story had arisen, any more than the Eng lish peasant generally is aware of the plebeian original of St. George ; or supposes that there were once alive in the world, with sharp teeth and claws, real, and very ugly, flying dragons. On the other hand, few persons traced any moral or symbolical meaning in the story, and the average Greek was as far from imagining any interpretation like that I have just given you, as an average Englishman is from seeing in St. George the Red Cross Knight of Spenser, or in the Dragon the Spirit of Infidel ity. But, for all that, there was a certain undercurrent of con sciousness in all minds that the figures meant more than they at first showed ; and, according to each man's own faculties of sentiment, he judged and read them ; just as a Knight of the Garter reads more in the jewel on his collar than the George and Dragon of a public house expresses to the host or to his customers. Thus, to the mean person the myth always meant little ; to the noble person, much ; and the greater their famil iarity with the more contemptible became to one, and the
it,
it
352
GREEK MYTHS.
more sacred to the other ; until vulgar commentators explained it entirely away, while Virgil made it the crowning glory of his choral hymn to Hercules.
Around thee, powerless to infect thy soul, Rose, in his crested crowd, the Lerna worm.
Non te rationis egentem Lernaeus turba capitum circumstetit anguis.
And although, in any special toil of the hero's life, the moral interpretation was rarely with definiteness attached to its event, yet in the whole course of the life, not only a symbolical mean ing, but the warrant for the existence of a real spiritual power, was apprehended of all men. Hercules was no dead hero, to be remembered only as a victor over monsters of the past — harm less now as slain. He was the perpetual type and mirror of heroism, and its present and living aid against every ravenous form of human trial and pain.
5. But, if we seek to know more than this and to ascertain the manner in which the story first crystallized into its shape, we shall find ourselves led back generally to one or other of two sources — either to actual historical events, represented by the fancy under figures personifying them ; or else to natural phenomena similarly endowed with life by the imaginative power usually more or less under the influence of terror. The historical myths we must leave the masters of history to follow ; they, and the events they record, being yet involved in great, though attractive and penetrable, mystery. But the stars, and hills, and storms are with us now, as they were with others of old ; and it only needs that we look at them with the earnest ness of those childish eyes to understand the first words spoken of them by the children of men, and then, in all the most beauti ful and enduring myths, we shall find, not only a literal story
of a real person, not only a parallel imagery of moral principle, but an underlying worship of natural phenomena, out of which both have sprung, and in which both forever remain rooted. Thus, from the real sun, rising and setting, — from the real atmosphere, calm in its dominion of unfading blue, and fierce in its descent of tempest, —the Greek forms first the idea of two entirely personal and corporeal gods, whose limbs are clothed in divine flesh, and whose brows are crowned with divine beauty ; yet so real that the quiver rattles at their shoulder, and the
GREEK MYTHS.
353
chariot bends beneath their weight. And, on the other hand, collaterally with these corporeal images, and never for one instant separated from them, he conceives also two omnipresent spiritual influences, of which one illuminates, as the sun, with a constant fire, whatever in humanity is skillful and wise ; and the other, like the living air, breathes the calm of heavenly fortitude, and strength of righteous anger, into every human breast that is pure and brave.
6. Now, therefore, in nearly every myth of importance, you have to discern these three structural parts, —the root and the two branches : the root, in physical existence, sun, or sky, or cloud, or sea ; then the personal incarnation of that, becoming a trusted and companionable deity, with whom you may walk hand in hand, as a child with its brother or its sister ; and, lastly, the moral significance of the image, which is in all the great myths eternally and beneficently true.
7. The great myths ; that is to say, myths made by great people.
For the first plain fact about myth making is one which has been most strangely lost sight of, — that you cannot make a myth unless you have something to make it of. You cannot tell a secret which you don't know. If the myth is about the sky, it must have been made by somebody who had looked at the sky. If the myth is about justice and fortitude, it must have been made by some one who knew what it was to be just or patient. According to the quantity of under standing in the person will be the quantity of significance in his fable ; and the myth of a simple and ignorant race must necessarily mean little, because a simple and ignorant race have little to mean. So the great question in reading a story is always, not what wild hunter dreamed, or what childish race first dreaded it ; but what wise man first perfectly told, and what strong people first perfectly lived by it. And the real meaning of any myth is that which it has at the noblest age of the nation among whom it is current. The farther back you pierce, the less significance you will find, until you come to the first narrow thought, which, indeed, contains the germ of the accomplished tradition; but only as the seed contains the flower. As the intelligence and passion of the race develop, they cling to and nourish their beloved and sacred legend ; leaf by leaf it expands under the touch of more pure affections, and more delicate imagination, until at last the perfect fable bourgeons out into symmetry of milky stem and honeyed bell.
354 GREEK MYTHS.
8. But through whatever changes it may pass, remember that our right reading of it is wholly dependent on the mate rials we have in our own minds for an intelligent answering sympathy. If it first arose among a people who dwelt under stainless skies, and measured their journeys by ascending and declining stars, we certainly cannot read their story, if we have never seen anything above us in the day but smoke, nor any thing around us in the night but candles. If the tale goes on to change clouds or planets into living creatures, — to invest them with fair forms and inflame them with mighty passions, —we can only understand the story of the human-hearted things, in so far as we ourselves take pleasure in the perfect- ness of visible form, or can sympathize, by an effort of imagina tion, with the strange people who had other loves than that of wealth, and other interests than those of commerce. And, lastly, if the myth complete itself to the fulfilled thoughts of the nation, by attributing to the gods, whom they have carved out of their fantasy, continual presence with their own souls ; and their every effort for good is finally guided by the sense of the companionship, the praise, and the pure will of immortals, we shall be able to follow them into this last circle of their faith only in the degree in which the better parts of our own beings have been also stirred by the aspects of nature, or strengthened by her laws. It may be easy to prove that the ascent of Apollo in his chariot signifies nothing but the rising of the sun. But what does the sunrise itself signify to us ?
return to frivolous amusement, or fruitless labor, it will, indeed, not be easy for us to conceive the power, over a Greek, of the name of Apollo. But for us also, as for the Greek, the sun rise means daily restoration to the sense of passionate gladness and of perfect life, —— means the thrilling of new strength through every nerve, the shedding over us of better peace than the peace of night, in the power of the dawn, — and the purging of evil vision and fear by the baptism of its dew — the sun itself an influence, to us also, of spiritual good — and becomes thus in reality, not in imagination, to us also, spirit ual power, —we may then soon overpass the narrow limit of conception which kept that power impersonal, and rise with the Greek to the thought of an angel who rejoiced as strong man to run his course, whose voice calling to life and to labor rang round the earth, and whose going forth was to the ends of heaven.
If only languid
a
a
is
a
;
if
if it
if,
BALLADE OF THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST. 355
BALLADE OF THE MYSTERIOUS HOSTS OF THE FOREST.
By THEODORE DE BANVILLE. (Translated by Andrew Lang. )
[Theodore Faullain de Banville, French novelist and poet, was born at Moulins, March 14, 1823 ; died at Paris, March 13, 1891. He was the son of a naval officer ; became a Parisian man of letters. His best-known works were the volumes of poetry, "The Caryatides" (1842), "The Stalactites" (1846), "Odes Funambulesques " (1857), "New Odes Funambulesques " (1868), " Russian Idyls " (1872), and "Thirty-six Merry Ballads" (1873). He wrote also prose tales and sketches; as, "The Poor Mountebanks" (1853), "The Parisians of Paris" (1866), " Tales for Women" (1881), and "The Soul of Paris " (1890). He published his autobiography, " My Recollections," in 1882.
For biography of Andrew Lang, the distinguished scholar, poet, and man of letters, see " Calypso," Vol. 2. ]
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly tree ;
The west wind breathes upon them pure and cold, And still wolves dread Diana roving free,
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray ; Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood, Dian thrids her way.
With waterweeds twined in their locks of gold The strange cold forest fairies dance in glee ;
Sylphs overtimorous and overbold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy :
Then, 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers passed away ; The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright,
And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.
She gleans her sylvan trophies ; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee,
Mixed with the music of the hunting rolled : But her delight is all in archery,
And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
More than the hounds that follow on the flight ;
35G
THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
The tall nymph draws a golden bow of might, And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay,
She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And Dian through the dim wood thrids her way.
Envoi.
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,
The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight ;
Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight,
And through the dim wood Dian thrids her way.
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. By Sib GEORGE W. COX (rewritten).
Deceived by the evil advice of Ate, the "mischief-maker of the gods, Jupiter said to Juno his queen, This day a child shall be born of the race of Perseus, who shall be the mightiest of all on earth. " He meant his son Hercules ; but Juno had a crafty trick in her mind to lay a heavy curse on that son, whom naturally she hated for his being such. She asked Jupi ter if what he had just said should surely be so, and he gave the nod which meant the vow that could not be recalled ; then she went to the Fates and induced them to have Eurystheus born first, so that he should be the one mortal more powerful than Hercules, though he was a weak, jealous, and spiteful man.
So the lot was fixed that all his life long Hercules should toil at the will of a mean and envious master. He was matchless in strength, courage, and beauty ; but he was to have neither profit nor comfort from them till he should pass from the land of mortals. But Jupiter was enraged at the ruin of his plans for the child by Juno's plot ; he cast forth Ate from the halls of Olympus and forbade her to dwell again among the gods, and ordained that Hercules should dwell with the gods in Olympus as soon as his days of toils on earth were ended.
So Hercules grew up in the house of Amphitryon husband of Alcmena, the mother of the baby demigod), full of beauty and wonderful might. One day, as he lay sleeping, two huge serpents came into the chamber, twisted their coils round
(the
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. 357
the cradle, and gazed on him with their cold, glassy eyes, till the sound of their hissing woke him; but instead of being frightened, he stretched out his little arms, caught hold of the serpents' necks, and strangled them to death. All knew by this sign that he was to have terrible struggles with the evil things of the world, but was to come off the victor.
As he grew up, no one could compare with him for strength of arm and swiftness of foot, in taming horses, or in wrestling. The best men in Argos were his teachers ; and the wise cen taur Chiron was his friend, and taught him always to help the weak and take their part against any who oppressed them. For all his great strength, none were more gentle than Hercu les ; none more full of pity for those bowed down by pain and labor.
But it was bitter to him that he must spend his life slaving for Eurystheus, while others were rich in joy and pleasures, feasts and games. One day, thinking of these things, he sat down by the wayside where two paths met, in a lonely valley far from the dwellings of men. Suddenly lifting up his eyes, he saw two women coming toward him, each from a different road. Both were fair to look upon : but one had a soft and gentle face, and was clad in pure white. The other looked boldly at Hercules ; her face was ruddier, and her eyes shone with a hot and restless glitter ; her thin, embroidered robe, streaming in long folds from her shoulders, clung about her voluptuous figure, revealing more than it hid. With a quick and eager step she hastened to him, so as to be the first to
I know, man of toils and grief, that your heart is sad within you, and that you know not which way to turn. Come with me, and I will lead you on a soft
speak. And she said : "
and pleasant road, where no storms shall vex you and no sor rows shall trouble you. You shall never hear of wars or fight ing ; sickness and pain shall not come near you : but you shall feast all day long at rich banquets and listen to the songs of minstrels. You shall not want for sparkling wine, soft robes, or pleasant couches ; you shall not lack the delights of love, for the bright eyes of maidens shall look gently upon you, and their song shall lull you to sleep. "
Hercules said : " You promise me pleasant things, lady, and I am sorely pressed down by a hard master. What is your name ? "
" My friends," said she, " call me Pleasure ; those who look
358 THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
Then the other said : " Hercules, I too know who you are and the doom laid on you, and how you have toiled and endured even from childhood ; that is the very reason I feel sure you will give me your love. If you do so, men will speak of your good deeds in future times, and my name will be still more exalted. But I have no fine words to cheat you with. Noth ing good is ever reached, nothing great is ever won, without toil. If you seek for fruit from the earth, you must tend and till it ; if you would have the favor of the gods, you must come before them with prayers and offerings ; if you long for the love of men, you must do them good. " "
on me with disfavor have given me more than one bad name and an ill repute, but they speak falsely. "
You see, Hercules, that Virtue seeks to lead you on a long and weary path ; but
Then the other broke in and said :
my broad and easy road leads quickly to happiness. "
" Virtue answered with a flash of anger in her pure eyes : Wretched thing, what good thing have you to give, and what pleasure can you feel, who know not what it is to toil ? Your
lusts are satiated, your taste is dulled into indifference or nau sea. You drink the wine before you are thirsty, and fill your self with dainties before you are hungry. Though you are numbered among the immortals, the gods have cast you forth out of heaven, and good men scorn you. The sweetest of all sounds, when a man's heart praises him, you have never heard ; the sweetest of all sights, when a man looks on his good deeds, you have never seen. Those who bow down to you are weak and feeble in youth, and wretched and loathsome in old age. But I dwell with the gods in heaven, and with good men on the earth ; and without me nothing good can be done or thought. More than all others I am honored by the gods and cherished by the men who love me. In peace and in war, in health and in sickness, I am the aid of all who seek me ; and my help never fails. My children know the purest of all pleasures, when the hour of rest comes after the toil of day. In youth they are strong, and their limbs are quick with health ; in old age they look back upon a happy life ; and when they lie down to the sleep of death, their name is cherished among men for
their good and useful deeds. Love me, therefore, Hercules, and obey my words, and when your labors are ended you shall dwell with me in the home of the immortal gods. "
Hercules bowed his head and swore to follow Virtue's counsels,
THE LABORS OF HERCULES. 359
and went forth with a good courage to his labor and suffering. He lived and wrought in many lands to obey Eurystheus' orders. He did good deeds for men; but he gained nothing by them except the love of the gentle Iole. Far away in CEchalia, where the sun rises from the eastern sea, he saw the maiden in the halls of Eurytus, and sought to win her love. But Jupiter's vow to Juno gave him no rest. Eurystheus sent him to other lands, and he saw the maiden no more.
But Hercules kept up a good heart, and the glory of his great deeds became spread abroad through all the earth. Minstrels sang how he slew the monsters and savage beasts who vexed the sons of men ; how he smote the Hydra in the land of Lerna, and the wild boar which haunted the groves of Erymanthus, and the Harpies who lurked in the swamps of Stymphalus. They told how he traveled far away to the land of the setting sun, where Eurystheus bade him pluck the golden apples from the garden of the Hesperides : how over hill and dale, across marsh and river, through thicket and forest, he came to the western sea, and crossed to the African land where Atlas lifts up his white head to the high heaven; how he smote the dragon which guarded the brazen gates, and brought the apples to King Eurystheus. They sang of his weary journey when he roamed through the land of the Ethiopians and came to the wild and desolate heights of Caucasus ; how he saw a giant form high on the naked rock, and the vulture which gnawed the Titan's heart with its beak ; how he slew the bird, and smote off the cruel chains, and set Prometheus free. They sang how Eurystheus laid on him a fruitless task, by sending him down to the dark land of King Hades to bring up the monster Cerberus ; how upon the shore of the gloomy Acheron he found the mighty hound who guards the home of Hades and Persephone, seized him and brought him to Eurystheus. They sang of the days when he worked in the land of Queen Omphale beneath the Libyan sun ; how he destroyed the walls of Ilion when Laome- don was king ; how he was bid to cleanse the vast stables where King Augeas had kept a thousand horses for thirty years with out removing a spadeful of the filth, and accomplished the task by turning a river through them ; and how he went to Calydon and wooed and won Dejanira, the daughter of the chieftain (Eneus.
He dwelt a long time in Calydon, and the people there loved him for his kindly deeds. But one day he accidentally killed
360 THE LABORS OF HERCULES.
with his spear the boy Eunomus. The father held no grudge against Hercules, knowing that he did not intend the death ; but Hercules was so grieved for the death that he left the country, and went again on his travels. On the banks of the Evenus he wounded with a poisoned arrow the centaur Nessus, for attempting to assault Dejanira. As the poison ran through the centaur's veins, he was frenzied with a desire to revenge himself on Hercules ; and under guise of forgiveness and good will to Dejanira, he advised her to fill a shell with his blood, and if ever she lost the love of Hercules, to spread it on a robe for him to wear, and the love would return.
So Nessus died ; and Hercules went to the land of Trachis, and there Dejanira remained while he journeyed to the far East. Years passed, and he did not return. At last news came of great deeds he had done in distant lands ; among them that he had slain Eurytus, the king of CEchalia, and taken a willing captive his daughter Iole, the most beautiful maiden in the land.
Then the words of Nessus came back to Dejanira: she thought Hercules' love had gone from her, and to win it back she smeared a richly embroidered robe with the centaur's blood, and with a message full of heartfelt love and honor sent it to him to wear. The messenger found him offering sacrifice to his father Jupiter, and gave him the robe in token of Dejanira's love. Hercules wrapped it round him, and stood by the altar while the black smoke rolled up toward heaven. Presently the vengeance of Nessus was accomplished : the poison began to burn fiercely through Hercules' veins. He strove in vain to tear off the robe : it had become as part of his own skin, and he only tore pieces out of his own flesh in the attempt ; as he writhed in agony, the blood poured from his body in streams.
Then the maiden Iole came to his side, and sought to soothe his agony with her gentle hands and to cheer him with pitying words. Then once more his face flushed with a deep joy, and his eye glanced with a pure light, as in the days of his young might ; and he said : " Ah, Iole, my first and best love, your voice is my comfort as I sink down into the sleep of death. I loved you in my morning time ; but Fate would not give you to me for a companion in my long wanderings. But I will waste none of my short final happiness in grieving now : you are with me to be the last thing I see or hear or think of in life. "
HYMN OF APOLLO. 361
Then he made them carry him to the high crest of Mount (Eta and gather wood. When all was ready, he lay down to rest on the huge pyre, and they kindled it. The shades were dark ening the sky, but Hercules tried still to pierce them with his eyes to gaze on Iole's face and cheer her in her sorrow. " Weep not, Iole," he said ; "my labors are done, and now is the time for rest. I shall see you again in the land where night never comes. "
Darker and darker grew the evening shades ; and only the blazing of the funeral pile on the mountain top pierced the black ness of the gloom. Then a thundercloud came down from heaven and its bolt crashed through the air. So Jupiter carried his child home, and the halls of Olympus were opened to wel come the hero, who rested at last from his matchless labors.
HYMN OF APOLLO. By PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
[Percy Btsbhe Shelley, English poet, was born in Sussex, August 4, 1792, and educated at Eton and at University College, Oxford, whence he was expelled for a tract on the "Necessity of Atheism. " His first notable poem, "Queen Mab," was privately printed in 1813. He succeeded to his father's estate in 1815. " Alastor " was completed in 1816 ; " The Revolt of Islam," " Rosalind and Helen," and "Julian and Maddalo," in 1818; "Prometheus Unbound," "The Cenci," "The Coliseum," "Peter Bell the Third," and the "Mask of Anarchy," in 1819 ; " CEdipus Tyrannus " and the " Witch of Atlas," in 1820 ; "Epipsychidion," "The Defense of Poetry," "Adonais," and "Hellas," in 1822. He was drowned at sea July 8, 1822. ]
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.
362
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
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 ;
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 its own right belong.
THE GOLDEN APPLES. By WILLIAM MORRIS. (From " The Earthly Paradise. ")
[William Morris, English poet and art reformer, was born March 24, 1834 ; educated at Oxford, and was one of the Preraphaelites. His best-known poem is "The Earthly Paradise"; he has also written "The Defense of Guinevere," "The Life and Death of Jason," "Sigurd the Volsung," "The Fall of the Niblungs," and smaller ones. In prose he wrote " The House of the Wolfings," "The Glittering Plain," etc. He founded a manufactory of house hold decorations to reform public taste, and a printing house for artistic typog raphy. He was also a fervent Socialist. He died October 3, 1896. ]
As many as the leaves fall from the tree, From the world's life the years are fallen away Since King Eurystheus sat in majesty
In fair Mycenae ; midmost of whose day
It once befell that in a quiet bay
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
A ship of Tyre was swinging nigh the shore, Her folk for sailing handling rope and oar.
863
Fresh was the summer morn, a soft wind stole
Down from the sheep-browsed slopes the cliffs that crowned, And ruffled lightly the long gleaming roll
Of the peaceful sea, and bore along the sound
Of shepherd folk and sheep and questing hound;
For in the first dip of the hillside there
Lay bosomed 'mid its trees a homestead fair.
Amid regrets for last night, when the moon, Risen on the soft dusk, shone on maidens' feet Brushing the gold-heart lilies to the tune
Of pipes complaining, o'er the grass down-beat That mixed with dewy flowers its odor sweet, The shipmen labored, till the sail unfurled Swung round the prow to meet another world.
But ere the anchor had come home, a shout
Rang from the strand, as though the ship were hailed. Whereat the master bade them stay, in doubt
That they without some needful thing had sailed ; When, lo ! from where the cliffs' steep gray sides failed Into a ragged, stony slip, came twain
Who seemed in haste the ready keel to gain.
Soon they drew nigh, and he who first came down Unto the surf was a man huge of limb,
Gray-eyed, with crisp-curled hair 'twixt black and brown ; Who had a lion's skin cast over him,
So wrought with gold that the fell showed but dim Betwixt the threads, and in his hand he bore
A mighty club with bands of steel done o'er.
Panting there followed him a gray old man, Bearing a long staff, clad in gown of blue, Feeble of aspect, hollow-cheeked, and wan, Who, when unto his fellow's side he drew,
Said faintly : "Now, do that which thou shouldst do; This is the ship. " Then in the other's eye
A smile gleamed, and he spake out merrily :
" Masters, folk tell me that ye make for Tyre, And after that still nearer to the sun ;
And since Fate bids me look to die by fire,
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Fain am I, ere my worldly day be done,
To know what from earth's hottest can be won ; And this old man, my kinsman, would with me. How say ye, will ye bear us o'er the sea ? "
"What is thy name ? " the master said : "And know That we are merchants, and for naught give naught ; What wilt thou pay ? — thou seem'st full rich, I trow. " The old man muttered, stooped adown and caught
At something in the sand : " E'en so I thought," The younger said, " when I set out from home — As to my name, perchance in days to come
"Thou shalt know that — but have heed, take this toy_. And call me the Strong Man. " And as he spake
The master's deep brown eyes 'gan gleam with joy,
For from his arm a huge ring did he take,
And cast it on the deck, where it did break A water jar, and in the wet shards lay Golden, and gleaming like the end of day.
But the old man held out a withered hand, Wherein there shone two pearls most great and fair, And said, "If any nigher I might stand,
Then mightst thou see the things I give thee here — And for name — a many names I bear,
But call me Shepherd of the Shore this tide,
And for more knowledge with a good will bide. "
From one to the other turned the master's eyes ; The Strong Man laughed as at some hidden jest, And wild doubts in the shipman's heart did rise ; But thinking on the thing, he deemed it best
To bid them come aboard, and take such rest As they might have of the untrusty sea, 'Mid men who trusty fellows still should be.
Then no more words the Strong Man made, but straight Caught up the elder in his arms, and so,
Making no whit of all that added weight,
Strode to the ship, right through the breakers low,
And catching at the rope that they did throw Out toward his hand, swung up into the ship : Then did the master let the hawser slip.
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
The shapely prow cleft the wet mead and green, And wondering drew the shipmen round to gaze Upon those limbs, the mightiest ever seen;
And many deemed it no light thing to face
The splendor of his eyen, though they did blaze With no wrath now, no hate for them to dread, As seaward 'twixt the summer isles they sped.
Freshened the wind, but ever fair it blew
Unto the southeast ; but as failed the land,
Unto the plunging prow the Strong Man drew, And, silent, gazing with wide eyes did stand,
As though his heart found rest ; but 'mid the band Of shipmen in the stern the old man sat,
Telling them tales that no man there forgat.
As one who had beheld, he told them there Of the sweet singer, who, for his song's sake,
The dolphins back from choking death did bear ; How in the mid sea did the vine outbreak
O'er that ill bark when Bacchus 'gan to wake ; How anigh Cyprus, ruddy with the rose
The cold sea grew as any June-loved close ;
While on the flowery shore all things alive Grew faint with sense of birth of some delight, And the nymphs waited trembling there, to give Glad welcome to the glory of that sight :
He paused then, ere he told how, wild and white, Rose ocean, breaking o'er a race accurst,
A world once good, now come unto its worst.
And then he smiled, and said, " And yet ye won, Ye men, and tremble not on days like these,
Nor think with what a mind Prometheus' son Beheld the last of the torn reeling trees
From high Parnassus : slipping through the seas
Ye never think, ye men folk, how ye seem
From down below through the green waters' gleam. "
Dusk was it now when these last words he said, And little of his visage might they see,
But o'er their hearts stole vague and troublous dread, They knew not why ; yet ever quietly
They sailed that night; nor might a morning be
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Fairer than was the next morn; and they went Along their due course after their intent.
The fourth day, about sunrise, from the mast The watch cried out he saw Phoenician land ; Whereat the Strong Man on the elder cast
A look askance, and he straight took his stand Anigh the prow, and gazed beneath his hand Upon the low sun and the scarce-seen shore,
Till cloud flecks rose, and gathered and drew o'er.
The morn grown cold ; then small rain 'gan to fall, And all the wind dropped dead, and hearts of men Sank, and their bark seemed helpless now and small ; Then suddenly the wind 'gan moan again ;
Sails flapped, and ropes beat wild about ; and then
Down came the great east wind; and the ship ran Straining, heeled o'er, through seas all changed and wan.
Westward, scarce knowing night from day, they drave Through sea and sky grown one ; the Strong Man wrought With mighty hands, and seemed a god to save ;
But on the prow, heeding all weather naught,
The elder stood, nor any prop he sought,
But swayed to the ship's wallowing, as on wings He there were set above the wrack of things.
And westward still they drave ; and if they saw Land upon either side, as on they sped,
'Twas but as faces in a dream may draw
Anigh, and fade, and leave naught in their stead ; And in the shipmen's hearts grew heavy dread
To sick despair ; they deemed they should drive on Till the world's edge and empty space were won.
But 'neath the Strong Man's eyes e'en as they might They toiled on still ; and he sang to the wind,
And spread his arms to meet the waters white,
As o'er the deck they tumbled, making blind
The brine-drenched shipmen ; nor with eye unkind He gazed up at the lightning ; nor would frown When o'er the wet waste Jove's bolt rattled down.
And they, who at the last had come to think
Their guests were very gods, with all their fear Feared naught belike that their good ship would sink
THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Amid the storm ; but rather looked to hear
The last moan of the wind that them should bear Into the windless stream of ocean gray,
Where they should float till dead was every day.
Yet their fear mocked them ; for the storm 'gan die About the tenth day, though unto the west
They drave on still ; soon fair and quietly
The morn would break ; and though amid their rest Naught but long evil wandering seemed the best
That they might hope for ; still, despite their dread, Sweet was the quiet sea and goodlihead
Of the bright sun at last come back again ; And as the days passed, less and less fear grew, If without cause, till faded all their pain ;
And they 'gan turn unto their guests anew,
Yet durst ask naught of what that evil drew Upon their heads ; or of returning speak. Happy they felt, but listless, spent, and weak.
And now as at the first the elder was,
And sat and told them tales of yore agone ;
But ever the Strong Man up and down would pass About the deck, or on the prow alone
Would stand and stare out westward ; and still on Through a fair summer sea they went, nor thought
Of what would come when these days turned to naught.
And now when twenty days were well passed o'er They made a new land ; cloudy mountains high
Rose from the sea at first ; then a green shore
Spread fair below them : as they drew anigh
No sloping, stony strand could they espy,
And no surf breaking ; the green sea and wide Wherethrough they slipped was driven by no tide.
Dark fell ere they might set their eager feet
Upon the shore ; but night-long their ship lay
As in a deep stream, by the blossoms sweet
That flecked the grass whence flowers ne'er passed away. But when the cloud-barred east brought back the day, And turned the western mountain tops to gold,
Fresh fear the shipmen in their bark did hold.
THE GOLDEN APPLE*
For as a dream seemed all ; too fair for those Who needs must die ; moreover they could see,
A furlong off, 'twixt apple tree and rose,
A brazen wall that gleamed out wondrously
In the young sun, and seemed right long to be ;
And memory of all marvels lay upon
Their shrinking hearts now this sweet place was won.
But when unto the nameless guests they turned, Who stood together nigh the plank shot out Shoreward, within the Strong Man's eyes there burned A wild light, as the other one in doubt
He eyed a moment ; then with a great shout Leaped into the blossomed grass ; the echoes rolled Back from the hills, harsh still and overbold.
Slowly the old man followed him, and still
The crew held back : they knew now they were brought Over the sea the purpose to fulfill
Of these strange men ; and in their hearts they thought, " Perchance we yet shall live, meddling naught
With dreams, we bide here till these twain come back But prying eyes the fire blast seldom lack. "
Yet 'mongst them were two fellows bold and young, Who, looking each upon the other's face,
Their hearts to meet the unknown danger strung,
And went ashore, and at gentle pace
Followed the strangers, who unto the place
Where the wall gleamed had turned peace and desire Mingled together in their hearts, as nigher
They drew unto that wall, and dulled their fear Fair wrought was, as though with bricks of brass And images upon its face there were,
Stories of things long while come to pass
Nor that alone — as looking in glass
Its maker knew the tales of what should be,
And wrought them there for bird and beast to see.
So on they went the many birds sang sweet
Through all that blossomed thicket from above,
And unknown flowers bent down before their feet
The very air, cleft by the gray-winged dove,
Throbbed with sweet scent, and smote their souls with love.
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THE GOLDEN APPLES.
Slowly they went till those twain stayed before A strangely wrought and iron-covered door.
They stayed, too, till o'er noise of wind, and bird, And falling flower, there rang a mighty shout
As the Strong Man his steel-bound club upreared, And drave it 'gainst the hammered iron stout,
Where 'neath his blows flew bolt and rivet out,
Till shattered on the ground the great door lay,
And into the guarded place bright poured the day.
The Strong Man entered, but his fellow stayed Leaning against a tree trunk as they deemed.
They faltered now, and yet all things being weighed Went on again ; and thought they must have dreamed Of the old man, for now the sunlight streamed
Full on the tree he had been leaning on, And him they saw not go, yet was he gone :
Only a slim green lizard flitted there
Amidst the dry leaves ; him they noted naught,
But, trembling, through the doorway 'gan to peer,
And still of strange and dreadful saw not aught,
Only a garden fair beyond all thought.
And there, 'twixt sun and shade, the Strong Man went On some long-sought-for end belike intent.
