Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology

by Thomas Bulfinch

  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