Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology

by Thomas Bulfinch

  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