Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology

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Age of Fable or Beauties of Mythology Page 10

by Thomas Bulfinch


  longer distinguish his form from the rest. When the vessel itself could no more be

  seen, she strained her eyes to catch the last glimmer of the sail, till that too

  disappeared. Then, retiring to her chamber, she threw herself on her solitary couch.

  Meanwhile they glide out of the harbor, and the breeze plays among the ropes. The

  seamen draw in their oars, and hoist their sails. When half or less of their course was

  passed, as night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east

  wind to blow a gale. The master gave the word to take in sail, but the storm forbade

  obedience, for such is the roar of the winds and waves his orders are unheard. The

  men, of their own accord, busy themselves to secure the oars, to strengthen the ship,

  to reef the sail. While they thus do what to each one seems best, the storm increases.

  The shouting of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the dashing of the waves,

  mingle with the roar of the thunder. The swelling sea seems lifted up to the heavens, to

  scatter its foam among the clouds; then sinking away to the bottom assumes the color

  of the shoal, - a Stygian blackness.

  The vessel shares all these changes. It seems like a wild beast that rushes on

  the spears of the hunters. Rain falls in torrents, as if the skies were coming down to

  unite with the sea. When the lightning ceases for a moment, the night seems to add

  its own darkness to that of the storm; then comes the flash, rending the darkness

  asunder, and lighting up all with a glare. Skill fails, courage sinks, and death seems to

  come on every wave. The men are stupefied with terror. The thought of parents, and

  kindred, and pledges left at home, comes over their minds Ceyx thinks of Halcyone.

  No name but hers is on his lips, and while he yearns for her, he yet rejoices in her

  absence. Presently the mast is shattered by a stroke of lightning, the rudder broken,

  and the triumphant surge curling over looks down upon the wreck, then falls, and

  crushes it to fragments. Some of the seamen, stunned by the stroke, sink, and rise no

  more; others cling to fragments of the wreck. Ceyx, with the hand that used to grasp

  the sceptre, holds fast to a plank, calling for help, - alas, in vain, - upon his father and

  his father- in-law. But oftenest on his lips was the name of Halcyone. To her his

  thoughts cling. He prays that the waves may bear his body to her sight, and that it

  may receive burial at her hands. At length the waters overwhelm him, and he sinks.

  The Day-star looked dim that night. Since it could not leave the heavens, it shrouded

  its face with clouds.

  In the meanwhile Halcyone, ignorant of all these horrors, counted the days till her

  husband's promised return. Now she gets ready the garments which he shall put on,

  and now what she shall wear when he arrives. To all the gods she offers frequent

  incense, but more than all to Juno. For her husband, who was no more, she prayed

  incessantly; that he might be safe; that he might come home; that he might not, in his

  absence, see any one that he would love better than her. But of all these prayers, the

  last was the only one destined to be granted. The goddess, at length, could not bear

  any longer to be pleaded with for one already dead, and to have hands raised to her

  altars, that ought rather to be offering funeral rites. So, calling Iris, she said, "Iris, my

  faithful messenger, go to the drowsy dwelling of Somnus, and tell him to send a vision

  to Halcyone, in the form of Ceyx, to make known to her the event."

  Iris puts on her robe of many colors, and tinging the sky with her bow, seeks the

  palace of the King of Sleep Near the Cimmerian country, a mountain cave is the abode

  of the dull god, Somnus. Here Phoebus dares not come, either rising, at midday or

  setting. Clouds and shadows are exhaled from the ground, and the light glimmers

  faintly. The bird of dawning, with crested head, never there calls aloud to Aurora, nor

  watchful dog, nor more sagacious goose disturbs the silence. No wild beast, nor

  cattle, nor branch moved with the wind, nor sound of human conversation, breaks the

  stillness. Silence reigns there; but from the bottom of the rock the River Lethe flows,

  and by its murmur invites to sleep. Poppies grow abundantly before the door of the

  cave, and other herbs, from whose juices Night collects slumbers, which she scatters

  over the darkened earth. There is no gate to the mansion, to creak on its hinges, nor

  any watchman; but in the midst, a couch of black ebony, adorned with black plumes

  and black curtains. There the god reclines, his limbs relaxed with sleep. Around him

  lie dreams, resembling all various forms, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the

  forest leaves, or the seashore sandgrains.

  As soon as the goddess entered and brushed away the dreams that hovered

  around her, her brightness lit up all the cave. The god, scarce opening his eyes, and

  ever and anon dropping his beard upon his breast, at last shook himself free from

  himself, and leaning on his arm, enquired her errand, - for he knew who she was. She

  answered, "Somnus, gentlest of the gods, tranquillizer of minds and soother of care-

  worn hearts, Juno sends you her commands that you despatch a dream to Halcyone,

  in the city of Trachine, representing her lost husband and all the events of the wreck."

  Having delivered her message, Iris hasted away, for she could not longer endure

  the stagnant air, and as she felt drowsiness creeping over her, she made her escape,

  and returned by her bow the way she came. Then Somnus called one of his

  numerous sons, - Morpheus, - the most expert in counterfeiting forms, and in imitating

  the walk, the countenance, and mode of speaking, even the clothes and attitudes most

  characteristic of each. But he only imitates men, leaving it to another to personate

  birds, beasts, and serpents. Him they call Icelos; and Phantasos is a third, who turns

  himself into rocks, waters, woods, and other things without life. These wait upon kings

  and great personages in their sleeping hours, while others move among the common

  people. Somnus chose, from all the brothers, Morpheus, to perform the command of

  Iris; then laid his head on his pillow and yielded himself to grateful repose.

  Morpheus flew, making no noise with his wings, and soon came to the

  Haemonian city, where, laying aside his wings, he assumed the form of Ceyx. Under

  that form, but pale like a dead man, naked, he stood before the couch of the wretched

  wife. His beard seemed soaked with water, and water trickled from his drowned locks.

  Leaning over the bed, tears streaming from his eyes, he said, "Do you recognize your

  Ceyx, unhappy wife, or has death too much changed my visage? Behold me, know

  me, your husband's shade, instead of himself. Your prayers, Halcyone, availed me

  nothing. I am dead. No more deceive yourself with vain hopes of my return. The

  stormy winds sunk my ship in the Aegean Sea, waves filled my mouth while it called

  aloud on you. No uncertain messenger tells you this, no vague rumor brings it to your

  ears. I come in person, a shipwrecked man, to tell you my fate Arise! give me tears,

  give me lamentations, let me not go down to Tartarus unwept." To these words

  Morpheus added the voice which seemed to be that of her husband he seemed to

  pour forth g
enuine tears; his hands had the gestures of Ceyx.

  Halcyone, weeping, groaned, and stretched out her arms in her sleep, striving to

  embrace his body, but grasping only the air. "Stay!" she cried; "whither do you fly? let

  us go together." Her own voice awakened her Starting up, she gazed eagerly around,

  to see if he was still present, for the servants, alarmed by her cries, had brought a

  light. When she found him not, she smote her breast and rent her garments. She

  cares not to unbind her hair, but tears it wildly. Her nurse asks what is the cause of

  her grief. "Halcyone is no more," she answers, "she perished with her Ceyx. Utter not

  words of comfort, he is shipwrecked and dead. I have seen him, I have recognized

  him. I stretched out my hands to seize him and detain him. His shade vanished, but it

  was the true shade of my husband. Not with the accustomed features, not with the

  beauty that was his, but pale, naked, and with his hair wet with sea-water, he

  appeared to wretched me. Here, in this very spot, the sad vision stood," - and she

  looked to find the mark of his footsteps. "This it was, this that my presaging mind

  foreboded, when I implored him not to leave me, to trust himself to the waves. O, how

  I wish, since thou wouldst go, thou hadst taken me with thee! It would have been far

  better. Then I should have had no remnant of life to spend without thee, nor a

  separate death to die. If I could bear to live and struggle to endure, I should be more

  cruel to myself than the sea has been to me. But I will not struggle, I will not be

  separated from thee, unhappy husband. This time, at least, I will keep thee company.

  In death, if one tomb may not include us, one epitaph shall; if I may not lay my ashes

  with thine, my name, at least, shall not be separated." Her grief forbade more words,

  and these were broken with tears and sobs.

  It was now morning. She went to the sea shore, and sought the spot where she

  last saw him, on his departure. "While he lingered here, and cast off his tacklings, he

  gave me his last kiss." While she reviews every object, and strives to recall every

  incident, looking out over the sea, she descries an indistinct object floating in the

  water. At first she was in doubt what it was, but by degrees the waves bore it nearer,

  and it was plainly the body of a man. Though unknowing of whom, yet, as it was of

  some ship-wrecked one, she was deeply moved, and gave it her tears, saying, "Alas!

  unhappy one, and unhappy, if such there be, thy wife!" Borne by the waves, it came

  nearer. As she more and more nearly views it, she trembles more and more. Now,

  now it approaches the shore. Now marks that she recognizes appear. It is her

  husband! Stretching out her trembling hands towards it, she exclaims, "O, dearest

  husband, is it thus you return to me?"

  There was built out from the shore a mole, constructed to break the assaults of

  the sea, and stem its violent ingress. She leaped upon this barrier and (it was

  wonderful she could do so,) she flew, and striking the air with wings produced on the

  instant, skimmed along the surface of the water, an unhappy bird. As she flew, her

  throat poured forth sounds full of grief, and like the voice of one lamenting. When she

  touched the mute and bloodless body, she enfolded its beloved limbs with her new-

  formed wings, and tried to give kisses with her horny beak. Whether Ceyx felt it, or

  whether it was only the action of the waves, those who looked on doubted, but the

  body seemed to raise its head. But indeed he did feel it, and by the pitying gods both

  of them were changed into birds. They mate and have their young ones. For seven

  placid days, in winter time, Halcyone broods over her nest, which floats upon the sea.

  Then the way is safe to seamen. Aeolus guards the winds and keeps them from

  disturbing the deep. The sea is given up, for the time, to his grandchildren.

  The following lines from Byron's Bride of Abydos might seem borrowed from the

  concluding part of this description, if it were not stated that the author derived the

  suggestion from observing the motion of a floating corpse.

  "As shaken on his restless pillow,

  His head heaves with the heaving billow;

  That hand, whose motion is nor life,

  Yet feebly seems to menace strife,

  Flung by the tossing tide on high,

  Then levelled with the wave - "

  Milton in his Hymn to the Nativity thus alludes to the fable of the Halcyon: -

  "But peaceful was the night

  Wherein the Prince of light

  His reign of peace upon the earth began;

  The winds with wonder whist

  Smoothly the waters kist

  Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,

  Who now hath quite forgot to rave

  While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave

  Keats also in Endymion says, -

  'O magic sleep! O comfortable bird

  That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind

  Till it is hushed and smooth."

  Chapter X: Vertumnus And Pomona

  The Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Pomona was of this class, and no one

  excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit. She cared not for forests and

  rivers, but loved the cultivated country and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right

  hand bore for its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning-knife. Armed with this, she

  busied herself at one time to repress the too luxuriant growths, and curtail the

  branches that straggled out of place; at another, to split the twig and insert therein a

  graft, making the branch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that her

  favorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of water by them that the

  thirsty roots might drink. This occupation was her pursuit, her passion; and she was

  free from that which Venus inspires. She was not without fear of the country people,

  and kept her orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and Satyrs

  would have given all they possessed to win her, and so would old Sylvanus, who looks

  young for his years, and Pan, who wears a garland of pine leaves around his head.

  But Vertumnus loved her best of all; yet he sped no better than the rest. O, how often,

  in the disguise of a reaper, did he bring her corn in a basket, and looked the very

  image of a reaper! With a hay band tied round him, one would think he had just come

  from turning over the grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and

  you would have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a pruning-

  hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again with a ladder on his shoulder, he

  seemed as if he was going to gather apples. Sometimes he trudged along as a

  discharged soldier, and again he bore a fishing-rod as if going to fish. In this way, he

  gained admission to her, again and again, and fed his passion with the sight of her.

  One day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair surmounted with a

  cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the garden and admired the fruit. "It does

  you credit, my dear," she said, and kissed her, not exactly with an old woman's kiss.

  She sat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with fruit which hung

  over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a vine loaded with swelling grapes. She

  praised the tree and its associated vin
e, equally. "But," said she, "if the tree stood

  alone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to attract or offer us but its

  useless leaves. And equally the vine, if it were not twined round the elm, would lie

  prostrate on the ground. Why will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine,

  and consent to unite yourself with some one? I wish you would. Helen herself had not

  more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the wife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you

  spurn them, they court you, - rural deities and others of every kind that frequent these

  mountains. But if you are prudent and want to make a good alliance, and will let an old

  woman advise you, - who loves you better than you have any idea of, - dismiss all the

  rest and accept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as well as he knows

  himself. He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these mountains. Nor is he like

  too many of the lovers nowadays, who love any one they happen to see; he loves you,

  and you only. Add to this, he is young and handsome, and has the art of assuming

  any shape he pleases, and can make himself just what you command him. Moreover,

  he loves the same things that you do, delights in gardening, and handles your apples

  with admiration. But now he cares nothing for fruits, nor flowers, nor any thing else,

  but only yourself. Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my mouth.

  Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates a hard heart, and will

  visit such offences sooner or later. To prove this, let me tell you a story, which is well

  known in Cyprus to be a fact; and I hope it will have the effect to make you more

  merciful.

  "Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved Anaxarete, a

  noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He struggled long with his passion, but

  when he found he could not subdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he

  told his passion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-child to favor his

  suit. And then he tried to win her domestics to his side. Sometimes he committed his

 

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