Ill-granted chariot. Him the Thunderer hurled
From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf
Of the half-parched Eridanus, where weep
Even now the sister trees their amber tears
O'er Phaeton untimely dead."
In the beautiful lines of Walter Savage Landor, descriptive of the Sea- shell, there
is an allusion to the Sun's palace and chariot. The water-nymph says, -
" - I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and things that lustre have imbibed
In the sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
His chariot wheel stands midway in the wave.
Shake one and it awakens; then apply
Its polished lip to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there."
Gebir, Book 1.
Chapter VI: Midas - Baucis And Philemon
Bacchus, on a certain occasion, found his old school-master and foster- father,
Silenus, missing. The old man had been drinking, and in that state wandered away,
and was found by some peasants, who carried him to their king, Midas. Midas
recognized him, and treated him hospitably, entertaining him for ten days and nights
with an unceasing round of jollity. On the eleventh day he brought Silenus back, and
restored him in safety to his pupil. Whereupon Bacchus offered Midas his choice of a
reward, whatever he might wish. He asked that whatever he might touch should be
changed into gold. Bacchus consented, though sorry that he had not made a better
choice. Midas went his way, rejoicing in his new-acquired power, which he hastened
to put to the test. He could scarce believe his eyes when he found a twig of an oak,
which he plucked from the branch, become gold in his hand. He took up a stone; it
changed to gold. He touched a sod; it did the same. He took an apple from the tree;
you would have thought he had robbed the garden of the Hesperides. His joy knew no
bounds, and as soon as he got home, he ordered the servants to set a splendid repast
on the table. Then he found to his dismay that whether he touched bread, it hardened
in his hand; or put a morsel to his lips, it defied his teeth. He took a glass of wine, but
it flowed down his throat like melted gold.
In consternation at the unprecedented affliction, he strove to divest himself of his
power; he hated the gift he had lately coveted. But all in vain; starvation seemed to
await him. He raised his arms, all shining with gold, in prayer to Bacchus, begging to
be delivered from his glittering destruction. Bacchus, merciful deity, heard and
consented. "Go," said he, "to the River Pactolus, trace the stream to its fountain-head,
there plunge your head and body in, and wash away your fault and its punishment." He
did so, and scarce had he touched the waters before the gold-creating power passed
into them, and the river sands became changed into gold, as they remain to this day.
Thenceforth Midas, hating wealth and splendor, dwelt in the country, and
became a worshipper of Pan, the god of the fields. On a certain occasion Pan had the
temerity to compare his music with that of Apollo, and to challenge the god of the lyre
to a trial of skill. The challenge was accepted, and Tmolus, the mountain god, was
chosen umpire. The senior took his seat, and cleared away the trees from his ears to
listen. At a given signal Pan blew on his pipes, and with his rustic melody gave great
satisfaction to himself and his faithful follower Midas, who happened to be present.
Then Tmolus turned his head toward the Sun-god, and all his trees turned with him.
Apollo rose; his brow wreathed with Parnassian laurel, while his robe of Tyrian purple
swept the ground. In his left hand he held the lyre, and with his right hand struck the
strings. Ravished with the harmony, Tmolus at once awarded the victory to the god of
the lyre, and all but Midas acquiesced in the judgment. He dissented, and questioned
the justice of the award. Apollo would not suffer such a depraved pair of ears any
longer to wear the human form, but caused them to increase in length, grow hairy,
within and without, and movable on their roots; in short, to be on the perfect pattern of
those of an ass.
Mortified enough was King Midas at this mishap; but he consoled himself with the
thought that it was possible to hide his misfortune, which he attempted to do by means
of an ample turban or head-dress. But his hair- dresser of course knew the secret. He
was charged not to mention it, and threatened with dire punishment if he presumed to
disobey. But he found it too much for his discretion to keep such a secret; so he went
out into the meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the
story, and covered it up. Before long a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow,
and as soon as it had gained its growth, began whispering the story and has continued
to do so, from that day to this, every time a breeze passes over the place.
The story of King Midas has been told by others with some variations. Dryden, in
the Wife of Bath's Tale, makes Midas's queen the betrayer of the secret.
"This Midas knew, and durst communicate
To none but to his wife his ears of state."
Midas was king of Phrygia. He was the son of Gordius, a poor countryman, who
was taken by the people and made king, in obedience to the command of the oracle,
which had said that their future king should come in a wagon. While the people were
deliberating, Gordius with his wife and son came driving his wagon into the public
square.
Gordius, being made king, dedicated his wagon to the deity of the oracle, and
tied it up in its place with a fast knot. This was the celebrated Gordian knot, which, in
after times it was said, whoever should untie should become lord of all Asia. Many tried
to untie it, but none succeeded, till Alexander the Great, in his career of conquest, came
to Phrygia. He tried his skill with as ill success as others, till growing impatient he drew
his sword and cut the knot. When he afterwards succeeded in subjecting all Asia to his
sway, people began to think that he had complied with the terms of the oracle according
to its true meaning.
Baucis And Philemon.
On a certain hill in Phrygia stand a linden tree and an oak, enclosed by a low
wall. Not far from the spot is a marsh, formerly good habitable land, but now indented
with pools, the resort of fen-birds and cormorants. Once on a time, Jupiter, in human
shape, visited this country, and with him his son Mercury, (he of the caduceus,) without
his wings. They presented themselves as weary travellers, at many a door, seeking rest
and shelter, but found all closed, for it was late, and the inhospitable inhabitants would
not rouse themselves to open for their reception. At last a humble mansion received
them, a small thatched cottage, where Baucis, a pious old dame, and her husband
Philemon, united when young, had grown old together. Not ashamed of their poverty,
they found it endurable by moderate desires and kind One need not look there for
master or for servant; they two were the whole household, master and servant alike.
When the two heavenly guests crossed the humble threshold, and bowed their heads to
pass under the low door, the old man placed a seat, on w
hich Baucis, bustling and
attentive, spread a cloth, and begged them to sit down. Then she raked out the coals
from the ashes, and kindled up a fire, fed it with leaves and dry bark, and with her scanty
breath blew it into a flame. She brought out of a corner split sticks and dry branches,
broke them up, and placed them under the small kettle. Her husband collected some
pot-herbs in the garden, and she shred them from the stalks, and prepared them for the
pot. He reached down with a forked stick a flitch of bacon hanging in the chimney, cut a
small piece, and put it in the pot to boil with the herbs, setting away the rest for another
time. A beechen bowl was filled with warm water, that their guests might wash. While
all was doing they beguiled the time with conversation.
On the bench designed for the guests was laid a cushion stuffed with sea weed;
and a cloth, only produced on great occasions, but ancient and coarse enough, was
spread over that. The old lady, with her apron on, with trembling hand set the table.
One leg was shorter than the rest, but a piece of slate put under restored the level.
When fixed, she rubbed the table down with some sweet-smelling herbs. Upon it she
set some of chaste Minerva's olives, some cornel berries preserved in vinegar, and
added radishes and cheese, with eggs lightly cooked in the ashes. All were served in
earthen dishes, and an earthen-ware pitcher, with wooden cups, stood beside them.
When all was ready, the stew, smoking hot, was set on the table. Some wine, not of the
oldest, was added; and for dessert, apples and wild honey; and over and above all,
friendly faces, and simple but hearty welcome.
Now while the repast proceeded, the old folks were astonished to see that the
wine, as fast as it was poured out, renewed itself in the pitcher, of its own accord. Struck
with terror, Baucis and Philemon recognized their heavenly guests, fell on their knees,
and with clasped hands implored forgiveness for their poor entertainment. There was an
old goose, which they kept as the guardian of their humble cottage; and they bethought
them to make this a sacrifice in honor of their guests. But the goose, too nimble, with
the aid of feet and wings, for the old folks, eluded their pursuit, and at last took shelter
between the gods themselves. They forbade it to be slain; and spoke in these words:
"We are gods. This inhospitable village shall pay the penalty of its impiety you alone
shall go free from the chastisement. Quit your house, and come with us to the top of
yonder hill." They hastened to obey, and, staff in hand, labored up the steep ascent.
They had reached to within an arrow's flight of the top, when turning their eyes below,
they beheld all the country sunk in a lake, only their own house left standing. While they
gazed with wonder at the sight, and lamented the fate of their neighbors, that old house
of theirs was changed into a temple. Columns took the place of the corner posts, the
thatch grew yellow and appeared a gilded roof, the floors became marble, the doors
were enriched with carving and ornaments of gold. Then spoke Jupiter in benignant
accents: "Excellent old man, and woman worthy of such a husband, speak, tell us your
wishes; what favor have you to ask of us?" Philemon took counsel with Baucis a few
moments; then declared to the gods their united wish. "We ask to be priests and
guardians of this your temple; and since here we have passed our lives in love and
concord, we wish that one and the same hour may take us both from life, that I may not
live to see her grave, nor be laid in my own by her." Their prayer was granted. They
were the keepers of the temple as long as they lived. When grown very old, as they
stood one day before the steps of the sacred edifice, and were telling the story of the
place, Baucis saw Philemon begin to put forth leaves, and old Philemon saw Baucis
changing in like manner. And now a leafy crown had grown over their heads, while
exchanging parting words, as long as they could speak. "Farewell, dear spouse," they
said, together, and at the same moment the bark closed over their mouths. The
Tyanean shepherd still shows the two trees, standing side by side made out of the two
good old people.
The story of Baucis and Philemon has been imitated by Swift, in a burlesque
style, the actors in the change being two wandering saints and the house being changed
into a church, of which Philemon is made the parson. The following may serve as a
specimen: -
"They scarce had spoke, when, fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climbed slowly after.
The chimney widened and grew higher,
Became a steeple with a spire.
The kettle to the top was hoist,
And there stood fastened to a joist,
But with the upside down, to show
Its inclination for below;
In vain, for a superior force,
Applied at bottom, stops its course;
Doomed ever in suspense to dwell,
'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.
A wooden jack, which had almost
Lost by disuse the art to roast,
A sudden alteration feels,
Increased by new intestine wheels;
And, what exalts the wonder more,
The number made the motion slower;
The flier, though 't had leaden feet,
Turned round so quick you scarce could see 't;
But slackened by some secret power.
Now hardly moves an inch an hour.
The jack and chimney, near allied,
Had never left each other's side.
The chimney to a steeple grown,
The jack would not be left alone;
But up against the steeple reared,
Became a clock, and still adhered;
And still its love to household cares
By a shrill voice at noon declares.
Warning the cook-maid not to burn
That roast meat which it cannot turn.
The groaning chair began to crawl.
Like a huge snail, along the wall;
There stuck aloft in public view,
And with small change, a pulpit grew.
A bedstead of the antique mode,
Compact of timber many a load,
Such as our ancestors did use,
Was metamorphosed into pews,
Which still their ancient nature keep
By lodging folks disposed to sleep."
Chapter VII: Proserpine - Glaucus And Scylla
When Jupiter and his brothers had defeated the Titans and banished them to
Tartarus, a new enemy rose up against the gods. They were the giants Typhon,
Briareus, Enceladus, and others. Some of them had a hundred arms, others breathed
out fire. They were finally subdued and buried alive under Mount Aetna, where they
still sometimes struggle to get loose, and shake the whole island with earthquakes.
Their breath comes up through the mountain, and is what men call the eruption of the
volcano.
The fall of these monsters shook the earth, so that Pluto was alarmed, and
feared that his kingdom would be laid open to the light of day. Under this
aprrehension, he mounted his chariot, drawn by black horses, and took a circuit of
inspection to satisfy himself of the extent of the damage. While he was thus engaged,
Venus, who was sitting on Mount Eryx playing with her boy Cupid, espied him, and
said, "My son, take your darts with which you conquer all, even Jove himself, and send
one into the breast of yonder dark monarch, who rules the realm of Tartarus. Why
should he alone escape? Seize the opportunity to extend your empire and mine. Do
you not see that even in heaven some despise our power? Minerva the wise, and
Diana the huntress, defy us; and there is that daughter of Ceres, who threatens to
follow their example. Now do you, if you have any regard for your own interest or
mine, join these two in one." The boy unbound his quiver, and selected his sharpest
and truest arrow; then, straining the bow against his knee, he attached the string, and,
having made ready, shot the arrow with its barbed point right into the heart of Pluto.
In the vale of Enna there is a lake embowered in woods, which screen it from the
fervid rays of the sun, while the moist ground is covered with flowers, and Spring
reigns perpetual. Here Proserpine was playing with her companions, gathering lilies
and violets, and filling her basket and her apron with them, when Pluto saw her, loved
her, and carried her off. She screamed for help to her mother and her companions;
and when in her fright she dropped the corners of her apron and let the flowers fall,
childlike she felt the loss of them as an addition to her grief. The ravisher urged on his
steeds, calling them each by name, and throwing loose over their heads and necks his
iron-colored reins. When he reached the River Cyane, and it opposed his passage, he
struck the river-bank with his trident, and the earth opened and gave him a passage to
Tartarus.
Ceres sought her daughter all the world over. Bright-haired Aurora, when she
came forth in the morning, and Hesperus, when he led out the stars in the evening,
found her still busy in the search. But it was all unavailing. At length weary and sad,
she sat down upon a stone, and continued sitting nine days and nights, in the open air,
under the sunlight and moonlight and falling showers. It was where now stands the
Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology Page 7