THE CHILDREN’S HOUR

IN TEN VOLUMES

ILLUSTRATED

VOLUME III

“It is strange that they let that dog lie
there”

The Children’s Hour

STORIES FROM THE CLASSICS

Selected & Arranged by

Eva March Tappan

1907

Houghton Mifflin Company

Between the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning
to lower comes a pause in the days occupations, that is known as
the Children’s Hour.

NOTE

All rights in stories in this volume are reserved by the holders
of the copyrights. The publishers and others named in the subjoined
list are the proprietors, either in their own right or as agents
for the authors, of the stories taken from the works enumerated, of
which the ownership is hereby acknowledged. The editor takes this
opportunity to thank both authors and publishers for the ready
generosity with which they have allowed her to include these
stories in “The Children’s Hour.”

“The Wonder-Book,” and “Tanglewood
Tales,” by Nathaniel Hawthorne; published by Houghton,
Mifflin & Company.

“Old Greek Folk Stories,” by Josephine Preston
Peabody; published by Houghton, Mifflin & Company.

“The Odyssey of Homer,” English prose version by
George Herbert Palmer; published by Houghton, Mifflin &
Company.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

TO THE CHILDREN

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Contents

The greater part of this book is made up of stories from the
poems of Homer and Virgil. Homer is thought to have lived in Greece
about three thousand years ago, and yet his poems never seem
old-fashioned and people do not tire of reading them. Boys and
girls almost always like them, because they are so full of stories.
If you want to read about giants or mermaids or shipwrecks or
athletic contests or enchanters or furious battles or the capture
of cities or voyages to strange countries, all you have to do is to
open the Iliad and the Odyssey, and you will find stories on all of
these subjects. Homer can describe a foot-race or the throwing of a
discus so that you hold your breath to see who will win; and he can
picture a battle so vividly that you almost try to dodge the arrows
and spears. He can make the tears come into your eyes by telling
you of the grief of the warrior’s wife when he leaves her and
their baby son to go to battle; and he can almost make you shout,
“Hurrah for the brave champion!” when he tells you what
wonderful deeds of prowess have been done. He can describe a shield
so minutely that you could make one like it; and he can paint a
scene of feasting so perfectly that you feel as if you had been in
the very room.

How is it that Homer makes his stories seem so real? There are
several reasons, but one of the strongest is because he tells the
little things that writers often forget to put in. When he
describes the welcome given to two strangers at the house of the
lost Ulysses, by Telemachus, son of the wanderer, he begins,
“When they were come within the lofty hall, he carried the
spear to a tall pillar and set it in a well-worn rack.” That
one word, “well-worn,” gives us the feeling that Homer
is not making up a story, but that he has really seen the rack and
noticed how it looked. The same sentence shows why it is that
people do not tire of reading Homer. It ends, “where also
stood many a spear of hardy Ulysses.” This reminds the reader
that in spite of the hero’s long years of absence, no one has
been allowed to remove his weapons from their old place. From this
one phrase, then, we can realize how much his wife and son love
him, and how they have mourned for him. Telemachus welcomes the
strangers, but we can feel how eager he is for them to be made
comfortable as soon as possible so he can talk of his father and
learn whether they have chanced to meet him in their wanderings.
Homer’s poems are full of such sentences as these; and, no
matter how many times one reads them, some thought, unnoticed
before, is ever coming to light. That is why they are always fresh
and new and interesting.

There is a tradition that Homer was blind, and that he wandered
about from one place to another, singing or reciting his poems; but
this is only tradition, and there is little hope that we shall ever
be able to find out whether it is true or not.

Homer’s great poem, the Iliad, is the account of the
Trojan War. His Odyssey relates the adventures of the hero Ulysses,
or Odysseus, as the Greeks called him, in many years of wandering
at the close of the war before his enemies among the Gods would
permit him to return to his home. There were Trojan heroes,
however, as well as Greek, and Æneas was one of them. Virgil,
the Latin poet, has told in the Æneid the story of his
troubles and adventures. Æneas, too, was driven over the
waters, for the Gods had told him it was the will of Jupiter, or
Zeus, as it is in Greek, for him to seek Italy and there found a
city. Part of his journey is the same as that of Ulysses. He, too,
stops at the country of the one-eyed giants and has to row as fast
as he can to escape the rocks that they throw at his vessel. He,
too, hears the thunders of Mount Ætna and sees the flashing
of the fires of the volcano. His sailors point to it in fear and
whisper to one another, “That is the giant Enceladus. He
rebelled against the Gods and they piled the mountain on top of
him. The fires of Jupiter burn him, and he breathes out glowing
flames. When he tosses from one side to the other, the whole island
of Sicily is shaken with a mighty earthquake.”

Virgil was no homeless singer; he was one of the great literary
men of Rome, and he read his poems aloud to the Emperor Augustus.
He had a handsome villa and a troop of friends. He enjoyed
everything that was beautiful and seemed as happy when a friend had
written a good poem as if he had composed it himself. He was never
satisfied with his verse till he had made every line as perfect as
possible. When he was ill and knew that he could not recover, he
made a will, and in it he ordered the Æneid to be burned,
because it was not so polished as he wished. “I meant to
spend three years more on it,” he said. Fortunately for all
the people who enjoy a great poem, the Emperor forbade that this
part of the will should be carried out. He gave the manuscript to
three friends of Virgil, all of them poets, with orders to strike
out every phrase that they believed Virgil would have struck out on
revision, but not to add one word. This is the way that the
Æneid was saved for us. If it had been destroyed, we should
have lost the work of one of the best storytellers that have ever
lived.

Livy, too, was a friend of the Emperor Augustus, He lived in
Rome, enjoying his companions, the libraries of the city, and, most
of all, his independence. Even Virgil was ready to insert a few
lines here and there in a poem to gratify his friends, or to choose
a subject that he knew would please the Emperor; but Livy wrote on
the subject that pleased him and treated it just as he believed to
be best. His great work was his history, and this he begins with a
little preface, as independent as it is graceful. “Whether I
shall gain any share of glory,” he says, “by writing a
history of the Roman people, I do not know. The work, however, will
be a pleasure to me; and even if any fame that might otherwise be
mine should be hidden by the success of other writers, I shall
console myself by thinking of their excellence and
greatness.” No such thing happened, however, for the kindly
historian was so praised and his work so fully appreciated that he
said he had all the fame he could wish.

Herodotus was a Greek who liked to travel. The world was very
small in his day, for little of it was known except some of the
lands bordering on the Mediterranean. To visit Tyre, Babylon,
Egypt, Palestine, and the islands of the eastern Mediterranean, as
he did, made a man a great traveler five centuries before Christ.
Herodotus enjoyed all these wanderings, but they also “meant
business” to him. Whenever he came to a place of historical
interest, he stayed awhile. He explored the country thereabouts, he
measured the important buildings, he talked with the people who
knew most about the place. Then, when he came to write of its
history, he did not write like a man who had read an article or two
in an encyclopædia and was trying to recite what he had
learned, but like one who knew the place which he was describing
and liked to talk about it, and about what had happened there. It
is no wonder that his history has always been a favorite; and to be
a favorite author for twenty centuries is no small glory.

Ovid was a Latin poet who knew how to tell a story. He could not
only invent a tale, but he could tell it so well that the reader
feels as if it must be true. His most interesting stories, however,
he did not invent, for they are a rewriting of the old mythological
tales. In one respect he is like Homer; he never forgets the little
things, and he tells so many details that we can hardly believe he
is imagining them. In his story of Baucis and Philemon, for
instance, Ovid does not forget to say that the cottage door was so
low that the two gods had to stoop to pass through it; that Baucis
hurried to brighten the fire with dry leaves and bits of bark; that
one leg of the table was too short and had to be propped up with a
piece of tile. He tells us that the kindhearted couple tried to
catch their one goose so as to cook it for the supper of their
guests; but that they were so old, and the goose so nimble of wing,
that he escaped them and flew to the Gods for refuge. We are so
accustomed to think of Latin as a grave, dignified language that
almost every line of Ovid’s “Metamorphoses” is a
pleasant surprise. The stories that he tells, “The Miraculous Pitcher”, “The Golden Touch”, “The Pomegranate Seeds”, and others,
retold by Hawthorne, are favorites among the boys and girls of
to-day, and they must have been liked just as well by the Roman
children. In Rome the children read the great poets in school, and
I fancy that they were always glad when the hour came to read the
“Metamorphoses.”

STORIES FROM
HERODOTUS

Ladronius, The Prince of
Thieves

Retold by G.H. Boden and W. Barrington
d’Almeida

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Contents

Many hundreds of years ago, not long after the Greeks returned
from the famous siege of Troy, there lived a king of Egypt, whose
name was Rhampsinitus. So great a king was he, that he kept a small
army constantly employed in supplying the royal household with
food, and another small army was required to keep the gardens of
the palace in order. And had any one been bold enough to doubt the
greatness of the king, he need only have looked at his magnificent
dress to set all doubts at rest forever. Upon the neck of the king
was a heavy necklace, glittering with priceless jewels, and on his
arms were massive bracelets of pure gold. A golden serpent, the
symbol of royalty, gleamed from his forehead, and his golden
breastplate showed the sacred beetle worked in precious stones, to
protect him from evil spirits. Whenever he appeared in the streets
of his capital, he was borne in the royal chair on the shoulders of
eight of his courtiers, while on each side walked a great noble
carrying a fan, shaped like a palm leaf, with a long, straight
stem. In front marched the bodyguard of Sardinians, men with fair
skins and blue eyes, who looked very much out of place among the
swarthy Egyptians; and last of all came the grim, black guards from
Ethiopia, with their sabres flashing in the sun. And all the people
fell on their faces and kissed the dust before their royal master.
Moreover, King Rhampsinitus erected several enormous statues of
himself, as well as many fine palaces and a beautiful temple,
bearing inscriptions which related all his great and glorious
deeds, so that the people who lived after him might know how great
a king he had been.

But, in spite of all his greatness, there was one thing that
prevented King Rhampsinitus from being a happy man. He had so many
treasures—masses of silver, nuggets of gold, and bags of
gold-dust, jewelry, precious stones, and carvings in
ivory—that he lived in constant fear of being robbed. He had
all his treasures packed in large jars and strong chests, which
were securely fastened, sealed up, and stowed away in a strong room
of the palace; but even then he did not feel comfortable, for might
not the palace be broken into by a clever thief and part of his
treasure stolen, while he slept? Besides, there was so much
treasure packed away already, that it was difficult to find a safe
place for any more. His anxiety made the king so unhappy, and
caused him so many sleepless nights, that he determined at last to
build a large chamber of stone, with walls too thick for any thief
to break through. He sent for his chief architect, who collected a
great multitude of workmen and set to work building the chamber
without delay. Whole villages were compelled to join in the work;
even the old men and children were employed in carrying away
rubbish, bringing water and clay, and doing other work that was not
too hard for them. The stronger and more skillful workmen hewed
great blocks of granite, which were dragged to the place on wooden
sledges; and, as they had no cranes to lift the stones into their
places on the walls, they were obliged to build mounds of sand and
rough bricks, and roll up each stone gradually with wooden levers,
until they got it into its proper place. It was terribly hard work,
but there were so many workmen, and the foremen used their whips so
unmercifully, that the walls rose very rapidly.

Now the architect was a cunning man, and guessed what the
chamber was intended to hold. He therefore fitted one stone in such
a way that it would slide down and leave a hole just large enough
for a man to crawl through; and yet, when you looked at the wall,
there was no sign at all by which the secret could be discovered.
Nor did the architect think it necessary to mention the secret
opening to his majesty, when he showed the chamber to him and told
him that it was as strong as he could make it.

Rhampsinitus lost no time in moving his treasures into the new
treasure-chamber. The key he kept with him night and day, so that
at last he could sleep peacefully, knowing that any one who wished
to pass the solid, brass-bound door, must first prevail upon him to
unlock it.

For some time all went well. The king went to the treasury every
morning, and found everything in its place. Evidently he had been
too clever for the thieves.

In the mean time the architect was lying ill in bed, and day by
day he grew weaker and weaker; until at length he knew that his end
was approaching, and, calling his two sons to his bedside, he told
them of the secret way into the treasure-chamber.

“I have little of my own to leave you, my sons,” he
said, “and I have but little influence at court; but by the
aid of this secret, which I devised for your sake, you may become
rich men, and hold the office of king’s treasurers for
life.”

The young men were delighted at his words, and so impatient were
they to enjoy their good fortune, that on the very night of their
father’s funeral they stole away quietly to the place where
the treasure-house stood. They found the sliding stone exactly as
their father had described it. The younger and slimmer of the two
brothers crawled through the opening and found himself in a dark
chamber, surrounded by heavy chests and jars with sealed covers.
Breaking open one of the latter, he put in his hand and drew out a
handful of gold, which sparkled and twinkled at him even in the
faint light which came through the hole in the wall. Handful after
handful he drew out and passed to his brother, at the same time
filling the bags he had brought with him, until both had as much as
they could conveniently carry. Then they replaced the stone, and
returned to lay the treasure before their mother; for in those days
stealing was considered rather a clever trick, and even the
thief’s mother did not scold him, so long as he was not so
clumsy as to be caught.

Imagine the consternation of King Rhampsinitus when he visited
the chamber the following morning! Everything seemed as secure as
ever, and yet, when he opened the door, there lay one of the great
jars turned over and empty, while the lid of one of the chests was
broken open and part of the contents scattered on the floor. He
examined every nook and cranny of the chamber from floor to
ceiling, and there was no sign of any one’s having forced an
entrance. The fastenings of the door were firm, and the lock was
one which it was perfectly impossible to pick. For greater
security, however, Rhampsinitus sent at once for a locksmith, and
commanded him to fit the door with a second lock, the key of which
he kept with the other.

Notwithstanding this precaution, the treasure-chamber was robbed
again on the next night, and this time the thieves had broken open
a great many of the chests, and carried away some of the most
valuable jewels. On the following night a sentinel was posted, and
still the treasury was robbed. The sentinel vowed that he had stood
with his back to the door all night, and there is little doubt that
he spoke the truth, though the poor fellow was accused of sleeping
at his post, and punished for his negligence.

Then the king took counsel of the fan-bearer on the right hand,
who was also prime minister. He made a long speech, beginning with
his regret that his majesty had not thought fit to consult him
earlier, and concluding with a learned discourse on the habits of
rats.

“This is all very interesting,” said Rhampsinitus,
“but I do not see that it helps very much to protect my
treasure.”

“I crave your majesty’s pardon,” the prime
minister answered. “I was about to observe that the best way
to catch a rat is first to study the habits and tastes of the rat,
and next to apply the knowledge so gained in setting a
trap.”

From which one may see that the prime minister was a very
learned man, and could not be expected to come to the point all at
once. The king thanked him for his valuable advice, and procured
two or three powerful man-traps, which he placed within his
treasure-chamber.

Night came on, and the two thieves set to work as before, but no
sooner had the younger brother disappeared through the hole in the
wall than he began to utter loud cries of agony.

“Peace, brother! You will rouse the guard,” said the
elder. “What can have befallen you?”

The other controlled himself, and said with a groan,
“Ladronius, we are ruined. I am held fast in a trap, and I
think my leg is broken. O Horus, Lord of Life, deliver
me!”

With some difficulty Ladronius crawled through the opening to
aid his brother, for, though a thief, he was no coward.

“Go back, Ladronius, go back!” cried his brother.
“Leave me to my fate! I think I hear the cries of the guard.
No, brother, waste no more time!” he entreated, as Ladronius
tugged in vain at the cruel teeth of the trap. “One thing
remains to be done. Cut off my head, and take it away with you,
that I may not be recognized and so we both perish! I hear the
footsteps of men approaching. Do not rob our mother of both her
sons!”

And Ladronius, seeing that there was nothing else to be done,
drew his sword, cut off his brother’s head, and escaped
through the opening, not forgetting to replace the stone behind
him. He was only just in time, for scarcely had he gained the cover
of a clump of trees, when the soldiers of the guard came running to
the place and began to belabor the door. To their surprise they
found everything quiet and nothing displaced. They examined the
outside of the building thoroughly, and then, supposing that they
had been roused by a false alarm, they returned to the palace.

In the morning, Rhampsinitus paid his daily visit to the
chamber, and discovered the headless body in the trap. He was more
puzzled than ever. He examined the fastenings of the door and the
whole of the chamber over and over again, and no hole nor crevice
could he find.

“Nevertheless,” said he, “I have now bait for
my trap. What can I do better than set a thief to catch a
thief?”

So he ordered the body to be hung from the outer wall of the
chamber, and placed sentinels to guard it, strictly charging them
to bring before him any one who showed pity or sorrow for the
dead.

When the mother heard of her son’s death and how the body
had been treated, she reproached Ladronius bitterly for his
cowardice, and implored him with many tears to bring back the body
for proper burial. For the Egyptians thought that unless a
man’s body were properly embalmed and buried whole, he could
have no life in the next world; so that it would be a terrible
misfortune if the head and the body were buried separately.
Ladronius attempted to comfort his mother, but did not dare to
carry off his brother’s body so long as the sentinels were
watching. In vain his mother wept and entreated him, until at last
her grief was turned to anger, and she vowed that, if he did not
obey her, she would go to the king and tell him the whole story.
Then Ladronius, seeing her so determined, promised to do as she
wished, and set his wits to work to invent some means of carrying
off the body without being caught by the sentinels. At last he
thought of a plan, which seemed to have some chance of success. He
hired two donkeys, and having bought some wineskins, which were
used in the place of bottles, he filled them with strong wine and
placed them on the donkeys’ backs.

Thus equipped, and dressed up to look like an old merchant, he
set out for the place where his brother’s body was suspended.
When he drew near to the sentinels, he secretly loosened some of
the strings which fastened the necks of the wineskins, and then
whipping the donkeys and letting them run on a little way in front,
he pursued them with loud cries.

“Oh, miserable wretch that I am!” he cried, beating
his head and looking the very picture of despair. “All my
good wine wasted on the ground! What shall I do? Oh, what shall I
do? Stop, most ungrateful of donkeys, children of Set, that devour
my substance and waste my wine as if it were water! May Tefnet
plague you with gadflies, and Renenutet poison the thistles! Oh
dear! oh dear! I am a ruined man.”

The soldiers, supposing it to be a genuine accident, laughed
loudly at the fellow’s distress, and while some chased and
caught the donkeys, the others brought bowls and pitchers and began
to drink the wine, as it ran out of the skins.

“Never mind, worthy sir!” they said to Ladronius.
“The wine is serving a very good purpose. Here is to our
future friendship and your excellency’s very good
health!”

Ladronius pretended to fly into a great passion, and called them
thieves and monsters of iniquity for robbing a poor man of his
wine.

“Ay, laugh away!” he cried. “But a day of
reckoning will come for your wickedness. See how the law treats
robbers!” And he pointed to his brother’s body hanging
on the wall.

“Now, by Anubis, the fellow speaks truth,” said one
of the soldiers. “We are but sorry fellows to drink away a
poor man’s living, and if this were to come to the ears of
the king, we should be in evil case for leaving our
duty.”

The others laughed good-humoredly, as they tied up some of the
skins, and did their best to put the merchant into a good temper.
Ladronius, after a little more grumbling, appeared to be pacified,
and, as a sign of good-will, presented a wineskin to the soldier
who had first spoken in his favor.

“May you never want a young friend to speak for you in
your old age,” said he, “and may you meet with no worse
companions than these; for though they seem to be somewhat
headstrong, yet I perceive that I spoke hard words in my
anger.”

The soldiers, who by this time had sat down on the grass and
were passing the wineskin from one to another, declared that the
merchant was a good-hearted old fellow and invited him to come and
drink their health.

“Nay, my masters,” said Ladronius, pretending to
adjust the straps on the donkeys’ backs. “I have far to
go, and I am but a little way on my journey.”

But, as they pressed him, he consented to drink one cup with
them before he went. “Though in truth,” he added,
“if I mistake not, the skin is emptied already. I see that
you would force me to part with another, before I set
out.”

As he spoke, he produced another wineskin, and the soldiers, who
were growing merry, greeted him with a shout of delight, and
insisted on his sitting down with them. Ladronius, still declaring
that he could stay only long enough to drink one cup with them,
allowed himself to be placed in the midst, where he presently
proved himself so good a companion and told so many merry tales
that the soldiers would not hear of his departure. They drank more
and more heavily, until at length a third skin was opened, and one
by one the sentinels were overpowered by the strong wine, and all
lay asleep on the ground.

By this time it had grown dark, and Ladronius, who had pretended
to be as drunk as the rest, cautiously raised his head, and finding
that all the sentinels were snoring, he took down his
brother’s body and carried it off. But, before he went, he
shaved the right side of the head of each of the sentinels, to show
his contempt for the king’s precautions.

The king was furious when he discovered the failure of his plan
and the insult offered to his guards, all of whom were beheaded for
their disobedience to his orders. He was more determined than ever
to catch the thief, and after taking counsel once more with his
prime minister, he decided upon another plan. He caused a
proclamation to be made, in which he promised the hand of his
daughter to the man whom she should consider the cleverest and most
wicked of all men. He commanded the princess to sit on a throne in
the temple of Ra, the sun-god, and to speak to all who came to pay
their homage to her, asking them what was the cleverest and most
wicked deed they had done. But secretly Rhampsinitus told her that,
if any one related the story of the robbing of the treasury, she
was to seize him by the hand, and hold him till the guards came and
secured him.

The moment Ladronius heard the proclamation, he saw that it was
another trick to catch him, but he was so daring and so fond of
adventure that he could not resist the temptation to outdo the king
in cunning once more. He determined actually to put his head in the
lion’s mouth—in other words, to go boldly to the temple
and talk to the princess. He took with him under his cloak the
strangest of presents, an arm cut from a dead man’s body.

When he entered the temple, he beheld the princess seated on her
throne, looking very beautiful in her royal robes, with her dark
curls flowing over her shoulders, and the golden vulture of Egypt
spreading his wings over her head. She looked a little pale and
weary too, for she had talked with many scores of suitors, all of
whom had told her tales which were very much alike and nothing at
all to do with her father’s treasure-chamber. And when the
princess looked up and saw Ladronius standing there, with his bold,
handsome face, and resolute eyes, she had a suspicion that this was
the robber of the treasury. At the same time she felt some pity for
the young man, whom she was to be the means of punishing for his
bravery. However, she could only obey her father, and motioning to
Ladronius to approach, she addressed him with great courtesy,
saying, “You seem, sir, by your bearing, to be a man of some
strength and courage. Tell me now, what is the most wicked thing,
and what the cleverest, you ever did in your life?”

And Ladronius looked her straight in the face and answered,
“Most gracious princess, the most wicked thing I ever did in
my life was to cut off my brother’s head in His
Majesty’s treasure-house, and the cleverest was when I made
the sentinels drunk and carried off my brother’s
body.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when the princess
jumped up and caught him, as she supposed, by the arm, at the same
time crying out for the guards, who were concealed behind the
throne. But, to her dismay, the arm seemed to part company with the
rest of the body, and she was left with the cloak of Ladronius and
the arm of the dead man, while Ladronius himself was out of the
temple before she had recovered from her surprise; nor could the
guards find any trace of him outside.

The princess went back to her father in fear and trembling, and
related how Ladronius had escaped once more; but the king was so
amazed at the daring and skill of the young man, that he quite
forgot to be angry.

The picture of the princess holding the arm that had no body
attached to it, and gazing blankly after the departing figure of
Ladronius, so took his fancy, that he lay back on his couch, and
laughed till his sides ached.

“Bast!” he cried at length. “If the youth is
really as clever as this, I would rather have him my friend than my
enemy. Such a man should be rewarded and not punished for his
genius. So he made you a present of his cloak too, did he?”
And the king collapsed once more.

“And what manner of youth is he?” he asked the
princess; the princess answered, with a blush, that he looked like
a brave young man.

“That I am sure he is,” said the king. “I have
learnt it to my cost. And he is not ill-looking?”

“No,” said the princess; she would not describe him
as ill-looking.

“Ah! well,” said the king dryly, “we must see
whether we cannot find some means of securing his
friendship.”

So King Rhampsinitus ordered another proclamation to be made,
promising that if the robber would present himself to the king and
confess how he had broken into the treasury, the king would grant
him a free pardon and a great reward beside.

Ladronius was not long in making up his mind. He knew that kings
were not always above treachery, but he had survived so many
dangers that he determined to risk this also. He arrayed himself,
therefore, in his best attire, and boldly presented himself to the
king, who was delighted with his courage and bade him relate the
whole story fearlessly. And when Rhampsinitus heard of the secret
way into his treasury, he would not rest until he had seen the
sliding stone and moved it for himself. He laughed heartily when he
remembered how he had put another lock on the door, and how he had
posted a sentinel in the one place where he could see nothing of
the thieves. Then he returned to the palace, and sent for the
princess, his daughter. Presently she entered with her train of
maidens, and Ladronius was so overcome by her fresh, girlish
beauty, that he could hardly find voice enough to reply to the
king’s questions. The king rose and embraced his daughter,
and then, addressing Ladronius before the assembled courtiers, he
said, “Ladronius, the Egyptians are the most cunning of all
nations on the face of the earth, and you have proved yourself more
cunning than all the Egyptians. And now, after robbing me of so
many treasures, you are about to rob me of the best and most
priceless of all.”

So saying, he took his daughter by the hand, and led her to
Ladronius.

“Take her, my son!” he said. “A good and
obedient daughter should make a faithful and loving
wife.”

The princess stood with her eyes cast down, blushing very
prettily, and Ladronius looked very handsome as he knelt and kissed
her hand. Then the trumpets began to blare, the drums rattled, the
cymbals clashed, and the courtiers shouted, “Long live our
gracious princess! Long live Rhampsinitus and his son-in-law
Ladronius!” The royal minstrel brought his harp and sang a
solemn chant, all about the beauty of the princess and the bravery
of Ladronius; and the maids of honor performed a graceful dance to
the music, winding wreaths of lotus flowers about the bride and
bridegroom. As the music ceased, the venerable High Priest of Ra, a
tall old man with his head clean-shaven, came forward to bless and
anoint them, and to tell how he had foreseen it all from the
beginning.

So Ladronius and the beautiful princess were married, and,
though it is not in the story, there can be no doubt that they
lived very happily for the rest of their lives.

Arion and the Dolphin

Retold by G.H. Boden and W. Barrington
d’Almeida

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Contents

It happened once upon a time, in the olden days, that a young
man, Periander of Corinth, started from a port in the south of
Greece to sail to Miletus. Being caught in a storm, the boat was
carried out of her course as far as the island of Lesbos, where she
stayed for several days, in order that the damage caused by the
storm might be repaired. In the mean time Periander landed, and
occupied himself in wandering about the island and watching the
inhabitants. In his wanderings, he came one evening upon a group of
men and women, the sight of whom made him pause with a longing to
join them. They had been working hard all day, gathering the
grapes, and pressing them in big, wooden vats, to extract the wine
for which Lesbos was famous; and now, in the beautiful autumn
evening, they were making merry after their labors.

No wonder Periander stayed to watch them, for they made a very
pretty picture,—the handsome youths, with their bronzed faces
and strong, fine limbs; the women with their gay dresses and bare
feet, that seemed to have been made for dancing; the vine-clad hill
at the back, and, over it all, the glow of the setting sun. In the
centre of the dancers sat a boy, playing upon a small lute with
seven strings. To this accompaniment the dancers chanted a song in
praise of Dionysus, the god of the vine. Gradually the music went
faster and faster; and faster and faster the feet of the dancers
sped over the ground, until they were all out of breath, and lay
laughing on the grass.

Then, as the boy struck another chord, all laughter was hushed,
and he began to sing; it was a simple, plaintive little song, but
there was a magic in his voice which held the listeners spellbound.
The last rays of the setting sun played about his golden curls, and
lit up his sweet, childish face, as he sang:—

As the last note died away, a sigh came from the listeners; some
of the women turned away their faces, and the young men began to
talk hastily, as if to hide their emotion.

Periander waited until the group began to break up. Then he
stepped forward and laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The
boy looked up with a smile.

“What is your name, my fair minstrel?” asked
Periander.

“My name is Arion,” answered the boy, as if he were
used to being questioned. “I come from Methymna beyond the
hills, where I used to tend the goats.” And he told Periander
that his mother and father died before he could remember, and that
he was brought up by an old goat-herd; until a traveling minstrel,
who happened one day to hear him singing on the hills, took charge
of him and taught him to play the lute.

“That was one of his own songs I was singing,” said
Arion. “He always liked me to sing his songs; but, when I am
a man, I shall make my own songs, and sing them in the great cities
over the sea.”

“And so you shall,” said Periander. “Now,
listen to me, Arion! Some day, perhaps, I also may be a great man,
able to help you to become a great singer. Remember, when you have
need of a friend, that Periander of Corinth will help you, if he
can!”

And, when he departed, Periander left a sum of money with a
worthy old couple, who promised to look after the boy, and see that
he wanted nothing.

After some years, Periander became king of Corinth, and having a
love of everything beautiful, he soon gathered about him a little
band of poets, artists, and musicians. One day, when he was
listening to one of the court musicians, something—it might
have been a chord in the music—reminded him of the little
Lesbian Arion. He seemed to see once more the boy with the golden
light on his curls, and the upturned faces of the peasants grouped
around him; and the very words of the song ran in his head.

“By Apollo!” he cried, so suddenly that the musician
nearly fell off his seat. “We will have the little Lesbian at
court, and make a famous singer of him. Where is Glaucus? Ho,
there! Bid Glaucus attend the king!”

When Glaucus appeared, the king bade him take a boat and sail
for Lesbos. “There you will make search for one Arion, a
singer,” he said. “And when you have found him, say,
‘Periander of Corinth has need of his friend Arion.’
And see that you bring him safely to Corinth!”

Glaucus did as he was bidden, and in due time found Arion, now
grown into a tall, graceful youth. Arion, when he heard the
message, consented to accompany Glaucus to Corinth, where he was
greeted with great kindness by Periander. He very soon became a
great favorite among the Corinthians, and all the musicians envied
him his beautiful voice and his skill in playing on the lute. No
one had such power to soothe the king in his black moods; nor was
it at court alone that his fame as a singer was known, for he was
ever ready to sing to the people, who idolized him and called him
the son of Apollo. Among other things he taught them the song and
dance of the Lesbians in honor of Dionysus and the vine; it
afterwards became one of the most famous songs of Greece.

Many years Arion stayed with Periander, who held him in high
honor and loaded him with costly presents. His fame spread as far
as Italy and Sicily, and he had many requests that he would go over
and sing to the people there. At length, he determined to make the
journey, not only from curiosity to see new countries, but also
because he had heard of the songs sung by the Sicilian shepherds,
and had a great desire to study them. Periander tried to dissuade
him, but, finding him resolved, he assisted him in his
preparations, and on his departure exacted from him a promise that
he would return to Corinth.

Arion traveled about Italy and Sicily for a long time, and made
a great fortune by his singing. But growing tired at last of the
wandering life, he went to Tarentum to find a ship which would take
him back to Corinth. There were two or three ships ready to make
the journey, among them one named the Nausicaa, which was manned by
a crew of Corinthians. This he chose, being somewhat nervous about
the large sum of money he was carrying, and thinking that he could
trust the Corinthians, whom he knew, better than a crew of
foreigners.

The Nausicaa was a strange-looking vessel, with a single sail,
and long oars pulled by men who sat on benches along the side. The
prow, which was carved to represent the maiden Nausicaa, stood well
out of the water, and the bulwarks descended in a graceful curve to
rise again at the stern, where the captain stood and shaped his
course by means of a broad paddle, which was hung over the
side.

The voyage began happily enough, the wind being favorable, and
the captain and crew all deference and politeness. But when they
were well out to sea, the behavior of the crew changed; they
answered Arion’s questions with scant politeness, and held
many whispered consultations, which, from the black glances cast at
him, made him uneasy as to his safety. On the second evening,
waking out of a light sleep, he heard them conspiring to throw him
overboard and divide his wealth among them. Arion started up and
implored them not to carry out their evil purpose, offering to hand
over all his wealth, if they would spare his life. His entreaties
and promises were all in vain.

“We give you a fair choice,” said the captain
brutally. “Either leap into the sea at once, or kill yourself
in some other way, and we will bury you decently on
shore.”

Abandoning his vain appeals for mercy, Arion begged them, as a
last favor, to let him sing once more before he died.

“That we will not refuse,” the captain answered;
“though, if you think to move us by your wailing, let me tell
you that you waste your breath!” In reality, he was not
displeased to have an opportunity of hearing the most famous singer
in the world.

Arion put on his sacred robes, in which he used to sing in the
temple of Apollo, and taking his lute he stepped firmly to the prow
of the vessel. There he stood, pale and calm, in the silvery light
of the moon, his fair hair playing with the wind, while the little
waves lifted themselves to look at him, and then ran playfully into
the shadow of the boat, to dash their heads against the beams and
be broken into spray. The sailors were awed in spite of themselves,
as that beautiful voice rose on the breeze. He sang the old song
which he had sung in the Lesbian vineyards when Periander saw him
first. And when he came to the last lines,—

Arion leapt over the side of the vessel, just as he was.

The captain, fearing that some of the crew might be moved to
lend him assistance, gave the order to make all speed ahead. Had he
waited, he might have seen a most wonderful sight. For, as Arion
fell into the sea, the water seemed to become alive beneath him,
and he felt it lifting him up, and carrying him rapidly away from
the ship. Then he discovered that he was seated astride on a great,
black fish, which was swimming very rapidly on the top of the
water, and he knew it must be a dolphin, which had been attracted
by his singing; for the dolphins, unlike most things that live in
the sea, have sharp ears, and are very fond of music. He touched
his lute, to see if the strings had suffered from the water, and,
as he did so, the great back quivered beneath him. Finding,
therefore, that the dolphin liked the music, and thinking that he
owed it some return for saving his life, Arion began to sing, and
sang song after song; whenever he stopped, the dolphin ceased from
swimming, as if to inquire the reason; and when Arion began again,
the dolphin bounded through the water with great strokes of his
broad tail. A strange sight it must have been, had there been any
one there to see! But the dolphin went straight across the open
sea, where no ships were to be seen; for the sailors of that day
did not care to lose sight of the coast, but would sail all the way
round a large bay rather than straight across it. So it was that
Arion came to Tænarus in Greece, without having been seen by
any man. The dolphin took him close to the shore, where he bade it
good-by, and watched it swim away disconsolately.

From Tænarus he made his way on foot to Corinth. Periander
was overjoyed to see him once more; and when he marveled at the
strange costume in which Arion had traveled, Arion related the
whole story.

Periander listened attentively, and, when it was finished,
remarked gravely, “Are you then so little satisfied with your
victories over the musicians, Arion, that you have determined to be
king of story-tellers also?”

“Does your majesty intend to throw doubt on my
story?” asked Arion.

“Far be it from me!” answered Periander. “The
story pleases me well, and if you will tell me another such, I will
take pains to believe that also.”

“Then Zeus be my witness! I will find means to prove
it,” cried Arion.

“Have I not said that I doubted not?” asked
Periander. “Yet I would gladly see the proof. My crown to
your lute upon the issue!”

“So be it!” said Arion. “But first I must ask
your majesty that none may speak of my return; and when the ship
Nausicaa comes to port, let the seamen be dealt with as I
shall appoint!”

The king assented laughing, for he deemed the tale impossible.
After some days, however, it was announced that the ship
Nausicaa was in the harbor. Periander summoned the captain
and all the crew to the palace, and asked them whether they had
brought any news of his minstrel Arion. The captain replied that
men said at Tarentum that Arion was still in Italy, traveling from
place to place, and received everywhere with great honor. The rest
of the sailors confirmed the story, and one of them added that
Arion was said to prefer Italy to Greece, nor had he any intention
of returning to Corinth.

At that moment a curtain was drawn and disclosed Arion, standing
in his sacred robes and holding his lute, just as they had seen him
last in the prow of the ship. The sailors, supposing that they
beheld his spirit, were seized with terror, and fell at the
king’s feet, confessing all their wickedness and begging for
mercy. But Periander was filled with indignation, and spurned them
angrily. Arion interposed, urging the king to be merciful, now that
the seamen had seen their wickedness, and were willing to make
restitution. Periander, however, would not hear of mercy.

“Your compassion bears witness to your noble spirit,
Arion,” he replied. “But these men have planned a most
cruel and cowardly murder, and cruelly shall they suffer for it.
Seize me these men, guards, and bind them!”

The guards came forward and began to lead away the trembling
wretches.

“Stay!” cried Arion. “It is I who am king. Did
not your majesty stake your crown against my lute, and can the
royal word be broken? Back, guards! I claim my wager.”

Periander could not refrain from laughter, but confessed himself
beaten by this piece of strategy. “The wit of Arion,”
he said, “is stronger than the tears of repentance. Release
the prisoners!”

“That being so,” said Arion, “and seeing that
I find myself more easy with the lute, I will restore the royal
crown to Periander.”

So the men were set at liberty, after having restored the
property of Arion, and departed full of gratitude, invoking
blessings on his head.

And lest any man should doubt the truth of the story in time to
come, Arion erected at Tænarus a statue in bronze,
representing a man riding on a dolphin’s back.

STORIES FROM LIVY

Romulus, Founder of
Rome

Adapted by Alfred J. Church

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Contents

Æneas of Troy, coming to the land of Italy, took to wife
Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus, and built him a city, which he
called Lavinium, after the name of his wife. And, after thirty
years, his son Ascanius went forth from Lavinium with much people,
and built him a new city, which he called Alba. In this city
reigned kings of the house and lineage of Æneas for twelve
generations. Of these kings the eleventh in descent was one Procas,
who, having two sons, Numitor and Amulius, left his kingdom,
according to the custom, to Numitor, the elder. But Amulius drove
out his brother, and reigned in his stead. Nor was he content with
this wickedness, but slew all the male children of his brother. And
the daughter of his brother, that was named Rhea Silvia, he chose
to be a priestess of Vesta, making as though he would do the maiden
honor, but his thought was that the name of his brother should
perish, for they that serve Vesta are vowed to perpetual
virginity.

But it came to pass that Rhea bare twin sons, whose father, it
was said, was the god Mars. Very wroth was Amulius when he heard
this thing; Rhea he made fast in prison, and the children he gave
to certain of his servants that they should cast them into the
river. Now it chanced that at this season Tiber had overflowed his
banks, neither could the servants come near to the stream of the
river; nevertheless they did not doubt that the children would
perish, for all that the overflowing of the water was neither deep
nor of a swift current. Thinking, then, that they had duly
performed the commandment of the king, they set down the babes in
the flood and departed. But after a while the flood abated, and
left the basket wherein the children had been laid on dry ground.
And a she-wolf, coming down from the hill to drink at the river
(for the country in those days was desert and abounding in wild
beasts), heard the crying of the children and ran to them. Nor did
she devour them, but gave them suck; nay, so gentle was she that
Faustulus, the king’s shepherd, chancing to go by, saw that
she licked them with her tongue. This Faustulus took the children
and gave them to his wife to rear; and these, when they were of age
to go by themselves, were not willing to abide with the flocks and
herds, but were hunters, wandering through the forests that were in
those parts. And afterward, being now come to full strength, they
were not content to slay wild beasts only, but would assail troops
of robbers, as these were returning laden with their booty, and
would divide the spoils among the shepherds. Now there was held in
those days, on the hill that is now called the Palatine, a yearly
festival to the god Pan. This festival King Evander first ordained,
having come from Arcadia, in which land, being a land of shepherds,
Pan, that is the god of shepherds, is greatly honored. And when the
young men and their company (for they had gathered a great company
of shepherds about them, and led them in all matters both of
business and of sport) were busy with the festival, there came upon
them certain robbers that had made an ambush in the place, being
very wroth by reason of the booty which they had lost. These laid
hands on Remus, but Romulus they could not take, so fiercely did he
fight against them. Remus, therefore, they delivered up to King
Amulius, accusing him of many things, and chiefly of this, that he
and his companions had invaded the land of Numitor, dealing with
them in the fashion of an enemy and carrying off much spoil. To
Numitor, therefore, did the king deliver Remus, that he might put
him to death. Now Faustulus had believed from the beginning that
the children were of the royal house, for he knew that the babes
had been cast into the river by the king’s command, and the
time also of his finding them agreed thereto. Nevertheless he had
not judged it expedient to open the matter before due time, but
waited till occasion or necessity should arise. But now, there
being such necessity, he opened the matter to Romulus. Numitor
also, when he had the young man Remus in his custody, knowing that
he and his brother were twins, and that the time agreed, and seeing
that they were of a high spirit, bethought him of his grandsons;
and, indeed, having asked many questions of Remus, was come nigh to
knowing of what race he was. And now also Romulus was ready to help
his brother. To come openly with his whole company he dared not,
for he was not a match for the power of King Amulius; but he bade
sundry shepherds make their way to the palace, each as best he
could, appointing to them a time at which they should meet. And now
came Remus also, with a troop of youths gathered together from the
household of Numitor. Then did Romulus and Remus slay King Amulius.
In the meanwhile Numitor gathered the youth of Alba to the citadel,
crying out that they must make the place safe, for that the enemy
was upon them; but when he perceived that the young men had done
the deed, forthwith he called an assembly of the citizens, and set
forth to them the wickedness which his brother had wrought against
him, and how his grandsons had been born and bred and made known to
him, and then, in order, how the tyrant had been slain, himself
having counseled the deed. When he had so spoken the young men came
with their company into the midst of the assembly, and saluted him
as king; to which thing the whole multitude agreeing with one
consent, Numitor was established upon the throne.

After this Romulus and his brother conceived this purpose, that,
leaving their grandfather to be king at Alba, they should build for
themselves a new city in the place where, having been at the first
left to die, they had been brought up by Faustulus the shepherd.
And to this purpose many agreed both of the men of Alba and of the
Latins, and also of the shepherds that had followed them from the
first, holding it for certain all of them that Alba and Lavinium
would be of small account in comparison of this new city which they
should build together. But while the brothers were busy with these
things, there sprang up afresh the same evil thing which had before
wrought such trouble in their house, even the lust of power. For
though the beginnings of the strife between them were peaceful, yet
did it end in great wickedness. The matter fell out in this wise.
Seeing that the brothers were twins, and that neither could claim
to have the preference to the other in respect of his age, it was
agreed between them that the gods that were the guardians of that
country should make known by means of augury which of the two they
chose to give his name to the new city. Then Romulus stood on the
Palatine hill, and when there had been marked out for him a certain
region of the sky, watched therein for a sign; and Remus watched in
like manner, standing on the Aventine. And to Remus first came a
sign, six vultures; but so soon as the sign had been proclaimed
there came another to Romulus, even twelve vultures. Then they that
favored Remus clamored that the gods had chosen him for king,
because he had first seen the birds; and they that favored Romulus
answered that he was to be preferred because he had seen more in
number. This dispute waxed so hot that they fell to fighting; and
in the fight it chanced that Remus was slain. But some say that
when Romulus had marked out the borders of the town which he would
build, and had caused a wall to be built round it, Remus leapt over
the wall, scorning it because it was mean and low; and that Romulus
slew him, crying out, “Thus shall every man perish that shall
dare to leap over my walls.” Only others will have it that
though he perished for this cause Romulus slew him not, but a
certain Celer. This much is certain, that Romulus gained the whole
kingdom for himself, and called the city after his own name.

And now, having first done sacrifice to the Gods, he called a
general assembly of the people, that he might give them laws,
knowing that without laws no city can endure. And judging that
these would be the better kept of his subjects if he should himself
bear something of the show of royal majesty, he took certain signs
of dignity, and especially twelve men that should continually
attend him, bearing bundles of rods, and in the midst of the rods
an axe; these men they called lictors. Meanwhile the city
increased, for the king and his people enlarged their borders,
looking rather to the greatness for which they hoped than to that
which they had. And that this increase might not be altogether
empty walls without men, Romulus set up a sanctuary, to which were
gathered a great multitude of men from the nations round about. All
that were discontented and lovers of novelty came to him. Nor did
he take any account of their condition, whether they were bond or
free, but received them all. Thus was there added to the city great
strength. And the king, when he judged that there was strength
sufficient, was minded to add to the strength counsel. Wherefore he
chose a hundred men for counselors. A hundred he chose, either
because he held that number to be sufficient, or because there were
no more that were fit to bear this dignity and be called Fathers,
for this was the name of these counselors.

After this the people bethought themselves how they should get
for themselves wives, for there were no women in the place.
Wherefore Romulus sent ambassadors to the nations round about,
praying that they should give their daughters to his people for
wives. “Cities,” he said, “have humble beginnings
even as all other things. Nevertheless they that have the Gods and
their own valor to help become great. Now that the gods are with
us, as ye know, be assured also that valor shall not be
wanting.” But the nations round about would not hearken to
him, thinking scorn of this gathering of robbers and slaves and
runaways, so that they said, “Why do ye not open a sanctuary
for women also that so ye may find fit wives for your
people?” Also they feared for themselves and their children
what this new city might grow to. Now when the ambassadors brought
back this answer the Romans were greatly wroth, and would take by
force that which their neighbors would not give of their free will.
And to the end that they might do this more easily, King Romulus
appointed certain days whereon he and his people would hold a
festival with games to Neptune; and to this festival he called all
them that dwelt in the cities round about. But when many were
gathered together (for they were fain to see what this new city
might be), and were now wholly bent on the spectacle of the games,
the young men of the Romans ran in upon them, and carried off all
such as were unwedded among the women. To these King Romulus spake
kindly, saying, “The fault is not with us but with your
fathers, who dealt proudly with us, and would not give you to us in
marriage. But now ye shall be held in all honor as our wives, and
shall have your portion of all that we possess. Put away therefore
your anger, for ye shall find us so much the better husbands than
other men, as we must be to you not for husbands only but parents
also and native country.”

In the meanwhile the parents of them that had been carried off
put on sackcloth, and went about through the cities crying out for
vengeance upon the Romans. And chiefly they sought for help from
Titus Tatius, that was king of the Sabines in those days, and of
great power and renown. But when the Sabines seemed to be tardy in
the matter, the men of Cære first gathered together their
army and marched into the country of the Romans. Against these King
Romulus led forth his men and put them to flight without much ado,
having first slain their king with his own hand. Then, after
returning to Rome, he carried the arms which he had taken from the
body of the king to the hill of the Capitol, and laid them down at
the shepherds’ oak that stood thereon in those days. And when
he had measured out the length and breadth of a temple that he
would build to Jupiter upon the hill, he said, “O Jupiter, I,
King Romulus, offer to thee these arms of a king, and dedicate
therewith a temple in this place, in which temple they that come
after me shall offer to thee like spoils in like manner, when it
shall chance that the leader of our host shall himself slay with
his own hands the leader of the host of the enemy.” And this
was the first temple that was dedicated in Rome. And in all the
time to come two only offered in this manner, to wit, Cornelius
Cossus that slew Lars Tolumnius, king of Veii, and Claudius
Marcellus that slew Britomarus, king of the Gauls.

After this, King Tatius and the Sabines came up against Rome
with a great army. And first of all they gained the citadel by
treachery in this manner. One Tarpeius was governor of the citadel,
whose daughter, Tarpeia by name, going forth from the walls to
fetch water for a sacrifice, took money from the king that she
should receive certain of the soldiers within the citadel; but when
they had been so received, the men cast their shields upon her,
slaying her with the weight of them. This they did either that they
might be thought to have taken the place by force, or that they
judged it to be well that no faith should be kept with traitors.
Some also tell this tale, that the Sabines wore great bracelets of
gold on their left arms, and on their left hands fair rings with
precious stones therein, and that when the maiden covenanted with
them that she should have for a reward that which they carried in
their left hands, they cast their shields upon her. And others say
that she asked for their shields having the purpose to betray them,
and for this cause was slain.

Thus the Sabines had possession of the citadel; and the next day
King Romulus set the battle in array on the plain that lay between
the hill of the Capitol and the hill of the Palatine. And first the
Romans were very eager to recover the citadel, a certain Hostilius
being their leader. But when this man, fighting in the forefront of
the battle, was slain, the Romans turned their backs and fled
before the Sabines, even unto the gate of the Palatine. Then King
Romulus (for he himself had been carried away by the crowd of them
that fled) held up his sword and his spear to the heavens, and
cried aloud, “O Jupiter, here in the Palatine didst thou
first, by the tokens which thou sentest me, lay the foundations of
my city. And lo! the Sabines have taken the citadel by wicked
craft, and have crossed the valley, and are come up even hither.
But if thou sufferest them so far, do thou at the least defend this
place against them, and stay this shameful flight of my people. So
will I build a temple for thee in this place, even a temple of
Jupiter the Stayer, that may be a memorial to after generations of
how thou didst this day save this city.” And when he had so
spoken, even as though he knew that the prayer had been heard, he
cried, “Ye men of Rome, Jupiter bids you stand fast in this
place and renew the battle.” And when the men of Rome heard
these words, it was as if a voice from heaven had spoken to them,
and they stood fast, and the king himself went forward and stood
among the foremost. Now the leader of the Sabines was one Curtius.
This man, as he drave the Romans before him, cried out to his
comrades, “See, we have conquered these men, false hosts and
feeble foes that they are! Surely now they know that it is one
thing to carry off maidens and another to fight with men.”
But whilst he boasted himself thus, King Romulus and a company of
the youth rushed upon him. Now Curtius was fighting on horseback,
and being thus assailed he fled, plunging into a certain pool which
lay between the Palatine hill and the Capitol. Thus did he barely
escape with his life, and the lake was called thereafter
Curtius’ pool. And now the Sabines began to give way to the
Romans, when suddenly the women for whose sake they fought, having
their hair loosened and their garments rent, ran in between them
that fought, crying out, “Shed ye not each other’s
blood, ye that are fathers-in-law and sons-in-law to each other.
But if ye break this bond that is between you, slay us that are the
cause of this trouble. And surely it were better for us to die than
to live if we be bereaved of our fathers or of our husbands.”
With these words they stirred the hearts both of the chiefs and of
the people, so that there was suddenly made a great silence. And
afterward the leaders came forth to make a covenant; and these
indeed so ordered matters that there was not peace only, but one
state where there had been two. For the Sabines came to Rome and
dwelt there; and King Romulus and King Tatius reigned together.
Only, after a while, certain men of Lanuvium slew King Tatius as he
was sacrificing to the Gods at Lavinium; and thereafter Romulus
only was king as before.

When he had reigned thirty and seven years there befell the
thing that shall now be told. On a certain day he called the people
together on the field of Mars, and held a review of his army. But
while he did this there arose suddenly a great storm, with loud
thunderings and very thick clouds, so that the king was hidden away
from the eyes of all the people. Nor indeed was he ever again seen
upon the earth. And when men were recovered of their fear they were
in great trouble, because they had lost their king, though indeed
the Fathers would have it that he had been carried by a whirlwind
into heaven. Yet after a while they began to worship him as being
now a god; and when nevertheless some doubted, and would even
whisper among themselves that Romulus had been torn in pieces by
the Fathers, there came forward a certain Proculus, who spake after
this manner: “Ye men of Rome, this day, in the early morning,
I saw Romulus, the father of this city, come down from heaven and
stand before me. And when great fear came upon me, I prayed that it
might be lawful for me to look upon him face to face. Then said he
to me, ‘Go thy way, tell the men of Rome that it is the will
of them that dwell in heaven that Rome should be the chiefest city
in the world. Bid them therefore be diligent in war; and let them
know for themselves and tell their children after them that there
is no power on earth so great that it shall be able to stand
against them.’ And when he had thus spoken, he departed from
me, going up into heaven.” All men believed Proculus when he
thus spake, and the people ceased from their sorrow when they knew
that King Romulus had been taken up into heaven.

How Horatius Held the
Bridge

Adapted by Alfred J. Church

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Contents

[King Tarquin had been driven from Rome because of
his tyranny.]

King Tarquin and his son Lucius (for he only remained to him of
the three) fled to Lars Porsenna, king of Clusium, and besought him
that he would help them. “Suffer not,” they said,
“that we, who are Tuscans by birth, should remain any more in
poverty and exile. And take heed also to thyself and thine own
kingdom if thou permit this new fashion of driving forth kings to
go unpunished. For surely there is that in freedom which men
greatly desire, and if they that be kings defend not their dignity
as stoutly as others seek to overthrow it, then shall the highest
be made even as the lowest, and there shall be an end of kingship,
than which there is nothing more honorable under heaven.”
With these words they persuaded King Porsenna, who judging it well
for the Etrurians that there should be a king at Rome, and that
king an Etrurian by birth, gathered together a great army and came
up against Rome. But when men heard of his coming, so mighty a city
was Clusium in those days, and so great the fame of King Porsenna,
there was such fear as had never been before. Nevertheless they
were steadfastly purposed to hold out. And first all that were in
the country fled into the city, and round about the city they set
guards to keep it, part thereof being defended by walls, and part,
for so it seemed, being made safe by the river. But here a great
peril had well-nigh overtaken the city; for there was a wooden
bridge on the river by which the enemy had crossed but for the
courage of a certain Horatius Cocles. The matter fell out in this
wise.

There was a certain hill which men called Janiculum on the side
of the river, and this hill King Porsenna took by a sudden attack.
Which when Horatius saw (for he chanced to have been set to guard
the bridge, and saw also how the enemy were running at full speed
to the place, and how the Romans were fleeing in confusion and
threw away their arms as they ran), he cried with a loud voice,
“Men of Rome, it is to no purpose that ye thus leave your
post and flee, for if ye leave this bridge behind you for men to
pass over, ye shall soon find that ye have more enemies in your
city than in Janiculum. Do ye therefore break it down with axe and
fire as best ye can. In the meanwhile I, so far as one man may do,
will stay the enemy.” And as he spake he ran forward to the
farther end of the bridge and made ready to keep the way against
the enemy. Nevertheless there stood two with him, Lartius and
Herminius by name, men of noble birth both of them and of great
renown in arms. So these three for a while stayed the first onset
of the enemy; and the men of Rome meanwhile brake down the bridge.
And when there was but a small part remaining, and they that brake
it down called to the three that they should come back, Horatius
bade Lartius and Herminius return, but he himself remained on the
farther side, turning his eyes full of wrath in threatening fashion
on the princes of the Etrurians, and crying, “Dare ye now to
fight with me? or why are ye thus come at the bidding of your
master, King Porsenna, to rob others of the freedom that ye care
not to have for yourselves?” For a while they delayed,
looking each man to his neighbor, who should first deal with this
champion of the Romans. Then, for very shame, they all ran forward,
and raising a great shout, threw their javelins at him. These all
he took upon his shield, nor stood the less firmly in his place on
the bridge, from which when they would have thrust him by force, of
a sudden the men of Rome raised a great shout, for the bridge was
now altogether broken down, and fell with a great crash into the
river. And as the enemy stayed a while for fear, Horatius turned
him to the river and said, “O Father Tiber, I beseech thee
this day with all reverence that thou kindly receive this soldier
and his arms.” And as he spake he leapt with all his arms
into the river and swam across to his own people, and though many
javelins of the enemy fell about him, he was not one whit hurt. Nor
did such valor fail to receive due honor from the city. For the
citizens set up a statue of Horatius in the market-place; and they
gave him of the public land so much as he could plough about in one
day. Also there was this honor paid him, that each citizen took
somewhat of his own store and gave it to him, for food was scarce
in the city by reason of the siege.

How Cincinnatus Saved
Rome

Adapted by Alfred J. Church

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Contents

It came to pass that the Æquians brake the treaty of peace
which they had made with Rome, and, taking one Gracchus
Clœlius for their leader, marched into the land of Tusculum;
and when they had plundered the country thereabouts, and had
gathered together much booty, they pitched their camp on Mount
Ægidus. To them the Romans sent three ambassadors, who should
complain of the wrong done, and seek redress. But when they would
have fulfilled their errand, Gracchus the Æquian spake,
saying, “If ye have any message from the Senate of Rome, tell
it to this oak, for I have other business to do;” for it
chanced that there was a great oak that stood hard by, and made a
shadow over the general’s tent. Then one of the ambassadors,
as he turned to depart, made reply, “Yes, let this sacred oak
and all the gods that are in heaven hear how ye have wrongfully
broken the treaty of peace; and let them that hear help us also in
the day of battle, when we shall avenge on you the laws both of
gods and of men that ye have set at nought.”

When the ambassadors had returned to Rome the Senate commanded
that there should be levied two armies; and that Minucius the
Consul should march with the one against the Æquians on Mount
Ægidus, and that the other should hinder the enemy from their
plundering. This levying the tribunes of the Commons sought to
hinder; and perchance had done so, but there also came well-nigh to
the walls of the city a great host of the Sabines plundering all
the country. Thereupon the people willingly offered themselves, and
there were levied forthwith two great armies. Nevertheless when the
Consul Minucius had marched to Mount Ægidus, and had pitched
his camp not far from the Æquians, he did nought for fear of
the enemy, but kept himself within his entrenchments. And when the
enemy perceived that he was afraid, growing the bolder for his lack
of courage, they drew lines about him, keeping him in on every
side. Yet before that he was altogether shut up there escaped from
his camp five horsemen, that bare tidings to Rome how that the
Consul, together with his army, was besieged. The people were
sorely dismayed to hear such tidings; nor, when they cast about for
help, saw they any man that might be sufficient for such peril,
save only Cincinnatus. By common consent, therefore, he was made
Dictator for six months, a thing that may well be noted by those
who hold that nothing is to be accounted of in comparison of
riches, and that no man may win great honor or show forth singular
virtue unless he be well furnished with wealth. For here in this
great peril of the Roman people there was no hope of safety but in
one who was cultivating with his own hand a little plot of scarcely
three acres of ground. For when the messengers of the people came
to him they found him ploughing, or, as some say, digging a ditch.
When they had greeted each the other, the messengers said,
“May the Gods prosper this thing to the Roman people and to
thee. Put on thy robe and hear the words of the people.” Then
said Cincinnatus, being not a little astonished, “Is all
well?” and at the same time he called to his wife Racilia
that she should bring forth his robe from the cottage. So she
brought it forth, and the man wiped from him the dust and the
sweat, and clad himself in his robe, and stood before the
messengers. These said to him, “The people of Rome make thee
Dictator, and bid thee come forthwith to the city.” And at
the same time they told how the Consul and his army were besieged
by the Æquians. So Cincinnatus departed to Rome; and when he
came to the other side of the Tiber there met him first his three
sons, and next many of his kinsfolk and friends, and after them a
numerous company of the nobles. These all conducted him to his
house, the lictors, four and twenty in number, marching before him.
There was also assembled a very great concourse of the people,
fearing much how the Dictator might deal with them, for they knew
what manner of man he was, and that there was no limit to his
power, nor any appeal from him.

The next day before dawn the Dictator came into the
market-place, and appointed one Lucius Tarquinius to be Master of
the Horse. This Tarquinius was held by common consent to excel all
other men in exercises of war; only, though, being a noble by
birth, he should have been among the horsemen, he had served, for
lack of means, as a foot soldier. This done he called an assembly
of the people and commanded that all the shops in the city should
be shut; that no man should concern himself with any private
business, but all that were of an age to go to the war should be
present before sunset in the Field of Mars, each man having with
him provisions of cooked food for five days, and twelve stakes. As
for them that were past the age, they should prepare the food while
the young men made ready their arms and sought for the stakes.
These last they took as they found them, no man hindering them; and
when the time appointed by the Dictator was come, all were
assembled, ready, as occasion might serve, either to march or to
give battle. Forthwith they set out, the Dictator leading the foot
soldiers by their legions, and Tarquinius the horsemen, and each
bidding them that followed make all haste. “We must needs
come,” they said, “to our journey’s end while it
is yet night. Remember that the Consul and his army have been
besieged now for three days, and that no man knows what a day or a
night may bring forth.” The soldiers themselves also were
zealous to obey, crying out to the standard-bearers that they
should quicken their steps, and to their fellows that they should
not lag behind. Thus they came at midnight to Mount Ægidus,
and when they perceived that the enemy was at hand they halted the
standards. Then the Dictator rode forward to see, so far as the
darkness would suffer him, how great was the camp of the
Æquians and after what fashion it was pitched. This done he
commanded that the baggage should be gathered together into a heap,
and that the soldiers should stand every man in his own place.
After this he compassed about the whole army of the enemy with his
own army, and commanded that at a set signal every man should
shout, and when they had shouted should dig a trench and set up
therein the stakes. This the soldiers did, and the noise of the
shouting passed over the camp of the enemy and came into the city,
causing therein great joy, even as it caused great fear in the
camp. For the Romans cried, “These be our countrymen, and
they bring us help.” Then said the Consul, “We must
make no delay. By that shout is signified, not that they are come
only, but that they are already dealing with the enemy. Doubtless
the camp of the Æquians is even now assailed from without.
Take ye your arms and follow me.” So the legion went forth,
it being yet night, to the battle, and as they went they shouted,
that the Dictator might be aware. Now the Æquians had set
themselves to hinder the making of a ditch and rampart which should
shut them in; but when the Romans from the camp fell upon them,
fearing lest these should make their way through the midst of their
camp, they left them that were with Cincinnatus to finish their
entrenching, and fought with the Consul. And when it was now light,
lo! they were already shut in, and the Romans, having finished
their entrenching, began to trouble them. And when the
Æquians perceived that the battle was now on either side of
them, they could withstand no longer, but sent ambassadors praying
for peace, and saying, “Ye have prevailed; slay us not, but
rather permit us to depart, leaving our arms behind us.” Then
said the Dictator, “I care not to have the blood of the
Æquians. Ye may depart, but ye shall depart passing under the
yoke, that ye may thus acknowledge to all men that ye are indeed
vanquished.” Now the yoke is thus made. There are set up in
the ground two spears, and over them is bound by ropes a third
spear. So the Æquians passed under the yoke.

In the camp of the enemy there was found abundance of spoil.
This the Dictator gave wholly to his own soldiers. “Ye were
well-nigh a spoil to the enemy,” said he to the army of the
Consul, “therefore ye shall have no share in the spoiling of
them. As for thee, Minucius, be thou a lieutenant only till thou
hast learnt how to bear thyself as a consul.” Meanwhile at
Rome there was held a meeting of the Senate, at which it was
commanded that Cincinnatus should enter the city in triumph, his
soldiers following him in order of march. Before his chariot there
were led the generals of the enemy; also the standards were carried
in the front; and after these came the army, every man laden with
spoil. That day there was great rejoicing in the city, every man
setting forth a banquet before his doors in the street.

After this, Virginius, that had borne false witness against
Cæso, was found guilty of perjury, and went into exile. And
when Cincinnatus saw that justice had been done to this evil-doer,
he resigned his dictatorship, having held it for sixteen days
only.

The Story of Virginia

Adapted by Alfred J. Church

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Contents

It was agreed between the nobles and the commons that, to make
an end of disputing about the laws, ambassadors should be sent into
Greece, and especially to Athens (which city and its lawgiver,
Solon, were held in high repute in those days), to learn what
manner of laws and customs they had, and to bring back a report of
them. And when the ambassadors had brought back their report, it
seemed good to the people that in the following year there should
be appointed neither consuls nor any other magistrate, but
decemvirs only; that is to say, ten men, who should set in order
the laws of Rome. Thus it came to pass in the ninety and first year
from the driving out of the kings, that decemvirs were appointed in
the stead of consuls, Appius Claudius being the chief of the
ten.

For a while these pleased the people well, doing justice equally
between man and man. And the custom was that each day one of the
ten sat as judge with the twelve lictors about him, the nine others
sitting with one minister only. Also they busied themselves with
the ordering of the laws; and at last set forth ten tables on which
these were written. At the same time they called the people
together to an assembly, and spake to them thus: “The Gods
grant that this undertaking may turn to the credit of the state,
and of you, and of your children. Go, therefore, and read these
laws which we have set forth; for though we have done what ten men
could do to provide laws that should be just to all, whether they
be high or low, yet the understandings of many men may yet change
many things for the better. Consider therefore all these matters in
your own minds, and debate them among yourselves. For we will that
the Roman people should be bound by such laws only as they shall
have agreed together to establish.”

The ten tables were therefore set forth, and when these had been
sufficiently considered, and such corrections made therein as
seemed good, a regular assembly of the people was called, and the
laws were duly established. But now there was spread abroad a
report that two tables were yet wanting, and that when these should
have been added the whole would be complete; and thence there arose
a desire that the Ten should be appointed to hold office a second
year. This indeed was done; but Appius Claudius so ordered matters
that there were elected together with him none of the chief men of
the state, but only such as were of an inferior condition and
fortune.

After this the Ten began more and more to set aside all law and
right. Thus whereas at the first one only on each day was followed
by the twelve lictors, each of the Ten came daily into the
market-place so attended, and whereas before the lictors carried
bundles of rods only, now there was bound up with the rods an axe;
whereby was signified the power of life and death. Their actions
also agreed with this show, for they and their ministers plundered
the goods and chattels of the people. Some also they scourged, and
some they beheaded. And when they had so put a man to death, they
would divide his substance among those that waited upon them to do
their pleasure.

Among their misdeeds two were especially notable. There was a
certain Sicinius in the host, a man of singular strength and
courage, who took it ill that the Ten should thus set themselves
above all law, and was wont to say to his comrades that the commons
should depart from the city as they had done in time past, or
should at the least make them tribunes to be their champions as of
old. This Sicinius the Ten sent on before the army, there being
then war with the Sabines, to search out a place for a camp; and
with him they sent certain others, bidding them slay him when they
should have come to some convenient place. This they did, but not
without suffering much loss; for the man fought for his life and
defended himself, slaying many of his enemies. Then they that
escaped ran into the camp, saying that Sicinius had fallen into an
ambuscade, and had died along with certain others of the soldiers.
At the first, indeed, this story was believed; but afterward, when,
by permission of the Ten, there went some to bury the dead, they
found that none of the dead bodies had been spoiled, and that
Sicinius lay with his arms in the midst, the others having their
faces toward him; also that there was no dead body of an enemy in
the place, nor any track as of them that had gone from the place;
for which reasons they brought back tidings that Sicinius had
certainly been slain by his own comrades. At this there was great
wrath in the camp; and the soldiers were ready to carry the body of
Sicinius to Rome, but that the Ten made a military funeral for him
at the public cost. So they buried Sicinius with great lamentation;
but the Ten were thereafter in very ill repute among the
soldiers.

Again, there was a certain centurion, Lucius Virginius by name,
an upright man and of good credit both at home and abroad. This
Virginius had a daughter, Virginia, a very fair and virtuous
maiden, whom he had espoused to a certain Icilius that had once
been a tribune of the commons. On this maiden Appius Claudius, the
chief of the Ten, sought to lay hands, and for this end gave
commandment to one Marcus Claudius, who was one of the clients of
his house, that he should claim the girl for a slave. On the morrow
therefore, as Virginia passed across the market-place, being on her
way to school (for the schools in those days were held in the
market-place), this Claudius seized her, affirming that she was
born of a woman that was a slave, and was therefore by right a
slave herself. The maiden standing still for fear, the nurse that
attended her set up a great cry and called the citizens to help.
Straightway there was a great concourse, for many knew the
maiden’s father Virginius, and Icilius to whom she was
betrothed. Then said Claudius, seeing that he could not take her by
force, “There is no need of tumult or of gathering a crowd. I
would proceed by law, not by force.” Thereupon he summoned
the girl before the judge. When they came to the judgment-seat of
Appius the man told a tale that had already been agreed upon
between the two. “This girl,” he said, “was born
in my house, and was thence secretly taken to the house of
Virginius, and passed off on the man as his daughter. Of this I
will bring proof sufficient, such as will convince Virginius
himself, who doubtless has received the chief wrong in this matter.
But in the meanwhile it is reasonable that the slave should remain
in the house of her master.” To this the friends of the girl
made answer, “Virginius is absent on the service of the
state, and will be here within the space of two days, if tidings of
this matter be sent to him. Now it is manifestly wrong that
judgment concerning a man’s children should be given while he
is himself absent. Let the cause, therefore, be postponed till he
come. Meanwhile let the maiden have her freedom, according to the
law which Appius and his fellows have themselves
established.”

Appius gave sentence in these words: “That I am a favorer
of freedom is manifest from this law of which ye make mention. Yet
this law must be observed in all cases and without respect of
persons; and as to this girl, there is none but her father only to
whom her owner may yield the custody of her. Let her father
therefore be sent for; but in the meanwhile Claudius must have
custody of her, as is his right, only giving security that he will
produce her on the morrow.”

At this decree, so manifestly unrighteous was it, there was much
murmuring, yet none dared to oppose it, till Numitorius, the
girl’s uncle, and Icilius came forth from the crowd. The
lictor cried, “Sentence has been given,” and bade
Icilius give place. Then Icilius turned to Appius, saying,
“Appius, thou must drive me hence with the sword before thou
canst have thy will in this matter. This maiden is my espoused
wife; and verily, though thou call hither all thy lictors and the
lictors of thy colleagues, she shall not remain in any house save
the house of her father.”

To this Appius, seeing that the multitude was greatly moved and
were ready to break forth into open violence, made this reply:
“Icilius cares not for Virginia, but being a lover of
sedition and tumult, seeks an occasion for strife. Such occasion I
will not give him to-day. But that he may know that I yield not to
his insolence, but have regard to the rights of a father, I
pronounce no sentence. I ask of Marcus Claudius that he will
concede something of his right, and suffer surety to be given for
the girl against the morrow. But if on the morrow the father be not
present here, then I tell Icilius and his fellows that he who is
the author of this law will not fail to execute it. Neither will I
call in the lictors of my colleague to put down them that raise a
tumult. For this my own lictors shall suffice.”

So much time being thus gained, it seemed good to the friends of
the maiden that the son of Numitorius and the brother of Icilius,
young men both of them and active, should hasten with all speed to
the camp, and bring Virginius thence as quickly as might be. So the
two set out, and putting their horses to their full speed, carried
tidings of the matter to the father. As for Appius, he sat awhile
on the judgment-seat, waiting for other business to be brought
before him, for he would not have it seem that he had come for this
cause only; but finding that there was none, and indeed the people
were wholly intent on the matter of Virginia, he departed to his
own house. Thence he sent an epistle to his colleagues that were at
the camp, saying, “Grant no leave of absence to Virginius,
but keep him in safe custody with you.” But this availed
nothing, for already, before ever the epistle was brought to the
camp, at the very first watch of the night, Virginius had set
forth.

When Virginius was come to the city, it being then early dawn,
he put on mean apparel, as was the custom with such as were in
danger of life or liberty, and carried about his daughter, who was
clad in like manner, praying all that he met to help and succor
him. “Remember,” said he, “that day by day I
stand fighting for you and for your children against your enemies.
But what shall this profit you or me if this city being safe,
nevertheless our children stand in peril of slavery and
shame?” Icilius spake in like manner, and the women (for a
company of matrons followed Virginia) wept silently, stirring
greatly the hearts of all that looked upon them. But Appius, so set
was his heart on evil, heeded none of these things; but so soon as
he had sat him down on the seat of judgment, and he that claimed
the girl had said a few words complaining that right had not been
done to him, he gave his sentence, suffering not Virginius to
speak. What pretense of reason he gave can scarce be imagined, but
the sentence (for this only is certain) was that the girl should be
in the custody of Claudius till the matter should be decided by
law. But when Claudius came to take the maiden, her friends and all
the women that bare her company thrust him back. Then said Appius,
“I have sure proof, and this not from the violence only of
Icilius, but from what is told to me of gatherings by night in the
city, that there is a purpose in certain men to stir up sedition.
Knowing this I have come hither with armed men; not to trouble
quiet citizens, but to punish such as would break the peace of the
state. Such as be wise, therefore, will keep themselves quiet.
Lictor, remove this crowd, and make room for the master that he may
take his slave.” These words he thundered forth in great
anger; and the people, when they heard them, fell back in fear, so
that the maiden stood without defense. Then Virginius, seeing that
there were none to help him, said to Appius, “I pray thee,
Appius, if I have said aught that was harsh to thee, that thou wilt
pardon it, knowing how a father must needs suffer in such a case.
But now suffer me to inquire somewhat of this woman that is the
girl’s nurse, that I may know what is the truth of the
matter. For if I have been deceived in the matter, and am not in
truth father to the girl, I shall be more content.” Then,
Appius giving permission, he led his daughter and her nurse a
little space aside, to the shops that are by the temple of
Cloacina, and snatching a knife from a butcher’s, said,
“My daughter, there is but this one way that I can make thee
free,” and he drave the knife into her breast. Then he looked
back to the judgment-seat and cried, “With this blood,
Appius, I devote thee and thy life to perdition.” There went
up a great cry from all that stood there when they saw so dreadful
a deed, and Appius commanded that they should seize him. But no man
laid hands on him, for he made a way for himself with the knife
that he carried in his hand, and they that followed defended him,
till he came to the gate of the city. Then Icilius and Numitorius
took up the dead body of the maiden and showed it to the people,
saying much of the wickedness of him who had driven a father to do
such a deed, and much also of the liberty which had been taken from
them, and which, if they would only use this occasion, they might
now recover. As for Appius, he cried out to his lictors that they
should lay hands on Icilius, and when the crowd suffered not the
lictors to approach, would himself have made a way to him, by the
help of the young nobles that stood by him. But now the crowd had
leaders, themselves also nobles, Valerius and Horatius. These said,
“If Appius would deal with Icilius according to law we will
be securities for him; if he mean to use violence, we are ready to
meet him.” And when the lictor would have laid hands on these
two the multitude brake his rods to pieces. Then Appius would have
spoken to the people, but they clamored against him, so that at
last, losing all courage and fearing for his life, he covered his
head and fled secretly to his own house.

Meanwhile Virginius had made his way to the camp, which was now
on Mount Vecilius, and stirred up the army yet more than he had
stirred the city. “Lay not to my charge,” he said,
“that which is in truth the wickedness of Appius; neither
turn from me as from the murderer of my daughter. Her indeed I
slew, thinking that death was better than slavery and shame; nor
indeed had I survived her but that I hoped to avenge her death by
the help of my comrades.” Others also that had come from the
city persuaded the soldiers; some saying that the power of the Ten
was overthrown, and others that Appius had gone of his own accord
into banishment. These words so prevailed with the soldiers that,
without any bidding from their generals, they took up their arms,
and, with their standards carried before them, came to Rome and
pitched their camp on the Aventine.

Nevertheless, the Ten were still obstinate, affirming that they
would not resign their authority till they had finished the work
for which they had been appointed, namely, the drawing up of the
twelve tables of the laws. And when the army perceived this they
marched from the Aventine and took up their abode on the Sacred
Hill, all the commons following them, so that there was not left in
the city a single man that had ability to move; nor did the women
and children stay behind, but all, as many as could move, bare them
company; for Duilius, that had been tribune, said, “Unless
the Senate see the city deserted, they will take no heed of your
complaints.” And indeed, when these perceived what had taken
place, they were more urgent than before that the Ten should resign
their office. And these at last consented. “Only,” said
they, “do not suffer us to perish from the rage of the
commons. It will be an ill day for the nobles when the people shall
learn to take vengeance on them.” And the Senate so wrought
that though at the first the commons in their great fury demanded
that the Ten should be burned alive, yet they were persuaded to
yield, it being agreed that each man should be judged by the law
according to his deserts. Appius, therefore, was accused by
Virginius, and being cast into prison, slew himself before the day
appointed for the trial. Oppius also, another of the Ten, whom the
commons hated for his misdeeds next after Appius, was accused and
died in like manner. As for Claudius, that had claimed Virginia for
his slave, he was condemned to be banished. And thus at the last,
the guilty having been punished, the spirit of Virginia had
rest.

The Sacrifice of Marcus
Curtius

Adapted by Alfred J. Church

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Contents

In the three hundred and ninety-third year after the building of
the city there was seen suddenly to open in the market-place a
great gulf of a deepness that no man could measure. And this gulf
could not be filled up, though all the people brought earth and
stones and the like to cast into it. But at the last there was sent
a message from the Gods that the Romans must inquire what was that
by which more than all things the state was made strong.
“For,” said the soothsayer, “this thing must be
dedicated to the Gods in this place if the commonwealth of Rome is
to stand fast forever.” And while they doubted, one Marcus
Curtius, a youth that had won great renown in war, rebuked them,
saying, “Can ye doubt that Rome hath nothing better than arms
and valor?”

Then all the people stood silent; and Curtius, first beholding
the temples of the immortal Gods that hung over the market-place
and the Capitol, and afterward stretching forth his hands both to
heaven above and to this gulf that opened its mouth to the very
pit, as it were, of hell, devoted himself for his country; and
so—being clothed in armor and with arms in his hand, and
having his horse arrayed as sumptuously as might be—he leapt
into the gulf; and the multitude, both of men and women, threw in
gifts and offerings of the fruits of the earth, and afterward the
earth closed together.

STORIES FROM OVID

The Miraculous Pitcher

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Contents

One evening, in times long ago, old Philemon and his old wife
Baucis sat at their cottage door, enjoying the calm and beautiful
sunset. They had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended
now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime. So they talked
together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and
their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage wall, and on
which the grapes were beginning to turn purple. But the rude shouts
of children, and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at
hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly
possible for Baucis and Philemon to hear each other speak.

“Ah, wife,” cried Philemon, “I fear some poor
traveler is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and,
instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at
him, as their custom is!”

“Well-a-day!” answered old Baucis, “I do wish
our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their
fellow-creatures. And only think of bringing up their children in
this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling
stones at strangers!”

“Those children will never come to any good,” said
Philemon, shaking his white head. “To tell you the truth,
wife, I should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to
all the people in the village, unless they mend their manners. But,
as for you and me, so long as Providence affords us a crust of
bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger
that may come along and need it.”

“That’s right, husband!” said Baucis.
“So we will!”

These old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work
pretty hard for a living. Old Philemon toiled diligently in his
garden, while Baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a
little butter and cheese with their cow’s milk, or doing one
thing and another about the cottage. Their food was seldom anything
but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey
from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had
ripened against the cottage wall. But they were two of the kindest
old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without
their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown
loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary
traveler who might pause before their door. They felt as if such
guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to
treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves.

Their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance
from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a
mile in breadth. This valley, in past ages, when the world was new,
had probably been the bed of a lake. There fishes had glided to and
fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and
trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and
peaceful mirror. But, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated
the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile
spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small
brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and
supplied the inhabitants with water. The valley had been dry land
so long that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and
perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and
stately as the first. Never was there a prettier or more fruitful
valley. The very sight of the plenty around them should have made
the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude
to Providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.

But, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were
not worthy to dwell in a spot on which Heaven had smiled so
beneficently. They were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and
had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless. They
would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings
owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method
of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to
Providence. You will hardly believe what I am going to tell you.
These naughty people taught their children to be no better than
themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement,
when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor
stranger, shouting at his heels, and pelting him with stones. They
kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to
show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs
scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth.
Then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it
happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a
pitiable object before he had time to run away. This was a very
terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose, especially
when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old. Such
persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their
unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go
miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through
the village again.

What made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich
persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with
their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be
more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village. They
would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw.
If the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their
ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack
presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and
tied him up without any supper. This would have been all very well,
only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a
stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human
soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.

So now you can understand why old Philemon spoke so sorrowfully,
when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the
dogs, at the farther extremity of the village street. There was a
confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite
through the breadth of the valley.

“I never heard the dogs so loud!” observed the good
old man.

“Nor the children so rude!” answered his good old
wife.

They sat shaking their heads, one to the other, while the noise
came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence
on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on
foot. Close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their
very heels. A little farther off ran a crowd of children, who sent
up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all
their might. Once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a
slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the
dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand. His companion, who
was a very tall person, walked calmly along as if disdaining to
notice either the naughty children or the pack of curs, whose
manners the children seemed to imitate.

Both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if
they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a
night’s lodging. And this, I am afraid, was the reason why
the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so
rudely.

“Come, wife,” said Philemon to Baucis, “let us
go and meet these poor people. No doubt, they feel almost too
heavy-hearted to climb the hill.”

“Go you and meet them,” answered Baucis,
“while I make haste within doors, and see whether we can get
them anything for supper. A comfortable bowl of bread and milk
would do wonders towards raising their spirits.”

Accordingly, she hastened into the cottage. Philemon, on his
part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an
aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did
say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,—

“Welcome, strangers! welcome!”

“Thank you!” replied the younger of the two, in a
lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble.
“This is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder
in the village. Pray, why do you live in such a bad
neighborhood?”

“Ah!” observed old Philemon, with a quiet and benign
smile, “Providence put me here, I hope, among other reasons,
in order that I may make you what amends I can for the
inhospitality of my neighbors.”

“Well said, old father!” cried the traveler,
laughing; “and, if the truth must be told, my companion and
myself need some amends. Those children (the little rascals!) have
bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has
torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already. But I took him
across the muzzle with my staff; and I think you may have heard him
yelp, even thus far off.”

Philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed,
would you have fancied, by the traveler’s look and manner,
that he was weary with a long day’s journey, besides being
disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it. He was dressed in
rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of
which stuck out over both ears. Though it was a summer evening, he
wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps
because his under garments were shabby. Philemon perceived, too,
that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing
dusk, and as the old man’s eyesight was none the sharpest, he
could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted. One
thing, certainly, seemed queer. The traveler was so wonderfully
light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose
from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by
an effort.

“I used to be light-footed, in my youth,” said
Philemon to the traveler. “But I always found my feet grow
heavier towards nightfall.”

“There is nothing like a good staff to help one
along,” answered the stranger; “and I happen to have an
excellent one, as you see.”

This staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that Philemon
had ever beheld. It was made of olive-wood, and had something like
a little pair of wings near the top. Two snakes, carved in the
wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and
were so very skillfully executed that old Philemon (whose eyes, you
know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that
he could see them wriggling and twisting.

“A curious piece of work, sure enough!” said he.
“A staff with wings! It would be an excellent kind of stick
for a little boy to ride astride of!”

By this time Philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage
door.

“Friends,” said the old man, “sit down and
rest yourselves here on this bench. My good wife Baucis has gone to
see what you can have for supper. We are poor folks; but you shall
be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard.”

The younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench,
letting his staff fall, as he did so. And here happened something
rather marvelous, though trifling enough, too. The staff seemed to
get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little
pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against
the wall of the cottage. There it stood quite still, except that
the snakes continued to wriggle. But, in my private opinion, old
Philemon’s eyesight had been playing him tricks again.

Before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his
attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.

“Was there not,” asked the stranger, in a remarkably
deep tone of voice, “a lake, in very ancient times, covering
the spot where now stands yonder village?”

“Not in my day, friend,” answered Philemon;
“and yet I am an old man, as you see. There were always the
fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and
the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley. My
father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as
I know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old Philemon
shall be gone and forgotten!”

“That is more than can be safely foretold,” observed
the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice.
He shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were
shaken with the movement. “Since the inhabitants of yonder
village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their
nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their
dwellings again!”

The traveler looked so stern that Philemon was really almost
frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed
suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there
was a roll as of thunder in the air.

But, in a moment afterwards, the stranger’s face became so
kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror.
Nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveler
must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be
attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot. Not that Philemon
fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort;
but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in
this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and
seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom. This idea appeared
the more probable, because, when Philemon raised his eyes to the
stranger’s face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one
look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime.

While Baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to
talk very sociably with Philemon. The younger, indeed, was
extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks that
the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced
him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day.

“Pray, my young friend,” said he, as they grew
familiar together, “what may I call your name?”

“Why, I am very nimble, as you see,” answered the
traveler. “So, if you call me Quicksilver, the name will fit
tolerably well.”

“Quicksilver? Quicksilver?” repeated Philemon,
looking in the traveler’s face, to see if he were making fun
of him. “It is a very odd name! And your companion there? Has
he as strange a one?”

“You must ask the thunder to tell it you!” replied
Quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look. “No other voice is
loud enough.”

This remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have
caused Philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger,
if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much
beneficence in his visage. But undoubtedly here was the grandest
figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door. When the
stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that
Philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he
had most at heart. This is always the feeling that people have when
they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and
evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.

But Philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had
not many secrets to disclose. He talked, however, quite
garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course
of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot.
His wife Baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their
youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but
still contented. He told what excellent butter and cheese Baucis
made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his
garden. He said, too, that, because they loved one another so very
much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them,
but that they should die, as they had lived, together.

As the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance,
and made its expression as sweet as it was grand.

“You are a good old man,” said he to Philemon,
“and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet. It is fit
that your wish be granted.”

And it seemed to Philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds
threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light
in the sky.

Baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began
to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set
before her guests.

“Had we known you were coming,” said she, “my
good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than
you should lack a better supper. But I took the most part of
to-day’s milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already
half eaten. Ah me! I never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when
a poor traveler knocks at our door.”

“All will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good
dame,” replied the elder stranger kindly. “An honest,
hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is
capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and
ambrosia.”

“A welcome you shall have,” cried Baucis, “and
likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of
purple grapes besides.”

“Why, Mother Baucis, it is a feast!” exclaimed
Quicksilver, laughing; “an absolute feast! and you shall see
how bravely I will play my part at it! I think I never felt
hungrier in my life.”

“Mercy on us!” whispered Baucis to her husband.
“If the young man has such a terrible appetite, I am afraid
there will not be half enough supper!”

“I AM AFRAID THERE WILL NOT BE HALF ENOUGH
SUPPER”

They all went into the cottage.

And now, my little auditors, shall I tell you something that
will make you open your eyes very wide? It is really one of the
oddest circumstances in the whole story. Quicksilver’s staff,
you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage.
Well, when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful
staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little
wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the doorsteps! Tap, tap,
went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had
stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside
Quicksilver’s chair. Old Philemon, however, as well as his
wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests that no notice
was given to what the staff had been about.

As Baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry
travelers. In the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown
loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of
honeycomb on the other. There was a pretty good bunch of grapes for
each of the guests. A moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full
of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when Baucis had filled
two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk
remained in the bottom of the pitcher. Alas! it is a very sad
business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed
among narrow circumstances. Poor Baucis kept wishing that she might
starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to
provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.

And, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not
help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large. Why,
at their very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all
the milk in their two bowls, at a draught.

“A little more milk, kind Mother Baucis, if you
please,” said Quicksilver. “The day has been hot, and I
am very much athirst.”

“Now, my dear people,” answered Baucis, in great
confusion, “I am so sorry and ashamed! But the truth is,
there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher. O husband,
husband, why didn’t we go without our supper?”

“Why, it appears to me,” cried Quicksilver, starting
up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, “it
really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you
represent them. Here is certainly more milk in the
pitcher.”

So saying, and to the vast astonishment of Baucis, he proceeded
to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion’s likewise,
from the pitcher that was supposed to be almost empty. The good
woman could scarcely believe her eyes. She had certainly poured out
nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the
bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table.

“But I am old,” thought Baucis to herself,
“and apt to be forgetful. I suppose I must have made a
mistake. At all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now,
after filling the bowls twice over.”

“What excellent milk!” observed Quicksilver, after
quaffing the contents of the second bowl. “Excuse me, my kind
hostess, but I must really ask you for a little more.”

Now Baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that
Quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently
had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl. Of
course, there could not possibly be any left. However, in order to
let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher,
and made a gesture as if pouring milk into Quicksilver’s
bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream
forth. What was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant
cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled
to the brim, and overflowed upon the table! The two snakes that
were twisted about Quicksilver’s staff (but neither Baucis
nor Philemon happened to observe this circumstance) stretched out
their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.

And then what a delicious fragrance the milk had! It seemed as
if Philemon’s only cow must have pastured, that day, on the
richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world. I only
wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl
of such nice milk, at supper-time!

“And now a slice of your brown loaf, Mother Baucis,”
said Quicksilver, “and a little of that honey!”

Baucis cut him a slice accordingly; and though the loaf, when
she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty
to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few
hours out of the oven. Tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the
table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and
could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and
baking. Yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?

But oh, the honey! I may just as well let it alone, without
trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked. Its color
was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the
odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an
earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high
above the clouds. The wonder is, that, after alighting on a
flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they
should have been content to fly down again to their hive in
Philemon’s garden. Never was such honey tasted, seen, or
smelt. The perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so
delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly
have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied
yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over
it.

Although good Mother Baucis was a simple old dame, she could not
but think that there was something rather out of the common way in
all that had been going on. So, after helping the guests to bread
and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates,
she sat down by Philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a
whisper.

“Did you ever hear the like?” asked she.

“No, I never did,” answered Philemon, with a smile.
“And I rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking
about in a sort of a dream. If I had poured out the milk, I should
have seen through the business at once. There happened to be a
little more in the pitcher than you thought,—that is
all.”

“Ah, husband,” said Baucis, “say what you
will, these are very uncommon people.”

“Well, well,” replied Philemon, still smiling,
“perhaps they are. They certainly do look as if they had seen
better days; and I am heartily glad to see them making so
comfortable a supper.”

Each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his
plate. Baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more
clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and
richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of
bursting with ripe juice. It was entirely a mystery to her how such
grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that
climbed against the cottage wall.

“Very admirable grapes these!” observed Quicksilver,
as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing
his cluster. “Pray, my good host, whence did you gather
them?”

“From my own vine,” answered Philemon. “You
may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder. But
wife and I never thought the grapes very fine ones.”

“I never tasted better,” said the guest.
“Another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and I
shall then have supped better than a prince.”

This time, old Philemon bestirred himself, and took up the
pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any
reality in the marvels which Baucis had whispered to him. He knew
that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was
seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so
very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own
eyes. On taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it,
and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single
drop. All at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain,
which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled
it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk. It was
lucky that Philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous
pitcher from his hand.

“Who are ye, wonder-working strangers!” cried he,
even more bewildered than his wife had been.

“Your guests, my good Philemon, and your friends,”
replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had
something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it. “Give me
likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for
kind Baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy
wayfarer!”

The supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown
to their place of repose. The old people would gladly have talked
with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they
felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove
so much better and more abundant than they hoped. But the elder
traveler had inspired them with such reverence that they dared not
ask him any questions. And when Philemon drew Quicksilver aside,
and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got
into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his
staff.

“There is the whole mystery of the affair,” quoth
Quicksilver; “and if you can make it out, I’ll thank
you to let me know. I can’t tell what to make of my staff. It
is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a
supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away. If I had any faith
in such nonsense, I should say the stick was bewitched!”

He said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they
rather fancied he was laughing at them. The magic staff went
hopping at his heels, as Quicksilver quitted the room. When left
alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation
about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor,
and fell fast asleep. They had given up their sleeping-room to the
guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks,
which I wish had been as soft as their own hearts.

The old man and his wife were stirring, betimes, in the morning,
and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their
preparations to depart. Philemon hospitably entreated them to
remain a little longer, until Baucis could milk the cow, and bake a
cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for
breakfast. The guests, however, seemed to think it better to
accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day
should come on. They, therefore, persisted in setting out
immediately, but asked Philemon and Baucis to walk forth with them
a short distance, and show them the road which they were to
take.

So they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like
old friends. It was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old
couple insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good
and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water
would melt into the illimitable ocean. And as for Quicksilver, with
his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every
little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they
suspected it themselves. They sometimes wished, it is true, that he
had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling
away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the
snakes always writhing about it. But then, again, Quicksilver
showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been
rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all,
every day, and the whole day long.

“Ah me! Well-a-day!” exclaimed Philemon, when they
had walked a little way from their door. “If our neighbors
only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to
strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their
children to fling another stone.”

“It is a sin and shame for them to behave so,—that
it is!” cried good old Baucis vehemently. “And I mean
to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they
are!”

“I fear,” remarked Quicksilver; slyly smiling,
“that you will find none of them at home.”

The elder traveler’s brow, just then, assumed such a
grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither
Baucis nor Philemon dared to speak a word. They gazed reverently
into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky.

“When men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if
he were a brother,” said the traveler, in tones so deep that
they sounded like those of an organ, “they are unworthy to
exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human
brotherhood!”

“And, by the by, my dear old people,” cried
Quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his
eyes, “where is this same village that you talk about? On
which side of us does it lie? Methinks I do not see it
hereabouts.”

Philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at
sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses,
the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street,
with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business,
enjoyment, and prosperity. But what was their astonishment! There
was no longer any appearance of a village! Even the fertile vale,
in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence. In its
stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled
the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the
surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as if it
had been there ever since the creation of the world. For an
instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth. Then a little breeze
sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in
the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur,
against the hither shore.

The lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were
greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been
dreaming about a village having lain there. But, the next moment,
they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and
characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream. The
village had been there yesterday, and now was gone!

“Alas!” cried these kind-hearted old people,
“what has become of our poor neighbors?”

“They no longer exist as men and women,” said the
elder traveler, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of
thunder seemed to echo it at a distance. “There was neither
use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or
sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly
affections between man and man. They retained no image of the
better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old,
has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!”

“And as for those foolish people,” said Quicksilver,
with his mischievous smile, “they are all transformed to
fishes. There needed but little change, for they were already a
scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence.
So, kind Mother Baucis, whenever you or your husband have an
appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and
pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!”

“Ah,” cried Baucis shuddering, “I would not,
for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!”

“No,” added Philemon, making a wry face, “we
could never relish them!”

“As for you, good Philemon,” continued the elder
traveler,—“and you, kind Baucis,—you, with your
scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your
entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an
inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey
were ambrosia. Thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board,
off the same viands that supply their banquets on Olympus. You have
done well, my dear old friends. Wherefore, request whatever favor
you have most at heart, and it is granted.”

Philemon and Baucis looked at one another, and then—I know
not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the
desire of both their hearts.

“Let us live together, while we live, and leave the world
at the same instant, when we die! For we have always loved one
another!”

“Be it so!” replied the stranger, with majestic
kindness. “Now, look towards your cottage!”

They did so. But what was their surprise on beholding a tall
edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the
spot where their humble residence had so lately stood!

“There is your home,” said the stranger,
beneficently smiling on them both. “Exercise your hospitality
in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you
welcomed us last evening.”

The old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold!
neither he nor Quicksilver was there.

So Philemon and Baucis took up their residence in the marble
palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves,
in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that
way. The milk-pitcher, I must not forget to say, retained its
marvelous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to
have it full. Whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted
guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the
sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat.
But, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was
pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce
it a pitcher of sour milk!

Thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while,
and grew older and older, and very old indeed. At length, however,
there came a summer morning when Philemon and Baucis failed to make
their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile
overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of
over-night to breakfast. The guests searched everywhere, from top
to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose. But, after
a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal,
two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there
the day before. Yet there they stood, with their roots fastened
deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the
whole front of the edifice. One was an oak, and the other a
linden-tree. Their boughs—it was strange and beautiful to
see—were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so
that each tree seemed to live in the other tree’s bosom much
more than in its own.

While the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have
required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall
and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their
intermingled boughs astir. And then there was a deep, broad murmur
in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking.

“I am old Philemon!” murmured the oak.

“I am old Baucis!” murmured the linden-tree.

But, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at
once,—“Philemon! Baucis! Baucis!
Philemon!”—as if one were both and both were one, and
talking together in the depths of their mutual heart. It was plain
enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age,
and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so,
Philemon as an oak, and Baucis as a linden-tree. And oh, what a
hospitable shade did they fling around them! Whenever a wayfarer
paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above
his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words
like these:—

“Welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!”

And some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old Baucis
and old Philemon best, built a circular seat around both their
trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the
hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk
abundantly from the miraculous pitcher.

And I wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here
now!

The Golden Touch

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

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Contents

Once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king
besides, whose name was Midas; and he had a little daughter, whom
nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name I either never knew
or have entirely forgotten. So, because I love odd names for little
girls, I choose to call her Marygold.

This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the
world. He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of
that precious metal. If he loved anything better, or half so well,
it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her
father’s footstool. But the more Midas loved his daughter,
the more did he desire and seek for wealth. He thought, foolish
man! that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child
would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening
coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.
Thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one
purpose. If ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the
gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold,
and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box. When
little Marygold ran to meet him with a bunch of buttercups and
dandelions, he used to say, “Poh, poh, child! If these
flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the
plucking!”

And yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely
possessed of this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a
great taste for flowers. He had planted a garden, in which grew the
biggest and beautifulest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever
saw or smelt. These roses were still growing in the garden, as
large, as lovely, and as fragrant as when Midas used to pass whole
hours in gazing at them and inhaling their perfume. But now, if he
looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden
would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin
plate of gold. And though he once was fond of music (in spite of an
idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an
ass), the only music for poor Midas, now, was the chink of one coin
against another.

At length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless
they take care to grow wiser and wiser), Midas had got to be so
exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or
touch any object that was not gold. He made it his custom,
therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and
dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace. It
was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole—for it
was little better than a dungeon—Midas betook himself,
whenever he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully
locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup
as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of
gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into
the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like
window. He valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his
treasure would not shine without its help. And then would he reckon
over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came
down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny
image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference
of the cup; and whisper to himself, “O Midas, rich King
Midas, what a happy man art thou!” But it was laughable to
see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the
polished surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish
behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.

Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet
quite so happy as he might be. The very tiptop of enjoyment would
never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his
treasure-room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all
his own.

Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are,
that in the old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many
things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they
were to happen in our own day and country. And, on the other hand,
a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only
wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have
stared their eyes out. On the whole, I regard our own times as the
strangest of the two; but, however that may be, I must go on with
my story.

Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as
usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and,
looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a
stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young
man, with a cheerful and ruddy face. Whether it was that the
imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or
whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the
smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden
radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up
treasures than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of
it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of
flame and sparkles of fire. As Midas knew that he had carefully
turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could
possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded
that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It is no
matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the earth
was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the
resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to
interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and
children, half playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such
beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again. The
stranger’s aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if
not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him
of intending any mischief. It was far more probable that he came to
do Midas a favor. And what could that favor be, unless to multiply
his heaps of treasure?

The stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile
had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he
turned again to Midas.

“You are a wealthy man, friend Midas!” he observed.
“I doubt whether any other four walls, on earth, contain so
much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room.”

“I have done pretty well,—pretty well,”
answered Midas, in a discontented tone. “But, after all, it
is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole
life to get it together. If one could live a thousand years, he
might have time to grow rich!”

“What!” exclaimed the stranger. “Then you are
not satisfied?”

Midas shook his head.

“And pray what would satisfy you?” asked the
stranger. “Merely for the curiosity of the thing, I should be
glad to know.”

Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this
stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had
come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his
utmost wishes. Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he
had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly
impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask. So he
thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden
mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to
imagine them big enough. At last, a bright idea occurred to King
Midas. It seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he
loved so much.

Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the
face.

“Well, Midas,” observed his visitor, “I see
that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you.
Tell me your wish.”

“It is only this,” replied Midas. “I am weary
of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the
heap so diminutive, after I have done my best. I wish everything
that I touch to be changed to gold!”

The stranger’s smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to
fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy
dell where the yellow autumnal leaves—for so looked the lumps
and particles of gold—lie strewn in the glow of light.

“The Golden Touch!” exclaimed he. “You
certainly deserve credit, friend Midas, for striking out so
brilliant a conception. But are you quite sure that this will
satisfy you?”

“How could it fail?” said Midas.

“And will you never regret the possession of
it?”

“What could induce me?” asked Midas. “I ask
nothing else, to render me perfectly happy.”

“Be it as you wish, then,” replied the stranger,
waving his hand in token of farewell. “To-morrow, at sunrise,
you will find yourself gifted with the Golden Touch.”

The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and
Midas involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again, he
beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him,
the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in
hoarding up.

Whether Midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say.
Asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a
child’s, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised
in the morning. At any rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills,
when King Midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms out of
bed, began to touch the objects that were within reach. He was
anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch had really come,
according to the stranger’s promise. So he laid his finger on
a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was
grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly
the same substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that
he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the
latter had been making game of him. And what a miserable affair
would it be, if, after all his hopes, Midas must content himself
with what little gold he could scrape together by ordinary means,
instead of creating it by a touch!

All this while it was only the gray of the morning, with but a
streak of brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could
not see it. He lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the
downfall of his hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until
the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the
ceiling over his head. It seemed to Midas that this bright yellow
sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white
covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his
astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had
been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and
brightest gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first
sunbeam!

Midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the
room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He
seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted
golden pillar. He pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit
a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the
tassel grew heavy in his hand,—a mass of gold. He took up a
book from the table. At his first touch, it assumed the appearance
of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets
with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves,
behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the
wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He hurriedly put on his
clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of
gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although
it burdened him a little with its weight. He drew out his
handkerchief, which little Marygold had hemmed for him. That was
likewise gold, with the dear child’s neat and pretty stitches
running all along the border, in gold thread!

Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please
King Midas. He would rather that his little daughter’s
handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed
his knee and put it into his hand.

But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas
now took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose,
in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about. In
those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but
were already worn by kings; else, how could Midas have had any? To
his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he
discovered that he could not possibly see through them. But this
was the most natural thing in the world; for on taking them off,
the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of yellow metal,
and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as
gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his
wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of
serviceable spectacles.

“It is no great matter, nevertheless,” said he to
himself, very philosophically. “We cannot expect any great
good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience.
The Golden Touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at
least, if not of one’s very eyesight. My own eyes will serve
for ordinary purposes, and little Marygold will soon be old enough
to read to me.”

Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune that the
palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He
therefore went downstairs, and smiled, on observing that the
balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his
hand passed over it in his descent. He lifted the door-latch (it
was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted
it), and emerged into the garden. Here, as it happened, he found a
great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all
the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was their
fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of
the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full
of sweet tranquillity did these roses seem to be.

But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according
to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took
great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic
touch most indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud,
and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to
gold. By the time this good work was completed, King Midas was
summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an
excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.

What was usually a king’s breakfast in the days of Midas,
I really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate. To the
best of my belief, however, on this particular morning, the
breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout,
roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee, for King Midas
himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter Marygold. At
all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king; and,
whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have had a
better.

Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father
ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited
the child’s coming, in order to begin his own breakfast. To
do Midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so
much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which
had befallen him. It was not a great while before he heard her
coming along the passage-way crying bitterly. This circumstance
surprised him, because Marygold was one of the cheerfullest little
people whom you would see in a summer’s day, and hardly shed
a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her sobs,
he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits, by an
agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his
daughter’s bowl (which was a China one, with pretty figures
all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.

Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door,
and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if
her heart would break.

“How now, my little lady!” cried Midas. “Pray
what is the matter with you, this bright morning?”

Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her
hand, in which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently
transmuted.

“Beautiful!” exclaimed her father. “And what
is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you
cry?”

“Ah, dear father!” answered the child, as well as
her sobs would let her; “it is not beautiful, but the ugliest
flower that ever grew! As soon as I was dressed I ran into the
garden to gather some roses for you; because I know you like them,
and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter.
But, oh dear, dear me! What do you think has happened? Such a
misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweet and had
so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt! They are grown
quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any
fragrance! What can have been the matter with them?”

“Poh, my dear little girl,—pray don’t cry
about it!” said Midas, who was ashamed to confess that he
himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her.
“Sit down and eat your bread and milk! You will find it easy
enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last
hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a
day.”

“I don’t care for such roses as this!” cried
Marygold, tossing it contemptuously away. “It has no smell,
and the hard petals prick my nose!”

The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her
grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the
wonderful transmutation of her China bowl. Perhaps this was all the
better; for Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at
the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted
on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now
entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.

Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a
matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been
when he took it up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to
himself, that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a
king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and
began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures
safe. The cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure
place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and
coffee-pots.

Amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips,
and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that the instant his
lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and the next
moment, hardened into a lump!

“Ha!” exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.

“What is the matter, father?” asked little Marygold,
gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.

“Nothing, child, nothing!” said Midas. “Eat
your milk, before it gets quite cold.”

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way
of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it
was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook trout into
a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often
keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was
really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly
made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were
now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and
there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate,
frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in
metal. A very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only King
Midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout
in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one.

“I don’t quite see,” thought he to himself,
“how I am to get any breakfast!”

He took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken
it, when, to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it
had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian
meal. To say the truth, if it had really been a hot Indian cake,
Midas would have prized it a good deal more than he now did, when
its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible
that it was gold. Almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled
egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to those of the
trout and the cake. The egg, indeed, might have been mistaken for
one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the
habit of laying; but King Midas was the only goose that had had
anything to do with the matter.

“Well, this is a quandary!” thought he, leaning back
in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who
was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction.
“Such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be
eaten!”

Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he
now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next
snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and
swallow it in a hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him.
He found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal,
which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up
from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with
pain and affright.

“Father, dear father!” cried little Marygold, who
was a very affectionate child, “pray what is the matter? Have
you burnt your mouth?”

“Ah, dear child,” groaned Midas dolefully, “I
don’t know what is to become of your poor father!”

And, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a
pitiable case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest
breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness
made it absolutely good for nothing. The poorest laborer, sitting
down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off
than King Midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in
gold. And what was to be done? Already, at breakfast, Midas was
excessively hungry. Would he be less so by dinner-time? And how
ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly
consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before
him! How many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of
this rich fare?

These reflections so troubled wise King Midas, that he began to
doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the
world, or even the most desirable. But this was only a passing
thought. So fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow
metal, that he would still have refused to give up the Golden Touch
for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a
price for one meal’s victuals! It would have been the same as
paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as
would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a
potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!

“It would be quite too dear,” thought Midas.

Nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his
situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too.
Our pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat, a moment,
gazing at her father, and trying with all the might of her little
wits to find out what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet
and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair,
and, running to Midas, threw her arms affectionately about his
knees. He bent down and kissed her. He felt that his little
daughter’s love was worth a thousand times more than he had
gained by the Golden Touch.

“My precious, precious Marygold!” cried he.

But Marygold made no answer.

Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the
stranger bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched
Marygold’s forehead, a change had taken place. Her sweet,
rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a
glittering yellow color, with yellow teardrops congealing on her
cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint. Her soft
and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her
father’s encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim
of his insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human
child no longer, but a golden statue!

Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief,
and pity, hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most
woeful sight that ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of
Marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her
golden chin. But the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater
was the father’s agony at beholding this golden image, which
was all that was left him of a daughter. It had been a favorite
phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child,
to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase
had become literally true. And now, at last, when it was too late,
he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him,
exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the
earth and sky!

It would be too sad a story, if I were to tell you how Midas, in
the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands
and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at
Marygold, nor yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were
fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was
changed to gold. But stealing another glance, there was the
precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow
cheek, and a look so piteous and tender that it seemed as if that
very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh
again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to wring his
hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world,
if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest
rose-color to his dear child’s face.

While he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a
stranger standing near the door. Midas bent down his head, without
speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to
him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him
this disastrous faculty of the Golden Touch. The stranger’s
countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow
lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold’s
image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the
touch of Midas.

“Well, friend Midas,” said the stranger, “pray
how do you succeed with the Golden Touch?”

Midas shook his head.

“I am very miserable,” said he.

“Very miserable, indeed!” exclaimed the stranger.
“And how happens that? Have I not faithfully kept my promise
with you? Have you not everything that your heart
desired?”

“Gold is not everything,” answered Midas. “And
I have lost all that my heart really cared for.”

“Ah! So you have made a discovery, since yesterday?”
observed the stranger. “Let us see, then. Which of these two
things do you think is really worth the most,—the gift of the
Golden Touch, or one cup of clear cold water?”

“O blessed water!” exclaimed Midas. “It will
never moisten my parched throat again!”

“The Golden Touch,” continued the stranger,
“or a crust of bread?”

“A piece of bread,” answered Midas, “is worth
all the gold on earth!”

“The Golden Touch,” asked the stranger, “or
your own little Marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour
ago?”

“Oh, my child, my dear child!” cried poor Midas,
wringing his hands. “I would not have given that one small
dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth
into a solid lump of gold!”

“You are wiser than you were, King Midas!” said the
stranger, looking seriously at him. “Your own heart, I
perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold. Were it
so, your case would indeed be desperate. But you appear to be still
capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie
within everybody’s grasp, are more valuable than the riches
which so many mortals sigh and struggle after. Tell me, now, do you
sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden Touch?”

“It is hateful to me!” replied Midas.

A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor;
for it, too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.

“Go, then,” said the stranger, “and plunge
into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden. Take
likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object
that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former
substance. If you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may
possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has
occasioned.”

King Midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous
stranger had vanished.

You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up
a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me! it was no longer earthen
after he touched it), and hastening to the riverside. As he
scampered along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was
positively marvelous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind
him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else. On reaching
the river’s brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so
much as to pull off his shoes.

“Poof! poof! poof!” snorted King Midas, as his head
emerged out of the water. “Well; this is really a refreshing
bath, and I think it must have quite washed away the Golden Touch.
And now for filling my pitcher!”

As he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very
heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen
vessel which it had been before he touched it. He was conscious,
also, of a change within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight
seemed to have gone out of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been
gradually losing its human substance, and transmuting itself into
insensible metal, but had now softened back again into flesh.
Perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, Midas
touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the
delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a
yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had therefore really
been removed from him.

King Midas hastened back to the palace; and I suppose the
servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal
master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But
that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had
wrought, was more precious to Midas, than an ocean of molten gold
could have been. The first thing he did, as you need hardly be
told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of
little Marygold.

No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see
how the rosy color came back to the dear child’s cheek! and
how she began to sneeze and sputter!—and how astonished she
was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing
more water over her!

“Pray do not, dear father!” cried she. “See
how you have wet my nice frock, which I put on only this
morning!”

For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden
statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the
moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King
Midas.

Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child
how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing
how much wiser he had now grown. For this purpose he led little
Marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of
the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that
above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom. There
were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used
to put King Midas in mind of the Golden Touch. One was, that the
sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little
Marygold’s hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never
observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his
kiss. This change of hue was really an improvement, and made
Marygold’s hair richer than in her babyhood.

When King Midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot
Marygold’s children on his knee, he was fond of telling them
this marvelous story, pretty much as I have now told it to you. And
then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that
their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had
inherited from their mother.

“And to tell you the truth, my precious little
folks,” quoth King Midas, diligently trotting the children
all the while, “ever since that morning, I have hated the
very sight of all other gold, save this!”

The Pomegranate
Seeds

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

Return to Table of
Contents

Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter Proserpina,
and seldom let her go alone into the fields. But, just at the time
when my story begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had
the care of the wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye and barley,
and, in short, of the crops of every kind, all over the earth; and
as the season had thus far been uncommonly backward, it was
necessary to make the harvest ripen more speedily than usual. So
she put on her turban, made of poppies (a kind of flower which she
was always noted for wearing), and got into her car drawn by a pair
of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.

“Dear mother,” said Proserpina, “I shall be
very lonely while you are away. May I not run down to the shore,
and ask some of the sea-nymphs to come up out of the waves and play
with me?”

“Yes, child,” answered Mother Ceres. “The
sea-nymphs are good creatures, and will never lead you into any
harm. But you must take care not to stray away from them, nor go
wandering about the fields by yourself. Young girls, without their
mothers to take care of them, are very apt to get into
mischief.”

The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up
woman, and, by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out
of sight, she was already on the shore, calling to the sea-nymphs
to come and play with her. They knew Proserpina’s voice, and
were not long in showing their glistening faces and sea-green hair
above the water, at the bottom of which was their home. They
brought along with them a great many beautiful shells; and, sitting
down on the moist sand, where the surf wave broke over them, they
busied themselves in making a necklace, which they hung round
Proserpina’s neck. By way of showing her gratitude, the child
besought them to go with her a little way into the fields, so that
they might gather abundance of flowers, with which she would make
each of her kind playmates a wreath.

“Oh, no, dear Proserpina,” cried the sea-nymphs;
“we dare not go with you upon the dry land. We are apt to
grow faint, unless at every breath we can snuff up the salt breeze
of the ocean. And don’t you see how careful we are to let the
surf wave break over us every moment or two, so as to keep
ourselves comfortably moist? If it were not for that, we should
soon look like bunches of uprooted sea-weed dried in the
sun.”

“It is a great pity,” said Proserpina, “but do
you wait for me here, and I will run and gather my apron full of
flowers, and be back again before the surf wave has broken ten
times over you. I long to make you some wreaths that shall be as
lovely as this necklace of many-colored shells.”

“We will wait, then,” answered the sea-nymphs.
“But while you are gone, we may as well lie down on a bank of
soft sponge, under the water. The air to-day is a little too dry
for our comfort. But we will pop up our heads every few minutes to
see if you are coming.”

The young Proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day
before, she had seen a great many flowers. These, however, were now
a little past their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the
freshest and loveliest blossoms, she strayed farther into the
fields, and found some that made her scream with delight. Never had
she met with such exquisite flowers before,—violets, so large
and fragrant,—roses, with so rich and delicate a
blush,—such superb hyacinths and such aromatic
pinks,—and many others, some of which seemed to be of new
shapes and colors. Two or three times, moreover, she could not help
thinking that a tuft of most splendid flowers had suddenly sprouted
out of the earth before her very eyes, as if on purpose to tempt
her a few steps farther. Proserpina’s apron was soon filled
and brimming over with delightful blossoms. She was on the point of
turning back in order to rejoin the sea-nymphs, and sit with them
on the moist sands, all twining wreaths together. But, a little
farther on, what should she behold? It was a large shrub,
completely covered with the most magnificent flowers in the
world.

“The darlings!” cried Proserpina; and then she
thought to herself, “I was looking at that spot only a moment
ago. How strange it is that I did not see the flowers!”

The nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it
looked, until she came quite close to it; and then, although its
beauty was richer than words can tell, she hardly knew whether to
like it or not. It bore above a hundred flowers of the most
brilliant hues, and each different from the others, but all having
a kind of resemblance among themselves, which showed them to be
sister blossoms. But there was a deep, glossy lustre on the leaves
of the shrub, and on the petals of the flowers, that made
Proserpina doubt whether they might not be poisonous. To tell you
the truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half inclined to turn
round and run away.

“What a silly child I am!” thought she, taking
courage. “It is really the most beautiful shrub that ever
sprang out of the earth. I will pull it up by the roots, and carry
it home, and plant it in my mother’s garden.”

Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand,
Proserpina seized the large shrub with the other, and pulled and
pulled, but was hardly able to loosen the soil about its roots.
What a deep-rooted plant it was! Again the girl pulled with all her
might, and observed that the earth began to stir and crack to some
distance around the stem. She gave another pull, but relaxed her
hold, fancying that there was a rumbling sound right beneath her
feet. Did the roots extend down into some enchanted cavern? Then,
laughing at herself for so childish a notion, she made another
effort; up came the shrub, and Proserpina staggered back, holding
the stem triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole
which its roots had left in the soil.

Much to her astonishment this hole kept spreading wider and
wider, and growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to
have no bottom; and all the while, there came a rumbling noise out
of its depths, louder and louder, and nearer and nearer, and
sounding like the tramp of horses’ hoofs and the rattling of
wheels. Too much frightened to run away, she stood straining her
eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team of four sable
horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing their way
out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at their
heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all; and
there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black
tails, and curvetting with every one of their hoofs off the ground
at once, close by the spot where Proserpina stood. In the chariot
sat the figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head,
all flaming with diamonds. He was of a noble aspect, and rather
handsome, but looked sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing
his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did not live
enough in the sunshine to be very fond of its light.

THEY LEAPED OUT OF THE BOTTOMLESS HOLE, CHARIOT AND ALL; AND
THERE THEY WERE TOSSING THEIR BLACK TAILS, AND CURVETTING WITH
EVERY ONE OF THEIR HOOFS OFF THE GROUND AT ONCE, CLOSE BY THE SPOT
WHERE PROSERPINA STOOD. IN THE CHARIOT SAT THE FIGURE OF A MAN

As soon as this personage saw the affrighted Proserpina, he
beckoned her to come a little nearer.

“Do not be afraid,” said he, with as cheerful a
smile as he knew how to put on. “Come! Will not you like to
ride a little way with me, in my beautiful chariot?”

But Proserpina was so alarmed that she wished for nothing but to
get out of his reach. And no wonder. The stranger did not look
remarkably good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his
voice, its tones were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the
rumbling of an earthquake under ground as anything else. As is
always the case with children in trouble, Proserpina’s first
thought was to call for her mother.

“Mother, Mother Ceres!” cried she, all in a tremble.
“Come quickly and save me.”

But her voice was too faint for her mother to hear. Indeed, it
is most probable that Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making
the corn grow in some far-distant country. Nor could it have
availed her poor daughter, even had she been within hearing; for no
sooner did Proserpina begin to cry out, than the stranger leaped to
the ground, caught the child in his arms, and again mounting the
chariot, shook the reins, and shouted to the four black horses to
set off. They immediately broke into so swift a gallop that it
seemed rather like flying through the air than running along the
earth. In a moment, Proserpina lost sight of the pleasant vale of
Enna, in which she had always dwelt. Another instant, and even the
summit of Mount Ætna had become so blue in the distance that
she could scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of
its crater. But still the poor child screamed, and scattered her
apron full of flowers along the way, and left a long cry trailing
behind the chariot; and many mothers, to whose ears it came, ran
quickly to see if any mischief had befallen their children. But
Mother Ceres was a great way off, and could not hear the cry.

As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her.

“Why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?”
said he, trying to soften his rough voice. “I promise not to
do you any harm. What! You have been gathering flowers? Wait till
we come to my palace, and I will give you a garden full of prettier
flowers than those, all made of pearls, and diamonds, and rubies.
Can you guess who I am? They call my name Pluto, and I am the king
of diamonds and all other precious stones. Every atom of the gold
and silver that lies under the earth belongs to me, to say nothing
of the copper and iron, and of the coal-mines, which supply me with
abundance of fuel. Do you see this splendid crown upon my head? You
may have it for a plaything. Oh, we shall be very good friends, and
you will find me more agreeable than you expect, when once we get
out of this troublesome sunshine.”

“Let me go home!” cried Proserpina. “Let me go
home!”

“My home is better than your mother’s,”
answered King Pluto “It is a palace, all made of gold, with
crystal windows; and because there is little or no sunshine
thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with diamond lamps. You
never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne. If you like,
you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and I will sit on
the footstool.”

“I don’t care for golden palaces and thrones,”
sobbed Proserpina. “Oh, my mother, my mother! Carry me back
to my mother!”

But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds
to go faster.

“Pray do not be foolish, Proserpina,” said he, in
rather a sullen tone. “I offer you my palace and my crown,
and all the riches that are under the earth; and you treat me as if
I were doing you an injury. The one thing which my palace needs is
a merry little maid, to run upstairs and down, and cheer up the
rooms with her smile. And this is what you must do for King
Pluto.”

“Never!” answered Proserpina, looking as miserable
as she could. “I shall never smile again till you set me down
at my mother’s door.”

But she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled
past them; for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than
ever. Proserpina continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so
loudly, that her poor little voice was almost screamed away; and
when it was nothing but a whisper, she happened to cast her eyes
over a great, broad field of waving grain—and whom do you
think she saw? Who, but Mother Ceres, making the corn grow, and too
busy to notice the golden chariot as it went rattling along. The
child mustered all her strength, and gave one more scream, but was
out of sight before Ceres had time to turn her head.

King Pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively
gloomy. It was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices,
between which the rumbling of the chariot-wheels was reverberated
with a noise like rolling thunder. The trees and bushes that grew
in the crevices of the rocks had very dismal foliage; and by and
by, although it was hardly noon, the air became obscured with a
gray twilight. The black horses had rushed along so swiftly, that
they were already beyond the limits of the sunshine. But the
duskier it grew, the more did Pluto’s visage assume an air of
satisfaction. After all, he was not an ill-looking person,
especially when he left off twisting his features into a smile that
did not belong to them. Proserpina peeped at his face through the
gathering dusk, and hoped that he might not be so very wicked as
she at first thought him.

“Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing,” said King
Pluto, “after being so tormented with that ugly and
impertinent glare of the sun. How much more agreeable is lamplight
or torchlight, more particularly when reflected from diamonds! It
will be a magnificent sight when we get to my palace.”

“Is it much farther?” asked Proserpina. “And
will you carry me back when I have seen it?”

“We will talk of that by and by,” answered Pluto.
“We are just entering my dominions. Do you see that tall
gateway before us? When we pass those gates, we are at home. And
there lies my faithful mastiff at the threshold. Cerberus!
Cerberus! Come hither, my good dog!”

So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot
right between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway. The mastiff
of which he had spoken got up from the threshold, and stood on his
hinder legs, so as to put his forepaws on the chariot-wheel. But,
my stars, what a strange dog it was! Why, he was a big, rough,
ugly-looking monster, with three separate heads, and each of them
fiercer than the two others; but, fierce as they were, King Pluto
patted them all. He seemed as fond of his three-headed dog as if it
had been a sweet little spaniel, with silken ears and curly hair.
Cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently rejoiced to see his
master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs do, by wagging
his tail at a great rate. Proserpina’s eyes being drawn to it
by its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor
less than a live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very
poisonous aspect. And while the three-headed Cerberus was fawning
so lovingly on King Pluto, there was the dragon tail wagging
against its will, and looking as cross and ill-natured as you can
imagine, on its own separate account.

“Will the dog bite me?” asked Proserpina, shrinking
closer to Pluto. “What an ugly creature he is!”

“Oh, never fear,” answered her companion. “He
never harms people unless they try to enter my dominions without
being sent for, or to get away when I wish to keep them here. Down,
Cerberus! Now, my pretty Proserpina, we will drive on.”

On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly pleased to
find himself once more in his own kingdom. He drew
Proserpina’s attention to the rich veins of gold that were to
be seen among the rocks, and pointed to several places where one
stroke of a pick-axe would loosen a bushel of diamonds. All along
the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which would have been
of inestimable value above ground, but which were here reckoned of
the meaner sort, and hardly worth a beggar’s stooping
for.

Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to
be built of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina
look at the stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in
her life had she beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a
stream: its waters reflected no images of anything that was on the
banks, and it moved as sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten
which way it ought to flow, and had rather stagnate than flow
either one way or the other.

“This is the river Lethe,” observed King Pluto.
“Is it not a very pleasant stream?” “I think it a
very dismal one,” said Proserpina. “It suits my taste,
however,” answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen when
anybody disagreed with him. “At all events, its water has one
very excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people
forget every care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only
sip a little of it, my dear Proserpina, and you will instantly
cease to grieve for your mother, and will have nothing in your
memory that can prevent your being perfectly happy in my palace. I
will send for some, in a golden goblet, the moment we
arrive.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Proserpina, weeping afresh.
“I had a thousand times rather be miserable with remembering
my mother than be happy in forgetting her. That dear, dear mother!
I never, never will forget her.”

“We shall see,” said King Pluto. “You do not
know what fine times we will have in my palace. Here we are just at
the portal. These pillars are solid gold, I assure you.”

He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms,
carried her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the
palace. It was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious
stones, of various hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps,
and glowed with a hundred-fold radiance all through the vast
apartment. And yet there was a kind of gloom in the midst of this
enchanted light; nor was there a single object in the hall that was
really agreeable to behold, except the little Proserpina herself, a
lovely child, with one earthly flower which she had not let fall
from her hand. It is my opinion that even King Pluto had never been
happy in his palace, and that this was the true reason why he had
stolen away Proserpina, in order that he might have something to
love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with this tiresome
magnificence. And, though he pretended to dislike the sunshine of
the upper world, yet the effect of the child’s presence,
bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint and watery
sunbeam had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted
hall.

Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in
preparing a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to
fail of setting a golden beaker of the water of Lethe by
Proserpina’s plate.

“I will neither drink that nor anything else,” said
Proserpina. “Nor will I taste a morsel of food, even if you
keep me forever in your palace.” on the seashore, she
hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld the wet
faces of the poor sea-nymphs peeping over a wave. All this while,
the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and once
every half-minute or so, had popped up their four heads above
water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw
Mother Ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let
it toss them ashore at her feet.

“Where is Proserpina?” cried Ceres. “Where is
my child? Tell me, you naughty sea-nymphs, have you enticed her
under the sea?”

“Oh, no, good Mother Ceres,” said the innocent
sea-nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets, and looking her in
the face. “We never should dream of such a thing. Proserpina
has been at play with us, it is true; but she left us a long while
ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry land, and gather
some flowers for a wreath. This was early in the day, and we have
seen nothing of her since.”

Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before
she hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But
nobody told her anything that could enable the poor mother to guess
what had become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed
her little footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the
beach with a basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping
to gather flowers; several persons had heard either the rattling of
chariot-wheels or the rumbling of distant thunder; and one old
woman, while plucking vervain and catnip, had heard a scream, but
supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and therefore did not
take the trouble to look up. The stupid people! It took them such a
tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was dark
night before Mother Ceres found out that she must seek her daughter
elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never
to come back until Proserpina was discovered.

In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and
the winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could
follow up the search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this
was the way in which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her
torch before her, and looking carefully at every object along the
path. And as it happened, she had not gone far before she found one
of the magnificent flowers which grew on the shrub that Proserpina
had pulled up.

“Ha!” thought Mother Ceres, examining it by
torchlight. “Here is mischief in this flower! The earth did
not produce it by any help of mine, nor of its own accord. It is
the work of enchantment, and is therefore poisonous; and perhaps it
has poisoned my poor child.”

But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing
whether she might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.

All night long, at the door of every cottage and farmhouse,
Ceres knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they
had seen her child; and they stood, gaping and half asleep, at the
threshold, and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in
and rest. At the portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a
summons that the menials hurried to throw open the gate, thinking
that it must be some great king or queen, who would demand a
banquet for supper and a stately chamber to repose in. And when
they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch in her hand and
a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke rudely, and
sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody had seen
Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which way to
seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued her search
without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even
remembering to put down the torch; although first the rosy dawn,
and then the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look
thin and pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made
of; for it burned dimly through the day, and at night was as bright
as ever, and never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the
weary days and nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.

It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her
daughter. In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of
another nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant
and solitary places, and were very sociable with persons who
understood their language and customs, as Mother Ceres did.
Sometimes, for instance, she tapped with her finger against the
knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately its rude bark
would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who
was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing
its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with the
breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen Proserpina.
Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come to a
fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would
dabble with her hand in the water. Behold, up through its sandy and
pebbly bed, along with the fountain’s gush, a young woman
with dripping hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres,
half out of the water, and undulating up and down with its
ever-restless motion. But when the mother asked whether her poor
lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain, the naiad,
with weeping eyes (for these water-nymphs had tears to spare for
everybody’s grief), would answer, “No!” in a
murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream.

Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt
country people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns
upon their foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they
gamboled merrily about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome
kind of creature, but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions
would allow when Ceres inquired for her daughter, and they had no
good news to tell. But sometimes she came suddenly upon a rude gang
of satyrs, who had faces like monkeys and horses’ tails
behind them, and who were generally dancing in a very boisterous
manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When she stopped to question
them, they would only laugh the louder, and make new merriment out
of the lone woman’s distress. How unkind of those ugly
satyrs! And once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw
a personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock. And
making music on a shepherd’s flute. He, too, had horns and
hairy ears, and goat’s feet; but being acquainted with Mother
Ceres, he answered her question as civilly as he knew how, and
invited her to taste some milk and honey out of a wooden bowl. But
neither could Pan tell her what had become of Proserpina, any
better than the rest of these wild people.

And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days
and nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and
then a withered flower; and these, she picked up and put in her
bosom, because she fancied that they might have fallen from her
poor child’s hand. All day she traveled onward through the
hot sun; and at night, again, the flame of the torch would redden
and gleam along the pathway, and she continued her search by its
light, without ever sitting down to rest.

On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern,
within which (though it was bright noon everywhere else) there
would have been only a dusky twilight: but it so happened that a
torch was burning there. It flickered and struggled with the
duskiness, but could not half light up the gloomy cavern with all
its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to leave no spot without
a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the cave, and lighted
it up a little more by holding her own torch before her. In so
doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman, sitting
on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had
been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were)
was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex: for her head, they
tell me, was shaped very much like a dog’s, and, by way of
ornament, she wore a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres,
the moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person,
who put all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have
a word to say to other people, unless they were as melancholy and
wretched as she herself delighted to be.

“I am wretched enough now,” thought poor Ceres,
“to talk with this melancholy Hecate, were she ten times
sadder than ever she was yet.”

So she stepped into the cave, and sat down, on the withered
leaves by the dog-headed woman’s side. In all the world,
since her daughter’s loss, she had found no other
companion.

“O Hecate.” said she, “if ever you lose a
daughter, you will know what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity’s
sake, have you seen my poor child Proserpina pass by the mouth of
your cavern?”

“No.” answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and
sighing betwixt every word or two.—“no. Mother Ceres, I
have seen nothing of your daughter. But my ears, you must know, are
made in such a way that all cries of distress and affright, all
over the world, are pretty sure to find their way to them: and nine
days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very miserable. I
heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress.
Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured.
As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster,
was carrying her away.”

“You kill me by saying so,” cried Ceres, almost
ready to faint. “Where was the sound, and which way did it
seem to go?”

“It passed very swiftly along,” said Hecate,
“and, at the same time, there was a heavy rumbling of wheels
towards the eastward. I can tell you nothing more, except that, in
my honest opinion, you will never see your daughter again. The best
advice I can give you is to take up your abode in this cavern,
where we will be the two most wretched women in the
world.”

“Not yet, dark Hecate.” replied Ceres, “But do
you first come with your torch, and help me to seek for my lost
child. And when there shall be no more hope of finding her (if that
black day is ordained to come), then, if you will give me room to
fling myself down, either on these withered leaves or on the naked
rock, I will show you what it is to be miserable. But until I know
that she has perished from the face of the earth, I will not allow
myself space even to grieve.”

The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad
into the sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the
disconsolate Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them
both, let the sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she
might enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in
the cave. So she finally consented to go, and they set out
together, both carrying torches, although it was broad daylight and
clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that the
people whom they met along the road could not very distinctly see
their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of
Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they
generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a
second glance.

As the pair traveled along in this woebegone manner, a thought
struck Ceres.

“There is one person.” she exclaimed, “who
must have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what has
become of her. Why did not I think of him before? It is
Phœbus.”

“What,” said Hecate, “the young man that
always sits in the sunshine? Oh, pray do not think of going near
him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young fellow, and will only
smile in your face. And besides, there is such a glare of the sun
about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which I have
almost wept away already.”

“You have promised to be my companion,” answered
Ceres. “Come, let us make haste, or the sunshine will be
gone, and Phœbus along with it.”

Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phœbus, both of
them, sighing grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a
great deal worse lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she
had, you know, lay in being miserable, and therefore she made the
most of it. By and by, after a pretty long journey, they arrived at
the sunniest spot in the whole world. There they beheld a beautiful
young man, with long, curling ringlets, which seemed to be made of
golden sunbeams; his garments were like light summer clouds; and
the expression of his face was so exceedingly vivid, that Hecate
held her hands before her eyes, muttering that he ought to wear a
black veil. Phœbus (for this was the very person whom they
were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making its chords
tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most exquisite
song, which he had recently composed. For besides a great many
other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his
admirable poetry.

As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phœbus
smiled on them so cheerfully that Hecate’s wreath of snakes
gave a spiteful hiss, and Hecate heartily wished herself back in
her cave. But as for Ceres, she was too earnest in her grief either
to know or care whether Phœbus smiled or frowned.

“Phœbus!” exclaimed she, “I am in great
trouble, and have come to you for assistance. Can you tell me what
has become of my dear child Proserpina?”

“Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?”
answered Phœbus, endeavoring to recollect; for there was such
a continual flow of pleasant ideas in his mind that he was apt to
forget what had happened no longer ago than yesterday. “Ah,
yes, I remember her now. A very lovely child, indeed. I am happy to
tell you, my dear madam, that I did see the little Proserpina not
many days ago. You may make yourself perfectly easy about her. She
is safe, and in excellent hands.”

“Oh, where is my dear child?” cried Ceres, clasping
her hands and flinging herself at his feet.

“Why,” said Phœbus,—and as he spoke, he
kept touching his lyre so as to make a thread of music run in and
out among his words,—“as the little damsel was
gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste for
flowers) she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried
off to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the
universe; but the royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble
style of architecture, and of the most splendid and costly
materials. Gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious
stones will be your daughter’s ordinary playthings. I
recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness.
Proserpina’s sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and,
even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very
enviable life.”

“Hush! Say not such a word!” answered Ceres
indignantly. “What is there to gratify her heart? What are
all the splendors you speak of, without affection? I must have her
back again. Will you go with me, Phœbus, to demand my
daughter of this wicked Pluto?”

“Pray excuse me,” replied Phœbus, with an
elegant obeisance. “I certainly wish you success, and regret
that my own affairs are so immediately pressing that I cannot have
the pleasure of attending you. Besides, I am not upon the best of
terms with King Pluto. To tell you the truth, his three-headed
mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for I should be
compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you
know, are forbidden things in Pluto’s kingdom.”

“Ah, Phœbus,” said Ceres, with bitter meaning
in her words, “you have a harp instead of a heart.
Farewell.”

“Will not you stay a moment,” asked Phœbus,
“and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of Proserpina
into extemporary verses?”

But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate.
Phœbus (who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet)
forthwith began to make an ode about the poor mother’s grief;
and, if we were to judge of his sensibility by this beautiful
production, he must have been endowed with a very tender heart. But
when a poet gets into the habit of using his heartstrings to make
chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much as he will,
without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though Phœbus
sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the
sunbeams amid which he dwelt.

Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her
daughter, but was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the
contrary, looked more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina
was above ground there might have been hopes of regaining her. But
now that the poor child was shut up within the iron gates of the
king of the mines, at the threshold of which lay the three-headed
Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of her ever making her
escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the darkest view of
things, told Ceres that she had better come with her to the cavern,
and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres answered
that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that, for
her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance
to King Pluto’s dominions. And Hecate took her at her word,
and hurried back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many
little children with a glimpse of her dog’s face, as she
went.

Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing
her toilsome way all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch,
the flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that
burned together in her heart. So much did she suffer, that, though
her aspect had been quite youthful when her troubles began, she
grew to look like an elderly person in a very brief time. She cared
not how she was dressed, nor had she ever thought of flinging away
the wreath of withered poppies, which she put on the very morning
of Proserpina’s disappearance. She roamed about in so wild a
way, and with her hair so dishevelled, that people took her for
some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was Mother
Ceres, who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman
planted. Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about
seed-time nor harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their
own affairs, and the crops to fade or flourish, as the case might
be. There was nothing, now, in which Ceres seemed to feel an
interest, unless when she saw children at play or gathering flowers
along the wayside. Then, indeed, she would stand and gaze at them
with tears in her eyes. The children, too, appeared to have a
sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves in a little
group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and
Ceres, after giving them a kiss all around, would lead them to
their homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out
of sight.

“For if you do,” said she, “it may happen to
you, as it has to me, that the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a
liking to your darlings, and snatch them up in his chariot, and
carry them away.”

One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to
Pluto’s kingdom, she came to the palace of King Celeus, who
reigned at Eleusis. Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered
the portal, and found the royal household in very great alarm about
the queen’s baby. The infant, it seems, was sickly (being
troubled with its teeth, I suppose), and would take no food, and
was all the time moaning with pain. The queen—her name was
Metanira—was desirous of finding a nurse; and when she beheld
a woman of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she thought,
in her own mind that here was the very person whom she needed. So
Queen Metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her
arms, and besought Ceres to take charge of it, or, at least, to
tell her what would do it good.”

“Will you trust the child entirely to me?” asked
Ceres.

“Yes, and gladly too,” answered the queen, “if
you will devote all your time to him. For I can see that you have
been a mother.”

“You are right,” said Ceres. “I once had a
child of my own. Well, I will be the nurse of this poor, sickly
boy. But beware, I warn you, that you do not interfere with any
kind of treatment which I may judge proper for him. If you do so,
the poor infant must suffer for his mother’s
folly.”

Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good, for he
smiled and nestled closely into her bosom.

So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning
all the while), and took up her abode in the palace of King Celeus,
as nurse to the little Prince Demophöon. She treated him as if
he were her own child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen
to say whether he should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what
he should eat, or how often he should take the air, or when he
should be put to bed. You would hardly believe me, if I were to
tell how quickly the baby prince got rid of his ailments, and grew
fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two rows of ivory teeth
in less time than any other little fellow, before or since. Instead
of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the world (as
his own mother confessed him to be when Ceres first took him in
charge), he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up
his heels, and rolling from one end of the room to the other. All
the good women of the neighborhood crowded to the palace, and held
up their hands, in unutterable amazement, at the beauty and
wholesomeness of this darling little prince. Their wonder was the
greater, because he was never seen to taste any food,—not
even so much as a cup of milk.

“Pray, nurse,” the queen kept saying, “how is
it that you make the child thrive so?”

“I was a mother once,” Ceres replied always;
“and having nursed my own child, I know what other children
need.”

But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity
to know precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night,
therefore, she hid herself in the chamber where Ceres and the
little prince were accustomed to sleep. There was a fire in the
chimney, and it had now crumbled into great coals and embers, which
lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze flickering up now and then,
and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the walls. Ceres sat
before the hearth with the child in her lap, and the firelight
making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead. She undressed
the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant
liquid out of a vase. The next thing she did was to rake back the
red embers, and make a hollow place among them, just where the
backlog had been. At last, while the baby was crowing and clapping
its fat little hands, and laughing in the nurse’s face (just
as you may have seen your little brother or sister do before going
into its warm bath), Ceres suddenly laid him, all naked as he was,
in the hollow, among the red-hot embers. She then raked the ashes
over him, and turned quietly away.

You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked,
thinking nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a
cinder. She burst forth from her hiding-place, and running to the
hearth, raked open the fire, and snatched up poor little Prince
Demophöon out of his bed of live coals, one of which he was
griping in each of his fists. He immediately set up a grievous cry,
as babies are apt to do when rudely startled out of a sound sleep.
To the queen’s astonishment and joy, she could perceive no
token of the child’s being injured by the hot fire in which
he had lain. She now turned to Mother Ceres, and asked her to
explain the mystery.

“Foolish woman,” answered Ceres, “did you not
promise to intrust this poor infant entirely to me? You little know
the mischief you have done him. Had you left him to my care, he
would have grown up like a child of celestial birth, endowed with
superhuman strength and intelligence, and would have lived forever.
Do you imagine that earthly children are to become immortal without
being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the fire? But you have
ruined your own son. For though he will be a strong man and a hero
in his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow old, and
finally die, like the sons of other women. The weak tenderness of
his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality.
Farewell.”

Saying these words, she kissed the little prince Demophöon,
and sighed to think what he had lost, and took her departure
without heeding Queen Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and
cover up the child among the hot embers as often as she pleased.
Poor baby! He never slept so warmly again.

While she dwelt in the king’s palace, Mother Ceres had
been so continually occupied with taking care of the young prince,
that her heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina.
But now, having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just
as wretched as before. At length, in her despair, she came to the
dreadful resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of
grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was
good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her
daughter were restored. She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest
somebody’s heart should be cheered by their beauty.

Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke
itself out of the ground, without the especial permission of Ceres,
you may conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the
earth. The husbandmen ploughed and planted as usual; but there lay
the rich black furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The
pastures looked as brown in the sweet month of June as ever they
did in chill November. The rich man’s broad acres and the
cottager’s small garden-patch were equally blighted. Every
little girl’s flower-bed showed nothing but dry stalks. The
old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had
grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing
the warm smile of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see
the poor starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres,
lowing and bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect
help from her; and everybody that was acquainted with her power
besought her to have mercy on the human race, and, at all events,
to let the grass grow. But Mother Ceres, though naturally of an
affectionate disposition, was now inexorable.

“Never,” said she. “If the earth is ever again
to see any verdure, it must first grow along the path which my
daughter will tread in coming back to me.”

Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend
Quicksilver was sent post haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he
might be persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set
everything right again, by giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver
accordingly made the best of his way to the great gate, took a
flying leap right over the three-headed mastiff, and stood at the
door of the palace in an inconceivably short time. The servants
knew him both by his face and garb; for his short cloak and his
winged cap and shoes and his snaky staff had often been seen
thereabouts in times gone by. He requested to be shown immediately
into the king’s presence; and Pluto, who heard his voice from
the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with
Quicksilver’s merry talk, called out to him to come up. And
while they settle their business together, we must inquire what
Proserpina has been doing ever since we saw her last.

The child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not
taste a mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to
remain in King Pluto’s palace. How she contrived to maintain
her resolution, and at the same time to keep herself tolerably
plump and rosy, is more than I can explain; but some young ladies,
I am given to understand, possess the faculty of living on air, and
Proserpina seems to have possessed it too. At any rate, it was now
six months since she left the outside of the earth; and not a
morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify, had yet
passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to
Proserpina, inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day
after day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly preserved
fruits, and delicacies of every sort, such as young people are
generally most fond of. But her good mother had often told her of
the hurtfulness of these things; and for that reason alone, if
there had been no other, she would have resolutely refused to taste
them.

All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the
little damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed.
The immense palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful
and wonderful objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true,
which half hid itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before
the child as she wandered among them, and treading stealthily
behind her in the echo of her footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle
of the precious stones, which flamed with their own light, worth
one gleam of natural sunshine; nor could the most brilliant of the
many-colored gems which Proserpina had for playthings vie with the
simple beauty of the flowers she used to gather. But still,
wherever the girl went, among those gilded halls and chambers, it
seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with her, and as
if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her left.
After Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of
stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been.
The inhabitants all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of
them.

“My own little Proserpina,” he used to say, “I
wish you could like me a little better. We gloomy and
cloudy-natured persons have often as warm hearts at bottom as those
of a more cheerful character. If you would only stay with me of
your own accord, it would make me happier than the possession of a
hundred such palaces as this.”

“Ah,” said Proserpina, “you should have tried
to make me like you before carrying me off. And the best thing you
can do now is to let me go again. Then I might remember you
sometimes, and think that you were as kind as you knew how to be.
Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might come back, and pay you a
visit.”

“No, no,” answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile,
“I will not trust you for that. You are too fond of living in
the broad daylight, and gathering flowers. What an idle and
childish taste that is! Are not these gems, which I have ordered to
be dug for you, and which are richer than any in my
crown,—are they not prettier than a violet?”

“Not half so pretty,” said Proserpina, snatching the
gems from Pluto’s hand, and flinging them to the other end of
the hall. “Oh, my sweet violets, shall I never see you
again?”

And then she burst into tears. But young people’s tears
have very little saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame
the eyes so much as those of grown persons; so that it is not to be
wondered at if, a few moments afterwards, Proserpina was sporting
through the hall almost as merrily as she and the four sea-nymphs
had sported along the edge of the surf wave, King Pluto gazed after
her, and wished that he, too was a child. And little Proserpina,
when she turned about, and beheld this great king standing in his
splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so melancholy, and so
lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran back to him,
and, for the first time in all her life, put her small, soft hand
in his.

“I love you a little,” whispered she, looking up in
his face.

“Do you, indeed, my dear child?” cried Pluto,
bending his dark face down to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away
from the kiss, for though his features were noble, they were very
dusky and grim. “Well, I have not deserved it of you, after
keeping you a prisoner for so many months, and starving you,
besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there nothing which I can
get you to eat?”

In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very
cunning purpose; for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a
morsel of food in his dominions, she would never afterwards be at
liberty to quit them.

“No, indeed,” said Proserpina. “Your head cook
is always baking, and stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste,
and contriving one dish or another, which he imagines may be to my
liking. But he might just as well save himself the trouble, poor,
fat little man that he is. I have no appetite for anything in the
world, unless it were a slice of bread of my mother’s own
baking, or a little fruit out of her garden.”

When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the
best method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook’s made
dishes and artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the
good child’s opinion, as the simple fare to which Mother
Ceres had accustomed her. Wondering that he had never thought of it
before, the king now sent one of his trusty attendants, with a
large basket, to get some of the finest and juiciest pears,
peaches, and plums which could anywhere be found in the upper
world. Unfortunately, however, this was during the time when Ceres
had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking
all over the earth, King Pluto’s servants found only a single
pomegranate, and that so dried up as to be not worth eating.
Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this
dry, old, withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a
magnificent golden salver, and carried it up to Proserpina. Now it
happened, curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing
the pomegranate into the back door of the palace, our friend
Quicksilver had gone up the front steps, on his errand to get
Proserpina away from King Pluto.

As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver,
she told the servant he had better take it away again.

“I shall not touch it, I assure you,” said she.
“If I were ever so hungry, I should never think of eating
such a miserable, dry pomegranate as that.”

“It is the only one in the world,” said the
servant.

He set down the golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon
it, and left the room. When he was gone, Proserpina could not help
coming close to the table, and looking at this poor specimen of
dried fruit with a great deal of eagerness; for, to say the truth,
on seeing something that suited her taste, she felt all the six
months’ appetite taking possession of her at once. To be
sure, it was a very wretched-looking pomegranate, and seemed to
have no more juice in it than an oyster-shell. But there was no
choice of such things in King Pluto’s palace. This was the
first fruit she had seen there, and the last she was ever likely to
see; and unless she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than
it already was, and be wholly unfit to eat.

“At least, I may smell it,” thought Proserpina.

So she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and,
somehow or other, being in such close neighborhood to her mouth,
the fruit found its way into that little red cave. Dear me! what an
everlasting pity! Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her
teeth had actually bitten it, of their own accord. Just as this
fatal deed was done, the door of the apartment opened, and in came
King Pluto, followed by Quicksilver, who had been urging him to let
his little prisoner go. At the first noise of their entrance,
Proserpina withdrew the pomegranate from her mouth. But Quicksilver
(whose eyes were very keen, and his wits the sharpest that ever
anybody had) perceived that the child was a little confused; and
seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had been taking a
sly nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto, he never
guessed at the secret.

“My little Proserpina,” said the king, sitting down,
and affectionately drawing her between his knees, “here is
Quicksilver, who tells me that a great many misfortunes have
befallen innocent people on account of my detaining you in my
dominions. To confess the truth, I myself had already reflected
that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from your good
mother. But, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this vast
palace is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly
shine very bright), and that I am not of the most cheerful
disposition, and that therefore it was a natural thing enough to
seek for the society of some merrier creature than myself. I hoped
you would take my crown for a plaything, and me—ah, you
laugh, naughty Proserpina—me, grim as I am, for a playmate.
It was a silly expectation.”

“Not so extremely silly,” whispered Proserpina.
“You have really amused me very much, sometimes.”

“Thank you,” said King Pluto, rather dryly.
“But I can see, plainly enough, that you think my palace a
dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted keeper of it. And an iron
heart I should surely have, if I could detain you here any longer,
my poor child, when it is now six months since you tasted food. I
give you your liberty. Go with Quicksilver. Hasten home to your
dear mother.”

Now, although you may not have supposed it, Proserpina found it
impossible to take leave of poor King Pluto without some regrets,
and a good deal of compunction for not telling him about the
pomegranate. She even shed a tear or two, thinking how lonely and
cheerless the great palace would seem to him, with all its ugly
glare of artificial light, after she herself,—his one little
ray of natural sunshine, whom he had stolen, to be sure, but only
because he valued her so much,—after she should have
departed. I know not how many kind things she might have said to
the disconsolate king of the mines, had not Quicksilver hurried her
away.

“Come along quickly,” whispered he in her ear,
“or his majesty may change his royal mind. And take care,
above all things, that you say nothing of what was brought you on
the golden salver.”

In a very short time, they had passed the great gateway (leaving
the three-headed Cerberus, barking and yelping, and growling, with
threefold din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the
earth. It was delightful to behold, as Proserpina hastened along,
how the path grew verdant behind and on either side of her.
Wherever she set her blessed foot, there was at once a dewy flower.
The violets gushed up along the wayside. The grass and the grain
began to sprout with tenfold vigor and luxuriance, to make up for
the dreary months that had been wasted in barrenness. The starved
cattle immediately set to work grazing, after their long fast, and
ate enormously all day, and got up at midnight to eat more. But I
can assure you it was a busy time of year with the farmers, when
they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush. Nor must I
forget to say that all the birds in the whole world hopped about
upon the newly blossoming trees, and sang together in a prodigious
ecstasy of joy.

Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting
disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand.
She had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when,
all at once, it flickered and went out.

“What does this mean?” thought she. “It was an
enchanted torch, and should have kept burning till my child came
back.”

Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure
flashing over the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have
observed a golden hue gleaming far and wide across the landscape,
from the just risen sun.

“Does the earth disobey me?” exclaimed Mother Ceres
indignantly. “Does it presume to be green, when I have bidden
it be barren until my daughter shall be restored to my
arms?”

“Then open your arms, dear mother,” cried a
well-known voice, “and take your little daughter into
them.”

And Proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her
mother’s bosom. Their mutual transport is not to be
described. The grief of their separation had caused both of them to
shed a great many tears; and now they shed a great many more,
because their joy could not so well express itself in any other
way.

When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Mother Ceres
looked anxiously at Proserpina.

“My child,” said she, “did you taste any food
while you were in King Pluto’s palace?”

“Dearest mother,” answered Proserpina. “I will
tell you the whole truth. Until this very morning, not a morsel of
food had passed my lips. But to-day, they brought me a pomegranate
(a very dry one it was, and all shriveled up, till there was little
left of it but seeds and skin), and having seen no fruit for so
long a time, and being faint with hunger, I was tempted just to
bite it. The instant I tasted it, King Pluto and Quicksilver came
into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel; but—dear mother,
I hope it was no harm—but six of the pomegranate seeds, I am
afraid, remained in my mouth.”

“Ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!” exclaimed
Ceres. “For each of those six pomegranate seeds you must
spend one month of each year in King Pluto’s palace. You are
but half restored to your mother. Only six months with me, and six
with that good-for-nothing King of Darkness!”

“Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto,” said
Proserpina, kissing her mother. “He has some very good
qualities, and I really think I can bear to spend six months in his
palace, if he will only let me spend the other six with you. He
certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but then, as he says, it
was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in that great gloomy
place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change in his spirits
to have a little girl to run up stairs and down. There is some
comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest
mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year
round.”

OLD GREEK
FOLK-STORIES

Orpheus and Eurydice

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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When gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the
day of musicians! But the triumph of Phœbus Apollo himself
was not so wonderful as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on
earth, though some say that he came of divine lineage. This was
Orpheus, that best of harpers, who went with the Grecian heroes of
the great ship Argo in search of the Golden Fleece.

After his return from the quest, he won Eurydice for his wife,
and they were as happy as people can be who love each other and
every one else. The very wild beasts loved them, and the trees
clustered about their home as if they were watered with music. But
even the gods themselves were not always free from sorrow, and one
day misfortune came upon that harper Orpheus whom all men loved to
honor.

Eurydice, his lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs,
unwittingly trod upon a serpent in the grass. Surely, if Orpheus
had been with her, playing upon his lyre, no creature could have
harmed her. But Orpheus came too late. She died of the sting, and
was lost to him in the Underworld.

For days he wandered from his home, singing the story of his
loss and his despair to the helpless passers-by. His grief moved
the very stones in the wilderness, and roused a dumb distress in
the hearts of savage beasts. Even the gods on Mount Olympus gave
ear, but they held no power over the darkness of Hades.

Wherever Orpheus wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to
forbid him entrance; and at length he found unguarded that very
cave that leads to the Underworld, where Pluto rules the spirits of
the dead. He went down without fear. The fire in his living heart
found him a way through the gloom of that place. He crossed the
Styx, the black river that the Gods name as their most sacred oath.
Charon, the harsh old ferryman who takes the shades across, forgot
to ask of him the coin that every soul must pay. For Orpheus sang.
There in the Underworld the song of Apollo would not have moved the
poor ghosts so much. It would have amazed them, like a star far off
that no one understands. But here was a human singer, and he sang
of things that grow in every human heart, youth and love and death,
the sweetness of the Earth, and the bitterness of losing aught that
is dear to us.

Now the dead, when they go to the Underworld, drink of the pool
of Lethe; and forgetfulness of all that has passed comes upon them
like a sleep, and they lose their longing for the world, they lose
their memory of pain, and live content with that cool twilight. But
not the pool of Lethe itself could withstand the song of Orpheus;
and in the hearts of the shades all the old dreams awoke wondering.
They remembered once more the life of men on earth, the glory of
the sun and moon, the sweetness of new grass, the warmth of their
homes, all the old joy and grief that they had known. And they
wept.

Even the Furies were moved to pity. Those, too, who were
suffering punishment for evil deeds ceased to be tormented for
themselves, and grieved only for the innocent Orpheus who had lost
Eurydice. Sisyphus, that fraudulent king (who is doomed to roll a
monstrous boulder uphill forever), stopped to listen. The daughters
of Danaus left off their task of drawing water in a sieve. Tantalus
forgot hunger and thirst, though before his eyes hung magical
fruits that were wont to vanish out of his grasp, and just beyond
reach bubbled the water that was a torment to his ears; he did not
hear it while Orpheus sang.

So, among a crowd of eager ghosts, Orpheus came, singing with
all his heart, before the king and queen of Hades. And the queen
Proserpina wept as she listened and grew homesick, remembering the
fields of Enna and the growing of the wheat, and her own beautiful
mother, Demeter. Then Pluto gave way.

They called Eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to
the darkness of the Underworld. She was to return with Orpheus, but
on one condition. If he turned to look at her once before they
reached the upper air, he must lose her again and go back to the
world alone.

Rapt with joy, the happy Orpheus hastened on the way, thinking
only of Eurydice, who was following him. Past Lethe, across the
Styx they went, he and his lovely wife, still silent as a shade.
But the place was full of gloom, the silence weighed upon him, he
had not seen her for so long; her footsteps made no sound; and he
could hardly believe the miracle, for Pluto seldom relents. When
the first gleam of upper daylight broke through the cleft to the
dismal world, he forgot all, save that he must know if she still
followed. He turned to see her face, and the promise was
broken!

She smiled at him forgivingly, but it was too late. He stretched
out his arms to take her, but she faded from them, as the bright
snow, that none may keep, melts in our very hands. A murmur of
farewell came to his ears,—no more. She was gone.

He would have followed, but Charon, now on guard, drove him
back. Seven days he lingered there between the worlds of life and
death, but after the broken promise Hades would not listen to his
song. Back to the earth he wandered, though it was sweet to him no
longer. He died young, singing to the last, and round about the
place where his body rested, nightingales nested in the trees. His
lyre was set among the stars; and he himself went down to join
Eurydice, unforbidden.

Those two had no need of Lethe, for their life on earth had been
wholly fair, and now that they are together they no longer own a
sorrow.

Icarus and Dædalus

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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Among all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the
secrets of the gods, none was more cunning than Dædalus.

He once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of
winding ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once
inside, you could never find your way out again without a magic
clue. But the king’s favor veered with the wind, and one day
he had his master architect imprisoned in a tower. Dædalus
managed to escape from his cell; but it seemed impossible to leave
the island, since every ship that came or went was well guarded by
order of the king.

At length, watching the sea-gulls in the air,—the only
creatures that were sure of liberty,—he thought of a plan for
himself and his young son Icarus, who was captive with him.

Little by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and
small. He fastened these together with thread, moulded them in with
wax, and so fashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When
they were done, Dædalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and
after one or two efforts, he found that by waving his arms he could
winnow the air and cleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. He held
himself aloft, wavered this way and that, with the wind, and at
last, like a great fledgling, he learned to fly.

Without delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy
Icarus, and taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him
beware of rash adventures among the stars. “Remember,”
said the father, “never to fly very low or very high, for the
fogs about the earth would weigh you down, but the blaze of the sun
will surely melt your feathers apart if you go too near.”

For Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the
other. Who could remember to be careful when he was to fly for the
first time? Are birds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained
in the boy’s head but the one joy of escape.

The day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The
father bird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be
gone, he waited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two
could not fly hand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father.
The hateful ground of Crete sank beneath them; and the country
folk, who caught a glimpse of them when they were high above the
tree-tops, took it for a vision of the gods,—Apollo, perhaps,
with Cupid after him.

At first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the
air dazed them,—a glance downward made their brains reel. But
when a great wind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself
sustained, like a halcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a
child uplifted by his mother, he forgot everything in the world but
joy. He forgot Crete and the other islands that he had passed over:
he saw but vaguely that winged thing in the distance before him
that was his father Dædalus. He longed for one draught of
flight to quench the thirst of his captivity: he stretched out his
arms to the sky and made towards the highest heavens.

Alas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that
had seemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He
fluttered his young hands vainly,—he was falling,—and
in that terror he remembered. The heat of the sun had melted the
wax from his wings; the feathers were falling, one by one, like
snowflakes; and there was none to help.

He fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one
cry that overtook Dædalus far away. When he returned, and
sought high and low for the poor boy, he saw nothing but the
bird-like feathers afloat on the water, and he knew that Icarus was
drowned.

The nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but
he, in heavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and
there hung up his wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt
to fly.

Phaethon

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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Once upon a time, the reckless whim of a lad came near to
destroying the Earth and robbing the spheres of their wits.

There were two playmates, said to be of heavenly parentage. One
was Epaphus, who claimed Zeus as a father; and one was Phaethon,
the earthly child of Phœbus Apollo (or Helios, as some name
the sun-god). One day they were boasting together, each of his own
father, and Epaphus, angry at the other’s fine story, dared
him to go prove his kinship with the Sun.

Full of rage and humiliation, Phaethon went to his mother,
Clymene, where she sat with his young sisters, the Heliades.

“It is true, my child,” she said, “I swear it
in the light of yonder Sun. If you have any doubt, go to the land
whence he rises at morning and ask of him any gift you will; he is
your father, and he cannot refuse you.”

As soon as might be, Phaethon set out for the country of
sunrise. He journeyed by day and by night far into the east, till
he came to the palace of the Sun. It towered high as the clouds,
glorious with gold and all manner of gems that looked like frozen
fire, if that might be. The mighty walls were wrought with images
of earth and sea and sky. Vulcan, the smith of the Gods, had made
them in his workshop (for Mount Ætna is one of his forges,
and he has the central fires of the earth to help him fashion gold
and iron, as men do glass). On the doors blazed the twelve signs of
the Zodiac, in silver that shone like snow in the sunlight.
Phaethon was dazzled with the sight, but when he entered the palace
hall he could hardly bear the radiance.

In one glimpse through his half-shut eyes, he beheld a glorious
being, none other than Phœbus himself, seated upon a throne.
He was clothed in purple raiment, and round his head there shone a
blinding light, that enveloped even his courtiers upon the right
and upon the left,—the Seasons with their emblems, Day,
Month, Year, and the beautiful young Hours in a row. In one glance
of those all-seeing eyes, the sun-god knew his child; but in order
to try him he asked the boy his errand.

“O my father,” stammered Phaethon, “if you are
my father indeed”—and then he took courage; for the god
came down from his throne, put off the glorious halo that hurt
mortal eyes, and embraced him tenderly.

“Indeed, thou art my son,” said he. “Ask any
gift of me, and it shall be thine; I call the Styx to
witness.”

“Ah!” cried Phaethon rapturously. “Let me
drive thy chariot for one day!”

For an instant the Sun’s looks clouded. “Choose
again, my child,” said he. “Thou art only a mortal, and
this task is mine alone of all the Gods. Not Zeus himself dare
drive the chariot of the Sun. The way is full of terrors, both for
the horses and for all the stars along the roadside, and for the
Earth, who has all blessings from me. Listen, and choose
again.” And therewith he warned Phaethon of all the dangers
that beset the way,—the great steep that the steeds must
climb, the numbing dizziness of the height, the fierce
constellations that breathe out fire, and that descent in the west
where the Sun seems to go headlong.

But these counsels only made the reckless boy more eager to win
honor of such a high enterprise.

“I will take care; only let me go,” he begged.

Now Phœbus had sworn by the black river Styx, an oath that
none of the Gods dare break, and he was forced to keep his
promise.

Already Aurora, goddess of dawn, had thrown open the gates of
the east, and the stars were beginning to wane. The Hours came
forth to harness the four horses, and Phaethon looked with
exultation at the splendid creatures, whose lord he was for a day.
Wild, immortal steeds they were, fed with ambrosia, untamed as the
winds; their very pet names signified flame, and all that flame can
do,—Pyrois, Eoüs, Æthon, Phlegon.

As the lad stood by, watching, Phœbus anointed his face
with a philter that should make him strong to endure the terrible
heat and light, then set the halo upon his head, with a last word
of counsel.

“Follow the road,” said he, “and never turn
aside. Go not too high or too low, for the sake of heavens and
earth; else men and Gods will suffer. The Fates alone know whether
evil is to come of this. Yet if your heart fails you, as I hope,
abide here and I will make the journey, as I am wont to
do.”

But Phaethon held to his choice and bade his father farewell. He
took his place in the chariot, gathered up the reins, and the
horses sprang away, eager for the road.

As they went, they bent their splendid necks to see the meaning
of the strange hand upon the reins,—the slender weight in the
chariot. They turned their wild eyes upon Phaethon, to his secret
foreboding, and neighed one to another. This was no master
charioteer, but a mere lad, a feather riding the wind. It was
holiday for the horses of the Sun, and away they went.

Grasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy,
Phaethon looked down from the fearful ascent and saw the Earth far
beneath him, dim and fair. He was blind with dizziness and
bewilderment. His hold slackened and the horses redoubled their
speed, wild with new liberty. They left the old tracks. Before he
knew where he was, they had startled the constellations and
well-nigh grazed the Serpent, so that it woke from its torpor and
hissed.

The steeds took fright. This way and that they went, terrified
by the monsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of
their silver quiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing
as far to the south among new wonders. The heavens were full of
terror.

Up, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the
defenseless Earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the Sun.
Great rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were
consumed. Harvests perished like a moth that is singed in a
candle-flame.

In vain did Phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins.
As in a hideous dream, he saw his own Earth, his beautiful home and
the home of all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad
chariot, and blackening beneath him. The ground cracked open and
the sea shrank. Heedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the
shallows, were left gasping like bright fishes. The dryads shrank,
and tried to cover themselves from the scorching heat. The poor
Earth lifted her withered face in a last prayer to Zeus to save her
if he might.

Then Zeus, calling all the Gods to witness that there was no
other means of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and Phaethon knew no
more.

His body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting star;
and the horses of the Sun dashed homeward with the empty
chariot.

Poor Clymene grieved sore over the boy’s death; but the
young Heliades, daughters of the Sun, refused all comfort. Day and
night they wept together about their brother’s grave by the
river, until the Gods took pity and changed them all into
poplar-trees. And ever after that they wept sweet tears of amber,
clear as sunlight.

Niobe

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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There are so many tales of the vanity of kings and queens that
the half of them cannot be told.

There was Cassiopæia, queen of Æthiopia, who boasted
that her beauty outshone the beauty of all the sea-nymphs, so that
in anger they sent a horrible sea-serpent to ravage the coast. The
king prayed of an oracle to know how the monster might be appeased,
and learned that he must offer up his own daughter, Andromeda. The
maiden was therefore chained to a rock by the sea-side, and left to
her fate. But who should come to rescue her but a certain young
hero, Perseus, who was hastening homeward after a perilous
adventure with the snaky-haired Gorgons. Filled with pity at the
story of Andromeda, he waited for the dragon, met and slew him, and
set the maiden free. As for the boastful queen, the Gods forgave
her, and at her death she was set among the stars. That story ended
well.

But there was once a queen of Thebes, Niobe, fortunate above all
women, and yet arrogant in the face of the gods. Very beautiful she
was, and nobly born, but above all things she boasted of her
children, for she had seven sons and seven daughters.

Now there came the day when the people were wont to celebrate
the feast of Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana; and Niobe, as she
stood looking upon the worshipers on their way to the temple, was
filled with overweening pride.

“Why do you worship Latona before me?” she cried
out. “What does she possess that I have not in greater
abundance? She has but two children, while I have seven sons and as
many daughters. Nay, if she robbed me out of envy, I should still
be rich. Go back to your houses; you have not eyes to know the
rightful goddess.”

Such impiety was enough to frighten any one, and her subjects
returned to their daily work, awestruck and silent.

But Apollo and Diana were filled with wrath at this insult to
their divine mother. Not only was she a great goddess and a power
in the heavens, but during her life on earth she had suffered many
hardships for their sake. The serpent Python had been sent to
torment her; and, driven from land to land, under an evil spell,
beset with dangers, she had found no resting-place but the island
of Delos, held sacred ever after to her and her children. Once she
had even been refused water by some churlish peasants, who could
not believe in a goddess if she appeared in humble guise and
travel-worn. But these men were all changed into frogs.

It needed no word from Latona herself to rouse her children to
vengeance. Swift as a thought, the two immortal archers, brother
and sister, stood in Thebes, upon the towers of the citadel. Near
by, the youth were pursuing their sports, while the feast of Latona
went neglected. The sons of Queen Niobe were there, and against
them Apollo bent his golden bow. An arrow crossed the air like a
sunbeam, and without a word the eldest prince fell from his horse.
One by one his brothers died by the same hand, so swiftly that they
knew not what had befallen them, till all the sons of the royal
house lay slain. Only the people of Thebes, stricken with terror,
bore the news to Queen Niobe, where she sat with her seven
daughters. She would not believe in such a sorrow.

“Savage Latona,” she cried, lifting her arms against
the heavens, “never think that you have conquered. I am still
the greater.”

At that moment one of her daughters sank beside her. Diana had
sped an arrow from her bow that is like the crescent moon. Without
a cry, nay, even as they murmured words of comfort, the sisters
died, one by one. It was all as swift and soundless as
snowfall.

Only the guilty mother was left, transfixed with grief. Tears
flowed from her eyes, but she spoke not a word, her heart never
softened; and at last she turned to stone, and the tears flowed
down her cold face forever.

Pyramus and Thisbe

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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Venus did not always befriend true lovers, as she had befriended
Hippomenes, with her three golden apples. Sometimes, in the
enchanted island of Cyprus, she forgot her worshipers far away, and
they called on her in vain.

So it was in the sad story of Hero and Leander, who lived on
opposite borders of the Hellespont. Hero dwelt at Sestos, where she
served as a priestess, in the very temple of Venus; and
Leander’s home was in Abydos, a town on the opposite shore.
But every night this lover would swim across the water to see Hero,
guided by the light which she was wont to set in her tower. Even
such loyalty could not conquer fate. There came a great storm, one
night, that put out the beacon, and washed Leander’s body up
with the waves to Hero, and she sprang into the water to rejoin
him, and so perished.

Not wholly unlike this was the fate of Halcyone, a queen of
Thessaly, who dreamed that her husband Ceyx had been drowned, and
on waking hastened to the shore to look for him. There she saw her
dream come true,—his lifeless body floating towards her on
the tide; and as she flung herself after him, mad with grief, the
air upheld her and she seemed to fly. Husband and wife were changed
into birds; and there on the very water, at certain seasons, they
build a nest that floats unhurt,—a portent of calm for many
days and safe voyage for the ships. So it is that seamen love these
birds and look for halcyon weather.

But there once lived in Babylonia two lovers named Pyramus and
Thisbe, who were parted by a strange mischance. For they lived in
adjoining houses; and although their parents had forbidden them to
marry, these two had found a means of talking together through a
crevice in the wall.

Here, again and again, Pyramus on his side of the wall and
Thisbe on hers, they would meet to tell each other all that had
happened during the day, and to complain of their cruel parents. At
length they decided that they would endure it no longer, but that
they would leave their homes and be married, come what might. They
planned to meet, on a certain evening, by a mulberry-tree near the
tomb of King Ninus, outside the city gates. Once safely met, they
were resolved to brave fortune together.

So far all went well. At the appointed time, Thisbe, heavily
veiled, managed to escape from home unnoticed, and after a stealthy
journey through the streets of Babylon, she came to the grove of
mulberries near the tomb of Ninus. The place was deserted, and once
there she put off the veil from her face to see if Pyramus waited
anywhere among the shadows. She heard the sound of a footfall and
turned to behold—not Pyramus, but a creature unwelcome to any
tryst—none other than a lioness crouching to drink from the
pool hard by.

Without a cry, Thisbe fled, dropping her veil as she ran. She
found a hiding-place among the rocks at some distance, and there
she waited, not knowing what else to do.

The lioness, having quenched her thirst (after some ferocious
meal), turned from the spring and, coming upon the veil, sniffed at
it curiously, tore and tossed it with her reddened jaws,—as
she would have done with Thisbe herself,—then dropped the
plaything and crept away to the forest once more.

It was but a little after this that Pyramus came hurrying to the
meeting-place, breathless with eagerness to find Thisbe and tell
her what had delayed him. He found no Thisbe there. For a moment he
was confounded. Then he looked about for some signs of her, some
footprint by the pool. There was the trail of a wild beast in the
grass, and near by a woman’s veil, torn and stained with
blood; he caught it up and knew it for Thisbe’s.

So she had come at the appointed hour, true to her word; she had
waited there for him alone and defenseless, and she had fallen a
prey to some beast from the jungle! As these thoughts rushed upon
the young man’s mind, he could endure no more.

“Was it to meet me, Thisbe, that you came to such a
death!” cried he. “And I followed all too late. But I
will atone. Even now I come lagging, but by no will of
mine!”

So saying, the poor youth drew his sword and fell upon it, there
at the foot of that mulberry-tree which he had named as the
trysting-place, and his life-blood ran about the roots.

During these very moments, Thisbe, hearing no sound and a little
reassured, had stolen from her hiding-place and was come to the
edge of the grove. She saw that the lioness had left the spring,
and, eager to show her lover that she had dared all things to keep
faith, she came slowly, little by little, back to the
mulberry-tree.

She found Pyramus there, according to his promise. His own sword
was in his heart, the empty scabbard by his side, and in his hand
he held her veil still clasped. Thisbe saw these things as in a
dream, and suddenly the truth awoke her. She saw the piteous
mischance of all; and when the dying Pyramus opened his eyes and
fixed them upon her, her heart broke. With the same sword she
stabbed herself, and the lovers died together.

There the parents found them, after a weary search, and they
were buried together in the same tomb. But the berries of the
mulberry-tree turned red that day, and red they have remained ever
since.

STORIES OF THE TROJAN WAR

The Apple of Discord

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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There was once a war so great that the sound of it has come
ringing down the centuries from singer to singer, and will never
die.

The rivalries of men and gods brought about many calamities, but
none so heavy as this; and it would never have come to pass, they
say, if it had not been for jealousy among the immortals,—all
because of a golden apple! But Destiny has nurtured ominous plants
from little seeds; and this is how one evil grew great enough to
overshadow heaven and earth.

The sea-nymph Thetis (whom Zeus himself had once desired for his
wife) was given in marriage to a mortal, Peleus, and there was a
great wedding-feast in heaven. Thither all the immortals were
bidden, save one, Eris, the goddess of Discord, ever an unwelcome
guest. But she came unbidden. While the wedding-guests sat at
feast, she broke in upon their mirth, flung among them a golden
apple, and departed with looks that boded ill. Some one picked up
the strange missile and read its inscription, “For the
Fairest;” and at once discussion arose among the goddesses.
They were all eager to claim the prize, but only three
persisted.

Venus, the very goddess of beauty, said that it was hers by
right; but Juno could not endure to own herself less fair than
another, and even Athene coveted the palm of beauty as well as of
wisdom, and would not give it up! Discord had indeed come to the
wedding-feast. Not one of the Gods dared to decide so dangerous a
question,—not Zeus himself,—and the three rivals were
forced to choose a judge among mortals.

Now there lived on Mount Ida, near the city of Troy, a certain
young shepherd by the name of Paris. He was as comely as Ganymede
himself,—that Trojan youth whom Zeus, in the shape of an
eagle, seized and bore away to Olympus, to be a cup-bearer to the
gods. Paris, too, was a Trojan of royal birth, but like
Œdipus, he had been left on the mountain in his infancy,
because the oracle had foretold that he would be the death of his
kindred and the ruin of his country. Destiny saved and nurtured him
to fulfill that prophecy. He grew up as a shepherd and tended his
flocks on the mountain, but his beauty held the favor of all the
wood-folk there and won the heart of the nymph Œnone.

To him, at last, the three goddesses intrusted the judgment and
the golden apple. Juno first stood before him in all her glory as
queen of Gods and men, and attended by her favorite peacocks as
gorgeous to see as royal fan-bearers.

TO HIM AT LAST THE THREE GODDESSES INTRUSTED THE JUDGMENT AND
THE GOLDEN APPLE

“Use but the judgment of a prince, Paris,” she said,
“and I will give thee wealth and kingly power.”

Such majesty and such promises would have moved the heart of any
man; but the eager Paris had at least to hear the claims of the
other rivals. Athene rose before him, a vision welcome as daylight,
with her sea-gray eyes and golden hair beneath a golden helmet.

“Be wise in honoring me, Paris,” she said,
“and I will give thee wisdom that shall last forever, great
glory among men, and renown in war.”

Last of all, Venus shone upon him, beautiful as none can ever
hope to be. If she had come, unnamed, as any country maid, her
loveliness would have dazzled him like sea-foam in the sun; but she
was girt with her magical Cestus, a spell of beauty that no one can
resist.

Without a bribe she might have conquered, and she smiled upon
his dumb amazement, saying, “Paris, thou shalt yet have for
wife the fairest woman in the world.”

At these words, the happy shepherd fell on his knees and offered
her the golden apple. He took no heed of the slighted goddesses,
who vanished in a cloud that boded storm.

From that hour he sought only the counsel of Venus, and only
cared to find the highway to his new fortunes. From her he learned
that he was the son of King Priam of Troy, and with her assistance
he deserted the nymph Œnone, whom he had married, and went in
search of his royal kindred.

For it chanced at that time that Priam proclaimed a contest of
strength between his sons and certain other princes, and promised
as prize the most splendid bull that could be found among the herds
of Mount Ida. Thither came the herdsmen to choose, and when they
led away the pride of Paris’s heart, he followed to Troy,
thinking that he would try his fortune and perhaps win back his
own.

The games took place before Priam and Hecuba and all their
children, including those noble princes Hector and Helenus, and the
young Cassandra, their sister. This poor maiden had a sad story, in
spite of her royalty; for, because she had once disdained Apollo,
she was fated to foresee all things, and ever to have her
prophecies disbelieved. On this fateful day, she alone was
oppressed with strange forebodings.

But if he who was to be the ruin of his country had returned, he
had come victoriously. Paris won the contest. At the very moment of
his honor, poor Cassandra saw him with her prophetic eyes; and
seeing as well all the guilt and misery that he was to bring upon
them, she broke into bitter lamentations, and would have warned her
kindred against the evil to come. But the Trojans gave little heed;
they were wont to look upon her visions as spells of madness. Paris
had come back to them a glorious youth and a victor; and when he
made known the secret of his birth, they cast the words of the
oracle to the winds, and received the shepherd as a long-lost
prince.

Thus far all went happily. But Venus, whose promise had not yet
been fulfilled, bade Paris procure a ship and go in search of his
destined bride. The prince said nothing of this quest, but urged
his kindred to let him go; and giving out a rumor that he was to
find his father’s lost sister Hesione, he set sail for
Greece, and finally landed at Sparta.

There he was kindly received by Menelaus, the king, and his
wife, Fair Helen.

This queen had been reared as the daughter of Tyndarus and Queen
Leda, but some say that she was the child of an enchanted swan, and
there was indeed a strange spell about her. All the greatest heroes
of Greece had wooed her before she left her father’s palace
to be the wife of King Menelaus, and Tyndarus, fearing for her
peace, had bound her many suitors by an oath. According to this
pledge, they were to respect her choice, and to go to the aid of
her husband if ever she should be stolen away from him. For in all
Greece there was nothing so beautiful as the beauty of Helen. She
was the fairest woman in the world.

Now thus did Venus fulfill her promise and the shepherd win his
reward with dishonor. Paris dwelt at the court of Menelaus for a
long time, treated with a royal courtesy which he ill repaid. For
at length, while the king was absent on a journey to Crete, his
guest won the heart of Fair Helen, and persuaded her to forsake her
husband and sail away to Troy, or Ilium.

King Menelaus returned to find the nest empty of the swan. Paris
and the fairest woman in the world were well across the sea.

When this treachery came to light, all Greece took fire with
indignation. The heroes remembered their pledge, and wrath came
upon them at the wrong done to Menelaus. But they were less angered
with Fair Helen than with Paris, for they felt assured that the
queen had been lured from her country and out of her own senses by
some spell of enchantment. So they took counsel how they might
bring back Fair Helen to her home and husband.

Years had come and gone since that wedding-feast when Eris had
flung the apple of discord, like a firebrand, among the guests. But
the spark of dissension that had smouldered so long burst into
flame now, and, fanned by the enmities of men and the rivalries of
the Gods, it seemed like to fire heaven and earth.

A few of the heroes answered the call to arms unwillingly. Time
had reconciled them to the loss of Fair Helen, and they were loath
to leave home and happiness for war, even in her cause.

One of these was Odysseus, or Ulysses, king of Ithaca, who had
married Penelope, and was quite content with his kingdom and his
little son Telemachus. Indeed, he was so unwilling to leave them
that he feigned madness in order to escape service, appeared to
forget his own kindred, and went ploughing the seashore and sowing
salt in the furrows. But a messenger, Palamedes, who came with the
summons to war, suspected that this sudden madness might be a
stratagem, for the king was far famed as a man of many devices. He
therefore stood by, one day (while Ulysses, pretending to take no
heed of him, went ploughing the sand) and he laid the baby
Telemachus directly in the way of the ploughshare. For once the
wise man’s craft deserted him. Ulysses turned the plough
sharply, caught up the little prince, and there his fatherly wits
were manifest! After this he could no longer play madman. He had to
take leave of his beloved wife Penelope and set out to join the
heroes, little dreaming that he was not to return for twenty years.
Once embarked, however, he set himself to work in the common cause
of the heroes, and was soon as ingenious as Palamedes in rousing
laggard warriors.

There remained one who was destined to be the greatest warrior
of all. This was Achilles, the son of Thetis,—foretold in the
day of Prometheus as a man who should far outstrip his own father
in glory and greatness. Years had passed since the marriage of
Thetis to King Peleus, and their son Achilles was now grown to
manhood, a wonder of strength indeed, and, moreover, invulnerable.
For his mother, forewarned of his death in the Trojan War, had
dipped him in the sacred river Styx when he was a baby, so that he
could take no hurt from any weapon. From head to foot she had
plunged him in, only forgetting the little heel that she held him
by, and this alone could be wounded by any chance. But even with
such precautions Thetis was not content. Fearful at the rumors of
war to be, she had her son brought up, in woman’s dress,
among the daughters of King Lycomedes of Scyros, that he might
escape the notice of men and cheat his destiny.

To this very palace, however, came Ulysses in the guise of a
merchant, and he spread his wares before the royal
household,—jewels and ivory, fine fabrics, and curiously
wrought weapons. The king’s daughters chose girdles and veils
and such things as women delight in; but Achilles, heedless of the
like, sought out the weapons, and handled them with such manly
pleasure that his nature stood revealed. So he, too, yielded to his
destiny and set out to join the heroes.

Everywhere men were banded together, building the ships and
gathering supplies. The allied forces of Greece (the Achaians, as
they called themselves) chose Agamemnon for their
commander-in-chief. He was a mighty man, king of Mycenæ and
Argos, and the brother of the wronged Menelaus. Second to Achilles
in strength was the giant Ajax; after him Diomedes, then wise
Ulysses, and Nestor, held in great reverence because of his
experienced age and fame. These were the chief heroes. After two
years of busy preparation, they reached the port of Aulis, whence
they were to sail for Troy.

But here delay held them. Agamemnon had chanced to kill a stag
which was sacred to Diana, and the army was visited by pestilence,
while a great calm kept the ships imprisoned. At length the oracle
made known the reason of this misfortune and demanded for atonement
the maiden Iphigenia, Agamemnon’s own daughter. In helpless
grief the king consented to offer her up as a victim, and the
maiden was brought, ready for sacrifice. But at the last moment
Diana caught her away in a cloud, leaving a white hind in her
place, and carried her to Tauris in Scythia, there to serve as a
priestess in the temple. In the mean time, her kinsfolk, who were
at a loss to understand how she had disappeared, mourned her as
dead. But Diana had accepted their child as an offering, and
healing came to the army, and the winds blew again. So the ships
set sail.

Meanwhile, in Troy across the sea, the aged Priam and Hecuba
gave shelter to their son Paris and his stolen bride. They were not
without misgivings as to these guests, but they made ready to
defend their kindred and the citadel.

There were many heroes among the Trojans and their allies, brave
and upright men, who little deserved that such reproach should be
brought upon them by the guilt of Prince Paris. There were
Æneas and Deïphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon, and
Priam’s most noble son Hector, chief of all the forces, and
the very bulwark of Troy. These and many more were bitterly to
regret the day that had brought Paris back to his home. But he had
taken refuge with his own people, and the Trojans had to take up
his cause against the hostile fleet that was coming across the
sea.

Even the Gods took sides. Juno and Athene, who had never
forgiven the judgment of Paris, condemned all Troy with him and
favored the Greeks, as did also Neptune, god of the sea. But Venus,
true to her favorite, furthered the interests of the Trojans with
all her power, and persuaded the warlike Mars to do likewise. Zeus
and Apollo strove to be impartial, but they were yet to aid now one
side, now another, according to the fortunes of the heroes whom
they loved.

Over the sea came the great embassy of ships, sped hither safely
by the god Neptune; and the heroes made their camp on the plain
before Troy. First of all Ulysses and King Menelaus himself went
into the city and demanded that Fair Helen should be given back to
her rightful husband. This the Trojans refused, and so began the
siege of Troy.

The Quarrel between
Agamemnon and Achilles

By Alfred J. Church

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The Greeks sacked the city of Chryse, where was a temple of
Apollo, and a priest that served the temple. And when they divided
the spoil, they gave to King Agamemnon with other gifts, the
priest’s daughter, Chryseïs. Thereupon there came to the
camp Chryses, the priest, wishing to ransom his daughter. Much gold
he brought with him, and on his staff of gold he carried the holy
garland, that men might reverence him the more. He went to all the
chiefs, and to the sons of Atreus first of all, saying,—
“Loose, I pray you, my dear daughter, and take the ransom for
her; so may the gods that dwell in Olympus grant you to take the
city of Troy, and to have safe return to your homes.”

Then all the others spake him fair, and would have done what he
wished. Only Agamemnon would not have it so.

“Get thee out, graybeard!” he cried in great wrath.
“Let me not find thee lingering now by the ships, neither
coming hither again, or it shall be the worse for thee, for all thy
priesthood. And as for thy daughter, I shall carry her away to
Argos, when I shall have taken this city of Troy.”

Then the old man went out hastily in great fear and trouble. And
he walked in his sorrow by the shore of the sounding sea, and
prayed to his god Apollo.

“Hear me, god of the silver bow! If I have built thee a
temple, and offered thee fat of many bullocks and rams, hear me,
and avenge my tears on the Greeks with thine arrows!”

And Apollo heard him. Wroth was he that men had so dishonored
his priest, and he came down from the top of Olympus, where he
dwelt. Dreadful was the rattle of his arrows as he went, and his
coming was as the night when it cometh over the sky. Then he shot
the arrows of death, first on the dogs and the mules, and then on
the men; and soon all along the shore rolled the black smoke from
the piles of wood on which they burnt the bodies of the dead.

For nine days the shafts of the god went throughout the host;
but on the tenth day Achilles called the people to an assembly. So
Juno bade him, for she loved the Greeks, and grieved to see them
die. When they were gathered together he stood up among them, and
spake to Agamemnon:—

“Surely it were better to return home, than that we should
all perish here by war or plague. But come, let us ask some prophet
or priest or dreamer of dreams why it is that Apollo is so wroth
with us.”

Then stood up Calchas, best of seers, who knew what had been,
and what was, and what was to come, and spake:—

“Achilles, thou biddest me tell the people why Apollo is
wroth with them. Lo! I will tell thee, but thou must first swear to
stand by me, for I know that what I shall say will anger King
Agamemnon, and it goes ill with common men when kings are
angry.”

“Speak out, thou wise man!” cried Achilles;
“for I swear by Apollo that while I live no one shall lay
hands on thee, no, not Agamemnon’s self, though he be
sovereign lord of the Greeks.”

Then the blameless seer took heart, and spake: “It is not
for vow or offering that Apollo is wroth; it is for his servant the
priest, for he came to ransom his daughter, but Agamemnon scorned
him, and would not let the maiden go. Now, then, ye must send her
back to Chryse without ransom, and with her a hundred beasts for
sacrifice, so that the plague may be stayed.”

Then Agamemnon stood up in a fury, his eyes blazing like
fire.

“Never,” he cried, “hast thou spoken good
concerning me, ill prophet that thou art, and now thou tellest me
to give up this maiden! I will do it, for I would not that the
people should perish. Only take care, ye Greeks, that there be a
share of the spoil for me, for it would ill beseem the lord of all
the host that he alone should be without his share.”

“Nay, my lord Agamemnon,” cried Achilles,
“thou art too eager for gain. We have no treasures out of
which we may make up thy loss, for what we got out of the towns we
have either sold or divided; nor would it be fitting that the
people should give back what has been given to them. Give up the
maiden, then, without conditions, and when we shall have taken this
city of Troy, we will repay thee three and four fold.”

“Nay, great Achilles,” said Agamemnon, “thou
shalt not cheat me thus. If the Greeks will give me such a share as
I should have, well and good. But if not, I will take one for
myself, whether it be from thee or from Ajax or from Ulysses; for
my share I will have. But of this hereafter. Now let us see that
this maiden be sent back. Let them get ready a ship, and put her
herein, and with her a hundred victims, and let some chief go with
the ship, and see that all things be rightly done.”

Then cried Achilles, and his face was as black as a
thunder-storm: “Surely thou art altogether shameless and
greedy, and, in truth, an ill ruler of men. No quarrel have I with
the Trojans. They never harried oxen or sheep of mine in fertile
Phthia, for many murky mountains lie between, and a great breadth
of roaring sea. But I have been fighting in thy cause, and that of
thy brother Menelaus. Naught carest thou for that. Thou leavest me
to fight, and sittest in thy tent at ease. But when the spoil is
divided, thine is always the lion’s share. Small, indeed, is
my part,—‘a little thing, but dear.’ And this,
forsooth, thou wilt take away! Now am I resolved to go home. I have
no mind to heap up goods and gold for thee, and be myself
dishonored.”

And King Agamemnon answered, “Go, and thy Myrmidons with
thee! I have other chieftains as good as thou art, and ready, as
thou art not, to pay me due respect; and Zeus, the god of council,
is with me. I hate thee, for thou always lovest war and strife. And
as for the matter of the spoil, know that I will take thy share,
the girl Briseïs, and fetch her myself, if need be, that all
may know that I am sovereign lord here in the host of the
Greeks.”

Then Achilles was mad with anger, and he thought in his heart,
“Shall I arise and slay this caitiff, or shall I keep down
the wrath in my breast?” And as he thought he laid his hand
on his sword-hilt, and had half-drawn his sword from the scabbard,
when lo! the goddess Athene stood behind him (for Juno, who loved
both this chieftain and that, had sent her), and caught him by the
long locks of his yellow hair. But Achilles marveled much to feel
the mighty grasp, and turned and looked, and knew the goddess, but
no one else in the assembly might see her. Terrible was the flash
of his eyes as he cried, “Art thou come, child of Zeus, to
see the insolence of Agamemnon? Of a truth, I think that he will
perish for his folly.”

But Athene said, “Nay, but I am come from heaven to abate
thy wrath, if thou wilt hear me; white-armed Juno sent me, for she
loveth and cherisheth you both alike. Draw not thy sword; but use
bitter words, even as thou wilt. Of a truth, I tell thee that for
this insolence of to-day he will bring thee hereafter splendid
gifts, threefold and fourfold for all that he may take away. Only
refrain thyself and do my bidding.”

Then Achilles answered, “I will abide by thy command for
all my wrath, for the man who hearkens to the immortal gods is also
heard of them.” And as he spake he laid his heavy hand upon
the hilt, and thrust back the sword into the scabbard, and Athene
went her way to Olympus.

Then he turned him to King Agamemnon, and spake again, for his
anger was not spent. “Drunkard, with the eyes of a dog and
the heart of a deer! never fighting in the front of the battle, nor
daring to lie in the ambush! ’Tis a race of dastards that
thou rulest, or this had been thy last wrong. But this I tell thee,
and confirm my words with a mighty oath—by this sceptre do I
swear. Once it was the branch of a tree, but now the sons of the
Greeks bear it in their hands, even they who maintain the laws of
Zeus; as surely as it shall never again have bark, or leaves, or
shoot, so surely shall the Greeks one day miss Achilles, when they
fall in heaps before the dreadful Hector; and thou shalt eat thy
heart for rage, to think that thou hast wronged the bravest of thy
host.”

And as he spake he dashed the sceptre, all embossed with studs
of gold, upon the ground, and sat down. And on the other side
Agamemnon sat in furious anger. Then Nestor rose, an old man of a
hundred years and more, and counseled peace. Let them listen, he
said, to his counsel. Great chiefs in the old days, with whom no
man now alive would dare to fight, had listened. Let not Agamemnon
take away from the bravest of the Greeks the prize of war; let not
Achilles, though he was mightier in battle than all other men,
contend with Agamemnon, who was sovereign lord of all the hosts of
Greece. But he spake in vain. For Agamemnon answered,—

“Nestor, thou speakest well, and peace is good. But this
fellow would lord it over all; yet there are some, methinks, who
will not obey him. For if the immortal Gods have made him a great
warrior, do they therefore grant him leave to speak lawless words?
Verily he must be taught that there is one here, at least, who is
better than he.”

And Achilles said, “I were a slave and a coward if I owned
thee as my lord. Not so; play the master over others, but think not
to master me. As for the prize which the Greeks gave me, let them
do as they will. They gave it; let them take it away. But if thou
darest to touch aught that is mine own, that hour thy life-blood
shall redden on my spear.”

Then the assembly was dismissed. Chryseïs was sent to her
home with due offerings to the god, the wise Ulysses going with
her. And all the people purified themselves, and offered offerings
to the Gods; and the sweet savor went up to heaven in the wreathing
smoke.

But King Agamemnon would not go back from his purpose. So he
called to him the heralds, Talthybius and Eurybates, and
said,—

“Heralds, go to the tents of Achilles, and fetch the
maiden Briseïs. But if he will not let her go, say that I will
come myself with many others to fetch her; so will it be the worse
for him.”

Sorely against their will the heralds went. Along the seashore
they walked, till they came to where, amidst the Myrmidons, were
the tents of Achilles. There they found him, sitting between his
tent and his ship. He did not rejoice to see them, and they stood
in great terror and shame. But he knew in his heart wherefore they
had come, and cried aloud, “Come near, ye heralds, messengers
of Gods and men. ’Tis no fault of yours that ye are come on
such an errand.”

Then he turned to Patroclus (now Patroclus was his dearest
friend) and said,—

“Bring the maiden from her tent, and let the heralds lead
her away. But let them be witnesses, before gods and men, and
before this evil-minded king, against the day when he shall have
sore need of me to save his hosts from destruction. Fool that he
is, who knoweth not to look back and to look forward, that his
people may be safe!”

Then Patroclus brought forth the maiden from her tent, and gave
her to the heralds. And they led her away; but it was sorely
against her will that she went. But Achilles went apart from his
comrades, and sat upon the seashore, falling into a great passion
of tears, and stretching out his hands with loud prayer to his
mother, Thetis, daughter of the sea. She heard him where she sat in
the depths by her father, the old god of the sea, and rose from the
gray sea, as a vapor rises, and came to where he was weeping, and
stroked him with her hand, and called him by his name.

“What ails thee, my son?” she said.

Then he told her the story of his wrong, and when he had ended
he said,—

“Go, I pray thee, to the top of Olympus, to the palace of
Zeus. Often have I heard thee in my father’s hall boast how,
long ago, thou didst help him when the other gods would have bound
him, fetching Briareus of the hundred hands, who sat by him in his
strength, so that the Gods feared to touch him. Go now, and call
these things to his mind, and pray him that he help the sons of
Troy, and give them victory in the battle, so that the Greeks, as
they flee before them, may have joy of this king of theirs, who has
done such wrong to the bravest of his host.”

And his mother answered him, “Surely thine is an evil lot,
my son. This life is short, and it should of right be without tears
and full of joy; but now it seems to me to be both short and sad.
But I will go as thou sayest to Olympus, to the palace of Zeus; but
not now, for he has gone, and the other Gods with him, to a twelve
days’ feast with the pious Ethiopians. But when he cometh
back I will entreat and persuade him. And do thou sit still, nor go
forth to battle.”

Meanwhile Ulysses drew near to Chryse with the holy offerings.
And when they were come within the haven, they furled the sail, and
laid it in the ship, and lowered the mast, and rowed the ship to
her moorings. They cast out the anchor stones, and made fast the
cables from the stern. After that they landed, taking with them the
offerings and the maid Chryseïs. To the altar they brought the
maid, and gave her into the arms of her father, and the wise
Ulysses said, “See now; Agamemnon, King of men, sends back
thy daughter, and with her a hundred beasts for sacrifice, that we
may appease the god who hath smitten the Greeks in his
wrath.”

Then the priest received his daughter right gladly, and when
they had ranged the beasts about the altar, and poured out the
water of purification, and taken up handfuls of bruised barley,
then the priest prayed, “Hear me, God of the silver bow! If
before thou didst hearken to my prayer, and grievously afflict the
Greeks, so hear me now, and stay this plague which is come upon
them.”

So prayed he, and the god gave ear.

Then they cast the barley on the heads of the cattle, and slew
them, and flayed them, and they cut out the thigh-bones and wrapped
them up in folds of fat, and laid raw morsels on them. These the
priest burned on fagots, pouring on sparkling wine; and the young
men stood by, having the five-pronged forks in their hands. And
when the thighs were consumed, then they cut up the rest, and
broiled the pieces carefully on spits. This being done, they made
their meal, nor did any one lack his share. And when the meal was
ended, then they poured a little wine into the cups to serve for
libations to the Gods. After that they sat till sunset, singing a
hymn to the Archer God, and making merry; and he heard their voice
and was pleased.

When the sun went down, they slept beside the stern-cables; and
when the dawn appeared, then they embarked, raising the mast and
spreading the sail; and Apollo sent them a favoring wind, and the
dark blue wave hissed about the stem of the ship as she went: so
they came to the camp of the Greeks.

But all the time Achilles sat in wrath beside his ships; he went
not to the war, nor yet to the assembly, but sat fretting in his
heart, because he longed for the cry of the battle.

The Fight between Paris and
Menelaus

By Walter C. Perry

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Contents

In obedience to the summons of their leaders, the great host of
the Achaians assembled on the plain of the flowing river Scamander,
innumerable as the leaves and flowers in the season of spring. And
in the midst of them stood the great ruler, Agamemnon: his head and
eyes like those of Loud-thundering Zeus; his waist like that of the
Man-slaying Mars; and with a breast like that of Neptune, the Ruler
of the Sea. As the mail-clad Argives marched on, and rushed across
the plain, the earth groaned beneath them.

Now Ægis-bearing Zeus sent his messenger, Iris, to the
assembly of the Trojans, with the voice of Polites, son of Priam,
their sentinel at Priam’s gate, and spake thus to Hector:
“This is no time for idle words, for stern war is already
upon you. But to thee, O Hector, do I especially speak; and do thou
obey my voice! As thou hast many allies, of diverse nations and
tongues, let each chief marshal and command his own people, and
lead them forth to war.”

And the glorious Hector knew the voice of the messenger, and
hastened to obey. He straightway dissolved the assembly. The gates
of Troy were then thrown open, and the Trojan host rushed forth,
with a mighty din. The blameless Hector, with his glancing helmet,
was foremost of all, and led the bravest and strongest of the men;
Æneas, son of the goddess Aphrodite, or Venus, born amidst
the peaks of Ida, led the Dardans; and of the other leaders of the
allies, the most famous were Sarpedon, son of Zeus, and blameless
Glaucus, who led the Lycians, from distant Lycia, by the
swift-eddying Xanthus.

And, as the countless hosts advanced, to meet each other in
deadly conflict, the Trojans marched with noisy shouts, like the
clamor of the cranes, when they fly to the streams of Oceanus, in
the early morning, screaming, and bringing death and destruction to
the Pigmy men; but the Achaieans came on in silence, breathing
dauntless courage.

But when they came near to each other, the goodly Paris went
before the front rank of the Trojans, and brandished his spear, and
challenged all the Argive chiefs to single combat. When the warlike
Menelaus, whom Paris had so deeply wronged by carrying off his
wife, the beautiful Helen, saw Paris there, he was glad, thinking
that he should now punish the false traitor for his wickedness. So
he leaped from his chariot, in his clanging armor, and advanced to
meet the challenger. And Paris saw him; and pale fear got hold of
him, like to a man who has trodden on a serpent, in a wooded valley
among the mountains; and he shrank back among the lordly
Trojans.

His brother Hector saw him, and reproached him with scornful
words. “Base deceiver of women, beautiful in appearance and
favor, but coward at heart! would that thou hadst never been born,
or that thou hadst died unwedded! Now thou seest what kind of man
is he, whose lovely wife thou hast carried off by stealth. Of no
avail will be thy sounding lyre, thy beauteous face and curling
hair, or all the gifts of golden Venus, when thou liest groveling
in the dust.”

And the goodly Paris answered him, “Hector, thou rightly
chidest me, and not more than I deserve. Thy heart is ever
undaunted, and keen as the axe, which cutteth the strong oak, in
the hands of a skillful shipwright. But reproach me not for the
lovely gifts of golden Aphrodite; for no man can obtain them by
wishing for them, for they are among the precious gifts of the
blessed Gods. But if thou desirest that I should do battle with the
valiant Menelaus, make the Trojans and the Achaians sit down; and
set me and Menelaus in the midst, to fight for Helen and for all
the treasures which were taken away with her. And whichever of us
twain shall be the victor, let him bear away the woman and the
treasure, and take them home.”

So spake he, and they all kept silence; but Menelaus of the loud
war-cry stood forward amongst the Greeks and made harangue,
“Hearken now to me, for my heart hath endured the greatest
grief. Whosoever of us twain shall fall, there let him lie. But now
bring a goodly sacrifice, a white ram and a black ewe, for the
Earth and for the Sun; and another for Loud-thundering Zeus; and
summon hither the great King Priam, that he may take the pledge;
for his sons are reckless and faithless; young men’s hearts
are too frivolous and fickle, but an old man looketh to the future
and the past.”

And Hector sent heralds to the city, to fetch two lambs, and to
summon Priam; while Agamemnon sent Talthybius for a ram. Now Iris,
in Troy, came to Helen, in the semblance of Laodice, Paris’s
sister, fairest of Priam’s daughters, wife of Helicaon, the
son of Antenor. She found Helen weaving a great purple web, on
which she was embroidering the battles of the Argives and the
Trojans. The swift-footed Iris came near her, and said, “Come
hither, dear lady, come with me, to see the wondrous deeds of the
horse-taming Trojans and the mail-clad Argives; for now the battle
is suspended, while Paris, and Menelaus, dear to Mars, will fight
alone with their spears, for thee; and thou wilt be the
fair wife of the victor.” So Iris spoke, and put into
Helen’s bosom a longing for her former husband, and for her
darling daughter. Then Helen veiled her face, and went straightway
to the Scæan Gate, letting fall a tear; and her two
handmaidens, Æthre and Clymene, followed her.

On the tower above the Scæan Gate, she found the Trojan
elders. These, on account of their age, had ceased from war, but
were still good orators, with voices like the grasshoppers which
sit upon a tree, and send forth their lily-like voice; so sat the
elders of the Trojans on the Tower. When those ancient sages saw
the fair Helen coming to them, they were astounded, and whispered
one to another, “No wonder that the Trojans and the Achaians
have suffered so many things for such a glorious woman! But, fair
as she is, let her sail away, and not stay here to trouble us and
our children after us.”

But the aged King Priam addressed her kindly. “Dear
Daughter! come hither, and see thy former husband and kinsmen! I do
not blame thee, but the Gods, and especially Venus, by
whom this sad war has been brought upon us. But tell me who is that
huge Achaian warrior? Many are taller than he, but I have never
seen a man so stately and royal.” And the fair Helen, the
daughter of Zeus, replied, “O venerable Father of my lord!
would that death had been my lot, when I followed thy son to Troy,
and left my home and husband, and my dear young daughter, and all
the loved companions of my girlhood! But that was not to be, and
therefore I mourn and weep. The man of whom thou speakest is
Atreides, the wide-ruling monarch Agamemnon, who is both a stately
king and a doughty warrior; he is the brother of Menelaus my
husband—shameless thing that I am!”

Then the aged Priam asked her about the other Achaian
chiefs,—Ulysses, and the gigantic Ajax, the bulwark of the
host, and the godlike Idomeneus; and the lovely Helen told him all,
and said, “I see all the other bright-eyed Achaians, and
could tell their names; but two I see not, even mine own brothers,
horse-taming Castor and the boxer Pollux; peradventure they came
not with the Achaians; or if they came, they fight not, for fear of
the revilings which men heap on me—shameless that I
am!” She knew not that the earth already covered them, in
Lacedæmon, their dear native land. Now the aged Priam drove
out through the Scæan Gate, with Antenor by his side; and,
when he had come to the Achaians and the Trojans, he descended from
his chariot, and stood on the Earth, the bounteous grain-giver.
Then Agamemnon, the king of men, and Ulysses, the man of many
devices, rose up; and the stately heralds brought the holy
oath-offerings to the gods, and mixed the ruddy wine in the
mixing-bowl, from which they gave portions to the Achaian and the
Trojan chiefs. Agamemnon raised his hands to heaven and prayed,
“O Father Zeus, most great and glorious! O Sun, who seest and
hearest all things! O ye Rivers, and thou, Mother Earth! be ye all
witnesses to our oaths! If Paris shall kill Menelaus, then let him
keep Helen and all her possessions; but if the yellow-haired
Menelaus slay Paris, then let the Trojans give back Helen and her
treasures!”

Then the lordly Agamemnon slew the lambs, and prayed again to
Zeus. But Priam spake unto the Achaians and the Trojans. “I
verily will return to breezy Ilium; for I cannot bear to see my own
son engaged in deadly conflict with the war-loving
Menelaus.”

Then the goodly Paris, lord of the fair-haired Helen, put on his
beautiful armor. First he set the splendid greaves upon his legs,
fastened round the ankles with silver clasps; then he donned the
corslet, which he had borrowed from his brother Lycaon; and he
threw over his shoulders the silver-studded sword-belt with his
sword, and took up his mighty shield; and upon his beauteous head
he placed the helmet, with a horsehair crest, and the plume nodded
terribly; and he took a strong spear in his hand.

Then he and Menelaus stood face to face, on the ground which
Hector and Ulysses had meted out; and they brandished their spears,
with wrath against each other. Paris drew the lot to be the first
to cast his long-shafted spear; he threw it, and it struck the
round shield of Atreides Menelaus, but did not pierce it; for the
point of the spear was turned.

Then Menelaus, poising his lance, prayed to Zeus, “O
Father Zeus! grant me to take vengeance on goodly Paris, who did me
such foul wrong—me, who had shown him so much
kindness!” He said, and hurled his strong spear, which struck
the bright shield of the son of Priam; and the sharp point passed
through it, and through his breastplate, and rent the tunic, close
to the side of his body; but Paris swerved from it, and shunned the
black fate of death. Then Menelaus drew his sword from the
silver-studded sheath, and smote on the helmet of Paris, but the
sword was shattered, and fell in pieces from his hand. Then he
looked up to heaven, and exclaimed, “O Father Zeus! thou art
the most cruel of all the Gods!”

So saying, he caught Paris by his horse-hair crest, and dragged
him towards the well-greaved Achaians, and the embroidered strap of
the helmet went nigh to strangle him. But Venus, daughter of great
Zeus, who loved the beauteous Paris, drew near him, and tore the
strap of leather; and the helmet came away, empty, in the strong
hand of the son of Atreus. Full of wrath, he hurled it towards his
trusty companions, and they took it up. He then rushed back again,
to slay his enemy; but golden-haired Venus, being a goddess, easily
caught up Paris, and hid him in thick darkness, and carried him
into Troy, to his high and fragrant chamber.

Venus, the golden Goddess of Love, then went to summon Helen, in
the likeness of an old woman, a wool-comber, who had worked for
Helen in Lacedæmon, and whom she greatly loved. She found the
white-armed Helen on the high tower, and spake: “Come hither
to Paris, who sends for thee; he is there in the fragrant chamber,
shining in beauty—

But Helen’s heart was greatly moved; she knew the golden
Venus, saw her fair neck and sparkling eyes, and called her by her
name. “O thou strange Goddess! wouldst thou again deceive me?
Now Menelaus hath conquered Paris, and will carry me
home—accursed as I am! And now do thou no more
return to Olympus, but leave the dwelling of the Gods, and go and
sit by Paris, till he make thee his wife—or
perchance, his slave. But I will not go to him; for all
the Trojan women would justly blame me hereafter; I have
innumerable griefs within my heart.”

Then was the bright goddess sore displeased, and spake harshly
to her. “Beware! thou foolish woman! lest in my wrath I leave
thee, and henceforth hate thee, as I have loved thee until
now!” Venus spake, and Helen, daughter of great Zeus,
trembled and obeyed, wrapping her beautiful garments about her; and
the goddess led her to the fragrant chamber in the palace, and set
her on a chair before the goodly Paris.

But Helen looked askance at her lord, and chode him with bitter
words. “Would that thou hadst never come back from the fight,
but hadst perished by the arm of the warrior who was once my
husband! Thou didst boast thyself to be a better man than Menelaus!
Go then, and challenge him again, to meet thee face to face once
more!”

Yet Helen, though she could not but despise Paris, soon became
reconciled to him, partly from a remnant of her former love for
him, and partly from her fear of Venus.

In the meantime, Menelaus was raging through the field in search
of him. Nor could any of the Trojans find him, or they would have
given him up; for they hated him like death, as the cause of all
their sufferings.

And King Agamemnon said to the Trojans, “Now that the
Mars-loving Menelaus hath conquered Paris do ye give back to us
Helen and all her treasures!” But this was not to be.

The Duel between Hector and
Ajax

By Walter C. Perry

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Contents

And now we must speak of Hector, the noble Trojan prince, who,
after Achilles, was the most famous warrior of the two hostile
armies. Achilles, indeed, was the son of a goddess, even
silver-footed Thetis; while Hector’s mother, Hecuba, was a
mortal woman.

Well knowing the dangers to which he was exposed, and how soon
he might fall in battle, Hector now bethought him of his lovely
wife, Andromache, and his little boy Astyanax. When he came to the
Scæan Gate, the Trojan women came running to him, with eager
questions about their husbands, sons, and brothers; and sorrow
filled their hearts. Among them came his fond and generous mother,
Hecuba, leading by the hand the fairest of her daughters, Laodice,
and she called him by his name, and spoke: “Dear Son! why
hast thou left the field? Do the Achaians press thee hard? Dost
thou come to make prayers to Father Zeus, from the Citadel? But
come, I will bring thee honey-sweet wine, that thou mayest pour out
a libation to Almighty Zeus, the Son of Cronos, and refresh thyself
with a draught.”

But Hector answered her, “Bring me no luscious wine, dear
mother! lest thou rob me of my strength and courage. Nor dare I
make a libation to Zeus, with hands unwashen and soiled with blood.
But go thou to the Temple of Athene, driver of the spoil; and lay
the finest robe, the most precious to thyself, upon her knees; and
vow to sacrifice twelve fat kine to her; and beg her to have mercy
on the Trojans, and on their wives and little children! So,
perhaps, she will hold back the terrible warrior, Tydides, from
sacred Ilium. And I will go and seek out Paris; would that the
earth would swallow him up! for Zeus hath cherished him to be the
bane of his country, and of his father Priam.”

Then Hecuba went to her ambrosial chamber, and took the finest
of her embroidered robes, the work of Sidonian women, which shone
like a star; and went, with other aged women, to the temple of
Athene. And the fair-cheeked Theano, daughter of Kisseus, the
priestess, wife of Antenor, opened the temple gates, and took the
shining robe, and laid it upon Athene’s knees, and prayed to
the great daughter of Zeus. But the goddess did not grant her
prayer.

But Hector went his way to the fair palace of Paris, and found
him in his chamber, polishing his beautiful armor, and proving his
curved bow. Then, when Hector saw him, he reproached him with
bitter words. “O thou strange man! thou dost not well to
nurse thy spite against the Trojans, who are now perishing before
the city, and all for thy sake! Rise, then, now, lest the city be
burned with fire!”

And the goodly Paris answered, “It is not so much by
reason of my wrath against the Trojans, but I would fain indulge my
sorrow. My wife, too, hath urged me to the battle. Tarry then
awhile, and I will don my armor; or go thou before, and I will
follow.”

Then the divine Helen, daughter of great Zeus, came and spoke
gently to Hector, and said, “O brother! brother of vile
me, who am a dog—would that, when my mother bare me,
the storm-wind had snatched me away to a mountain, or a billow of
the loud-roaring sea had swept me away, before all these evil
things had befallen me! Would that I had been mated with a better
man than Paris, whose heart is not sound, and never will be. But
come, my brother, and sit by me; for thou verily hast suffered most
for me, who am a dog, and for the grievous sin of Paris, upon whom,
surely, Zeus is bringing evil days; he will be, hereafter, a song
of scorn in the mouths of future men, through all time to
come.”

But noble Hector answered her, “If thou lovest me, dear
Helen, bid me not stay; for I go to succor my friends, who long for
me in my absence. But do thou try and rouse this husband of thine,
and bid him overtake me. As for me, I shall first go to my home,
and to my wife and my little son; for who knoweth whether I shall
ever return to them again?”

So spake the glorious Hector, and went his way to his own
well-furnished house; but he found not Andromache there; for she
had gone to the tower, with her fair-robed nurse and with her boy,
all bathed in tears. Hector asked the servants whither the
white-armed Andromache was gone; and the busy matron of the house
replied, “She is gone to the tower of holy Troy; for she
heard that the Trojans were defeated, and the Achaians
victorious.” Then Hector returned, by the same way, down the
wide streets, and came to the Scæan Gate.

And his peerless wife, even Andromache, daughter of the
high-minded Eëtion, king of Cilicia—she whom he had won
by countless gifts—came running to meet him. And with her
came the handmaid, the nurse, bearing in her arms Hector’s
tender boy, Astyanax, beautiful as the morning star. And Hector
smiled, and looked on his darling boy, while Andromache stood
beside him weeping. And she clasped his hand, and called him by his
name. “O my dear lord, thy dauntless courage will destroy
thee! Hast thou no pity for thy infant child, and for thy hapless
wife, who soon will be a widow? It were far better for me to die,
if I lose thee; for nevermore can I know comfort, but only
pain and sorrow. For I shall be utterly alone. I have neither
father nor mother; for Eëtion, my royal sire, was slain by
great Achilles. And all my seven brothers went down to Hades on the
selfsame day! they too were slain by swift-footed Pelides. But my
mother was smitten in her father’s halls, by the gentle
arrows of the archer Artemis. Lo! now, thou art all in all
to me, father, mother, brother, and dearly loved husband! Come,
then, take pity on us, and abide in the tower, and make not thy boy
an orphan, and thy wife a widow!”

And the glorious Hector of the glancing helm answered her, and
said, “Dear Wife! I too think of all these things. But how
can I shun the battle, like a coward, to be the mock of the
Trojans, and of the Trojan dames with trailing robes? I, who have
always fought in the van of battle, and won glory for my father and
myself? I know that the day will come, when sacred Ilium shall be
leveled with the ground, and Priam and the people of Priam shall
perish. But it is not so much the fate of Priam, and of my mother,
Hecuba, and of my brethren, which fills my soul with anguish; but
it is thy misery, dear one, in the day when some Achaian
warrior shall bear thee away, weeping, and rob thee of thy freedom.
Thou, alas! wilt abide in Argos, and ply the loom, the slave of
another woman; or bear water from the Hypereian fount, being
harshly treated! And one will say, as he looketh upon thee,
‘This was the wife of Hector, the foremost of the
horse-taming Trojans in the war round Ilium.’ But may the
deep earth cover me, ere I hear thee crying in the day of
thy captivity.”

So spake he, and held out his arms to take his darling boy. But
the child shrank crying, and nestled in the bosom of his
well-girdled nurse; for he feared the horsehair crest, nodding
terribly from the brazen helmet. Then the fond parents laughed; and
Hector doffed his helmet, and laid it on the ground. And he kissed
his dear child, and fondled him, and prayed thus to
Zeus:—

“O Zeus! and all ye Gods! grant that this, my son, may
like me be foremost to fight among the Trojans, and rule as a king
in Ilium; so that men may say, ‘He is far better than his
father’!”

Thus speaking, he laid the child in the fragrant bosom of his
dear wife Andromache; and he pitied her, and caressed her with his
hand, and called her by her name. “Dear one! be not thus
utterly cast down. No man can slay me till my hour of destiny is
come. But no man, when once he hath been born, can escape his fate,
be he a brave man or a coward. Go thou to thy house, to the distaff
and the loom, and make thy maidens ply their labors. But
men shall engage in war, and I the first of all in
Troy.”

So spake Hector of the glancing helmet, and went his way. And
his dear wife went to her home, looking back at him as she went,
shedding bitter tears. And she found her maidens there, and with
them she bewailed her lord, while yet he lived; for they feared
that he would never again return from battle.

And the goodly Paris donned his beautiful armor, and hastened
after his brother, whom he overtook, and he made excuse for his
long tarrying. And Hector answered him, “No man can justly
speak lightly of thy deeds, for thou art strong; but thou art slack
and careless, and I am grieved when I hear shameful things said of
thee by the Trojans, who for thee bear so much toil. But let us be
going.”

So the twain brothers, the glorious Hector and the goodly Paris,
went forth to the battle. And Paris slew Menesthius, of Arne, son
of Areïthous; and Hector smote noble Eïoneus in the neck,
and relaxed his limbs in death. And Glaucus, captain of the Lycian
allies, cast his spear at Iphinous, and pierced his shoulder; and
he fell from his chariot, and his limbs were loosened.

But when the fierce-eyed Athene saw the Trojans making havoc of
the Achaians, she rushed down from the peaks of Olympus, to sacred
Ilium. And Apollo, who favored the Trojans, saw her from Pergamus,
and hastened to meet her; and they met by the beech-tree, and
Apollo of the Silver Bow addressed her: “Why dost thou come,
O Daughter of the Loud-Thunderer? Is it to bring victory to the
Greeks? for thou hast no pity on the Trojans. But hearken unto me,
and let us stop the battle for this day—hereafter they shall
fight again.”

And the fierce-eyed goddess answered him, “Be it so,
Far-Darter! for this was my purpose when I came from high Olympus.
But how thinkest thou to make the war to cease?”

Then King Apollo spake. “Let us rouse the valiant spirit
of horse-taming Hector, to challenge one of the Greeks to deadly
single combat.” And the fierce-eyed Maid assented to his
words.

And the dear son of royal Priam, Helenus, the wise augur, who
knew the counsel of the Gods, drew near to Hector, and spake thus
to him: “Dear brother, who art peer of Zeus in counsel,
wouldst thou listen to me? Make the Trojans and the Achaians sit
down; and do thou challenge the bravest of the Achaians to meet
thee in single combat. I hear the voice of the deathless Gods, that
it is not yet thy lot to die.”

And the great Hector rejoiced at his words; and going into the
throng, he held back the companies of the Trojans with his spear,
holding it in the middle, and made them all sit down. And Agamemnon
made the well-greaved Achaians sit down. And Athene and Apollo, in
the form of vultures, sat on a lofty tree, and watched the hosts.
And Hector stood between the two armies, and spake: “Hear me,
ye Trojans and Achaians! Amongst you are the great chiefs of the
Achaians. Now let one of these be your champion, to fight with me,
Hector: and I call Zeus to witness, that if he slay me, you shall
let him carry off my armor, but give my body to the Trojans, that
they may render to me the honor of the funeral pyre. But if the
Far-Darter shall grant me glory, that I may slay him, then
will I strip him of his armor, and hang it in the Temple of Apollo;
but his lifeless body I will give back to the long-haired Achaians,
that they may bury him, and build him a barrow by the
Hellespont.”

Thus spake the glorious Hector; but all were silent; for they
were afraid to meet him. Then, at last, Menelaus, groaning deeply,
reproached the Achaians, and said, “O ye women of Achaia, no
longer men! surely this will be an everlasting shame to
us, if none of the Greeks dare to fight with the noble Hector! But
I myself will arm me; for the issues of victory are with the
Gods.”

And he began to put on his dazzling armor. And now wouldst thou,
Menelaus, have yielded up thy life at the hands of Hector; but the
great ruler, Agamemnon, rose up and stayed thee. “Art thou
mad, O foster-son of Zeus? Draw back, though with grief and pain;
and think not to fight with Hector, the man-slaying son of Priam;
for he is a far better man than thou, even godlike Achilles feareth
to meet this man in battle. Go then and sit down; and we will
choose another champion.”

And the fair-haired Menelaus obeyed his brother’s words,
and his henchmen gladly took off his bright armor. And the wise
Nestor arose, and upbraided all the Achaian chiefs: “Fie on
us! Shame and lamentation have come upon us all. Surely the aged
Peleus, the goodly king of the Myrmidons, would deeply groan, if he
heard that we are all cowering before great Hector; he would pray
that his soul might leave his body and go down to Hades. Would to
Zeus, and to Athene and Apollo, that I were young, as when the
Pylians met the Arcadians in battle, and Ereuthalion, the squire of
King Lycurgus of Arcadia, wearing the divine armor of
Areïthous, of the iron mace, before the walls of Pheia, by the
waters of Iardanus, challenged all our host; and they were afraid
and trembled. Then I, the youngest of all, stood up and fought with
him, and Athene gave me great glory; for he was the tallest man,
and of the greatest bulk, that I have ever slain. Would that I were
still so young and strong! But of you, leaders of the Achaians, not
one has heart enough to meet great Hector.”

The wise old man’s reproaches filled the Achaian chiefs
with shame; and nine of them rose up, ready to fight; namely,
Agamemnon, king of men; and the stalwart Diomedes; and Idomeneus,
and his brother in arms, Meriones, equal in fight to murderous
Mars; and Eurypylus, and Thaus, and the wily Ulysses, and two
others. Then Nestor spake again. “Now cast lots for him that
shall be champion.” Then each man marked his lot, and threw
it into Agamemnon’s helmet; and all men prayed that the lot
might fall on Ajax or Diomedes, or the king of rich Mycenæ.
Then Nestor shook the helmet, and the lot of Ajax leapt out; and
the herald placed it in the hand of mighty Ajax, and he was glad;
for he said, “I think that I shall vanquish goodly
Hector.” And they all prayed to the Son of Cronos, to give
victory to Ajax, or to grant unto each of them equal glory and
renown.

Then huge Ajax donned his bright armor of bronze, and came forth
like the war-god Mars when he goeth to battle. The Achaians were
glad, but the Trojans trembled; and even the brave Hector felt his
heart beat quicker in his breast. But he would not shrink from the
combat, seeing that he had himself challenged all the Achaians. And
Ajax came on, bearing a mighty shield, like a tower, which Tychius,
the cunning leather-worker, had made for him, of sevenfold hides of
lusty bulls, all overlaid with bronze. And he stood near godlike
Hector, and spake: “Now shalt thou see what manner of men the
Greeks have among them, even now when Achilles, the lion-hearted,
hath left us in his wrath. But do thou begin the fight!”

And Hector answered him, “Great Ajax, son of Telamon,
sprung from Zeus! speak not to me as if I were a poor weak boy, or
a woman! for I too have knowledge of war and slaughter. I know how
to charge into the midst of the chariots, or, at close quarters, to
join in the wild dance of Mars.” He said, and hurled his
long-shafted spear, and struck the sevenfold shield of Ajax; it
passed through six folds, but was stopped by the seventh.

Then Ajax, sprung from Zeus, threw his ponderous lance at the
shield of mighty Priam’s son. It passed right through the
bright shield, and through the well-wrought corselet, and rent his
tunic; but he swerved aside, and escaped gloomy death. Then the two
fell upon each other, like ravening lions or wild boars; and Hector
smote the shield of Ajax with his spear, but the sharp point was
turned by the stout buckler. Then Ajax leapt upon him, and drove
his spear at Hector’s neck, making a wound from which the
dark blood flowed.

But Hector, undismayed, took up a great stone from the ground,
and with it smote the boss of Ajax’s shield. And Ajax heaved
up a far bigger stone and threw it on the buckler of Hector, and it
fell on him like a huge millstone, and stretched him on his back!
But Apollo raised him, and set him on his legs again.

Then they would have furiously attacked each other with their
swords, had not the Achaian herald, Talthybius, and the Trojan
herald, Idaius, intervened and stopped the fight, holding their
staves of office between the godlike warriors; and Idaius spake to
them: “Fight no longer, brave youths; for Zeus loveth you
both; and we know well what gallant warriors ye are. Night is upon
us, whose commands it behooveth us to obey.”

And the Telamonian Ajax answered, “Let Hector say those
words; for it was he who challenged us.”

And Hector of the shining helmet said, “Ajax, since thou
hast received strength and wisdom from the Gods, and dost excel all
the Achaians in the fight, let us now cease from battle for the
day, and hereafter we will fight again, until the Gods shall give
victory to one of us. Go now, and rejoice thy friends and kinsmen
by the ships, and I will gladden the hearts of Trojan men and
long-robed dames in the holy city of King Priam. But now let us
exchange costly gifts, that Trojans and Achaians may say of us that
we, having met in this heart-gnawing strife, have parted like good
friends.” He spake, and gave to Ajax a silver-studded sword;
and Ajax gave him a purple belt. So they parted, and went their
way; the one to the ships of the Achaians, and the other to the
holy city of Troy. And the Trojans rejoiced that Hector had escaped
unhurt from the unapproachable hands of mighty Ajax.

The Death of Patroclus and
the Battle of the River

By Alfred J. Church

Return to Table of
Contents

Patroclus came and stood by the side of Achilles weeping. Then
said Achilles, “What ails thee, Patroclus, that thou weepest
like a girl-child that runs along by her mother’s side, and
would be taken up, holding her gown, and looking at her with
tearful eyes till she lift her in her arms? Hast thou heard evil
news from Phthia? Menoetius yet lives, they say, and Peleus. Or art
thou weeping for the Greeks, because they perish for their
folly?”

Then said Patroclus, “Be not wroth with me, great
Achilles, for indeed the Greeks are in grievous straits, and all
their bravest are wounded, and still thou cherishest thy wrath.
Surely Peleus was not thy father, nor Thetis thy mother; but the
rocks begat thee, and the sea brought thee forth. Or if thou goest
not to battle, fearing some warning from the Gods, yet let me go,
and thy Myrmidons with me. And let me put thy armor on me; so shall
the Greeks have breathing-space from the war.”

So he spake, entreating, nor knew that for his own doom he
entreated. And Achilles made reply,—

“It is no warning that I heed, that I keep back from the
war. But these men took from me my prize, which I won with my own
hands. But let the past be past. I said I would not rise up till
the battle should come nigh to my own ships. But thou mayest put my
armor upon thee, and lead my Myrmidons to the fight. For in truth
the men of Troy are gathered as a dark cloud about the ships, and
the Greeks have scarce standing-ground between them and the sea.
For they see not the gleam of my helmet. And Diomed is not there
with his spear; nor do I hear the voice of Agamemnon, but only the
voice of Hector as he calls the men of Troy to the battle. Go,
therefore, Patroclus, and drive the fire from the ships. And then
come thou back, nor fight any more with the Trojans, lest thou take
my glory from me. And go not near, in the delight of the battle, to
the walls of Troy, lest one of the Gods meet thee to thy hurt; and,
of a truth, the keen Archer Apollo loves the Trojans
well.”

But as they talked the one to the other, Ajax could hold out no
longer. For swords and javelins came thick upon him, and clattered
on his helmet, and his shoulder was weary with the great shield
which he held; and he breathed heavily and hard, and the great
drops of sweat fell upon the ground. Then at the last Hector came
near and smote his spear with a great sword, so that the head fell
off. Then was Ajax sore afraid, and gave way, and the men of Troy
set torches to the ship’s stem, and a great flame shot up to
the sky. And Achilles saw it, and smote his thigh and
spake:—

“Haste thee, Patroclus, for I see the fire rising up from
the ships. Put thou on the armor, and I will call my people to the
war.” So Patroclus put on the armor—corselet, and
shield, and helmet—and bound upon his shoulder the
silver-studded sword, and took a mighty spear in his hand. But the
great Pelian spear he took not, for that no man but Achilles might
wield. Then Automedon yoked the horses to the chariot, Bayard and
Piebald, and with them in the side harness, Pedasus; and they two
were deathless steeds, but he was mortal.

Meanwhile Achilles had called the Myrmidons to battle. Fifty
ships had he brought to Troy, and in each there were fifty men.
Five leaders they had, and the bravest of the five was
Pisander.

Then Achilles said, “Forget not, ye Myrmidons, the bold
words that ye spake against the men of Troy during the days of my
wrath, making complaint that I kept you from the battle against
your will. Now, therefore, ye have that which you
desired.”

So the Myrmidons went to the battle in close array, helmet to
helmet, and shield to shield, close as the stones with which a
builder builds a wall. And in front went Patroclus, and Automedon
in the chariot beside him. Then Achilles went to his tent and took
a great cup from the chest, which Thetis his mother had given him.
Now no man drank of that cup but he only, nor did he pour out of it
libations to any of the Gods, but only to Zeus. This first he
cleansed with sulphur, and then with water from the spring. And
after this he washed his hands, and stood in the midst of the space
before his tent, and poured out of it to Zeus, saying, “O
Zeus, I send my comrade to this battle; make him strong and bold,
and give him glory, and bring him home safe to the ships, and my
people with him.”

So he prayed, and Father Zeus heard him, and part he granted and
part denied.

But now Patroclus with the Myrmidons had come to where the
battle was raging about the ship of Protesilaus, and when the men
of Troy beheld him they thought that Achilles had forgotten his
wrath and was come forth to the war. And first Patroclus slew
Pyræchmes, who was the chief of the Pæonians who live
on the banks of the broad Axius. Then the men of Troy turned to
flee, and many chiefs of fame fell by the spears of the Greeks. So
the battle rolled back to the trench, and in the trench many
chariots of the Trojans were broken, but the horses of Achilles
went across it at a stride, so nimble were they and strong. And the
heart of Patroclus was set to slay Hector; but he could not
overtake him, so swift were his horses. Then did Patroclus turn his
chariot, and keep back those that fled, that they should not go to
the city, and rushed hither and thither, still slaying as he
went.

But Sarpedon, when he saw the Lycians dismayed and scattered,
called to them that they should be of good courage, saying that he
would himself make trial of this great warrior. So he leapt down
from his chariot, and Patroclus also leapt down, and they rushed at
each other as two eagles rush together. Then first Patroclus struck
down Thrasymelus, who was the comrade of Sarpedon; and Sarpedon,
who had a spear in either hand, with the one struck the horse
Pedasus, which was of mortal breed, on the right shoulder, and with
the other missed his aim, sending it over the left shoulder of
Patroclus. But Patroclus missed not his aim, driving his spear into
Sarpedon’s heart. Then fell the great Lycian chief, as an
oak, or a poplar, or a pine falls upon the hills before the axe.
But he called to Glaucus, his companion, saying, “Now must
thou show thyself a good warrior, Glaucus. First call the men of
Lycia to fight for me, and do thou fight thyself, for it would be
foul shame to thee, all thy days, if the Greeks should spoil me of
my arms.”

Then he died. But Glaucus was sore troubled, for he could not
help him, so grievous was the wound where Teucer had wounded him.
Therefore he prayed to Apollo, and Apollo helped him and made him
whole. Then he went first to the Lycians, bidding them fight for
their king, and then to the chiefs of the Trojans, that they should
save the body of Sarpedon. And to Hector he said, “Little
carest thou for thy allies. Lo! Sarpedon is dead, slain by
Patroclus. Suffer not the Myrmidons to carry him off and do
dishonor to his body.”

But Hector was troubled to hear such news, and so were all the
sons of Troy, for Sarpedon was the bravest of the allies, and led
most people to the battle. So with a great shout they charged, and
drove the Greeks back a space from the body; and then again the
Greeks did the like. And so the battle raged, till no one would
have known the great Sarpedon, so covered was he with spears and
blood and dust. But at the last the Greeks drave back the men of
Troy from the body, and stripped the arms, but the body itself they
harmed not. For Apollo came down at the bidding of Zeus, and
carried it out of the midst of the battle, and washed it with
water, and anointed it with ambrosia, and wrapped it in garments of
the Gods. And then he gave it to Sleep and Death, and these two
carried it to Lycia, his fatherland.

Then did Patroclus forget the word which Achilles had spoken to
him, that he should not go near to Troy, for he pursued the men of
the city even to the wall. Thrice he mounted on the angle of the
wall, and thrice Apollo himself drove him back, pushing his shining
shield. But the fourth time the god said, “Go thou back,
Patroclus. It is not for thee to take the city of Troy; no, nor for
Achilles, who is far better than thou art.”

So Patroclus went back, fearing the wrath of the archer god.
Then Apollo stirred up the spirit of Hector, that he should go
against Patroclus. Therefore he went, with his brother Cebriones
for driver of his chariot. But when they came near, Patroclus cast
a great stone which he had in his hand, and smote Cebriones on the
forehead, crushing it in, so that he fell headlong from the
chariot. And Patroclus mocked him, saying,—

“How nimble is this man! how lightly he dives! What spoil
he would take of oysters, diving from a ship, even in a stormy sea!
Who would have thought that there were such skillful divers in
Troy!”

Then again the battle waxed hot about the body of Cebriones, and
this too, at the last, the Greeks drew unto themselves, and spoiled
it of the arms. And this being accomplished, Patroclus rushed
against the men of Troy. Thrice he rushed, and each time he slew
nine chiefs of fame. But the fourth time Apollo stood behind him
and struck him on the head and shoulders, so that his eyes were
darkened. And the helmet fell from off his head, so that the
horse-hair plumes were soiled with dust. Never before had it
touched the ground, for it was the helmet of Achilles. And also the
god brake the spear in his hand, and struck the shield from his
arms, and loosed his corselet. All amazed he stood, and then
Euphorbus, son of Panthous, smote him on the back with his spear,
but slew him not. Then Patroclus sought to flee to the ranks of his
comrades. But Hector saw him, and thrust at him with his spear,
smiting him in the groin, so that he fell. And when the Greeks saw
him fall, they sent up a terrible cry. Then Hector stood over him
and cried,—

“Didst thou think to spoil our city, Patroclus, and to
carry away our wives and daughters in the ships? But lo! I have
slain thee, and the fowls of the air shall eat thy flesh; nor shall
the great Achilles help thee at all,—Achilles, who bade thee,
I trow, strip the tunic from my breast, and thou thoughtest in thy
folly to do it.”

But Patroclus answered, “Thou boasteth much, Hector. Yet
thou didst not slay me, but Apollo, who took from me my
arms, for had twenty such as thou met me, I had slain them all. And
mark thou this: death and fate are close to thee by the hand of the
great Achilles.”

And Hector answered, but Patroclus was dead already, “Why
dost thou prophesy death to me? Maybe the great Achilles himself
shall fall by my hand.” Then he drew his spear from the
wound, and went after Automedon, to slay him, but the swift horse
of Achilles carried him away.

Fierce was the fight about the body of Patroclus, and many
heroes fell, both on this side and on that.

FIERCE WAS THE FIGHT ABOUT THE BODY OF PATROCLUS AND MANY HEROES
FELL

Meanwhile Antilochus, son of Nestor, ran to Achilles and said,
“I bring ill news; Patroclus lies low. The Greeks fight for
his body, but Hector hath his arms.”

Then Achilles took of the dust of the plain in his hand, and
poured it on his head, and lay at his length upon the ground, and
tare his hair. And all the women wailed. And Antilochus sat
weeping; but ever he held the hands of Achilles, lest he should
slay himself in his great grief.

Then came his mother, hearing his cry, from where she sat in the
depths of the sea, and laid her hand on him and said,—

“Why weepest thou, my son? Hide not the matter from me,
but tell me.”

And Achilles answered, “All that Zeus promised thee for me
he hath fulfilled. But what profit have I, for my friend Patroclus
is dead, and Hector has the arms which I gave him to wear. And as
for me, I care not to live, except I can avenge me upon
him.”

Then said Thetis, “Nay, my son, speak not thus. For when
Hector dieth, thy doom also is near.”

And Achilles spake in great wrath: “Would that I might die
this hour, seeing that I could not help my friend, but am a burden
on the earth,—I, who am better in battle than all the Greeks
besides. Cursed be the wrath that sets men to strive the one with
the other, even as it set me to strive with King Agamemnon! But let
the past be past. And as for my fate—let it come when it may,
so that I first avenge myself on Hector. Wherefore, seek not to
keep me back from the battle.”

Then Thetis said, “Be it so; only thou canst not go
without thy arms which Hector hath. But to-morrow will I go to
Vulcan, that he may furnish thee anew.”

But while they talked the men of Troy pressed the Greeks more
and more, and the two heroes, Ajax the Greater and Ajax the Less,
could no longer keep Hector back, but that he should lay hold of
the body of Patroclus. And indeed he would have taken it, but that
Zeus sent Iris to Achilles, who said,—

“Rouse thee, son of Peleus, or Patroclus will be a prey
for the dogs of Troy.”

But Achilles said, “How shall I go?—for arms have I
none, nor know I whose I might wear. Haply I could shift with the
shield of Ajax, son of Telamon, but he, I know, is carrying it in
the front of the battle.”

Then answered Iris, “Go only to the trench and show
thyself; so shall the men of Troy tremble and cease from the
battle, and the Greeks shall have breathing-space.”

So he went, and Athene put her ægis about his mighty
shoulders, and a golden halo about his head, making it shine as a
flame of fire, even as the watch-fires shine at night from some
city that is beseiged. Then went he to the trench; with the battle
he mingled not, heeding his mother’s commands, but he shouted
aloud, and his voice was as the sound of a trumpet. And when the
men of Troy heard, they were stricken with fear, and the horses
backed with the chariots, and the drivers were astonished when they
saw the flaming fire above his head which Athene had kindled.
Thrice across the trench the great Achilles shouted, and thrice the
men of Troy fell back. And that hour there perished twelve chiefs
of fame, wounded by their own spears or trampled by their own
steeds, so great was the terror among the men of Troy.

Right gladly did the Greeks take Patroclus out of the press.
Then they laid him on a bier, and carried him to the tent, Achilles
walking with many tears by his side.

But on the other side the men of Troy held an assembly. Standing
they held it, for none dared to sit, lest Achilles should be upon
them.

Then spake Polydamas: “Let us not wait here for the
morning. It was well for us to fight at the ships while Achilles
yet kept his wrath against Agamemnon. But now it is not so, for
to-morrow he will come against us in his anger, and many will fall
before him. Wherefore, let us go back to the city, for high are the
walls and strong the gates, and he will perish before he pass
them.”

Then said Hector, “This is ill counsel, Polydamas. Shall
we shut ourselves up in the city, where all our goods are wasted
already, buying meat for the people? Nay, let us watch to-night,
and to-morrow will we fight with the Greeks. And if Achilles be
indeed come forth from his tent, be it so. I will not shun to meet
him, for Mars gives the victory now to one man and now to
another.”

So he spake, and all the people applauded, not knowing what the
morrow should bring forth.

Thus did it come to pass that Achilles went again into the
battle, eager above all things to meet with Hector and to slay
him.

But Apollo stood by Æneas, and spake to him:
“Æneas, where are now thy boastings that thou wouldst
meet Achilles face to face?”

Then Æneas answered, “Nay, I have stood up against
him in the day when he took the town of Lyrnessus. But I fled
before him, and only my nimble feet saved me from falling by his
spear. Surely a god is ever with him, making his spear to fly
aright.”

Him Apollo answered again, “Thou, too, art the son of a
goddess, and thy mother is greater than his, for she is but a
daughter of the sea. Drive straight at him with thy spear, and let
not his threats dismay thee.”

Then Æneas stood out from the press to meet Achilles and
Achilles said, “Fightest thou with me because thou hopest to
reign over the men of Troy, or have they given thee a choice
portion of ground, ploughland and orchard, to be thine when thou
hast slain me? Thou wilt not find it easy. Dost thou not remember
how thou fleddest before me in the day that I took
Lyrnessus?”

Then Æneas answered, “Think not to terrify me with
words, son of Peleus, for I, too, am the son of a goddess. Let us
make a trial one of the other.”

Then he cast his spear, and it struck the shield of Achilles
with so dreadful a sound that the hero feared lest it should pierce
it through, knowing not that the gifts of the Gods are not easy for
mortal man to vanquish. Two folds, indeed, it pierced, that were of
bronze, but in the gold it was stayed, and there were yet two of
tin within. Then Achilles cast his spear. Through the shield of
Æneas it passed, and though it wounded him not, yet was he
sore dismayed, so near it came. Then Achilles drew his sword, and
rushed on Æneas, and Æneas caught up a great stone to
cast at him. But it was not the will of the Gods that Æneas
should perish, seeing that he and his sons after him should rule
over the men of Troy in the ages to come. Therefore Neptune lifted
him up, and bore him over the ranks of men to the left of the
battle, but first he drew the spear out of the shield, and laid it
at the feet of Achilles. Much the hero marveled to see it, crying,
“This is a great wonder that I behold with mine eyes. For I
see my spear before me, but the man whom I sought to slay, I see
not. Of a truth Æneas spake truth, saying that he was dear to
the immortal Gods.”

Then he rushed into the battle, slaying as he went. And Hector
would have met him, but Apollo stood by him and said, “Fight
not with Achilles, lest he slay thee.” Therefore he went back
among the men of Troy. Many did Achilles slay, and among them
Polydorus, son of Priam, who, because he was the youngest and very
dear, his father suffered not to go to the battle. Yet he went, in
his folly, and being very swift of foot, he trusted in his speed,
running through the foremost of the fighters. But as he ran
Achilles smote him and wounded him to the death. When Hector saw
it, he could not bear any more to stand apart. Therefore he rushed
at Achilles, and Achilles rejoiced to see him, saying, “This
is the man who slew my comrade;” and to Hector he cried,
“Come hither, and taste of death.”

And Hector made answer, “Son of Peleus, seek not to make
me afraid with words. For though I be weaker than thou, yet victory
lieth on the knees of the Gods, and I, too, bear a
spear.”

Then he cast his spear, but Athene turned it aside with her
breath, and laid it again at his feet. And when Achilles leapt upon
Hector with a shout, Apollo snatched him away. Three times did
Achilles leap upon him, and three times he struck only the mist.
But the fourth time he cried with a terrible voice, “Dog,
thou hast escaped from death, Apollo helping thee; but I shall meet
thee again, and make an end of thee.”

Then Achilles turned to the others, and slew multitudes of them,
so that they fled, some across the plain, and some to the river,
the eddying Xanthus. And these leapt into the water as locusts leap
into a river when a fire which men light drives them from the
fields. And all the river was full of horses and men. Then Achilles
leapt into the stream, leaving his spear on the bank, resting on
the tamarisk trees. Only his sword had he, and with this he slew
many; and they were as fishes which fly from some great dolphin in
the sea. In all the bays of a harbor they hide themselves, for the
great beast devours them apace. So did the Trojans hide themselves
under the banks of the river. And when Achilles was weary of
slaying, he took twelve alive, whom he would slay on the tomb of
Patroclus.

Yet there was one man who dared to stand up against him, while
the others fled. This was Asteropæus, who was the grandson of
the river-god Axius, and led the men of Pæonia. And Achilles
wondered to see him, and said, “Who art thou that standest
against me?”

And he said, “I am the grandson of the river-god Axius,
fairest of all the streams on the earth, and I lead the men of
Pæonia.”

And as he spake he cast two spears, one with each hand, for he
could use either alike; and the one struck the shield, nor pierced
it through, for the gold staved it, and the other grazed the right
hand of Achilles so that the blood spurted forth. Then did Achilles
cast his spear, but missed his aim, and the great spear stood fast
in the bank. And thrice Asteropæus strove to draw it forth.
Thrice he strove in vain, and the fourth time he strove to break
the spear. But as he strove Achilles smote him that he died. Yet
had he some glory, for that he wounded the great Achilles.

When the River saw that Asteropæus was dead, and that
Achilles was slaying many of the Pæonians—for these
were troubled, their chief being dead—he took upon him the
shape of a man, and spake to Achilles, saying, “Truly,
Achilles, thou excellest all other men in might and deeds of blood,
for the Gods themselves protect thee. It may be that Zeus hath
given thee to slay all the sons of Troy; nevertheless, depart from
me and work thy will upon the plain; for my stream is choked with
the multitude of corpses, nor can I pass to the sea. Do thou,
therefore, cease from troubling me.”

To him Achilles made answer, “This shall be as thou wilt,
O Scamander. But the Trojans I will not cease from slaying till I
have driven them into their city and have made trial of Hector,
whether I shall vanquish him or he shall vanquish me.”

And as he spake he sped on, pursuing the Trojans. Then the River
cried to Apollo, “Little thou doest the will of thy father,
thou of the Silver Bow, who bade thee stand by the men of Troy and
help them till darkness should cover the land.” And he rushed
on with a great wave, stirring together all his streams. The dead
bodies he threw upon the shore, roaring as a bull roareth; and them
that lived he hid in the depths of his eddies. And all about
Achilles rose up the flood, beating full upon his shield, so that
he could not stand fast upon his feet. Then Achilles laid hold of a
lime-tree, fair and tall, that grew upon the bank; but the tree
brake therefrom with all its roots, and tare down the bank, and lay
across the River, staying its flood, for it had many branches.
Thereupon Achilles leapt out of the water and sped across the
plain, being sore afraid. But the River ceased not from pursuing
him, that he might stay him from slaughter and save the sons of
Troy. So far as a man may throw a spear, so far did Achilles leap;
strong as an eagle was he, the hunting-bird that is the strongest
and swiftest of all birds. And still as he fled the River pursued
after him with a great roar. Even as it is with a man that would
water his garden, bringing a stream from a fountain; he has a
pick-axe in his hand to break down all that would stay the water;
and the stream runs on, rolling the pebbles along with it, and
overtakes him that guides it. Even so did the River overtake
Achilles, for all that he was swift of foot, for indeed the Gods
are mightier than men. And when Achilles would have stood against
the River, seeking to know whether indeed all the Gods were against
him, then the great wave smote upon his shoulders; and when he
leapt into the air, it bowed his knees beneath him and devoured the
ground from under his feet. Then Achilles looked up to heaven and
groaned, crying out, “O Zeus, will none of the Gods pity me,
and save me from the River? I care not what else may befall me.
Truly my mother hath deceived me, saying that I should perish under
the walls of Troy by the arrows of Apollo. Surely it had been
better that Hector should slay me, for he is the bravest of the men
of Troy, but now I shall perish miserably in the River, as some
herd-boy perisheth whom a torrent sweeps away in a
storm.”

So he spake; but Poseidon and Athene stood by him, having taken
upon them the shape of men, and took him by the hand and
strengthened him with comforting words, for Poseidon spake, saying,
“Son of Peleus, tremble not, neither be afraid. It is not thy
fate to be mastered by the River. He shall soon cease from
troubling thee. And do thou heed what we say. Stay not thy hands
from the battle, till thou shalt have driven all the sons of Troy
that escape thee within the walls of the city. And when thou shalt
have slain Hector, go back to the ships; for this day is the day of
thy glory.”

Then the two departed from him. Now all the plain was covered
with water, wherein floated much fair armor and many dead bodies.
But Achilles went on even against the stream, nor could the River
hold him back; for Athene put great might into his heart. Yet did
not Scamander cease from his wrath, but lifted his waves yet
higher, and cried aloud to Simois, “Dear brother, let us two
stay the fury of this man, or else of a surety he will destroy the
city of Priam. Come now, fill all thy streams and rouse thy
torrents against him, and lift up against him a mighty wave with a
great concourse of tree-trunks and stones, that we may stay this
wild man from his fighting. Very high thoughts hath he, even as a
god; yet shall neither his might nor his beauty nor his fair form
profit him; for they shall be covered with much mud; and over
himself will I heap abundance of sand beyond all counting. Neither
shall the Greeks be able to gather his bones together, with such a
heap will I hide them. Surely a great tomb will I build for him;
nor will his people have need to make a mound over him when they
would bury him.”

Then he rushed again upon Achilles, swelling high with foam and
blood and dead bodies of men. Very dark was the wave as it rose,
and was like to have overwhelmed the man, so that Juno greatly
feared for him, lest the River should sweep him away. And she cried
to Vulcan, her son, saying, “Rouse thee, Haltfoot, my son! I
thought that thou wouldst have been a match for Scamander in
battle. But come, help us, and bring much fire with thee; and I
will call the west wind and the south wind from the sea, with such
a storm as shall consume the sons of Troy, both them and their
arms. And do thou burn the trees that are by the banks of Xanthus,
yea, and the River himself. And let him not turn thee from thy
purpose by fury or by craft; but burn till I shall bid thee
cease.”

Then Vulcan lit a great fire. First he burned the dead bodies
that lay upon the plain, and it dried all the plain, as the north
wind in the autumn time dries a field, to the joy of him that tills
it. After this it laid hold of the River. The lime-trees and the
willows and the tamarisks it burned; also the plants that grew in
the streams. And the eels and the fishes were sore distressed,
twisting hither and thither in the water, being troubled by the
breath of Vulcan. So the might of the River was subdued, and he
cried aloud, “O Vulcan, no one of the Gods can match himself
with thee. Cease now from consuming me; and Achilles may drive the
men of Troy from their city if he will. What have I to do with the
strife and sorrow of men?”

So he spake, for all his streams were boiling—as a
cauldron boils with a great fire beneath it, when a man would melt
the fat of a great hog; nor could he flow any longer to the sea, so
sorely did the breath of the Fire-god trouble him. Then he cried
aloud to Juno, entreating her: “O Juno, why doth thy son
torment me only among all? Why should I be blamed more than others
that help the men of Troy? Verily, I will cease from helping them,
if he also will cease. Nay, I will swear a great oath that I will
keep no more the day of doom from the sons of Troy; no, not when
all the city shall be consumed with fire.”

And Queen Juno heard him, and called to Vulcan, saying,
“Cease, my son; it doth not beseem thee to work such damage
to a god for the sake of a mortal man.”

So Vulcan quenched his fire, and the River flowed as he flowed
before.

Vulcan Makes Armor for
Achilles

By Walter C. Perry

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Contents

On high Olympus, the Loud-thundering Zeus spake mockingly to his
consort, Juno, and said, “At length, thou hast what thou
desirest, and hast roused Achilles to fight against the Trojans.
Surely, the long-haired Achaians must be thine own children, since
thou lovest them so dearly!”

And the ox-eyed queen replied, “Dread son of Cronos! what
words are these which have passed the barrier of thy teeth? Even a
mortal man doth what he can to help another; and shall not I, the
chief of goddesses by birth and as thy wife—O thou king of
the deathless Gods!—shall not I avenge myself upon
the men of Troy?”

Thus these two strove with one another.

Meantime, the silver-footed Thetis came to the splendid palace
of Vulcan, bright and immortal, which shone like a star among the
mansions of the Gods. She found him at his bellows, sweating from
his mighty toil; for he was forging twenty tripods, to stand round
the walls of his well-built mansion. Beneath each of them he placed
wheels of gold; and they move, of themselves, into the assembly of
the Gods, and so return.

While he was thus employed, the silver-footed Thetis approached
the house. And Charis, of the shining veil, the wedded wife of
Vulcan (whose first wife had been Aphrodite or Venus), came forth
to meet her, and took her by the hand, and called her by her name.
“O long-robed Thetis! dear and honored as thou art! not oft,
I ween, dost thou come to visit us. But follow me, that I may show
thee due hospitality.”

Then she led the way in, and seated Thetis on a lofty chair with
silver studs, beautiful, and cunningly wrought, and placed a
footstool beneath her shining feet. And she called to Vulcan, the
divine artificer, “Come hither, Vulcan! for the silver-footed
Thetis seeketh thine aid.”

And the glorious lame god answered, “Revered and dear to
me is she; for she saved me, when my shameless mother threw me down
from heaven; and I should have suffered dire anguish had not
Eurynome, daughter of Oceanos, and Thetis taken me to their hearts
and comforted me. Nine years I spent with them, and fashioned all
kinds of curious work of bronze—clasps, and spiral bracelets,
and ear-rings, like the calyx of a flower, and necklaces—in
the hollow grot, while all around me roared the streams of great
Oceanus. And none of the other Gods knew where I was, but only
Thetis and Eurynome. And now that she is come, a welcome guest, to
my house, I will repay the fair-haired nymph in every way, for
saving my life.”

So saying, he raised his mighty bulk from the block, and,
limping on his slender legs, moved quickly; and he put away his
bellows, and placed his tools in a silver chest, and sponged his
face and hands, his strong neck and hairy breast; then he donned
his tunic, and leaning on a staff, he limped along. And golden
handmaids, in the form of living maidens, came to help their lord;
these have intelligent minds, and human voices, and skill from the
deathless Gods. And he went with halting gait, and seated himself
on a shining throne, near the silver-footed Thetis; and he took her
by the hand, and said to her, “O dear and honored Thetis of
the flowing robes! why comest thou to our house, thou, an
infrequent guest?”

Then the silver-footed goddess answered him, “O Vulcan!
hath Zeus, the son of Cronos, laid on any other goddess in Olympus
such grievous woes as on me, unhappy that I am? He chose
out me, from all the sea nymphs, to endure marriage with a mortal.
A son I bare, the greatest of heroes. I brought him up, like a
young tree in a fruitful soil, and sent him in a high-peaked ship
to war against the Trojans; but never again will he return to me,
in the halls of his aged father Peleus. And even while I yet see
him, and he beholdeth the light of the sun, he is full of grief,
and I cannot help him. For King Agamemnon took away his prize, the
dearly loved maiden Briseïs. For the loss of her, he pined and
wept; nor would he allow his Myrmidons to join in the battle,
though the Achaians were hard pressed and driven to their ships.
The chiefs of the Argives came to him with prayers and tears, and
many costly gifts. And though he refused himself to rescue them, he
suffered Patroclus to put on his divine armor, and sent many of the
Myrmidons with him to the battle. And the son of Menoetius
performed high deeds of valor, and went near to sack the city. But
the Far-Darting Apollo and glorious Hector slew him, and gained
immortal glory. And now, I come as a suppliant, to clasp thy knees,
and to pray that thou wouldst give my short-lived son a shield, a
helmet, a breastplate, and goodly greaves.”

Then the lame god, the famous artificer, replied, “Be of
good cheer, O silver-footed Queen, and be not troubled about these
things! Would that I could as surely save him from mournful death,
as that I will supply him with goodly armor, a wonder to
behold!”

And he returned to his workshop, and bade his
bellows—there were twenty of them—blow the blasts on
the fire and prepare the earthen moulds; and as Vulcan willed, the
work was done. He melted the tough bronze and tin, the gold and
silver, with the fire; and placed an anvil and took a strong hammer
in one hand, and tongs in the other, and with these he worked.

First, he made the shield, broad and strong, with many
decorations. Around it he placed a triple bright rim, and a silver
strap depended from it. The shield itself was formed with five
zones, in each of which he fashioned many curious works.

Therein he fashioned the Earth, the Sky, the Sea, the unwearied
Sun, the Moon at the full, and all the bright luminaries which
crown the azure firmament: the Pleiades, daughters of Atlas, the
Hyades, the mighty Orion, and, turning about to watch Orion, the
Bear, which alone of all the stars bathes not in the streams of
Oceanus.

Also, on the shield, he sculptured two fair cities of
articulate-speaking men. In one of these were wedding-festivals;
and, with a blaze of torchlight, the brides were conducted from
their chambers along the streets; while the hymeneal song was loud,
and the youths whirled round and round in the giddy dance, to the
music of flute and harp; while the women stood at their doors,
watching and admiring. In that city he also fashioned an assembly
of the people, in which a contention had arisen, about the
blood-fine or “were-geld” for a murdered man; the
people, with noisy shouts, cheered, on either side; but the heralds
stilled the tumult, holding their staves of office in their hands;
and then the judges rose up, to pronounce their verdict.

Around the other city lay two armies besieging it, with flashing
arms. Two plans were considered: either to destroy the town, or to
divide the wealth thereof with its citizens. But the beleaguered
garrison had not yet yielded, but armed themselves and set an
ambush. Their dear wives and children, and the old men, stood on
the walls to defend it, while the strong men went forth to fight.
And they were led by Mars and Athene, whose forms were fashioned in
gold, with golden raiment; and, as gods, he made them larger and
more beautiful than the mortals around them.

The men in ambush set upon the herdsmen who were driving oxen to
the watering-place of the army, and making music with their pipes.
They carried off the cattle; but the besiegers, as they sat before
the rostra, heard the lowing of the oxen and drove up, with their
high-stepping horses, to repel the raid. Then a fierce conflict
arose; and in it were seen Strife, and Uproar, and Dire Fate; like
living warriors, they rushed on one another, and haled away the
dead whom they slew.

In another part of the shield, he represented a rich,
deep-soiled, fallow field, thrice ploughed; and when the ploughers
came to the end of the furrow, a man would give to each of them a
goblet of sweet wine. And the ploughed ground grew black behind
them, like real soil, although it was of gold. Then there, too, was
a rich field of corn, where reapers were cutting the harvest with
their sickles and it fell in rows; and others were binding it with
bands of straw; while the lord looked on, and was glad at heart.
And under a spreading oak a feast was being made ready for the
reapers.

And he fashioned therein a vineyard, rich with clusters of black
grapes, which the youths and maidens, in their glee, carried in
baskets; while a boy, in their midst, made sweet music on a
clear-sounding harp; and he sang the “Song of Linos,”
and the rest kept time with their feet.

And there was a herd of straight-horned oxen, all of gold and
tin, hurrying to the pasture beside the gently murmuring stream and
the waving rushes. Four herdsmen, of gold, followed them, and nine
fleet dogs. And two terrible lions seized a bellowing bull. The
herdsmen followed, but they could not set on their dogs to bite the
lions, for the dogs shrank back, barking and whining, and turned
away.

And therein the glorious divine artist placed a wide pasture
full of white sheep, with folds and tents and huts. And he made a
dancing-ground, like that which Dædalus wrought at Gnosos for
lovely fair-haired Ariadne. There, lusty youths in shining tunics
glistening with oil, danced with fair maidens of costly wooing. The
maidens had wreaths of flowers upon their heads; and the youths
wore daggers banging from silver sword-belts. They whirled round,
with lightly tripping feet, swift as the potter’s wheel,
holding each other by the wrist; and then they ran, in lines, to
meet each other. A crowd of friends stood round and joyfully
watched the dance, and a divine minstrel made sweet music with his
harp, while a pair of tumblers diverted the crowd.

Lastly, around the margin of the shield, Vulcan made the stream
of the mighty river Oceanus, which encircleth the earth.

And when he had finished this strong and splendid shield, he
wrought the breastplate, glowing with blazing fire; and he made a
heavy helmet for the head, beautiful, and adorned with curious art;
upon it was a crest of gold. But the goodly greaves he made of
flexible tin. When he had completed the whole suit of glorious
armor, he laid it before the silver-footed Thetis, the mother of
Achilles; and she darted, swift as a hawk, from snowy Olympus,
bearing the brightly glittering arms to her dear son.

The Slaying of Hector

By Walter C. Perry

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Contents

Meantime, Achilles went on slaughtering the Trojans; and the
aged Priam stood on the sacred tower, and saw the son of Peleus
driving the Trojans before him. And he shouted aloud to the brave
warders of the gates, “Open the gates, that the fugitives may
enter!” And the Far-Darter went to the front, to save the
Trojans who were fleeing to the sheltering walls, with Achilles
behind them in hot pursuit.

Then would the Achaians have stormed the lofty gates of Troy,
had not Phœbus Apollo roused Agenor, a brave and noble
prince, son of Antenor. Apollo stood by this man’s side,
leaning on an oak, and shrouded in mist, and put courage into his
heart, that he might ward off fate from the Trojans. And when
Agenor saw Achilles, he stood irresolute, and said to his mighty
heart, “If I too flee before Achilles, he will catch me and
slay me as a coward. Or shall I fly by another way, and hide me in
the spurs of Ida? How, then, if I go forth to meet him? for his
flesh, too, may surely be pierced by the keen bronze, and he has
but one life, like other mortals.”

And his heart grew strong within him, to stay and fight. And he
cried out aloud to Achilles, “Surely, thou thinkest this very
day to sack the proud city of Troy? Fool! many terrible things will
happen before that; for there are many of us—many
and brave—to protect our dear parents and wives and little
children, and to guard holy Ilium. Thou, too, perhaps, mighty as
thou art, mayest here meet death.”

He spake and hurled a spear at Achilles with his strong hand.
And it smote him below the knee, and the tin-wrought greave rang
loudly; but the stout spear bounded off, for it could not pierce
the work of Vulcan.

Then Achilles rushed on godlike Agenor; but him Apollo caught in
a mist, and carried him safely out of the fray. And the god took
the form of Agenor, and ran a little way before Achilles, towards
the deep-flowing Scamander. And while Apollo thus deceived the
mighty son of Peleus, the routed Trojans ran, well pleased, to
their stronghold, and the great city was filled with their
multitude.

Then as he ran before Achilles, the mighty Far-Darter addressed
him, and spake: “O son of Peleus! why dost thou, being a
mortal man, pursue me with thy swift feet, who am a
deathless god?” Then, in wrath, the son of Peleus answered
him: “Thou hast blinded me, most mischievous of all the Gods!
and lured me away from the walls; else would many a Trojan have
fallen, or ever he had reached the city.” He then went
towards the city, with a proud heart, like a war-horse victorious
in a chariot race; and the aged Priam saw him, blazing like the
star in autumn brightest of all, which men call
“Orion’s Dog,” that bringeth fever upon wretched
mortals.

And the old man cried aloud, in his agony, and beat his head
with his fists, and called in a piercing voice to his dear son
Hector. For the brave hero, when all the others had escaped into
the city, remained alone at the Scæan Gate eager to fight
with Achilles. And his wretched father stretched forth his withered
hands, and pleaded piteously to his son:—

“Hector! dear Hector! do not meet this terrible man alone,
for he is far mightier than thou, and knoweth no pity. Already hath
he robbed me of many a brave son; and now I no longer see two of my
children, Lycaon and the goodly Polydorus, whom Laothoë,
princess among women, bare to me. But the death of others will
cause us briefer grief, if thou, dear Hector, art not slain. Come,
then, within the walls, and save the men and women of Troy! And
have pity on me, too, to whom the son of Cronos hath allotted a
terrible doom in my old age—to see my brave sons dragged
away, and my fair daughters carried off, as captives, by the cruel
hands of the Achaians. Last of all, I too shall be torn, on my own
threshold, by ravenous dogs—even the dogs which I myself have
reared with food from my table, to guard my house. They will tear
my flesh and drink my blood! It may well become a young
man to lie slain on the field, for he is highly honored in his
death; but when dogs defile an old man’s head and beard, this
is the most lamentable thing that befalleth wretched
mortals.”

And the old man tore his hair in his sore agony; but even he
prevailed not with the soul of Hector. And then his dear mother,
Hecuba, took up the plaint and spake through her piteous tears.

“Hector! my child! have respect to the mother who bare
thee and nursed thee on this bosom! Pity me! and fight the
foe from this side of the wall! For if he slay thee, not on a
funeral bed shall I, and thy dear wife, won by so many gifts,
deplore thee; but the swift dogs shall devour thee, far away from
us, by the black ships of the Argives.”

Thus wailed they over their glorious son, beseeching him; but
they could not prevail, for honor held him fast. Meanwhile,
Achilles drew nigh, in strength like a giant; but Hector awaited
him undismayed, leaning his shield against the tower. And he
communed thus with his brave soul: “Alas, if I go through the
gates, Polydamas will justly blame me; for he gave me good
advice—that I should lead the host into the city on that
fatal night, when the noble Achilles returned to the war. And I
would not hearken to him, although he counseled well. And now that
I have brought this evil on the city by my folly, I am ashamed to
appear before the men, and the proud dames with trailing robes,
lest some one should taunt me and say, ‘Hector in his pride
hath ruined us.’ Better then would it be for me to meet
Achilles, and either slay him or fall with glory before the city.
Or how would it be if I should lay aside all my arms, and go to
meet the son of Peleus, and offer to restore Argive Helen and all
her possessions to Menelaus and Agamemnon, and to divide the wealth
of Troy with the Achaians? But no! I might come to him unarmed, but
he is merciless, and would slay me on the spot, as if I were a
woman. But why do I hesitate? This is no time to hold dalliance
with him, from oak or rock, like youths and maidens. Better to
fight at once, and see to whom Olympian Zeus will give the
victory!”

While he thus pondered, Achilles, peer of Mars, came on, poising
his terrible spear of Pelian ash; and his divine armor, the work of
a god, blazed like fire or the rising sun. And when Hector saw him
he was seized with panic, and he fled from the gates in terror.

But Achilles, swift of foot, rushed after him. As a falcon,
swiftest of all birds, swoops upon the trembling dove, and takes no
heed of her piteous screaming, so Achilles flew straight at Hector.
And pursuer and pursued passed by the guard and the wild fig-tree,
the sport of the winds, and came to the two springs of water, which
feed the deep-whirling Scamander. Brave was he who fled, but
mightier far was he who chased him on his swift feet; and they were
racing not for some prize in the games, but for the life of the
noble horse-taming Hector. And like horses in the race for a great
prize—a tripod or a woman—so the twain ran thrice round
the sacred city of King Priam; and all the Gods were looking
on.

And Zeus, the great father of Gods and men, spake first:
“Alas! I see a man whom I love above all others chased round
the walls of Troy. Come now, let us take some counsel, whether to
save him or leave him to be slain by the son of Peleus.”

And the fierce-eyed Athene answered him, “O thou great
Lord of the Lightning, Cloud-girt King! what a word hast thou
spoken! Wouldst thou indeed save a mortal long ago doomed by Fate?
Do as thou pleasest; but we Gods shall not praise thee.”

And her great father, the Cloud-Gatherer, answered with gentle
words, “O Trito-born, my dear child! be of good cheer. I
spake not in earnest, and would fain please thee. Do as seemeth
good to thee.” And Athene, full of joy, sped down from high
Olympus.

Achilles, with all speed, was chasing the noble Hector, as the
dogs hunt the fawn of a deer through dale and woodland; and though
the fawn hideth behind a bush, they follow by the scent until they
find it; so Hector could not escape from the swift-footed son of
Peleus. Often did Hector rush along the strong walls, in hopes that
the Trojans within might succor him from above with their arrows.
But Achilles gained on him and turned him into the plain again.

And so, though Hector failed in his flight and Achilles in his
pursuit, yet might Hector have escaped his doom, had not this been
the last time that Apollo the Far-Darter came nigh to him, to nerve
his heart and his swift knees. Achilles had made a sign to his
comrades, and forbade them to launch their darts against the noble
Hector, lest one of them should gain high honor, and he come only
second. And when they had, for the fourth time, run round the walls
and reached the springs, then Zeus, the Great Father, raised his
golden scales, and placed in each the lot of gloomy
death,—one for Hector, and the other for Achilles. And he
held the scales by the middle, and poised them; and the noble
Hector’s scale sank down to Hades; and Phœbus Apollo
left him.

But the fierce-eyed goddess Athene came near to Achilles and
spake winged words: “Now, at last, O godlike Achilles! shall
we twain carry off great glory to the Achaian ships! He cannot now
escape us, though the Far-Darter should grovel at the feet of Zeus
with fruitless prayers. But do thou stay and recover thy breath;
and I will go and persuade Hector to stand up against thee in
fight.” And he gladly obeyed her voice, and stood leaning on
his ashen spear.

And she, Athene, came to noble Hector in the likeness of his
brother Deïphobus, and spake to him: “Dear Lord and
elder Brother, surely the fleet-footed son of Peleus hath done
great violence against thee, chasing thee round the walls! But let
us twain make a stand against him!”

And the great Hector answered, “Deïphobus, thou wert
ever the dearest of my brothers; now I honor thee still more,
because thou hast dared to come out from behind the walls to aid
me, while others skulk within.”

The fierce-eyed goddess, as Deïphobus, spake again:
“It is true that my father, and my queenly mother, and all my
comrades, besought me to stay with them, so greatly do they fear
the mighty son of Peleus; but my heart was sore for thee, dear
brother! But let us fight amain, and see whether he will carry our
spoils to his ships, or fall beneath thy spear!” And so, with
her cunning words, she led him on to death.

And when he and Achilles were come near to each other, the noble
Hector spake: “O mighty Achilles, thrice did I flee before
thee round the great city of Priam, and dared not await thy
onslaught. But now I will stand up against thee, to slay or to be
slain. But come, let us make a covenant with one another, and call
the Gods, the best guardians of oaths, to witness. If Zeus grant me
to take thy life, and despoil thee of thy divine armor, then will I
give back thy body to the warlike Achaians; and do thou the same by
me!”

And Achilles, with a malignant scowl, replied, “Speak not
to me of covenants! There is no covenant between men and lions, or
between wolves and sheep, but only eternal war. And there can be no
pledge of faith between us twain, until one of us hath sated the
murderous Mars with his blood. Therefore, show thyself a good
spearman and a brave man of war! There is no escape for thee; for
Pallas Athene hath delivered thee into my hands.”

He spake, and cast his long-shafted spear at Hector. But Hector
stooped, and the strong bronze spear flew over his head; but Athene
picked it up, unknown to Hector, and gave it back to Achilles. Then
Hector, rejoicing, spake to the son of Peleus: “Thou hast
missed! Nor dost thou surely know the day of my doom, as thou
pretendest. Thou shalt not plant thy spear in my back, as I flee
before thee; but in my breast, if the Gods allow it. But now, in
thy turn, avoid my spear!” So spake he, and smote
the middle of Achilles’ shield with his long-shafted spear,
but it bounded back from the shield. Then Hector was dismayed, for
he had no second spear to throw. And he called aloud to his
brother, Deïphobus; but no answer came, for he was
far away. Then Hector knew that he was betrayed, and that Athene
had deceived him, in the likeness of his brother.
“Now,” he cried, “is Death come near me, and
there is no way of escape! This is the will of Zeus and of the
Far-Darter, who once were wont to succor me. But I will not die
ingloriously, but yet perform some notable deed of arms.”

He said, and, with his sharp sword, swooped down upon Achilles.
But Achilles rushed at him, wild with fury, brandishing his spear,
with evil intent against noble Hector, and eyed him over, to see
where he might pierce his flesh most easily. The rest of
Hector’s body was protected by the splendid armor which he
had stripped from the body of Patroclus; but there was one chink,
between the collar-bone and the throat, through which Achilles
thrust his spear. Yet it cut not the windpipe; and Hector was able
to speak faint words to his insulting foe, after he had fallen to
the ground.

Achilles triumphed over him: “Ah, Hector! when thou wert
stripping Patroclus of my goodly armor, thou caredst nothing for
me, who was far away! I, his friend and avenger, was left among the
black ships—even I, a mightier man than he! Thee shall the
dogs and birds devour; but he shall have honorable
burial.”

Then, with his last breath, the noble Hector of the bright helm
addressed his pitiless foe: “Achilles! I pray thee, by thy
soul, and by thy parents’ heads, let not Achaian dogs devour
me by the ships! but accept great store of gold and bronze from my
father and my queenly mother, and restore my body to them, that the
Trojans may deck my funeral pyre with all due honor!”

And Achilles, with a grim scowl, replied, “Clasp not my
knees, vile dog! nor speak to me of parents! Such evil hast thou
done me, that I could devour thee raw! Not for thy weight in gold
would I give thee to thy queenly mother, to mourn over thee; but
dogs and birds shall batten on thy flesh!”

Then the dying Hector uttered his last words: “Thou
iron-hearted man! now I know thee; nor did I think to prevail upon
thee. But beware of the wrath of the Gods, when Paris and the
Far-Darter slay thee, at the Scæan Gate, brave though thou
art!”

He spake; and Death overshadowed him; and his soul went down to
Hades, wailing to leave beauty, youth, and vigor.

And Achilles spake again to the dead Hector: “Lie thou
there! And as for me, I will die when it seemeth good to the
deathless Gods!”

And the Achaians ran up, and looked with wonder at the noble
stature and beauty of the Trojan hero. And they all inflicted
wounds upon him, as he lay, saying, “He is easier to deal
with now than when he was burning our ships with flames of
fire.”

And when the son of Peleus had stripped him of his armor, he
stood up, and spake to the Achaians:—

“Great chiefs and counselors of the Argives! at last the
Gods have granted us to slay this man, whose single arm hath
wrought more evil to us than all the rest together. Let us now
approach the city, and learn the purpose of the Trojans; whether
they will now surrender the citadel or go on fighting, though great
Hector is no more. But why do I thus ponder in my mind? Patroclus
is lying unburied and unwept by the ships. Never can I forget him,
while I live; and even in the House of Hades, I will remember my
dearest friend. Come, then! let us raise the chant of victory, and
bear our deadliest foe to the black ships!”

Then he foully outraged the dead body of glorious Hector;
slitting the sinews of both feet, from heel to ankle, he passed
ox-hide straps through them, and fastened them to his chariot,
leaving the goodly head to trail upon the ground. Then he laid the
armor on the chariot; and mounting it, lashed his willing horses to
full speed. And in the dust lay the once beautiful head, with its
flowing hair; for Zeus had now given Hector up to his enemies, to
be foully used in his own native land.

And when his dear mother, Hecuba, saw her much-loved son dragged
along, begrimed with dust, she tore her hair, and shrieked aloud,
and tossed far away her glistening veil. And his father, King
Priam, wailed and mourned; and with him all the men and women in
the city, as if the beetling towers of Ilium were already
smouldering in fire. Hardly could they keep the aged father from
rushing through the gates; for he threw himself in the dust and
supplicated each man by name: “O friend, forbear! and if you
love me, let me go to the ships of the Achaians, and pray to this
arrogant, this fearful man!” Thus wailed old Priam; and the
men wailed with him. And Queen Hecuba led the loud lamentations of
the women. “Why,” she cried, “should I yet live,
when thou, my son, my boast, my glory, art dead? the pride and
blessing of all, both men and women of the city, who honored thee
as a god; for in thy life thou wert an honor to them all!”
Thus mourned his unhappy mother.

But to his wife, the noble, beautiful, tender-hearted
Andromache, no messenger had brought the fearful tidings that
Hector had remained without the gates. All unconscious, she was
sitting in the inner chamber of her lofty palace, weaving a purple
web of double woof, and embroidering it with many flowers. And she
was ordering her handmaids to prepare a warm bath for her dear
husband, when he should return from the battle; poor child! little
knowing that the fierce-eyed Athene had treacherously slain him, by
the hand of Achilles! But when she heard shrieks and lamentations
from the walls, she reeled, and the shuttle dropped from her hands.
And she spake again to her fair-haired maidens: “Surely, that
was the cry of Hector’s noble mother! Some terrible thing
must have befallen my godlike husband! Come, then, follow me, that
I may learn what has happened; I greatly fear that he has been cut
off from the city by Achilles; for he would never retreat among the
throng, or yield to any man, in his high courage.”

And she rushed, all frantic, through the house, followed by her
maidens, and came to the walls, and saw Hector dragged through the
dust, towards the black ships of the Achaians. Then darkness
shrouded her fair eyes, and she fell backwards in a swoon. And when
roused, she tore from her head the net, the fillet, and the nuptial
veil which golden Venus had given her, when noble Hector of the
shining helm led her forth, from King Eëtion’s palace,
as his bride. And the sisters-in-law of her dear husband gathered
round her, and raised her from the ground, all distracted as she
was and nigh unto death. When she had recovered from her swoon, she
sobbed and wailed, crying, “O Hector! to the same evil fate
were we twain born, thou in Troy, and I in Thebes, where my great
father, Eëtion, reared me as a little child. Would that I had
never been born, since thou leavest me a hapless widow! And our
son, thine and mine, ill-fated one! is but a little child; and thou
canst no more profit him, nor he be a joy to thee, since thou art
dead! A helpless orphan, he is cut off from his playmates; and if
he pluck the robe of his father’s friends, one may, in pity,
just hold the cup to his lips, but give him not to satisfy his
hunger and his thirst; while other children, whose parents still
live, will drive him from their feast, with taunts and blows,
saying, ‘Away with thee! thou hast no father at our
table!’ Then will he come back to me, his lonely mother; he,
who so lately sat on his father’s knee, and fed on the
choicest of food! and when sleep fell upon him, tired with his
childish play, he nestled in a soft bed in his nurse’s arms.
But now that his father is no more, he shall suffer untold griefs,
even he whom the Trojans called ‘Astyanax,’ king of the
city, because thou, O my beloved lord! wert the sole defense and
glory of their lofty walls.” Thus wailed the fair Andromache;
and the women moaned around her.

The Funeral Games in Honor of
Patroclus

By Walter C. Perry

Return to Table of
Contents

The noble Achilles could not do enough in honor of his lost
friend, Patroclus, and he had determined to hold games, of every
kind, in which the mail-clad Achaians might compete for prizes; and
to this end he had brought goodly treasures from his
ships,—tripods, and caldrons, horses, mules, and oxen,
well-girdled women, and hoary iron. The first and most important
contest was a chariot race, for which he offered a woman skilled in
needlework, and a two-handled tripod, holding two-and-twenty
measures—these, for the best man of all; the second prize was
a mare, six years old, with a mule foal; the third prize was a fair
new caldron, of four measures; the fourth was two talents of bright
gold; the fifth was a two-handled vase, untarnished by the
fire.

And Achilles addressed the chiefs, and said, “If the race
were in honor of some other warrior, then should I enter the lists,
and bear away the prize; for ye know that my horses are immortal,
and by far the best; Neptune, the Earth-Girdler, gave them to my
father, and he to me. But I and they will stand aside; for they
have lost a noble and gentle driver, who oft-times washed them with
clear water and then poured soft oil upon their goodly manes! And
now they stand with sorrow in their breasts, and their full long
manes are trailing on the earth. But now, let whoever of you
trusteth in his horses and his strong chariot take his place in the
lists!”

And first came forward Eumelus, son of Admetus; next came the
mighty Diomedes, with the famous horses of Tros, which he had taken
from Æneas; then arose Menelaus,—the fair-haired,
godlike Menelaus, with Aithe, Agamemnon’s mare, and his own
horse, Podargus; and the fourth was Antilochus, son of the wise
Nestor, who yoked swift Pylian horses to his chariot.

His father Nestor, son of Neleus, stood by Antilochus, and gave
him good advice, although he himself was wise. “Antilochus,
my son,” he said, “though thou art young, yet Zeus and
Neptune have loved thee, and made thee a perfect horseman; and
there is little need for me to teach thee. But the other horses are
better than thine; and I fear that much trouble is in store for
thee. But skill and cunning are better than force, and so one
charioteer defeats another. Look well to the posts at either end,
and run closely by them. Now I will tell thee another thing. Some
six feet above the ground, there stands the withered stump of a
tree, with two white stones, on either side; this is the mark fixed
by the swift-footed Achilles. Do thou drive thy horses hard by
this, and lean slightly to the left, and lash the off horse and
give him rein; but let the near horse so closely skirt the post
that the nave of the wheel of thy car may seem to graze the stone;
but beware of touching it!”

Next, Meriones made ready his chariot; and so did the others.
Then they mounted their cars, and drew lots for their places. Great
Diomedes drew the best. Achilles ranged them all side by side, and
pointed to the turning-post, in the plain, near which he posted old
Phœnix, as umpire.

Then, at a signal from the son of Peleus, they raised their long
whips, together, standing upright, and lashed their horses, and
encouraged them by hand and voice. And the chariots now ran evenly
on the ground, and now bounded high in air. But when they entered
the last part of the course, driving towards the sea, the fleet
mares of Eumelus, grandson of Pheres, rushed to the front; and next
came Diomedes, with the stallions of Tros, so near that they seemed
to be mounting the car of Eumelus, and with their hot breath
covered his back and shoulders. Then Tydides would either have
gained a victory, or it would have been at least a dead heat; but
Phœbus Apollo was angry with him, and dashed his shining whip
from his hand. He shed hot tears of fury, when he saw that the
mares of Eumelus were still at their utmost speed, while his own
horses slackened their speed, no longer feeling the lash. But,
luckily for Diomedes, his constant friend Athene marked the trick
of Apollo; and, speeding after Diomedes, she gave him back the
scourge, and put fresh mettle into his steeds. She then pursued
Eumelus, and brake the yoke of his horses; they bolted from the
course, and he was hurled off his car into the dust. Meanwhile,
Tydides rushed on before the others, for Athene was shedding glory
on his head.

Next to him ran the horses of Menelaus, son of Atreus. Then came
Antilochus, son of Nestor, who spake thus to his father’s
Pylian horses: “I do not ask you to contend with Tydides,
whose horses Athene herself is speeding; but I pray you to catch up
the chariot of Atrides; and be not beaten by Aithe, lest she, who
is only a mare, pour ridicule upon you.” Thus spake
Antilochus, and his horses were afraid, and sped on more swiftly.
But Antilochus noted a narrow gully, where the rain had collected
and had carried away a part of the course. There Menelaus was
driving, when Antilochus turned his horses out of the way, and
followed him at one side. Then Menelaus, fearing a collision,
shouted loudly to the son of Nestor: “Antilochus, hold in thy
horses! and drive not so recklessly! close ahead there is a wider
space, where we can pass one another!” But Antilochus, as if
he heard him not, drove on more madly than ever and plied the lash;
and the golden-haired son of Atreus called again to him, reproving
him: “Antilochus, there is no man more spiteful than thou;
away with thee! wrongly have we called thee wise!”
Then he called on his horses, and they increased their speed,
fearing the anger of their lord, and quickly overtook the
others.

Now the Argive chiefs sat together, watching the race as the
chariots flew along the course. The first to see them coming was
Idomeneus, the Cretan prince, the son of Deucalion; he was sitting
apart from the rest on the highest place, and he could distinguish
the voices of the drivers. He noticed a chestnut horse, with a
white star on his forehead, round like the full moon; and he stood
up and spake: “Friends and Counselors of the Argives! can ye
see the horses as I do? To me, there appeareth a new chariot and
horses; and the mares which led at the start I can no longer
see.”

Then the son of Oïleus, Ajax, rebuked him in boorish
fashion: “Idomeneus, why chatterest thou before the time?
Thou art not one of the youngest, nor are thine eyes of the
sharpest. The same mares of Eumelus are still leading, and he is
standing up in the chariot.”

And the great chief, Idomeneus, answered in great wrath,
“Ajax, ever ready to abuse, inconsiderate slanderer! thou art
in all respects inferior to the other Argives, for thy mind is
rude.”

Thus spoke the Cretan hero. And the son of Oïleus rose
again, to reply with scornful words; but Achilles himself stood
forward and said, “No longer, Idomeneus and Ajax, bandy
insulting words with one another; for it is not meet! Sit ye still,
and watch; and soon will ye know which horses are leading.”
He spake; and straightway Tydides came driving up in his fair
chariot, overlaid with gold and tin, which ran lightly behind the
horses, and scarcely left a trace in the fine dust of the plain.
Checking his horses in the middle of the crowd, he leapt to the
ground and claimed the splendid prize; and the gallant Sthenelus
made no delay, but gave to his victorious comrade the woman and the
tripod to bear away.

Next to Diomedes came the son of Nestor, Antilochus, who had
passed by Menelaus by a clever stratagem, though his horses were
inferior; but even so, Menelaus had pressed him hard, and was
behind him only so far as a horse is from the wheel of the chariot
which he draweth.

But Meriones, the brave charioteer of Idomeneus, came in about
the cast of a lance behind Menelaus; for his horses were the
slowest, and he was himself but a sluggish driver. Last of all came
Eumelus, the son of Admetus, dragging his broken chariot. The
swift-footed Achilles, son of Peleus, pitied him, and spake winged
words to the chiefs: “Lo! the best man of all comes last; but
let us give him a prize—the second! And let Tydides bear away
the first!”

All the Achaians heard him, and shouted applause; and the noble
Achilles would have given him the mare had not Antilochus, son of
the wise and glorious Nestor, stood up in defense of his claim:
“O Achilles!” he said, “justly shall I be wroth
with thee, if thou takest away the prize which I have fairly won.
Thou thinkest only of the unlucky chance which hath befallen
Eumelus and his horses; but he ought to have made prayer to the
deathless Gods, and then he would not have come in last of all. If
thou pitiest him, there is much treasure in thy house,—gold,
and bronze, and sheep, and handmaids, and horses. Give him, if it
pleaseth thee and the Achaians, a still richer prize. But I will
not give up the mare; for she is mine.”

And Achilles smiled on his comrade Antilochus, whom he dearly
loved, and answered him, “Antilochus, I will do as thou
sayest: I will give him the bronze cuirass, edged with shining tin,
which I took from Asteropæus.”

But the great Menelaus arose, filled with insatiable wrath
against Antilochus. The herald placed a sceptre in his hand, and
called for silence. Then the godlike king made harangue, and said,
“Antilochus! thou who wert once accounted wise—what is
this that thou hast done? Thou hast disgraced my skill, and
discomfited my horses, by thrusting thine, which are far worse, in
front of them. Come then, great chiefs of the Argives! give
judgment, without favor, between him and me! That no one may say
hereafter, that ye favored me for my power and rank, I will myself
set the issue before you; so that no one may reproach me. Stand
forth, Antilochus, before thy chariot; and take thy whip, and lay
thy hand upon thy horses, and swear by the great Girdler and Shaker
of the Earth, that thou didst not, by set purpose and malice,
hinder my chariot in the course!”

Then Antilochus made prudent answer, “Be patient with me,
King Menelaus! for I am younger, and thou art in all respects my
better. Bear with me, then: and I will myself give thee the mare,
my prize, rather than lose my place in thy heart, O thou beloved of
Zeus!” Thus spake the noble-minded son of Nestor; and he gave
the mare to Menelaus, king of men.

And the heart of the son of Atreus rejoiced, as the ripe ears of
corn, when the dew descendeth upon them, in the glistening
cornfield. And he spake kindly to Antilochus, and said, “Lo!
at once do I put away my anger; for of old thou wert never rash or
light-minded; but now thy reason was overborne by the impetuosity
of youth. Therefore I grant thy prayer, and will even give thee the
mare; for I am in no wise covetous or unforgiving.”

He spake, and gave the mare to Noëmon, the comrade of
Antilochus, to lead away; but he took the bright caldron to
himself. And Meriones, who came in fourth, took the two talents of
gold. But the fifth prize, a vase with two handles, was not
obtained; and the noble Achilles gave this to Nestor, and, standing
by him, uttered winged words:—

“Let this, O Father! be for thee an heirloom, and a
memorial of Patroclus’ funeral games—of him, whom thou
wilt never see again! I give it to thee since thou mayest not
contend in boxing, nor in wrestling, nor in throwing the lance, nor
in the foot-race; for rueful old age weigheth heavily upon
thee.”

Nestor gladly received the splendid gift, and spake: “True
and fitting are thy words, dear friend! My limbs are no longer
sound, nor do my arms move easily from my shoulders; and I must
make way for younger men. But I accept thy free gift with joy, and
rejoice that thou dost remember our old friendship.”

Then Pelides brought forward the prizes for the rough, fierce
boxing-match: a six-year-old unbroken mule for the winner; and a
two-handled goblet for the loser. Then quickly rose the famous
boxer Epeius, and laid his hand on the stubborn mule, and boasted
aloud: “Let who will bear away the goblet; but the mule is
mine! for no one will beat me with his fists!” They all kept
silence, and feared. Only one came forward, even Euryalus, the
gallant son of King Mecistus. The famous warrior Tydides made him
ready for the fight, and bade him God speed. The twain went into
the ring, and fell to work; and terrible was the gnashing of their
teeth, and the sweat ran down from their limbs. Epeius came on
fiercely, and struck Euryalus on the cheek, and that was enough;
for all his limbs were loosened. As a fish on a weedy beach, in the
ripple caused by Boreas, leapeth high in air, so Euryalus leapt up
in his anguish. But the generous Epeius raised him again to his
feet, and his comrades led him away, with dragging feet and
drooping head, and spitting out black blood.

Next came the terrible wrestling match; and for this the
glorious Achilles brought out two costly prizes: for the winner, a
fireproof tripod, worth twelve oxen; and for the loser, a woman
skilled in handiwork, valued at four oxen. And he cried aloud to
the Achaians, “Stand forward all ye who will enter into this
contest!”

Then rose Telamonian Ajax and the crafty Ulysses, and faced each
other. And they entered the ring, and grasped each other with their
strong hands, like the rafters of a house, joined by some skillful
builder to withstand the wind. Their backbones grated and creaked
beneath the strain; the sweat poured down from their limbs, and
bloody weals streaked their sides and shoulders, as they struggled
for the well-wrought tripod. But neither could Ulysses throw the
burly Ajax, nor Ajax him. And when the Achaians grew tired of the
futile contest, Ajax spake to Ulysses: “O thou offspring of
the Gods, Laertes’ son! do thou lift me, or I will lift thee,
and the issue will be on the lap of Zeus!”

So saying, he raised Ulysses. But the Wily One did not forget
his craft. From behind, he struck the hollow of Ajax’s knee,
and threw him on his back; and Ulysses fell upon him; and the
people marveled. Then, in his turn, Ulysses tried to lift huge
Ajax, but could not; so he thrust his crooked knee into the hollow
of the other’s; and they again both fell to the ground,
covered with dust. When they rose for a third bout, Achilles
restrained them. “No longer wear ye one another out, with
toil and pain! Ye both have won and shall receive equal
prizes!” And they cleansed themselves, and put on their
doublets.

Then the noble son of Peleus offered prizes for the foot-race;
the first, a silver krater holding six measures, curiously chased
by Sidonian artists—by far the most beautiful mixing-cup in
the whole world. For the second he offered a stalled ox; and for
the third, half a talent of gold. The wondrous krater
Phœnicians had brought by sea, and given it to Thoas, the
ruler of Lemnos; and Euneus, son of Jason, inherited it from Jason,
who received it from Thoas, his father-in-law; and Euneus gave it
to the hero Patroclus, as a ransom for Lycaon, son of Priam; this
splendid goblet was offered to the swiftest of foot.

Then three valiant heroes arose: Ajax, son of Oïleus;
Ulysses, the wily one; and Antilochus, the best runner of the
youths. Achilles ranged them side by side, and showed them the
goal. All started at full speed; but Ajax soon took the lead; and
Ulysses came close behind him, near as the shuttle to the breast of
a fair-girdled woman when she is weaving,—so near that his
breath was warm on the back of Ajax. But as they neared the goal,
the wily Ulysses prayed to the fierce-eyed Athene, “O
goddess, come and help my feet!” And Athene heard her
favorite, and strengthened all his limbs. But just as they were
about to pounce upon the prize, Ajax slipped in the blood of the
slaughtered oxen, and fell; his mouth and nostrils were filled with
dirt and gore. So the patient Ulysses took the priceless krater,
and Ajax the fatted ox. But Ajax, holding his prize by the horn,
and spitting the filth from his mouth, spake to the Achaians:
“O fie upon it! it was the goddess who betrayed me; she who
is ever near to Ulysses, as a mother to her child.” And the
Achaians laughed merrily, to see him in such a sorry plight.

Antilochus, smiling, took the last prize, half a talent of gold;
and he too spake winged words to the Argives: “My friends, ye
too will agree with me that the deathless Gods show favor to the
older men. Ajax is a little older than I; but Ulysses is of a
former generation. It were not easy for any one, except Achilles,
fleet of foot, to outrun him.”

Achilles was pleased at the honor done to his swiftness.
“Not unrewarded,” he said, “shall the praise be
which thou hast bestowed on me: I give thee another half-talent of
gold.” Antilochus received it gladly. Then the assembly was
dissolved, and the Achaians dispersed, each to his own ship.

The Wooden Horse and the Fall of
Troy

By Josephine Preston Peabody

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Nine years the Greeks laid siege to Troy, and Troy held out
against every device. On both sides the lives of many heroes were
spent, and they were forced to acknowledge each other enemies of
great valor.

Sometimes the chief warriors fought in single combat, while the
armies looked on, and the old men of Troy, with the women, came out
to watch afar off from the city walls. King Priam and Queen Hecuba
would come, and Cassandra, sad with foreknowledge of their doom,
and Andromache, the lovely young wife of Hector, with her little
son, whom the people called the city’s king. Sometimes fair
Helen came to look across the plain to the fellow-countrymen whom
she had forsaken; and although she was the cause of all this war,
the Trojans half forgave her when she passed by, because her beauty
was like a spell, and warmed hard hearts as the sunshine mellows
apples. So for nine years the Greeks plundered the neighboring
towns, but the city Troy stood fast, and the Grecian ships waited
with folded wings.

In the tenth year of the war the Greeks, who could not take the
city by force, pondered how they might take it by craft. At length,
with the aid of Ulysses, they devised a plan.

A portion of the Grecian host broke up camp and set sail as if
they were homeward bound; but, once out of sight, they anchored
their ships behind a neighboring island. The rest of the army then
fell to work upon a great image of a horse. They built it of wood,
fitted and carved, and with a door so cunningly concealed that none
might notice it. When it was finished the horse looked like a
prodigious idol; but it was hollow, skillfully pierced here and
there, and so spacious that a band of men could lie hidden within
and take no harm. Into this hiding-place went Ulysses, Menelaus,
and the other chiefs, fully armed, and when the door was shut upon
them, the rest of the Grecian army broke camp and went away.

A GREAT IMAGE OF A HORSE. THEY BUILT IT OF WOOD, FITTED AND
CARVED, AND WITH A DOOR SO CUNNINGLY CONCEALED THAT NONE MIGHT
NOTICE IT. WHEN IT WAS FINISHED THE HORSE LOOKED LIKE A PRODIGIOUS
IDOL, BUT IT WAS HOLLOW, SKILLFULLY PIERCED HERE AND THERE

Meanwhile, in Troy, the people had seen the departure of the
ships, and the news had spread like wildfire. The great enemy had
lost heart,—after ten years of war! Part of the army had
gone,—the rest were going. Already the last of the ships had
set sail, and the camp was deserted. The tents that had whitened
the plain were gone like a frost before the sun. The war was
over!

The whole city went wild with joy. Like one who has been a
prisoner for many years, it flung off all restraint, and the people
rose as a single man to test the truth of new liberty. The gates
were thrown wide, and the Trojans—men, women, and
children—thronged over the plain and into the empty camp of
the enemy. There stood the Wooden Horse.

No one knew what it could be. Fearful at first, they gathered
around it, as children gather around a live horse; they marveled at
its wondrous height and girth, and were for moving it into the city
as a trophy of war.

At this, one man interposed,—Laocoön, a priest of
Neptune. “Take heed, citizens,” said he. “Beware
of all that comes from the Greeks. Have you fought them for ten
years without learning their devices? This is some piece of
treachery.”

But there was another outcry in the crowd, and at that moment
certain of the Trojans dragged forward a wretched man who wore the
garments of a Greek. He seemed the sole remnant of the Grecian
army, and as such they consented to spare his life, if he would
tell them the truth.

Sinon, for this was the spy’s name, said that he had been
left behind by the malice of Ulysses, and he told them that the
Greeks had built the Wooden Horse as an offering to Athene, and
that they had made it so huge in order to keep it from being moved
out of the camp, since it was destined to bring triumph to its
possessors.

At this the joy of the Trojans was redoubled, and they set their
wits to find out how they might soonest drag the great horse across
the plain and into the city to insure victory. While they stood
talking, two immense serpents rose out of the sea and made towards
the camp. Some of the people took flight, others were transfixed
with terror; but all, near and far, watched this new omen. Rearing
their crests, the sea-serpents crossed the shore, swift, shining,
terrible as a risen water-flood that descends upon a helpless
little town. Straight through the crowd they swept, and seized the
priest Laocoön where he stood, with his two sons, and wrapped
them all round and round in fearful coils. There was no chance of
escape. Father and sons perished together; and when the monsters
had devoured the three men, into the sea they slipped again,
leaving no trace of the horror.

The terrified Trojans saw an omen in this. To their minds
punishment had come upon Laocoön for his words against the
Wooden Horse. Surely, it was sacred to the Gods; he had spoken
blasphemy, and had perished before their eyes. They flung his
warning to the winds. They wreathed the horse with garlands, amid
great acclaim; and then, all lending a hand, they dragged it,
little by little, out of the camp and into the city of Troy. With
the close of that victorious day, they gave up every memory of
danger and made merry after ten years of privation.

That very night Sinon the spy opened the hidden door of the
Wooden Horse, and in the darkness, Ulysses, Menelaus, and the other
chiefs who had lain hidden there crept out and gave the signal to
the Grecian army. For, under cover of night, those ships that had
been moored behind the island had sailed back again, and the Greeks
were come upon Troy.

Not a Trojan was on guard. The whole city was at feast when the
enemy rose in its midst, and the warning of Laocoön was
fulfilled.

Priam and his warriors fell by the sword, and their kingdom was
plundered of all its fair possessions, women and children and
treasure. Last of all, the city itself was burned to its very
foundations.

Homeward sailed the Greeks, taking as royal captives poor
Cassandra and Andromache and many another Trojan. And home at last
went fair Helen, the cause of all this sorrow, eager to be forgiven
by her husband, King Menelaus. For she had awakened from the
enchantment of Venus, and even before the death of Paris she had
secretly longed for her home and kindred. Home to Sparta she came
with the king after a long and stormy voyage, and there she lived
and died the fairest of women.

But the kingdom of Troy was fallen. Nothing remained of all its
glory but the glory of its dead heroes and fair women, and the
ruins of its citadel by the river Scamander. There even now,
beneath the foundations of later homes that were built and burned,
built and burned, in the wars of a thousand years after, the ruins
of ancient Troy lie hidden, like mouldered leaves deep under the
new grass. And there, to this very day, men who love the story are
delving after the dead city as you might search for a buried
treasure.

THE
WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES

An Adventure with the
Cyclops

By Alfred J. Church

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[After the fall of Troy the Greeks set out for
home, but many of them had troubles and dangers to meet before they
saw again the shores of their native land. The one who suffered
most was Ulysses, and the following is his story of his adventure
with the one-eyed giant, the Cyclops.]

The wind that bore me from Troy brought me to Ismarus, a city of
the Ciconians. This I sacked, slaying the people that dwelt
therein. Much spoil did we take out of the city, dividing it among
the people, so that each man had his share. And when we had done
this, I commanded my men that they should depart with all speed;
but they, in their folly, would not hear me. For there was much
wine to drink, and sheep and kine to slay; therefore they sat on
the shore and feasted. Meanwhile the people of the city fetched
others, their kinsmen that dwelt in the mountains, and were more in
number and more valiant than they, and skillful in all manner of
fighting. In the early morning they assembled themselves together,
thick as the flowers and the leaves that grow in the springtime,
and set the battle in array. Then we fought with them; while the
day waxed we prevailed over them, and beat them back, though they
were more in number than we; but when the sun was descending in the
heavens, then the Cicones overcame us, and drave us to our ships.
Six from each ship perished, but the remnant of us escaped from
death.

On the tenth day after this we came to the land where the lotus
grows—a wondrous fruit of which whosoever eats cares not to
see country or wife or children again. Now the Lotus-Eaters, for
they so called the people of the land, were a kindly folk, and gave
of the fruit to some of the sailors, not meaning them any harm, but
thinking it to be the best that they had to give. These, when they
had eaten, said that they would not sail any more over the sea;
which, when I heard, I bade their comrades bind them and carry
them, sadly complaining, to the ships.

Then, the wind having abated, we took to our oars, and rowed for
many days till we came to the country where the Cyclops dwell. Now,
a mile or so from the shore there was an island, very fair and
fertile, but no man dwells there or tills the soil, and in the
island a harbor where a ship may be safe from all winds, and at the
head of the harbor a stream falling from a rock, and whispering
alders all about it. Into this the ships passed safely, and were
hauled up on the beach, and the crews slept by them, waiting for
the morning.

When the dawn appeared, then we wandered through the island; and
the nymphs of the land started the wild goats that my company might
have food to eat. Thereupon we took our bows and our spears from
the ships, and shot at the goats; and the Gods gave us plenty of
prey. Twelve ships I had in my company, and each ship had nine
goats for its share, and my own portion was ten.

Then all the day we sat and feasted, drinking the sweet wine
which we had taken from the city of the Cicones, and eating the
flesh of the goats; and as we sat we looked across to the land of
the Cyclops, seeing the smoke and hearing the voices of the men and
of the sheep and of the goats. And when the sun set and darkness
came over the land, we lay down upon the seashore and slept.

The next day I gathered my men together, and said, “Abide
ye here, dear friends; I with my own ship and my own company will
go and make trial of the folk that dwell in yonder island, whether
they are just or unjust.”

So I climbed into my ship, and bade my company follow me; so we
came to the land of the Cyclops. Close to the shore was a cave,
with laurels round about the mouth. This was the dwelling of the
Cyclops. Alone he dwelt, a creature without law. Nor was he like to
mortal men, but rather to some wooded peak of the hills that stands
out apart from all the rest.

Then I bade the rest of my comrades abide by the ship, and keep
it, but I took twelve men, the bravest that there were in the crew,
and went forth. I had with me a goat-skin full of the wine, dark
red, and sweet, which the priest of Apollo at Ismarus had given me.
Because we kept him and his wife and child from harm when we sacked
the city, reverencing the god, therefore did he give it me. Three
things did he give me,—seven talents of gold, and a
mixing-bowl of silver, and of wine twelve jars. So precious was it
that none in his house knew of it saving himself and his wife and
one dame that kept the house. When they drank of it they mixed
twenty measures of water with one of wine, and the smell that went
up from it was wondrous sweet. No man could easily refrain from
drinking it. With this wine I filled a great skin and bore it with
me; also I bare corn in a wallet, for my heart within me boded that
I should need it.

So we entered the cave, and judged that it was the dwelling of
some rich and skillful shepherd. For within there were pens for the
young of the sheep and of the goats, divided all according to their
age, and there were baskets full of cheeses, and full milkpails
ranged along the wall. But the Cyclops himself was away in the
pastures. Then my companions besought me that I would depart,
taking with me, if I would, a store of cheeses and sundry of the
lambs and of the kids. But I would not, for I wished to see, after
my wont, what manner of host this strange shepherd might be, and,
if it might be, to take a gift from his hand, such as is the due of
strangers. Verily, his coming was not to be a joy to my
company.

It was evening when the Cyclops came home,—a mighty giant,
very tall of stature, and when we saw him we fled into the sacred
place of the cave in great fear. On his shoulder he bore a vast
bundle of pine logs for his fire, and threw them down outside the
cave with a great crash, and drove the flocks within, and closed
the entrance with a huge rock, which twenty wagons and more could
not bear. Then he milked the ewes and all the she-goats, and half
of the milk he curdled for cheese, and half he set ready for
himself, when he should sup. Next he kindled a fire with the pine
logs, and the flame lighted up all the cave, showing to him both me
and my comrades.

“Who are ye?” cried Polyphemus, for that was the
giant’s name. “Are ye traders, or, haply,
pirates?”

I shuddered at the dreadful voice and shape, but bare me
bravely, and answered, “We are no pirates, mighty sir, but
Greeks sailing back from Troy, and subjects of the great King
Agamemnon, whose fame is spread from one end of heaven to the
other. And we are come to beg hospitality of thee in the name of
Zeus, who rewards or punishes hosts and guests, according as they
be faithful the one to the other, or no.”

“Nay,” said the giant; “it is but idle talk to
tell me of Zeus and the other Gods. We Cyclops take no account of
gods, holding ourselves to be much better and stronger than they.
But come, tell me, where have you left your ship?”

But I saw his thought when he asked about the ship, how he was
minded to break it, and take from us all hope of flight. Therefore
I answered him craftily,—

“Ship have we none, for that which was ours King Neptune
brake, driving it on a jutting rock on this coast, and we whom thou
seest are all that are escaped from the waves.”

Polyphemus answered nothing, but without more ado caught up two
of the men, as a man might catch up the whelps of a dog, and dashed
them on the ground, and tare them limb from limb, and devoured
them, with huge draughts of milk between, leaving not a morsel, not
even the very bones. But we that were left, when we saw the
dreadful deed, could only weep and pray to Zeus for help. And when
the giant had filled his maw with human flesh and with the milk of
the flocks, he lay down among his sheep and slept.

Then I questioned much in my heart whether I should slay the
monster as he slept, for I doubted not that my good sword would
pierce to the giant’s heart, mighty as he was. But my second
thought kept me back, for I remembered that, should I slay him, I
and my comrades would yet perish miserably. For who should move
away the great rock that lay against the door of the cave? So we
waited till the morning, with grief in our hearts. And the monster
woke, and milked his flocks, and afterwards, seizing two men,
devoured them for his meal. Then he went to the pastures, but put
the great rock on the mouth of the cave, just as a man puts down
the lid upon his quiver.

All that day I was thinking what I might best do to save myself
and my companions, and the end of my thinking was this: there was a
mighty pole in the cave, green wood of an olive-tree, big as a
ship’s mast, which Polyphemus purposed to use, when the smoke
should have dried it, as a walking-staff. Of this I cut off a
fathom’s length, and my comrades sharpened it and hardened it
in the fire, and then hid it away. At evening the giant came back,
and drove his sheep into the cave, nor left the rams outside, as he
had been wont to do before, but shut them in. And having duly done
his shepherd’s work, he took, as before, two of my comrades,
and devoured them. And when he had finished his supper, I came
forward, holding the wineskin in my hand, and said,—

“Drink, Cyclops, now that thou hast feasted. Drink, and
see what precious things we had in our ship. But no one hereafter
will come to thee with such like, if thou dealest with strangers as
cruelly as thou hast dealt with us.”

Then the Cyclops drank, and was mightily pleased, and said,
“Give me again to drink, and tell me thy name, stranger, and
I will give thee a gift such as a host should give. In good truth
this is a rare liquor. We, too, have vines, but they bear not wine
like this, which, indeed, must be such as the Gods drink in
heaven.”

Then I gave him the cup again, and he drank. Thrice I gave it to
him, and thrice he drank, not knowing what it was, and how it would
work within his brain.

Then I spake to him: “Thou didst ask my name, Cyclops. My
name is No Man. And now that thou knowest my name, thou shouldst
give me thy gift.”

And he said, “My gift shall be that I will eat thee last
of all thy company.”

And as he spake, he fell back in a drunken sleep. Then I bade my
comrades be of good courage, for the time was come when they should
be delivered. And they thrust the stake of olive-wood into the fire
till it was ready, green as it was, to burst into flame, and they
thrust it into the monster’s eye; for he had but one eye, and
that in the midst of his forehead, with the eyebrow below it. And
I, standing above, leant with all my force upon the stake, and
turned it about, as a man bores the timber of a ship with a drill.
And the burning wood hissed in the eye, just as the red-hot iron
hisses in the water when a man seeks to temper steel for a
sword.

Then the giant leapt up, and tore away the stake, and cried
aloud, so that all the Cyclops who dwelt on the mountain-side heard
him and came about his cave, asking him, “What aileth thee,
Polyphemus, that thou makest this uproar in the peaceful night,
driving away sleep? Is any one robbing thee of thy sheep, or
seeking to slay thee by craft or force?”

And the giant answered, “No Man slays me by
craft.”

“Nay, but,” they said, “if no man does thee
wrong we cannot help thee. The sickness which great Zeus may send,
who can avoid? Pray to our father, Neptune, for help.”

So they spake, and I laughed in my heart when I saw how I had
beguiled them by the name that I had given.

But the Cyclops rolled away the great stone from the door of the
cave, and sat in the midst, stretching out his hands, to feel
whether perchance the men within the cave would seek to go out
among the sheep.

Long did I think how I and my comrades should best escape. At
last I lighted upon a device that seemed better than all the rest,
and much I thanked Zeus for that this once the giant had driven the
rams with the other sheep into the cave. For, these being great and
strong, I fastened my comrades under the bellies of the beasts,
tying them with osier twigs, of which the giant made his bed. One
ram I took, and fastened a man beneath it, and two rams I set, one
on either side. So I did with the six, for but six were left out of
the twelve who had ventured with me from the ship. And there was
one mighty ram far larger than all the others, and to this I clung,
grasping the fleece tight with both my hands. So we all waited for
the morning. And when the morning came, the rams rushed forth to
the pasture; but the giant sat in the door and felt the back of
each as it went by, nor thought to try what might be underneath.
Last of all went the great ram. And the Cyclops knew him as he
passed, and said,—

“How is this, thou who art the leader of the flock? Thou
art not wont thus to lag behind. Thou hast always been the first to
run to the pastures and streams in the morning, and the first to
come back to the fold when evening fell; and now thou art last of
all. Perhaps thou art troubled about thy master’s eye, which
some wretch—No Man, they call him—has destroyed, having
first mastered me with wine. He has not escaped, I ween. I would
that thou couldst speak, and tell me where he is lurking. Of a
truth, I would dash out his brains upon the ground, and avenge me
of this No Man.”

So speaking, he let the ram pass out of the cave. But when we
were now out of reach of the giant, I loosed my hold of the ram,
and then unbound my comrades. And we hastened to our ship, not
forgetting to drive the sheep before us, and often looking back
till we came to the seashore. Right glad were those that had abode
by the ship to see us. Nor did they lament for those that had died,
though we were fain to do so, for I forbade, fearing lest the noise
of their weeping should betray us to the giant, where we were. Then
we all climbed into the ship, and sitting well in order on the
benches smote the sea with our oars, laying to right lustily, that
we might the sooner get away from the accursed land. And when we
had rowed a hundred yards or so, so that a man’s voice could
yet be heard by one who stood upon the shore, I stood up in the
ship and shouted,—

“He was no coward, O Cyclops, whose comrades thou didst so
foully slay in thy den. Justly art thou punished, monster, that
devourest thy guests in thy dwelling. May the Gods make thee suffer
worse things than these!”

Then the Cyclops in his wrath brake off the top of a great hill,
a mighty rock, and hurled it where he had heard the voice. Right in
front of the ship’s bow it fell, and a great wave rose as it
sank, and washed the ship back to the shore. But I seized a long
pole with both hands, and pushed the ship from the land, and bade
my comrades ply their oars, nodding with my head, for I would not
speak, lest the Cyclops should know where we were. Then they rowed
with all their might and main.

THE CYCLOPS IN HIS WRATH BRAKE OFF THE TOP OF A GREAT HILL

And when we had gotten twice as far as before I made as if I
would speak again; but my comrades sought to hinder me, saying,
“Nay, my lord, anger not the giant any more. Surely we
thought we were lost before, when he threw the great rock, and
washed our ship back to the shore. And if he hear thee now, he may
crush our ship and us, for the man throws a mighty bolt, and throws
it far.”

But I would not be persuaded, but stood up and said,
“Hear, Cyclops! If any man ask who blinded thee, say that it
was the warrior Ulysses, son of Laertes, dwelling in
Ithaca.”

Circe’s Palace

By Nathaniel Hawthorne

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At one time in the course of Ulysses’ weary voyage, he
arrived at an island that looked very green and pleasant, but the
name of which was unknown to him. For, only a little while before
he came thither, he had met with a terrible hurricane, or rather a
great many hurricanes at once, which drove his fleet of vessels
into a strange part of the sea, where neither himself nor any of
his mariners had ever sailed. This misfortune was entirely owing to
the foolish curiosity of his shipmates, who, while Ulysses lay
asleep, had untied some very bulky leathern bags, in which they
supposed a valuable treasure to be concealed. But in each of these
stout bags, King Æolus, the ruler of the winds, had tied up a
tempest, and had given it to Ulysses to keep, in order that he
might be sure of a favorable passage homeward to Ithaca; and when
the strings were loosened, forth rushed the whistling blasts, like
air out of a blown bladder, whitening the sea with foam, and
scattering the vessels nobody could tell whither.

Immediately after escaping from this peril, a still greater one
had befallen him. Scudding before the hurricane, he reached a place
which, as he afterwards found, was called Læstrygonia, where
some monstrous giants had eaten up many of his companions, and had
sunk every one of his vessels, except that in which he himself
sailed, by flinging great masses of rock at them, from the cliffs
along the shore. After going through such troubles as these, you
cannot wonder that King Ulysses was glad to moor his tempest-beaten
bark in a quiet cove of the green island, which I began with
telling you about. But he had encountered so many dangers from
giants, and one-eyed Cyclops, and monsters of the sea and land,
that he could not help dreading some mischief, even in this
pleasant and seemingly solitary spot. For two days, therefore, the
poor weather-worn voyagers kept quiet, and either stayed on board
of their vessel or merely crept along under cliffs that bordered
the shore; and to keep themselves alive, they dug shell-fish out of
the sand, and sought for any little rill of fresh water that might
be running towards the sea.

Before the two days were spent, they grew very weary of this
kind of life; for the followers of King Ulysses, as you will find
it important to remember, were terrible gormandizers, and pretty
sure to grumble if they missed their regular meals, and their
irregular ones besides. Their stock of provisions was quite
exhausted, and even the shell-fish began to get scarce, so that
they had now to choose between starving to death or venturing into
the interior of the island, where, perhaps, some huge three-headed
dragon or other horrible monster had his den. Such misshapen
creatures were very numerous in those days; and nobody ever
expected to make a voyage or take a journey without running more or
less risk of being devoured by them.

But King Ulysses was a bold man as well as a prudent one; and on
the third morning he determined to discover what sort of a place
the island was, and whether it were possible to obtain a supply of
food for the hungry mouths of his companions. So, taking a spear in
his hand, he clambered to the summit of a cliff, and gazed round
about him. At a distance, towards the centre of the island, he
beheld the stately towers of what seemed to be a palace, built of
snow-white marble, and rising in the midst of a grove of lofty
trees. The thick branches of these trees stretched across the front
of the edifice, and more than half concealed it, although, from the
portion which he saw, Ulysses judged it to be spacious and
exceedingly beautiful, and probably the residence of some great
nobleman or prince. A blue smoke went curling up from the chimney,
and was almost the pleasantest part of the spectacle to Ulysses.
For, from the abundance of this smoke, it was reasonable to
conclude that there was a good fire in the kitchen, and that, at
dinnertime, a plentiful banquet would be served up to the
inhabitants of the palace, and to whatever guests might happen to
drop in.

With so agreeable a prospect before him, Ulysses fancied that he
could not do better than to go straight to the palace gate, and
tell the master of it that there was a crew of poor shipwrecked
mariners, not far off, who had eaten nothing for a day or two save
a few clams and oysters, and would therefore be thankful for a
little food. And the prince or nobleman must be a very stingy
curmudgeon, to be sure, if, at least, when his own dinner was over,
he would not bid them welcome to the broken victuals from the
table.

Pleasing himself with this idea, King Ulysses had made a few
steps in the direction of the palace, when there was a great
twittering and chirping from the branch of a neighboring tree. A
moment afterwards, a bird came flying towards him, and hovered in
the air, so as almost to brush his face with its wings. It was a
very pretty little bird, with purple wings and body, and yellow
legs, and a circle of golden feathers round its neck, and on its
head a golden tuft, which looked like a king’s crown in
miniature. Ulysses tried to catch the bird. But it fluttered nimbly
out of his reach, still chirping in a piteous tone, as if it could
have told a lamentable story, had it only been gifted with human
language. And when he attempted to drive it away, the bird flew no
farther than the bough of the next tree, and again came fluttering
about his head, with its doleful chirp, as soon as he showed a
purpose of going forward.

“Have you anything to tell me, little bird?” asked
Ulysses.

And he was ready to listen attentively to whatever the bird
might communicate; for at the siege of Troy and elsewhere he had
known such odd things to happen that he would not have considered
it much out of the common run had this little feathered creature
talked as plainly as himself.

“Peep!” said the bird. “Peep, peep,
pe—weep!” And nothing else would it say, but only,
“Peep, peep, pe—weep!” in a melancholy cadence,
and over and over and over again. As often as Ulysses moved
forward, however, the bird showed the greatest alarm, and did its
best to drive him back, with the anxious flutter of its purple
wings. Its unaccountable behavior made him conclude, at last, that
the bird knew of some danger that awaited him, and which must needs
be very terrible, beyond all question, since it moved even a little
fowl to feel compassion for a human being. So he resolved, for the
present, to return to the vessel, and tell his companions what he
had seen.

This appeared to satisfy the bird. As soon as Ulysses turned
back, it ran up the trunk of a tree, and began to pick insects out
of the bark with its long, sharp bill; for it was a kind of
woodpecker, you must know, and had to get its living in the same
manner as other birds of that species. But every little while, as
it pecked at the bark of the tree, the purple bird bethought itself
of some secret sorrow, and repeated its plaintive note of
“Peep, peep, pe—weep!”

On his way to the shore, Ulysses had the good luck to kill a
large stag by thrusting his spear into its back. Taking it on his
shoulders (for he was a remarkably strong man), he lugged it along
with him, and flung it down before his hungry companions. I have
already hinted to you what gormandizers some of the comrades of
King Ulysses were. From what is related of them, I reckon that
their favorite diet was pork, and that they had lived upon it until
a good part of their physical substance was swine’s flesh,
and their tempers and dispositions were very much akin to the hog.
A dish of venison, however, was no unacceptable meal to them,
especially after feeding so long on oysters and clams. So,
beholding the dead stag, they felt of its ribs in a knowing way,
and lost no time in kindling a fire, of drift-wood, to cook it. The
rest of the day was spent in feasting; and if these enormous eaters
got up from table at sunset, it was only because they could not
scrape another morsel off the poor animal’s bones.

The next morning their appetites were as sharp as ever. They
looked at Ulysses, as if they expected him to clamber up the cliff
again, and come back with another fat deer upon his shoulders.
Instead of setting out, however, he summoned the whole crew
together, and told them it was in vain to hope that he could kill a
stag every day for their dinner, and therefore it was advisable to
think of some other mode of satisfying their hunger.

“Now,” said he, “when I was on the cliff
yesterday, I discovered that this island is inhabited. At a
considerable distance from the shore stood a marble palace, which
appeared to be very spacious, and had a great deal of smoke curling
out of one of its chimneys.”

“Aha!” muttered some of his companions, smacking
their lips. “That smoke must have come from the kitchen fire.
There was a good dinner on the spit; and no doubt there will be as
good a one to-day.”

“But,” continued the wise Ulysses, “you must
remember, my good friends, our misadventure in the cavern of
one-eyed Polyphemus, the Cyclops! Instead of his ordinary milk
diet, did he not eat up two of our comrades for his supper, and a
couple more for breakfast, and two at his supper again? Methinks I
see him yet, the hideous monster, scanning us with that great red
eye, in the middle of his forehead, to single out the fattest. And
then again, only a few days ago, did we not fall into the hands of
the king of the Læstrygons, and those other horrible giants,
his subjects, who devoured a great many more of us than are now
left? To tell you the truth, if we go to yonder palace, there can
be no question that we shall make our appearance at the
dinner-table; but whether seated as guests or served up as food, is
a point to be seriously considered.”

“Either way,” murmured some of the hungriest of the
crew, “it will be better than starvation; particularly if one
could be sure of being well fattened beforehand and daintily cooked
afterwards.”

“That is a matter of taste,” said King Ulysses,
“and, for my own part, neither the most careful fattening nor
the daintiest of cookery would reconcile me to being dished at
last. My proposal is, therefore, that we divide ourselves into two
equal parties, and ascertain, by drawing lots, which of the two
shall go to the palace, and beg for food and assistance. If these
can be obtained, all is well. If not, and if the inhabitants prove
as inhospitable as Polyphemus or the Læstrygons, then there
will but half of us perish, and the remainder may set sail and
escape.”

As nobody objected to this scheme, Ulysses proceeded to count
the whole band, and found that there were forty-six men, including
himself. He then numbered off twenty-two of them, and put
Eurylochus (who was one of his chief officers, and second only to
himself in sagacity) at their head. Ulysses took command of the
remaining twenty-two men, in person. Then, taking off his helmet,
he put two shells into it, on one of which was written,
“Go,” and on the other, “Stay.” Another
person now held the helmet, while Ulysses and Eurylochus drew out
each a shell; and the word “Go” was found written on
that which Eurylochus had drawn. In this manner it was decided that
Ulysses and his twenty-two men were to remain at the seaside until
the other party should have found out what sort of treatment they
might expect at the mysterious palace. As there was no help for it,
Eurylochus immediately set forth at the head of his twenty-two
followers, who went off in a very melancholy state of mind, leaving
their friends in hardly better spirits than themselves.

No sooner had they clambered up the cliff, than they discerned
the tall marble towers of the palace, ascending, as white as snow,
out of the lovely green shadow of the trees which surrounded it. A
gush of smoke came from a chimney in the rear of the edifice. This
vapor rose high in the air, and meeting with a breeze, was wafted
seaward, and made to pass over the heads of the hungry mariners.
When people’s appetites are keen, they have a very quick
scent for anything savory in the wind.

“That smoke comes from the kitchen!” cried one of
them, turning up his nose as high as he could, and snuffing
eagerly. “And, as sure as I’m a half-starved vagabond,
I smell roast meat in it.”

“Pig, roast pig!” said another. “Ah, the
dainty little porker! My mouth waters for him.”

“Let us make haste,” cried the others, “or we
shall be too late for the good cheer!”

But scarcely had they made half a dozen steps from the edge of
the cliff, when a bird came fluttering to meet them. It was the
same pretty little bird, with the purple wings and body, the yellow
legs, the golden collar round its neck, and the crown-like tuft
upon its head, whose behavior had so much surprised Ulysses. It
hovered about Eurylochus, and almost brushed his face with its
wings.

“Peep, peep, pe—weep!” chirped the bird.

So plaintively intelligent was the sound, that it seemed as if
the little creature were going to break its heart with some mighty
secret that it had to tell, and only this one poor note to tell it
with.

“My pretty bird,” said Eurylochus,—for he was
a wary person, and let no token of harm escape his
notice,—“my pretty bird, who sent you hither? And what
is the message which you bring?”

“Peep, peep, pe—weep!” replied the bird, very
sorrowfully.

Then it flew towards the edge of the cliff, and looked round at
them, as if exceedingly anxious that they should return whence they
came. Eurylochus and a few of the others were inclined to turn
back. They could not help suspecting that the purple bird must be
aware of something mischievous that would befall them at the
palace, and the knowledge of which affected its airy spirit with a
human sympathy and sorrow. But the rest of the voyagers, snuffing
up the smoke from the palace kitchen, ridiculed the idea of
returning to the vessel. One of them (more brutal than his fellows,
and the most notorious gormandizer in the whole crew) said such a
cruel and wicked thing, that I wonder the mere thought did not turn
him into a wild beast in shape, as he already was in his
nature.

“This troublesome and impertinent little fowl,” said
he, “would make a delicate titbit to begin dinner with. Just
one plump morsel, melting away between the teeth. If he comes
within my reach, I’ll catch him, and give him to the palace
cook to be roasted on a skewer.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth, before the purple bird
flew away, crying, “Peep, peep, pe—weep,” more
dolorously than ever.

“That bird,” remarked Eurylochus, “knows more
than we do about what awaits us at the palace.”

“Come on, then,” cried his comrades, “and
we’ll soon know as much as he does.”

The party, accordingly, went onward through the green and
pleasant wood. Every little while they caught new glimpses of the
marble palace, which looked more and more beautiful the nearer they
approached it. They soon entered a broad pathway, which seemed to
be very neatly kept, and which went winding along with streaks of
sunshine falling across it, and specks of light quivering among the
deepest shadows that fell from the lofty trees. It was bordered,
too, with a great many sweet-smelling flowers, such as the mariners
had never seen before. So rich and beautiful they were that, if the
shrubs grew wild here and were native in the soil, then this island
was surely the flower-garden of the whole earth; or, if
transplanted from some other clime, it must have been from the
Happy Islands that lay towards the golden sunset.

“There has been a great deal of pains foolishly wasted on
these flowers,” observed one of the company; and I tell you
what he said, that you may keep in mind what gormandizers they
were. “For my part, if I were the owner of the palace, I
would bid my gardener cultivate nothing but savory potherbs to make
a stuffing for roast meat, or to flavor a stew with.”

“Well said!” cried the others. “But I’ll
warrant you there’s a kitchen garden in the rear of the
palace.”

At one place they came to a crystal spring, and paused to drink
at it for want of liquor which they liked better. Looking into its
bosom, they beheld their own faces dimly reflected, but so
extravagantly distorted by the gush and motion of the water, that
each one of them appeared to be laughing at himself and all his
companions. So ridiculous were these images of themselves, indeed,
that they did really laugh aloud, and could hardly be grave again
as soon as they wished. And after they had drunk, they grew still
merrier than before.

“It has a twang of the wine-cask in it,” said one,
smacking his lips.

“Make haste!” cried his fellows; “we’ll
find the wine-cask itself at the palace; and that will be better
than a hundred crystal fountains.”

Then they quickened their pace, and capered for joy at the
thought of the savory banquet at which they hoped to be guests. But
Eurylochus told them that he felt as if he were walking in a
dream.

“If I am really awake,” continued he, “then,
in my opinion, we are on the point of meeting with some stranger
adventure than any that befell us in the cave of Polyphemus, or
among the gigantic man-eating Læstrygons, or in the windy
palace of King Æolus, which stands on a brazen-walled island.
This kind of dreamy feeling always comes over me before any
wonderful occurrence. If you take my advice, you will turn
back.”

“No, no,” answered his comrades, snuffing the air,
in which the scent from the palace kitchen was now very
perceptible. “We would not turn back, though we were certain
that the king of the Læstrygons, as big as a mountain, would
sit at the head of the table, and huge Polyphemus, the one-eyed
Cyclops, at its foot.”

At length they came within full sight of the palace, which
proved to be very large and lofty, with a great number of airy
pinnacles upon its roof. Though it was now midday, and the sun
shone brightly over the marble front, yet its snowy whiteness and
its fantastic style of architecture made it look unreal, like the
frostwork on a window-pane, or like the shapes of castles which one
sees among the clouds by moonlight. But just then a puff of wind
brought down the smoke of the kitchen chimney among them, and
caused each man to smell the odor of the dish that he liked best;
and, after scenting it, they thought everything else moonshine, and
nothing real save this palace, and save the banquet that was
evidently ready to be served up in it.

So they hastened their steps towards the portal, but had not got
half-way across the wide lawn, when a pack of lions, tigers, and
wolves came bounding to meet them. The terrified mariners started
back, expecting no better fate than to be torn to pieces and
devoured. To their surprise and joy, however, these wild beasts
merely capered around them, wagging their tails, offering their
heads to be stroked and patted, and behaving just like so many
well-bred house-dogs, when they wish to express their delight at
meeting their master or their master’s friends. The biggest
lion licked the feet of Eurylochus; and every other lion, and every
wolf and tiger, singled out one of his two and twenty followers,
whom the beast fondled as if he loved him better than a
beef-bone.

But, for all that, Eurylochus imagined that he saw something
fierce and savage in their eyes; nor would he have been surprised,
at any moment, to feel the big lion’s terrible claws, or to
see each of the tigers make a deadly spring, or each wolf leap at
the throat of the man whom he had fondled. Their mildness seemed
unreal, and a mere freak; but their savage nature was as true as
their teeth and claws.

Nevertheless, the men went safely across the lawn with the wild
beasts frisking about them, and doing no manner of harm; although,
as they mounted the steps of the palace, you might possibly have
heard a low growl, particularly from the wolves, as if they thought
it a pity, after all, to let the strangers pass without so much as
tasting what they were made of.

Eurylochus and his followers now passed under a lofty portal,
and looked through the open doorway into the interior of the
palace. The first thing that they saw was a spacious hall, and a
fountain in the middle of it, gushing up towards the ceiling out of
a marble basin, and falling back into it with a continual plash.
The water of this fountain, as it spouted upward, was constantly
taking new shapes, not very distinctly, but plainly enough for a
nimble fancy to recognize what they were. Now it was the shape of a
man in a long robe, the fleecy whiteness of which was made out of
the fountain’s spray; now it was a lion, or a tiger, or a
wolf, or an ass, or, as often as anything else, a hog, wallowing in
the marble basin as if it were his sty. It was either magic or some
very curious machinery that caused the gushing waterspout to assume
all these forms. But, before the strangers had time to look closely
at this wonderful sight, their attention was drawn off by a very
sweet and agreeable sound. A woman’s voice was singing
melodiously in another room of the palace, and with her voice was
mingled the noise of a loom, at which she was probably seated,
weaving a rich texture of cloth, and intertwining the high and low
sweetness of her voice into a rich tissue of harmony.

By and by the song came to an end; and then, all at once, there
were several feminine voices, talking airily and cheerfully, with
now and then a merry burst of laughter, such as you may always hear
when three or four young women sit at work together.

“What a sweet song that was!” exclaimed one of the
voyagers.

“Too sweet, indeed,” answered Eurylochus, shaking
his head. “Yet it was not so sweet as the song of the Sirens,
those birdlike damsels who wanted to tempt us on the rocks, so that
our vessel might be wrecked, and our bones left whitening along the
shore.”

“But just listen to the pleasant voices of those maidens,
and that buzz of the loom, as the shuttle passes to and fro,”
said another comrade. “What a domestic, household, homelike
sound it is! Ah, before that weary siege of Troy, I used to hear
the buzzing loom and the women’s voices under my own roof.
Shall I never hear them again? nor taste those nice little savory
dishes which my dearest wife knew how to serve up?”

“Tush! we shall fare better here,” said another.
“But how innocently those women are babbling together,
without guessing that we overhear them! And mark that richest voice
of all, so pleasant and familiar, but which yet seems to have the
authority of a mistress among them. Let us show ourselves at once.
What harm can the lady of the palace and her maidens do to mariners
and warriors like us?”

“Remember,” said Eurylochus, “that it was a
young maiden who beguiled three of our friends into the palace of
the king of the Læstrygons, who ate up one of them in the
twinkling of an eye.”

No warning or persuasion, however, had any effect on his
companions. They went up to a pair of folding-doors at the farther
end of the hall, and, throwing them wide open, passed into the next
room. Eurylochus, meanwhile, had stepped behind a pillar. In the
short moment while the folding-doors opened and closed again, he
caught a glimpse of a very beautiful woman rising from the loom and
coming to meet the poor weather-beaten wanderers, with a hospitable
smile and her hand stretched out in welcome. There were four other
young women, who joined their hands and danced merrily forward,
making gestures of obeisance to the strangers. They were only less
beautiful than the lady who seemed to be their mistress. Yet
Eurylochus fancied that one of them had sea-green hair, and that
the close-fitting bodice of a second looked like the bark of a
tree, and that both the others had something odd in their aspect,
although he could not quite determine what it was, in the little
while that he had to examine them.

The folding-doors swung quickly back, and left him standing
behind the pillar, in the solitude of the outer hall. There
Eurylochus waited until he was quite weary, and listened eagerly to
every sound, but without hearing anything that could help him to
guess what had become of his friends. Footsteps, it is true, seemed
to be passing and repassing in other parts of the palace. Then
there was a clatter of silver dishes, or golden ones, which made
him imagine a rich feast in a splendid banqueting-hall. But by and
by he heard a tremendous grunting and squealing, and then a sudden
scampering, like that of small, hard hoofs over a marble floor,
while the voices of the mistress and her four handmaidens were
screaming all together, in tones of anger and derision. Eurylochus
could not conceive what had happened, unless a drove of swine had
broken into the palace, attracted by the smell of the feast.
Chancing to cast his eyes at the fountain, he saw that it did not
shift its shape, as formerly, nor looked either like a long-robed
man, or a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or an ass. It looked like nothing
but a hog, which lay wallowing in the marble basin, and filled it
from brim to brim.