the river god: "Help me, Peneus! open the earth to enclose me, or change my form,
which has brought me into this danger!" Scarcely had she spoken, when a stiffness
seized all her limbs; her bosom began to be enclosed in a tender bark; her hair became
leaves; her arms became branches; her foot stuck fast in the ground, as a root; her face
became a tree-top, retaining nothing of its former self but its beauty. Apollo stood
amazed. He touched the stem, and felt the flesh tremble under the new bark. He
embraced the branches, and lavished kisses on the wood. The branches shrank from his
lips. "Since you cannot be my wife," said he, "you shall assuredly be my tree. I will wear
you for my crown I will decorate with you my harp and my quiver; and when the great
Roman conquerors lead up the triumphal pomp to the Capitol, you shall be woven into
wreaths for their brows. And, as eternal youth is mine, you also shall be always green,
and your leaf know no decay." The nymph, now changed into a Laurel tree, bowed its
head in grateful acknowledgment.
That Apollo should be the god both of music and poetry will not appear strange,
but that medicine should also be assigned to his province, may. The poet Armstrong,
himself a physician, thus accounts for it: -
"Music exalts each joy, allays each grief,
Expels diseases, softens every pain;
And hence the wise of ancient days adored
One power of physic, melody, and song."
The story of Apollo and Daphne is often alluded to by the poets. Waller applies it
to the case of one whose amatory verses, though they did not soften the heart of his
mistress, yet won for the poet wide-spread fame.
"Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
All but the nymph that should redress his wrong,
Attend his passion and approve his song.
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He caught at love and filled his arms with bays."
The following stanza from Shelley's Adonais alludes to Byron's early quarrel with
the reviewers: -
"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;
The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true,
Who feed where Desolation first has fed.
And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,
When like Apollo, from his golden bow,
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow;
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go."
Pyramus And Thisbe.
Pyramus was the handsomest youth, and Thisbe the fairest maiden, in all
Babylonia, where Semiramis reigned. Their parents occupied adjoining houses; and
neighborhood brought the young people together, and acquaintance ripened into love.
They would gladly have married, but their parents forbade. One thing however, they
could not forbid - that love should glow with equal ardor in the bosoms of both. They
conversed by signs and glances, and the fire burned more intensely for being covered
up. In the wall that parted the two houses there was a crack, caused by some fault in
the structure. No one had remarked it before, but the lovers discovered it. What will not
love discovered! It afforded a passage to the voice; and tender messages used to pass
backward and forward through the gap. As they stood, Pyramus on this side. Thisbe on
that, their breaths would mingle. "Cruel wall," they said, "why do you keep two lovers
apart: But we will not be ungrateful. We owe you, we confess, the privilege of
transmitting loving words to willing ears." Such words they uttered on different sides of
the wall; and when night came and they must say farewell, they pressed their lips upon
the wall, she on her side, he on his, as they could come no nearer.
Next morning, when Aurora had put out the stars, and the sun had melted the
frost from the grass, they met at the accustomed spot. Then, after lamenting their hard
fate, they agreed that next night, when all was still, they would slip away from watchful
eyes, leave their dwellings and walk out into the fields; and to insure a meeting, repair to
a well-known edifice, standing without the city's bounds, called the Tomb of Ninus, and
that the one who came first should await the other at the foot of a certain tree. It was a
white mulberry tree, and stood near a cool spring. All was agreed on, and they waited
impatiently for the sun to go down beneath the waters and night to rise up from them.
Then cautiously Thisbe stole forth, unobserved by the family, her head covered with a
veil, made her way to the monument and sat down under the tree. As she sat alone in
the dim light of the evening she descried a lioness, her jaws reeking with recent
slaughter, approaching the fountain to slake her thirst. Thisbe fled at the sight, and
sought refuge in the hollow of a rock. As she fled she dropped her veil. The lioness,
after drinking at the spring, turned to retreat to the woods, and seeing the veil on the
ground, tossed and rent it with her bloody mouth.
Pyramus, having been delayed, now approached the place of meeting. He saw
in the sand the footsteps of the lion, and the color fled from his cheeks at the sight.
Presently he found the veil all rent and bloody. "O, hapless girl," said he, "I have been
the cause of thy death! Thou, more worthy of life than I, hast fallen the first victim. I will
follow. I am the guilty cause, in tempting thee forth to a place of such peril, and not
being myself on the spot to guard thee. Come forth, ye lions, from the rocks, and tear
this guilty body with your teeth." He took up the veil, carried it with him to the appointed
tree, and covered it with kisses and with tears. "My blood also shall stain your texture,"
said he, and drawing his sword plunged it into his heart. The blood spirited from the
wound, and tinged the white mulberries of the tree all red; and sinking into the earth re
ched the roots, so that the red color mounted through the trunk to the fruit.
By this time, Thisbe, still trembling with fear, yet wishing not to disappoint her
lover, stepped cautiously forth, looking anxiously for the youth, eager to tell him the
danger she had escaped. When she came to the spot and saw the changed color of the
mulberries she doubted whether it was the same place. While she hesitated she saw
the form of one struggling in the agonies of death. She started back, a shudder ran
through her frame as a ripple on the face of the still water when a sudden breeze
sweeps over it. But as soon as she recognized her lover, she screamed and beat her
breast; embracing the lifeless body, pouring tears into its wounds, and imprinting kisses
on the cold lips. "O, Pyramus," she cried, "what has done this? Answer me, Pyramus; it
is your own Thisbe that speaks. Hear me, dearest, and lift that drooping head!" At the
name of Thisbe Pyramus opened his eyes, then closed them again. She saw her veil
stained with blood and the scabbard empty of its sword. "Thy own hand has slain thee,
and for my sake," she said. "I too can be brave for once, and my love is as strong as
thine. I will follow thee in death, for I have been the cause; and death, which alone could
part us, shall not prevent my joining thee. And ye, unhappy
parents of us both, deny us
not our united request. As love and death have joined us, let one tomb contain us. And
thou, tree, retain the marks of slaughter. Let thy berries still serve for memorials of our
blood." So saying she plunged the sword into her breast. Her parents ratified her wish,
the gods also ratified it. The two bodies were buried in one sepulchre, and the tree ever
after brought forth purple berries, as it does to this day.
Moore, in the Sylph's Ball, speaking of Davy's Safety Lamp, is reminded of the
wall that separated Thisbe and her lover: -
"O for that Lamp's metallic gauze,
That curtain of protecting wire,
Which Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire!
"The wall he sets 'twixt Flame and Air,
(Like that which barred young Thisbe's bliss,)
Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other, but not kiss."
In Mickle's translation of the Lusiad occurs the following allusion to the story of
Pyramus and Thisbe, and the metamorphosis of the mulberries. The poet is describing
the Island of Love.
" - here each gift Pomona's hand bestows
In cultured garden, free uncultured flows,
The flavor sweeter and the hue more fair
Than e'er was fostered by the hand of care.
The cherry here in shining crimson glows,
And stained with lovers' blood, in pendent rows
The mulberries o'erload the bending boughs."
If any of our young readers can be so hard-hearted as to enjoy a laugh at the
expense of poor Pyramus and Thisbe, they may find an opportunity by turning to
Shakespeare's play of the Midsummer Night's Dream, where it is most amusingly
burlesqued.
Cephalus And Procris.
Cephalus was a beautiful youth and fond of manly sports. He would rise before
the dawn to pursue the chase. Aurora saw him when she first looked forth, fell in love
with him and stole him away. But Cephalus was just marri d to a charming wife whom
he devotedly loved. Her name was Procris. She was a favorite of Diana, the goddess of
hunting, who had given her a dog which could outrun every rival, and a javelin which
would never fail of its mark; and Procris gave these presents to her husband. Cephalus
was so happy in his wife that he resisted all the entreaties of Aurora, and she finally
dismissed him in displeasure, saying, "Go, ungrateful mortal, keep your wife, whom, if I
am not much mistaken, you will one day be very sorry you ever saw again."
Cephalus returned, and was as happy as ever in his wife and his woodland
sports. Now it happened some angry deity had sent a ravenous fox to annoy the
country; and the hunters turned out in great strength to capture it. Their efforts were all in
vain; no dog could run it down; and at last they came to Cephalus to borrow his famous
dog, whose name was Lelaps. No sooner was the dog let loose than he darted off,
quicker than their eye could follow him. If they had not seen his footprints in the sand
they would have thought he flew. Cephalus and others stood on a hillaand saw the race.
The fox tried every art; he ran in a circle and turned on his track, the dog close upon him,
with open jaws, snapping at his heels, but biting only the air. Cephalus was about to use
his javelin, when suddenly he saw both dog and game stop instantly. The heavenly
powers who had given both, were not willing that either should conquer. In the very
attitude of life and action they were turned into stone. So lifelike and natural did they
look, you would have thought, as you looked at them, that one was going to bark, the
other to leap forward.
Cephalus, though he had lost his dog, still continued to take delight in the chase.
He would go out at early morning, ranging the woods and hills unaccompanied by any
one, needing no help, for his javelin was a sure weapon in all cases. Fatigued with
hunting, when the sun got high he would seek a shady nook where a cool stream flowed,
and, stretched on the grass, with his garments thrown aside, would enjoy the breeze.
Sometimes he would say aloud, "Come, sweet breeze, come and fan my breast, come
and allay the heat that burns me." Some one passing by one day heard him talking in
this way to the air, and, foolishly believing that he was talking to some maiden, went and
told the secret to Procris, Cephalus's wife. Love is credulous. Procris, at the sudden
shock, fainted away. Presently recovering, she said, "It cannot be true; I will not believe
it unless I myself am a witness to it." So she waited, with anxious heart, till the next
morning, when Cephalus went to hunt as usual. Then she stole out after him, and
concealed herself in the place where the informer directed her. Cephalus came as he
was wont when tired with sport, and stretched himself on the green bank, saying,
"Come, sweet breeze, come and fan me; you know how I love you! you make the
groves and my solitary rambles delightful." He was running on in this way when he
heard, or thought he heard, a sound as of a sob in the bushes. Supposing it some wild
animal, he threw his javelin at the spot. A cry from his beloved Procris told him that the
weapon had too surely met its mark. He rushed to the place, and found her bleeding,
and with sinking strength endeavoring to draw forth from the wound the javelin, her own
gift. Cephalus raised her from the earth, strove to stanch the blood, and called her to
revive and not to leave him miserable, to reproach himself with her death. She opened
her feeble eyes, and forced herself to utter these few words: "I implore you, if you have
ever loved me, if I have ever deserved kindness at your hands, my husband, grant me
this last request; do not marry that odious Breeze!" This disclosed the whole mystery:
but alas! what advantage to disclose it now? She died; but her face wore a calm
expression, and she looked pityingly and forgivingly on her husband when he made her
understand the truth.
Moore, in his Legendary Ballads, has one on Cephalus and Procris, beginning
thus: -
"A hunter once in a grove reclined,
To shun the noon's bright eye,
And oft he wooed the wandering wind
To cool his brow with its sigh.
While mute lay even the wild bee's hum,
Nor breath could stir the aspen's hair,
His song was still, 'Sweet Air, O come!'
While Echo answered, 'Come, sweet Air"
Chapter IV: Juno And Her Rivals
Juno And Her Rivals, Io And Callisto - Diana And Actaeon - Latona And
Rustics.
Juno one day perceived it suddenly grow dark, and immediately suspected that
her husband had raised a cloud to hide some of his doings that would not bear the
light. She brushed away the cloud, and saw her husband, on the banks of a glassy
river, with a beautiful heifer standing near him. Juno suspected the heifer's form
concealed some fair nymph of mortal mould, - as was, indeed, the case; for it was Io,
the daughter of the river god Inachus, whom Jupiter had been flirting with, and, when
he became aware of the approach of his wife, had changed into that form.
Juno joined her husband, and noticing the heifer praised its beauty, and asked
whose it was, and of what herd. Jupiter, to stop questions, replied th
at it was a fresh
creation from the earth. Juno asked to have it as a gift. What could Jupiter do? He
was loath to give his mistress to his wife; yet how refuse so trifling a present as a
simple heifer? He could not, without exciting suspicion; so he consented. The
goddess was not yet relieved of her suspicions; so she delivered the heifer to Argus, to
be strictly watched.
Now Argus had a hundred eyes in his head, and never went to sleep with more
than two at a time, so that he kept watch of Io constantly. He suffered her to feed
through the day, and at night tied her up with a vile rope round her neck. She would
have stretched out her arms to implore freedom of Argus, but she had no arms to
stretch out, and her voice was a bellow that frightened even herself. She saw her
father and her sisters, went near them, and suffered them to pat her back, and heard
them admire her beauty. Her father reached her a tuft of grass, and she licked the
outstretched hand. She longed to make herself known to him, and would have uttered
her wish; but, alas! words were wanting. At length she bethought herself of writing,
and inscribed her name - it was a short one - with her hoof on the sand. Inachus
recognized it, and discovering that his daughter, whom he had long sought in vain,
was hidden under this disguise, mourned over her, and, embracing her white neck,
exclaimed, "Alas! my daughter, it would have been a less grief to have lost you
altogether!" While he thus lamented, Argus, observing, came and drove her away, and
took his seat on a high bank, from whence he could see all round in every direction.
Jupiter was troubled at beholding the sufferings of his mistress, and calling
Mercury told him to go and despatch Argus. Mercury made haste, put his winged
slippers on his feet, and cap on his head, took his sleep- producing wand, and leaped
down from the heavenly towers to the earth. There he laid aside his wings, and kept
Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology Page 4