{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_22693/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_22693","id":"gutenberg_22693","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22693","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Children's Myths, Fairy Tales, etc.","Folklore","Mythology","Mythology, Greek -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Shell, Sam W. and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n          A\n    BOOK OF MYTHS\n\n     BY JEAN LANG\n\n   (MRS. JOHN LANG)\n\n WITH SIXTEEN ORIGINAL\n  DRAWINGS IN COLOUR\n   BY HELEN STRATTON\n\n\n    [Illustration]\n\n\n THOMAS NELSON & SONS\n       NEW YORK\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration: \"WHAT WAS HE DOING, THE GREAT GOD PAN, DOWN IN THE\nREEDS BY THE RIVER?\" (See page 209)]\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nJust as a little child holds out its hands to catch the sunbeams, to\nfeel and to grasp what, so its eyes tell it, is actually there, so,\ndown through the ages, men have stretched out their hands in eager\nendeavour to know their God. And because only through the human was\nthe divine knowable, the old peoples of the earth made gods of their\nheroes and not unfrequently endowed these gods with as many of the\nvices as of the virtues of their worshippers. As we read the myths of\nthe East and the West we find ever the same story. That portion of the\nancient Aryan race which poured from the central plain of Asia,\nthrough the rocky defiles of what we now call \"The Frontier,\" to\npopulate the fertile lowlands of India, had gods who must once have\nbeen wholly heroic, but who came in time to be more degraded than the\nmost vicious of lustful criminals. And the Greeks, Latins, Teutons,\nCelts, and Slavonians, who came of the same mighty Aryan stock, did\neven as those with whom they owned a common ancestry. Originally they\ngave to their gods of their best. All that was noblest in them, all\nthat was strongest and most selfless, all the higher instincts of\ntheir natures were their endowment. And although their worship in time\nbecame corrupt and lost its beauty, there yet remains for us, in the\nold tales of the gods, a wonderful humanity that strikes a vibrant\nchord in the hearts of those who are the descendants of their\nworshippers. For though creeds and forms may change, human nature\nnever changes. We are less simple than our fathers: that is all. And,\nas Professor York Powell[1] most truly says: \"It is not in a man's\ncreed, but in his deeds; not in his knowledge, but in his sympathy,\nthat there lies the essence of what is good and of what will last in\nhuman life.\"\n\nThe most usual habits of mind in our own day are the theoretical and\nanalytical habits. Dissection, vivisection, analysis--those are the\nprocesses to which all things not conclusively historical and all\nthings spiritual are bound to pass. Thus we find the old myths\nclassified into Sun Myths and Dawn Myths, Earth Myths and Moon Myths,\nFire Myths and Wind Myths, until, as one of the most sane and vigorous\nthinkers of the present day[2] has justly observed: \"If you take the\nrhyme of Mary and her little lamb, and call Mary the sun and the lamb\nthe moon, you will achieve astonishing results, both in religion and\nastronomy, when you find that the lamb followed Mary to school one\nday.\"\n\nIn this little collection of Myths, the stories are not presented to\nthe student of folklore as a fresh contribution to his knowledge.\nRather is the book intended for those who, in the course of their\nreading, frequently come across names which possess for them no\nmeaning, and who care to read some old stories, through which runs the\nsame humanity that their own hearts know. For although the old worship\nhas passed away, it is almost impossible for us to open a book that\ndoes not contain some mention of the gods of long ago. In our\nchildhood we are given copies of Kingsley's _Heroes_ and of\nHawthorne's _Tanglewood Tales_. Later on, we find in Shakespeare,\nSpenser, Milton, Keats, Shelley, Longfellow, Tennyson, Mrs. Browning,\nand a host of other writers, constant allusion to the stories of the\ngods. Scarcely a poet has ever written but makes mention of them in\none or other of his poems. It would seem as if there were no get-away\nfrom them. We might expect in this twentieth century that the old gods\nof Greece and of Rome, the gods of our Northern forefathers, the gods\nof Egypt, the gods of the British race, might be forgotten. But even\nwhen we read in a newspaper of aeroplanes, someone is more than likely\nto quote the story of Bellerophon and his winged steed, or of Icarus,\nthe flyer, and in our daily speech the names of gods and goddesses\ncontinually crop up. We drive--or, at least, till lately we drove--in\nPhaetons. Not only schoolboys swear by Jove or by Jupiter. The silvery\nsubstance in our thermometers and barometers is named Mercury.\nBlacksmiths are accustomed to being referred to as \"sons of Vulcan,\"\nand beautiful youths to being called \"young Adonises.\" We accept the\nnames of newspapers and debating societies as being the \"Argus,\"\nwithout perhaps quite realising who was Argus, the many-eyed. We talk\nof \"a panic,\" and forget that the great god Pan is father of the word.\nEven in our religious services we go back to heathenism. Not only are\nthe crockets on our cathedral spires and church pews remnants of\nfire-worship, but one of our own most beautiful Christian blessings is\nprobably of Assyrian origin. \"The Lord bless thee and keep thee....\nThe Lord make His face to shine upon thee.... The Lord lift up the\nlight of His countenance upon thee....\" So did the priests of the\nsun-gods invoke blessings upon those who worshipped.\n\nWe make many discoveries as we study the myths of the North and of the\nSouth. In the story of Baldur we find that the goddess Hel ultimately\ngave her name to the place of punishment precious to the Calvinistic\nmind. And because the Norseman very much disliked the bitter, cruel\ncold of the long winter, his heaven was a warm, well-fired abode, and\nhis place of punishment one of terrible frigidity. Somewhere on the\nother side of the Tweed and Cheviots was the spot selected by the Celt\nof southern Britain. On the other hand, the eastern mind, which knew\nthe terrors of a sun-smitten land and of a heat that was torture, had\nfor a hell a fiery place of constantly burning flames.\n\nIn the space permitted, it has not been possible to deal with more\nthan a small number of myths, and the well-known stories of Herakles,\nof Theseus, and of the Argonauts have been purposely omitted. These\nhave been so perfectly told by great writers that to retell them would\nseem absurd. The same applies to the Odyssey and the Iliad, the\ntranslations of which probably take rank amongst the finest\ntranslations in any language.\n\nThe writer will feel that her object has been gained should any\nreaders of these stories feel that for a little while they have left\nthe toilful utilitarianism of the present day behind them, and, with\nit, its hampering restrictions of sordid actualities that are so\nmurderous to imagination and to all romance.\n\n    \"Great God! I'd rather be\n    A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;\n    So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,\n    Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;\n    Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;\n    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.\"\n\n        JEAN LANG.\n\n\nPOSTSCRIPT\n\nWe have come, in those last long months, to date our happenings as\nthey have never until now been dated by those of our own generation.\n\nWe speak of things that took place \"_Before the War_\"; and between\nthat time and this stands a barrier immeasurable.\n\nThis book, with its Preface, was completed in 1914--\"_Before the\nWar._\"\n\nSince August 1914 the finest humanity of our race has been enduring\nPromethean agonies. But even as Prometheus unflinchingly bore the\ncruelties of pain, of heat and of cold, of hunger and of thirst, and\nthe tortures inflicted by an obscene bird of prey, so have endured the\nmen of our nation and of those nations with whom we are proud to be\nallied. Much more remote than they seemed one little year ago, now\nseem the old stories of sunny Greece. But if we have studied the\nstrange transmogrification of the ancient gods, we can look with\ninterest, if with horror, at the Teuton representation of the GOD in\nwhom we believe as a GOD of perfect purity, of honour, and of love.\nAccording to their interpretation of Him, the God of the Huns would\nseem to be as much a confederate of the vicious as the most degraded\ngod of ancient worship. And if we turn with shame from the Divinity so\noften and so glibly referred to by blasphemous lips, and look on a\npicture that tears our hearts, and yet makes our hearts big with\npride, we can understand how it was that those heroes who fought and\ndied in the Valley of the Scamander came in time to be regarded not as\nmen, but as gods.\n\nThere is no tale in all the world's mythology finer than the tale that\nbegan in August 1914. How future generations will tell the tale, who\ncan say?\n\nBut we, for whom Life can never be the same again, can say with all\nearnestness: \"It is the memory that the soldier leaves behind him,\nlike the long train of light that follows the sunken sun--that is all\nwhich is worth caring for, which distinguishes the death of the brave\nor the ignoble.\"\n\nAnd, surely, to all those who are fighting, and suffering, and dying\nfor a noble cause, the GOD of gods, the GOD of battles, who is also\nthe GOD of peace, and the GOD of Love, has become an ever near and\neternally living entity.\n\n    \"Our little systems have their day;\n    They have their day and cease to be,\n    They are but broken lights of Thee,\n    And Thou, oh Lord, art more than they.\"\n\n        JEAN LANG.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] _Teutonic Heathendom._\n\n[2] John Kelman, D.D., _Among Famous Books_.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                                  PAGE\n\n  PROMETHEUS AND PANDORA                             1\n\n  PYGMALION                                         11\n\n  PHAETON                                           16\n\n  ENDYMION                                          26\n\n  ORPHEUS                                           31\n\n  APOLLO AND DAPHNE                                 42\n\n  PSYCHE                                            46\n\n  THE CALYDONIAN HUNT                               69\n\n  ATALANTA                                          78\n\n  ARACHNE                                           82\n\n  IDAS AND MARPESSA                                 90\n\n  ARETHUSA                                         100\n\n  PERSEUS THE HERO                                 105\n\n  NIOBE                                            124\n\n  HYACINTHUS                                       129\n\n  KING MIDAS OF THE GOLDEN TOUCH                   134\n\n  CEYX AND HALCYONE                                144\n\n  ARISTAEUS THE BEE-KEEPER                          154\n\n  PROSERPINE                                       161\n\n  LATONA AND THE RUSTICS                           169\n\n  ECHO AND NARCISSUS                               174\n\n  ICARUS                                           181\n\n  CLYTIE                                           189\n\n  THE CRANES OF IBYCUS                             192\n\n  SYRINX                                           197\n\n  THE DEATH OF ADONIS                              202\n\n  PAN                                              209\n\n  LORELEI                                          220\n\n  FREYA, QUEEN OF THE NORTHERN GODS                227\n\n  THE DEATH OF BALDUR                              234\n\n  BEOWULF                                          244\n\n  ROLAND THE PALADIN                               266\n\n  THE CHILDREN OF LIR                              289\n\n  DEIRDRE                                          306\n\n\n\n\nLIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n  \"What was he doing, the great god Pan,\n  Down in the reeds by the river?\"                   _Frontispiece_\n\n                                                               PAGE\n\n  Then Pygmalion covered his eyes                                12\n\n  She checked her hounds, and stood beside Endymion              28\n\n  Swiftly he turned, and found his wife behind him               38\n\n  Thus did Psyche lose her fear, and enter the golden doors      52\n\n  She stopped, and picked up the treasure                        80\n\n  Marpessa sat alone by the fountain                             92\n\n  They whimpered and begged of him                              112\n\n  Darkness fell on the eyes of Hyacinthus                       132\n\n  A grey cold morning found her on the seashore                 152\n\n  She haunted him like his shadow                               176\n\n  Freya sat spinning the clouds                                 228\n\n  \"Baldur the Beautiful is dead!\"                               240\n\n  A stroke shivered the sword                                   262\n\n  Roland seized once more his horn                              282\n\n  One touch for each with a magical wand of the Druids          294\n\n\n\n\nA BOOK OF MYTHS\n\n\n\n\nPROMETHEUS AND PANDORA\n\n\nThose who are interested in watching the mental development of a child\nmust have noted that when the baby has learned to speak even a little,\nit begins to show its growing intelligence by asking questions. \"What\nis this?\" it would seem at first to ask with regard to simple things\nthat to it are still mysteries. Soon it arrives at the more\nfar-reaching inquiries--\"Why is this so?\" \"How did this happen?\" And\nas the child's mental growth continues, the painstaking and\nconscientious parent or guardian is many times faced by questions\nwhich lack of knowledge, or a sensitive honesty, prevents him from\nanswering either with assurance or with ingenuity.\n\nAs with the child, so it has ever been with the human race. Man has\nalways come into the world asking \"How?\" \"Why?\" \"What?\" and so the\nHebrew, the Greek, the Maori, the Australian blackfellow, the\nNorseman--in a word, each race of mankind--has formed for itself an\nexplanation of existence, an answer to the questions of the groping\nchild-mind--\"Who made the world?\" \"What is God?\" \"What made a God\nthink of fire and air and water?\" \"Why am I, _I_?\"\n\nInto the explanation of creation and existence given by the Greeks\ncome the stories of Prometheus and of Pandora. The world, as first it\nwas, to the Greeks was such a world as the one of which we read in the\nBook of Genesis--\"without form, and void.\" It was a sunless world in\nwhich land, air, and sea were mixed up together, and over which\nreigned a deity called Chaos. With him ruled the goddess of Night and\ntheir son was Erebus, god of Darkness. When the two beautiful children\nof Erebus, Light and Day, had flooded formless space with their\nradiance, Eros, the god of Love, was born, and Light and Day and Love,\nworking together, turned discord into harmony and made the earth, the\nsea, and the sky into one perfect whole. A giant race, a race of\nTitans, in time populated this newly-made earth, and of these one of\nthe mightiest was Prometheus. To him, and to his brother Epimethus,\nwas entrusted by Eros the distribution of the gifts of faculties and\nof instincts to all the living creatures in the world, and the task of\nmaking a creature lower than the gods, something less great than the\nTitans, yet in knowledge and in understanding infinitely higher than\nthe beasts and birds and fishes. At the hands of the Titan brothers,\nbirds, beasts, and fishes had fared handsomely. They were Titanic in\ntheir generosity, and so prodigal had they been in their gifts that\nwhen they would fain have carried out the commands of Eros they found\nthat nothing was left for the equipment of this being, to be called\nMan. Yet, nothing daunted, Prometheus took some clay from the ground\nat his feet, moistened it with water, and fashioned it into an image,\nin form like the gods. Into its nostrils Eros breathed the spirit of\nlife, Pallas Athene endowed it with a soul, and the first man looked\nwonderingly round on the earth that was to be his heritage.\nPrometheus, proud of the beautiful thing of his own creation, would\nfain have given Man a worthy gift, but no gift remained for him. He\nwas naked, unprotected, more helpless than any of the beasts of the\nfield, more to be pitied than any of them in that he had a soul to\nsuffer.\n\nSurely Zeus, the All Powerful, ruler of Olympus, would have compassion\non Man? But Prometheus looked to Zeus in vain; compassion he had none.\nThen, in infinite pity, Prometheus bethought himself of a power\nbelonging to the gods alone and unshared by any living creature on the\nearth.\n\n\"We shall give Fire to the Man whom we have made,\" he said to\nEpimethus. To Epimethus this seemed an impossibility, but to\nPrometheus nothing was impossible. He bided his time and, unseen by\nthe gods, he made his way into Olympus, lighted a hollow torch with a\nspark from the chariot of the Sun and hastened back to earth with this\nroyal gift to Man. Assuredly no other gift could have brought him more\ncompletely the empire that has since been his. No longer did he\ntremble and cower in the darkness of caves when Zeus hurled his\nlightnings across the sky. No more did he dread the animals that\nhunted him and drove him in terror before them.\n\nArmed with fire, the beasts became his vassals. With fire he forged\nweapons, defied the frost and cold, coined money, made implements for\ntillage, introduced the arts, and was able to destroy as well as to\ncreate.\n\nFrom his throne on Olympus, Zeus looked down on the earth and saw,\nwith wonder, airy columns of blue-grey smoke that curled upwards to\nthe sky. He watched more closely, and realised with terrible wrath\nthat the moving flowers of red and gold that he saw in that land that\nthe Titans shared with men, came from fire, that had hitherto been the\ngods' own sacred power. Speedily he assembled a council of the gods to\nmete out to Prometheus a punishment fit for the blasphemous daring of\nhis crime. This council decided at length to create a thing that\nshould for evermore charm the souls and hearts of men, and yet, for\nevermore, be man's undoing.\n\nTo Vulcan, god of fire, whose province Prometheus had insulted, was\ngiven the work of fashioning out of clay and water the creature by\nwhich the honour of the gods was to be avenged. \"The lame Vulcan,\"\nsays Hesiod, poet of Greek mythology, \"formed out of the earth an\nimage resembling a chaste virgin. Pallas Athene, of the blue eyes,\nhastened to ornament her and to robe her in a white tunic. She dressed\non the crown of her head a long veil, skilfully fashioned and\nadmirable to see; she crowned her forehead with graceful garlands of\nnewly-opened flowers and a golden diadem that the lame Vulcan, the\nillustrious god, had made with his own hands to please the puissant\nJove. On this crown Vulcan had chiselled the innumerable animals that\nthe continents and the sea nourish in their bosoms, all endowed with a\nmarvellous grace and apparently alive. When he had finally completed,\ninstead of some useful work, this illustrious masterpiece, he brought\ninto the assembly this virgin, proud of the ornaments with which she\nhad been decked by the blue-eyed goddess, daughter of a powerful\nsire.\" To this beautiful creature, destined by the gods to be man's\ndestroyer, each of them gave a gift. From Aphrodite she got beauty,\nfrom Apollo music, from Hermes the gift of a winning tongue. And when\nall that great company in Olympus had bestowed their gifts, they named\nthe woman Pandora--\"Gifted by all the Gods.\" Thus equipped for\nvictory, Pandora was led by Hermes to the world that was thenceforward\nto be her home. As a gift from the gods she was presented to\nPrometheus.\n\nBut Prometheus, gazing in wonder at the violet blue eyes bestowed by\nAphrodite, that looked wonderingly back into his own as if they were\nindeed as innocent as two violets wet with the morning dew, hardened\nhis great heart, and would have none of her. As a hero--a worthy\ndescendant of Titans--said in later years, \"Timeo Danaos et dona\nferentes,\"--\"I fear the Greeks, even when they bring gifts.\" And\nPrometheus, the greatly-daring, knowing that he merited the anger of\nthe gods, saw treachery in a gift outwardly so perfect. Not only would\nhe not accept this exquisite creature for his own, but he hastened to\ncaution his brother also to refuse her.\n\nBut well were they named Prometheus (Forethought) and Epimethus\n(Afterthought). For Epimethus it was enough to look at this peerless\nwoman, sent from the gods, for him to love her and to believe in her\nutterly. She was the fairest thing on earth, worthy indeed of the\ndeathless gods who had created her. Perfect, too, was the happiness\nthat she brought with her to Epimethus. Before her coming, as he well\nknew now, the fair world had been incomplete. Since she came the\nfragrant flowers had grown more sweet for him, the song of the birds\nmore full of melody. He found new life in Pandora and marvelled how\nhis brother could ever have fancied that she could bring to the world\naught but peace and joyousness.\n\nNow when the gods had entrusted to the Titan brothers the endowment of\nall living things upon the earth, they had been careful to withhold\neverything that might bring into the world pain, sickness, anxiety,\nbitterness of heart, remorse, or soul-crushing sorrow. All these\nhurtful things were imprisoned in a coffer which was given into the\ncare of the trusty Epimethus.\n\nTo Pandora the world into which she came was all fresh, all new, quite\nfull of unexpected joys and delightful surprises. It was a world of\nmystery, but mystery of which her great, adoring, simple Titan held\nthe golden key. When she saw the coffer which never was opened, what\nthen more natural than that she should ask Epimethus what it\ncontained? But the contents were known only to the gods. Epimethus was\nunable to answer. Day by day, the curiosity of Pandora increased. To\nher the gods had never given anything but good. Surely there must be\nhere gifts more precious still. What if the Olympians had destined her\nto be the one to open the casket, and had sent her to earth in order\nthat she might bestow on this dear world, on the men who lived on it,\nand on her own magnificent Titan, happiness and blessings which only\nthe minds of gods could have conceived? Thus did there come a day when\nPandora, unconscious instrument in the hands of a vengeful Olympian,\nin all faith, and with the courage that is born of faith and of love,\nopened the lid of the prison-house of evil. And as from coffers in the\nold Egyptian tombs, the live plague can still rush forth and slay, the\nlong-imprisoned evils rushed forth upon the fair earth and on the\nhuman beings who lived on it--malignant, ruthless, fierce,\ntreacherous, and cruel--poisoning, slaying, devouring. Plague and\npestilence and murder, envy and malice and revenge and all\nviciousness--an ugly wolf-pack indeed was that one let loose by\nPandora. Terror, doubt, misery, had all rushed straightway to attack\nher heart, while the evils of which she had never dreamed stung mind\nand soul into dismay and horror, when, by hastily shutting the lid of\nthe coffer, she tried to undo the evil she had done.\n\nAnd lo, she found that the gods had imprisoned one good gift only in\nthis Inferno of horrors and of ugliness. In the world there had never\nbeen any need of Hope. What work was there for Hope to do where all\nwas perfect, and where each creature possessed the desire of body and\nof heart? Therefore Hope was thrust into the chest that held the\nevils, a star in a black night, a lily growing on a dung-heap. And as\nPandora, white-lipped and trembling, looked into the otherwise empty\nbox, courage came back to her heart, and Epimethus let fall to his\nside the arm that would have slain the woman of his love because there\ncame to him, like a draught of wine to a warrior spent in battle, an\nimperial vision of the sons of men through all the aeons to come,\ncombatting all evils of body and of soul, going on conquering and to\nconquer. Thus, saved by Hope, the Titan and the woman faced the\nfuture, and for them the vengeance of the gods was stayed.\n\n                          \"Yet I argue not\n    Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot\n    Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer\n    Right onward.\"\n\nSo spoke Milton, the blind Titan of the seventeenth century; and\nShakespeare says:\n\n    \"True hope is swift, and flies with swallow's wings;\n    Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings.\"\n\nUpon the earth, and on the children of men who were as gods in their\nknowledge and mastery of the force of fire, Jupiter had had his\nrevenge. For Prometheus he reserved another punishment. He, the\ngreatly-daring, once the dear friend and companion of Zeus himself,\nwas chained to a rock on Mount Caucasus by the vindictive deity.\nThere, on a dizzy height, his body thrust against the sun-baked rock,\nPrometheus had to endure the torment of having a foul-beaked vulture\ntear out his liver, as though he were a piece of carrion lying on the\nmountain side. All day, while the sun mercilessly smote him and the\nblue sky turned from red to black before his pain-racked eyes, the\ntorture went on. Each night, when the filthy bird of prey that worked\nthe will of the gods spread its dark wings and flew back to its eyrie,\nthe Titan endured the cruel mercy of having his body grow whole once\nmore. But with daybreak there came again the silent shadow, the smell\nof the unclean thing, and again with fierce beak and talons the\nvulture greedily began its work.\n\nThirty thousand years was the time of his sentence, and yet Prometheus\nknew that at any moment he could have brought his torment to an end. A\nsecret was his--a mighty secret, the revelation of which would have\nbrought him the mercy of Zeus and have reinstated him in the favour of\nthe all-powerful god. Yet did he prefer to endure his agonies rather\nthan to free himself by bowing to the desires of a tyrant who had\ncaused Man to be made, yet denied to Man those gifts that made him\nnobler than the beasts and raised him almost to the heights of the\nOlympians. Thus for him the weary centuries dragged by--in suffering\nthat knew no respite--in endurance that the gods might have ended.\nPrometheus had brought an imperial gift to the men that he had made,\nand imperially he paid the penalty.\n\n    \"Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,\n    And moments aye divided by keen pangs\n    Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,\n    Scorn and despair,--these are mine empire.\n    More glorious far than that which thou surveyest\n    From thine unenvied throne, O, Mighty God!\n    Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame\n    Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here\n    Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain,\n    Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,\n    Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.\n    Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever!\"\n\n        Shelley.\n\n    \"Titan! to whose immortal eyes\n    The sufferings of mortality\n    Seen in their sad reality,\n    Were not as things that gods despise;\n    What was thy pity's recompense?\n    A silent suffering, and intense;\n    The rock, the vulture, and the chain,\n    All that the proud can feel of pain,\n    The agony they do not show,\n    The suffocating sense of woe,\n    Which speaks but in its loneliness,\n    And then is jealous lest the sky\n    Should have a listener, nor will sigh\n    Until its voice is echoless.\"\n\n        Byron.\n\n    \"Yet, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown\n    By years of solitude,--that holds apart\n    The past and future, giving the soul room\n    To search into itself,--and long commune\n    With this eternal silence;--more a god,\n    In my long-suffering and strength to meet\n    With equal front the direst shafts of fate,\n    Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism ...\n    Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type\n    Of what all lofty spirits endure that fain\n    Would win men back to strength and peace through love:\n    Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart\n    Envy, or scorn or hatred tears lifelong\n    With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;\n    And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love\n    And patience, which at last shall overcome.\"\n\n        Lowell.\n\n\n\n\nPYGMALION\n\n\nIn days when the world was young and when the gods walked on the\nearth, there reigned over the island of Cyprus a sculptor-king, and\nking of sculptors, named Pygmalion. In the language of our own day, we\nshould call him \"wedded to his art.\" In woman he only saw the bane of\nman. Women, he believed, lured men from the paths to which their\ndestiny called them. While man walked alone, he walked free--he had\ngiven no \"hostages to fortune.\" Alone, man could live for his art,\ncould combat every danger that beset him, could escape, unhampered,\nfrom every pitfall in life. But woman was the ivy that clings to the\noak, and throttles the oak in the end. No woman, vowed Pygmalion,\nshould ever hamper him. And so at length he came to hate women, and,\nfree of heart and mind, his genius wrought such great things that he\nbecame a very perfect sculptor. He had one passion, a passion for his\nart, and that sufficed him. Out of great rough blocks of marble he\nwould hew the most perfect semblance of men and of women, and of\neverything that seemed to him most beautiful and the most worth\npreserving.\n\nWhen we look now at the Venus of Milo, at the Diana of Versailles, and\nat the Apollo Belvidere in the Vatican, we can imagine what were the\ngreater things that the sculptor of Cyprus freed from the dead blocks\nof marble. One day as he chipped and chiselled there came to him,\nlike the rough sketch of a great picture, the semblance of a woman.\nHow it came he knew not. Only he knew that in that great mass of pure\nwhite stone there seemed to be imprisoned the exquisite image of a\nwoman, a woman that he must set free. Slowly, gradually, the woman\ncame. Soon he knew that she was the most beautiful thing that his art\nhad ever wrought. All that he had ever thought that a woman _should_\nbe, this woman was. Her form and features were all most perfect, and\nso perfect were they, that he felt very sure that, had she been a\nwoman indeed, most perfect would have been the soul within. For her he\nworked as he had never worked before. There came, at last, a day when\nhe felt that another touch would be insult to the exquisite thing he\nhad created. He laid his chisel aside and sat down to gaze at the\nPerfect Woman. She seemed to gaze back at him. Her parted lips were\nready to speak--to smile. Her hands were held out to hold his hands.\nThen Pygmalion covered his eyes. He, the hater of women, loved a\nwoman--a woman of chilly marble. The women he had scorned were\navenged.\n\n[Illustration: THEN PYGMALION COVERED HIS EYES]\n\nDay by day his passion for the woman of his own creation grew and\ngrew. His hands no longer wielded the chisel. They grew idle. He would\nstand under the great pines and gaze across the sapphire-blue sea, and\ndream strange dreams of a marble woman who walked across the waves\nwith arms outstretched, with smiling lips, and who became a woman of\nwarm flesh and blood when her bare feet touched the yellow sand, and\nthe bright sun of Cyprus touched her marble hair and turned it into\nhair of living gold. Then he would hasten back to his studio to find\nthe miracle still unaccomplished, and would passionately kiss the\nlittle cold hands, and lay beside the little cold feet the presents he\nknew that young girls loved--bright shells and exquisite precious\nstones, gorgeous-hued birds and fragrant flowers, shining amber, and\nbeads that sparkled and flashed with all the most lovely combinations\nof colour that the mind of artist could devise. Yet more he did, for\nhe spent vast sums on priceless pearls and hung them in her ears and\nupon her cold white breast; and the merchants wondered who could be\nthe one upon whom Pygmalion lavished the money from his treasury.\n\nTo his divinity he gave a name--\"Galatea\"; and always on still nights\nthe myriad silver stars would seem to breathe to him \"Galatea\" ... and\non those days when the tempests blew across the sandy wastes of Arabia\nand churned up the fierce white surf on the rocks of Cyprus, the very\nspirit of the storm seemed to moan through the crash of waves in\nlonging, hopeless and unutterable--\"Galatea!... Galatea!...\" For her\nhe decked a couch with Tyrian purple, and on the softest of pillows he\nlaid the beautiful head of the marble woman that he loved.\n\nSo the time wore on until the festival of Aphrodite drew near. Smoke\nfrom many altars curled out to sea, the odour of incense mingled with\nthe fragrance of the great pine trees, and garlanded victims lowed and\nbleated as they were led to the sacrifice. As the leader of his\npeople, Pygmalion faithfully and perfectly performed all his part in\nthe solemnities and at last he was left beside the altar to pray\nalone. Never before had his words faltered as he laid his petitions\nbefore the gods, but on this day he spoke not as a sculptor-king, but\nas a child who was half afraid of what he asked.\n\n\"O Aphrodite!\" he said, \"who can do all things, give me, I pray you,\none like my Galatea for my wife!\"\n\n\"Give me my Galatea,\" he dared not say; but Aphrodite knew well the\nwords he would fain have uttered, and smiled to think how Pygmalion at\nlast was on his knees. In token that his prayer was answered, three\ntimes she made the flames on the altar shoot up in a fiery point, and\nPygmalion went home, scarcely daring to hope, not allowing his\ngladness to conquer his fear.\n\nThe shadows of evening were falling as he went into the room that he\nhad made sacred to Galatea. On the purple-covered couch she lay, and\nas he entered it seemed as though she met his eyes with her own;\nalmost it seemed that she smiled at him in welcome. He quickly went up\nto her and, kneeling by her side, he pressed his lips on those lips of\nchilly marble. So many times he had done it before, and always it was\nas though the icy lips that could never live sent their chill right\nthrough his heart, but now it surely seemed to him that the lips were\ncold no longer. He felt one of the little hands, and no more did it\nremain heavy and cold and stiff in his touch, but lay in his own hand,\nsoft and living and warm. He softly laid his fingers on the marble\nhair, and lo, it was the soft and wavy burnished golden hair of his\ndesire. Again, reverently as he had laid his offerings that day on\nthe altar of Venus, Pygmalion kissed her lips. And then did Galatea,\nwith warm and rosy cheeks, widely open her eyes, like pools in a dark\nmountain stream on which the sun is shining, and gaze with timid\ngladness into his own.\n\nThere are no after tales of Pygmalion and Galatea. We only know that\ntheir lives were happy and that to them was born a son, Paphos, from\nwhom the city sacred to Aphrodite received its name. Perhaps Aphrodite\nmay have smiled sometimes to watch Pygmalion, once the scorner of\nwomen, the adoring servant of the woman that his own hands had first\ndesigned.\n\n\n\n\nPHAETON\n\n    \"The road, to drive on which unskilled were Phaeton's hands.\"\n\n        Dante--_Purgatorio_.\n\n\nTo Apollo, the sun-god, and Clymene, a beautiful ocean-nymph, there\nwas born in the pleasant land of Greece a child to whom was given the\nname of Phaeton, the Bright and Shining One. The rays of the sun\nseemed to live in the curls of the fearless little lad, and when at\nnoon other children would seek the cool shade of the cypress groves,\nPhaeton would hold his head aloft and gaze fearlessly up at the brazen\nsky from whence fierce heat beat down upon his golden head.\n\n\"Behold, my father drives his chariot across the heavens!\" he proudly\nproclaimed. \"In a little while I, also, will drive the four snow-white\nsteeds.\"\n\nHis elders heard the childish boast with a smile, but when Epaphos,\nhalf-brother to Apollo, had listened to it many times and beheld the\nchild, Phaeton, grow into an arrogant lad who held himself as though\nhe were indeed one of the Immortals, anger grew in his heart. One day\nhe turned upon Phaeton and spoke in fierce scorn:\n\n\"Dost say thou art son of a god? A shameless boaster and a liar art\nthou! Hast ever spoken to thy divine sire? Give us some proof of thy\nsonship! No more child of the glorious Apollo art thou than are the\nvermin his children, that the sun breeds in the dust at my feet.\"\n\nFor a moment, before the cruel taunt, the lad was stricken into\nsilence, and then, his pride aflame, his young voice shaking with rage\nand with bitter shame, he cried aloud: \"Thou, Epaphos, art the liar. I\nhave but to ask my father, and thou shalt see me drive his golden\nchariot across the sky.\"\n\nTo his mother he hastened, to get balm for his hurt pride, as many a\ntime he had got it for the little bodily wounds of childhood, and with\nbursting heart he poured forth his story.\n\n\"True it is,\" he said, \"that my father has never deigned to speak to\nme. Yet I know, because thou hast told me so, that he is my sire. And\nnow my word is pledged. Apollo must let me drive his steeds, else I am\nfor evermore branded braggart and liar, and shamed amongst men.\"\n\nClymene listened with grief to his complaint. He was so young, so\ngallant, so foolish.\n\n\"Truly thou art the son of Apollo,\" she said, \"and oh, son of my\nheart, thy beauty is his, and thy pride the pride of a son of the\ngods. Yet only partly a god art thou, and though thy proud courage\nwould dare all things, it were mad folly to think of doing what a god\nalone can do.\"\n\nBut at last she said to him, \"Naught that I can say is of any avail.\nGo, seek thy father, and ask him what thou wilt.\" Then she told him\nhow he might find the place in the east where Apollo rested ere the\nlabours of the day began, and with eager gladness Phaeton set out upon\nhis journey. A long way he travelled, with never a stop, yet when the\nglittering dome and jewelled turrets and minarets of the Palace of the\nSun came into view, he forgot his weariness and hastened up the steep\nascent to the home of his father.\n\nPhoebus Apollo, clad in purple that glowed like the radiance of a\ncloud in the sunset sky, sat upon his golden throne. The Day, the\nMonth, and the Year stood by him, and beside them were the Hours.\nSpring was there, her head wreathed with flowers; Summer, crowned with\nripened grain; Autumn, with his feet empurpled by the juice of the\ngrapes; and Winter, with hair all white and stiff with hoar-frost. And\nwhen Phaeton walked up the golden steps that led to his father's\nthrone, it seemed as though incarnate Youth had come to join the court\nof the god of the Sun, and that Youth was so beautiful a thing that it\nmust surely live forever. Proudly did Apollo know him for his son, and\nwhen the boy looked in his eyes with the arrogant fearlessness of\nboyhood, the god greeted him kindly and asked him to tell him why he\ncame, and what was his petition.\n\nAs to Clymene, so also to Apollo, Phaeton told his tale, and his\nfather listened, half in pride and amusement, half in puzzled\nvexation. When the boy stopped, and then breathlessly, with shining\neyes and flushed cheeks, ended up his story with: \"And, O light of the\nboundless world, if I am indeed thy son, let it be as I have said, and\nfor one day only let me drive thy chariot across the heavens!\" Apollo\nshook his head and answered very gravely:\n\n\"In truth thou art my dear son,\" he said, \"and by the dreadful Styx,\nthe river of the dead, I swear that I will give thee any gift that\nthou dost name and that will give proof that thy father is the\nimmortal Apollo. But never to thee nor to any other, be he mortal or\nimmortal, shall I grant the boon of driving my chariot.\"\n\nBut the boy pled on:\n\n\"I am shamed for ever, my father,\" he said. \"Surely thou wouldst not\nhave son of thine proved liar and braggart?\"\n\n\"Not even the gods themselves can do this thing,\" answered Apollo.\n\"Nay, not even the almighty Zeus. None but I, Phoebus Apollo, may\ndrive the flaming chariot of the sun, for the way is beset with\ndangers and none know it but I.\"\n\n\"Only tell me the way, my father!\" cried Phaeton. \"So soon I could\nlearn.\"\n\nHalf in sadness, Apollo smiled.\n\n\"The first part of the way is uphill,\" he said. \"So steep it is that\nonly very slowly can my horses climb it. High in the heavens is the\nmiddle, so high that even I grow dizzy when I look down upon the earth\nand the sea. And the last piece of the way is a precipice that rushes\nso steeply downward that my hands can scarce check the mad rush of my\ngalloping horses. And all the while, the heaven is spinning round, and\nthe stars with it. By the horns of the Bull I have to drive, past the\nArcher whose bow is taut and ready to slay, close to where the\nScorpion stretches out its arms and the great Crab's claws grope for a\nprey....\"\n\n\"I fear none of these things, oh my father!\" cried Phaeton. \"Grant\nthat for one day only I drive thy white-maned steeds!\"\n\nVery pitifully Apollo looked at him, and for a little space he was\nsilent.\n\n\"The little human hands,\" he said at length, \"the little human\nframe!--and with them the soul of a god. The pity of it, my son. Dost\nnot know that the boon that thou dost crave from me is Death?\"\n\n\"Rather Death than Dishonour,\" said Phaeton, and proudly he added,\n\"For once would I drive like the god, my father. I have no fear.\"\n\nSo was Apollo vanquished, and Phaeton gained his heart's desire.\n\nFrom the courtyard of the Palace the four white horses were led, and\nthey pawed the air and neighed aloud in the glory of their strength.\nThey drew the chariot whose axle and pole and wheels were of gold,\nwith spokes of silver, while inside were rows of diamonds and of\nchrysolites that gave dazzling reflection of the sun. Then Apollo\nanointed the face of Phaeton with a powerful essence that might keep\nhim from being smitten by the flames, and upon his head he placed the\nrays of the sun. And then the stars went away, even to the Daystar\nthat went last of all, and, at Apollo's signal, Aurora, the\nrosy-fingered, threw open the purple gates of the east, and Phaeton\nsaw a path of pale rose-colour open before him.\n\nWith a cry of exultation, the boy leapt into the chariot and laid hold\nof the golden reins. Barely did he hear Apollo's parting words: \"Hold\nfast the reins, and spare the whip. All thy strength will be wanted to\nhold the horses in. Go not too high nor too low. The middle course is\nsafest and best. Follow, if thou canst, in the old tracks of my\nchariot wheels!\" His glad voice of thanks for the godlike boon rang\nback to where Apollo stood and watched him vanishing into the dawn\nthat still was soft in hue as the feathers on the breast of a dove.\n\nUphill at first the white steeds made their way, and the fire from\ntheir nostrils tinged with flame-colour the dark clouds that hung over\nthe land and the sea. With rapture, Phaeton felt that truly he was the\nson of a god, and that at length he was enjoying his heritage. The day\nfor which, through all his short life, he had longed, had come at\nlast. He was driving the chariot whose progress even now was awaking\nthe sleeping earth. The radiance from its wheels and from the rays he\nwore round his head was painting the clouds, and he laughed aloud in\nrapture as he saw, far down below, the sea and the rivers he had\nbathed in as a human boy, mirroring the green and rose and purple, and\ngold and silver, and fierce crimson, that he, Phaeton, was placing in\nthe sky. The grey mist rolled from the mountain tops at his desire.\nThe white fog rolled up from the valleys. All living things awoke; the\nflowers opened their petals; the grain grew golden; the fruit grew\nripe. Could but Epaphos see him now! Surely he must see him, and\nrealise that not Apollo but Phaeton was guiding the horses of his\nfather, driving the chariot of the Sun.\n\nQuicker and yet more quick grew the pace of the white-maned steeds.\nSoon they left the morning breezes behind, and very soon they knew\nthat these were not the hands of the god, their master, that held the\ngolden reins. Like an air-ship without its accustomed ballast, the\nchariot rolled unsteadily, and not only the boy's light weight but his\nlight hold on their bridles made them grow mad with a lust for speed.\nThe white foam flew from their mouths like the spume from the giant\nwaves of a furious sea, and their pace was swift as that of a bolt\nthat is cast by the arm of Zeus.\n\nYet Phaeton had no fear, and when they heard him shout in rapture,\n\"Quicker still, brave ones! more swiftly still!\" it made them speed\nonwards, madly, blindly, with the headlong rush of a storm. There was\nno hope for them to keep on the beaten track, and soon Phaeton had his\nrapture checked by the terrible realisation that they had strayed far\nout of the course and that his hands were not strong enough to guide\nthem. Close to the Great Bear and the Little Bear they passed, and\nthese were scorched with heat. The Serpent which, torpid, chilly and\nharmless, lies coiled round the North Pole, felt a warmth that made it\ngrow fierce and harmful again. Downward, ever downward galloped the\nmaddened horses, and soon Phaeton saw the sea as a shield of molten\nbrass, and the earth so near that all things on it were visible. When\nthey passed the Scorpion and only just missed destruction from its\nmenacing fangs, fear entered into the boy's heart. His mother had\nspoken truth. He was only partly a god, and he was very, very young.\nIn impotent horror he tugged at the reins to try to check the horses'\ndescent, then, forgetful of Apollo's warning, he smote them angrily.\nBut anger met anger, and the fury of the immortal steeds had scorn\nfor the wrath of a mortal boy. With a great toss of their mighty heads\nthey had torn the guiding reins from his grasp, and as he stood,\ngiddily swaying from side to side, Phaeton knew that the boon he had\ncraved from his father must in truth be death for him.\n\nAnd, lo, it was a hideous death, for with eyes that were like flames\nthat burned his brain, the boy beheld the terrible havoc that his\npride had wrought. That blazing chariot of the Sun made the clouds\nsmoke, and dried up all the rivers and water-springs. Fire burst from\nthe mountain tops, great cities were destroyed. The beauty of the\nearth was ravished, woods and meadows and all green and pleasant\nplaces were laid waste. The harvests perished, the flocks and they who\nhad herded them lay dead. Over Libya the horses took him, and the\ndesert of Libya remains a barren wilderness to this day, while those\nsturdy Ethiopians who survived are black even now as a consequence of\nthat cruel heat. The Nile changed its course in order to escape, and\nnymphs and nereids in terror sought for the sanctuary of some watery\nplace that had escaped destruction. The face of the burned and\nblackened earth, where the bodies of thousands of human beings lay\ncharred to ashes, cracked and sent dismay to Pluto by the lurid light\nthat penetrated even to his throne.\n\nAll this Phaeton saw, saw in impotent agony of soul. His boyish folly\nand pride had been great, but the excruciating anguish that made him\nshed tears of blood, was indeed a punishment even too heavy for an\nerring god.\n\nFrom the havoc around her, the Earth at last looked up, and with\nblackened face and blinded eyes, and in a voice that was harsh and\nvery, very weary, she called to Zeus to look down from Olympus and\nbehold the ruin that had been wrought by the chariot of the Sun. And\nZeus, the cloud-gatherer, looked down and beheld. And at the sight of\nthat piteous devastation his brow grew dark, and terrible was his\nwrath against him who had held the reins of the chariot. Calling upon\nApollo and all the other gods to witness him, he seized a lightning\nbolt, and for a moment the deathless Zeus and all the dwellers in\nOlympus looked on the fiery chariot in which stood the swaying,\nslight, lithe figure of a young lad, blinded with horror, shaken with\nagony. Then, from his hand, Zeus cast the bolt, and the chariot was\ndashed into fragments, and Phaeton, his golden hair ablaze, fell, like\na bright shooting star, from the heavens above, into the river\nEridanus. The steeds returned to their master, Apollo, and in rage and\ngrief Apollo lashed them. Angrily, too, and very rebelliously did he\nspeak of the punishment meted to his son by the ruler of the\nImmortals. Yet in truth the punishment was a merciful one. Phaeton was\nonly half a god, and no human life were fit to live after the day of\ndire anguish that had been his.\n\nBitter was the mourning of Clymene over her beautiful only son, and so\nceaselessly did his three sisters, the Heliades, weep for their\nbrother, that the gods turned them into poplar trees that grew by the\nbank of the river, and, when still they wept, their tears turned into\nprecious amber as they fell. Yet another mourned for Phaeton--Phaeton\n\"dead ere his prime.\" Cycnus, King of Liguria, had dearly loved the\ngallant boy, and again and yet again he dived deep in the river and\nbrought forth the charred fragments of what had once been the\nbeautiful son of a god, and gave to them honourable burial. Yet he\ncould not rest satisfied that he had won all that remained of his\nfriend from the river's bed, and so he continued to haunt the stream,\never diving, ever searching, until the gods grew weary of his restless\nsorrow and changed him into a swan.\n\nAnd still we see the swan sailing mournfully along, like a\nwhite-sailed barque that is bearing the body of a king to its rest,\nand ever and anon plunging deep into the water as though the search\nfor the boy who would fain have been a god were never to come to an\nend.\n\nTo Phaeton the Italian Naiades reared a tomb, and inscribed on the\nstone these words:\n\n    \"Driver of Phoebus' chariot, Phaeton,\n    Struck by Jove's thunder, rests beneath this stone,\n    He could not rule his father's car of fire,\n    Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.\"\n\n        Ovid.\n\n\n\n\nENDYMION\n\n\nTo the modern popular mind perhaps none of the goddesses of\nGreece--not even Venus herself--has more appeal than has the huntress\ngoddess, Diana. Those who know but little of ancient statuary can\nstill brighten to intelligent recognition of the huntress with her\nquiver and her little stag when they meet with them in picture gallery\nor in suburban garden. That unlettered sportsman in weather-worn pink,\nslowly riding over the fragrant dead leaves by the muddy roadside on\nthis chill, grey morning, may never have heard of Artemis, but he is\nquite ready to make intelligent reference to Diana to the handsome\nyoung sportswoman whom he finds by the covert side; and Sir Walter's\nDiana Vernon has helped the little-read public to realise that the\noriginal Diana was a goddess worthy of being sponsor to one of the\nfinest heroines of fiction.\n\nBut not to the sportsman alone, but also to the youth or maid who\nloves the moon--they know not why--to those whom the shadows of the\ntrees on a woodland path at night mean a grip of the heart, while\n\"pale Dian\" scuds over the dark clouds that are soaring far beyond the\ntree-tops and is peeping, chaste and pale, through the branches of the\nfirs and giant pines, there is something arresting, enthralling, in\nthe thought of the goddess Diana who now has for hunting-ground the\nblue firmament of heaven where the pale Pleiades\n\n    \"Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.\"\n\n        Tennyson.\n\n    \"She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold\n    She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee\n    Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd,\n    But her delight is all in archery,\n    And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she\n    More than her hounds that follow on the flight;\n    The goddess draws a golden bow of might\n    And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.\n    She tosses loose her locks upon the night,\n    And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.\"\n\n        Andrew Lang.\n\nAgain and again in mythological history we come on stories of the\ngoddess, sometimes under her best known name of Diana, sometimes under\nher older Greek name of Artemis, and now and again as Selene, the\nmoon-goddess, the Luna of the Romans. Her twin brother was Apollo, god\nof the sun, and with him she shared the power of unerringly wielding a\nbow and of sending grave plagues and pestilences, while both were\npatrons of music and of poetry.\n\nWhen the sun-god's golden chariot had driven down into the west, then\nwould his sister's noiseless-footed silver steeds be driven across the\nsky, while the huntress shot from her bow at will silent arrows that\nwould slay without warning a joyous young mother with her newly-born\nbabe, or would wantonly pierce, with a lifelong pain, the heart of\nsome luckless mortal.\n\nNow one night as she passed Mount Latmos, there chanced to be a\nshepherd lad lying asleep beside his sleeping flock. Many times had\nEndymion watched the goddess from afar, half afraid of one so\nbeautiful and yet so ruthless, but never before had Diana realised the\nyouth's wonderful beauty. She checked her hounds when they would have\nswept on in their chase through the night, and stood beside Endymion.\nShe judged him to be as perfect as her own brother, Apollo--yet more\nperfect, perhaps, for on his upturned sleeping face was the silver\nglamour of her own dear moon. Fierce and burning passion could come\nwith the sun's burning rays, but love that came in the moon's pale\nlight was passion mixed with gramarye. She gazed for long, and when,\nin his sleep, Endymion smiled, she knelt beside him and, stooping,\ngently kissed his lips. The touch of a moonbeam on a sleeping rose was\nno more gentle than was Diana's touch, yet it was sufficient to wake\nEndymion. And as, while one's body sleeps on, one's half-waking mind,\nnow and again in a lifetime seems to realise an ecstasy of happiness\nso perfect that one dares not wake lest, by waking, the wings of one's\nrealised ideal should slip between grasping fingers and so escape\nforever, so did Endymion realise the kiss of the goddess. But before\nhis sleepy eyes could be his senses' witnesses, Diana had hastened\naway. Endymion, springing to his feet, saw only his sleeping flock,\nnor did his dogs awake when he heard what seemed to him to be the\nbaying of hounds in full cry in a forest far up the mountain. Only to\nhis own heart did he dare to whisper what was this wonderful thing\nthat he believed had befallen him, and although he laid himself\ndown, hoping that once again this miracle might be granted to him, no\nmiracle came; nor could he sleep, so great was his longing.\n\n[Illustration: SHE CHECKED HER HOUNDS, AND STOOD BESIDE ENDYMION]\n\nAll the next day, through the sultry hours while Apollo drove his\nchariot of burnished gold through the land, Endymion, as he watched\nhis flocks, tried to dream his dream once more, and longed for the day\nto end and the cool, dark night to return. When night came he tried to\nlie awake and see what might befall, but when kind sleep had closed\nhis tired eyes,\n\n    \"There came a lovely vision of a maid,\n    Who seemed to step as from a golden car\n    Out of the low-hung moon.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\nAlways she kissed him, yet when her kiss awoke him he never could see\nanything more tangible than a shaft of silver moonlight on the moving\nbushes of the mountain side, never hear anything more real than the\nfar-away echo of the baying of pursuing hounds, and if, with eager,\ngreatly-daring eyes, he looked skywards, a dark cloud, so it seemed to\nhim, would always hasten to hide the moon from his longing gaze.\n\nIn this manner time passed on. The days of Endymion were filled by\nlonging day-dreams. His sleeping hours ever brought him ecstasy. Ever,\ntoo, to the goddess, the human being that she loved seemed to her to\ngrow more precious. For her all the joy of day and of night was\nconcentrated in the moments she spent by the side of the sleeping\nEndymion. The flocks of the shepherd flourished like those of no other\nherd. No wild beast dared come near them; no storm nor disease\nassailed them. Yet for Endymion the things of earth no longer held any\nvalue. He lived only for his dear dream's sake. Had he been permitted\nto grow old and worn and tired, and still a dreamer, who knows how his\nstory might have ended? But to Diana there came the fear that with age\nhis beauty might wane, and from her father, Zeus, she obtained for the\none she loved the gifts of unending youth and of eternal sleep.\n\nThere came a night when the dreams of Endymion had no end. That was a\nnight when the moon made for herself broad silver paths across the\nsea, from far horizon to the shore where the little waves lapped and\ncurled in a radiant, ever-moving silver fringe. Silver also were the\nleaves of the forest trees, and between the branches of the solemn\ncypresses and of the stately dark pines, Diana shot her silver arrows.\nNo baying of hounds came then to make Endymion's flocks move uneasily\nin their sleep, but the silver stars seemed to sing in unison\ntogether. While still those gentle lips touched his, hands as gentle\nlifted up the sleeping Endymion and bore him to a secret cave in Mount\nLatmos. And there, for evermore, she came to kiss the mouth of her\nsleeping lover. There, forever, slept Endymion, happy in the perfect\nbliss of dreams that have no ugly awaking, of an ideal love that knows\nno ending.\n\n\n\n\nORPHEUS\n\n    \"Orpheus with his lute made trees,\n    And the mountain tops that freeze,\n    Bow themselves when he did sing;\n    To his music plants and flowers\n    Ever sprung, as sun and showers\n    There had made a lasting spring.\n    Everything that heard him play,\n    Even the billows of the sea,\n    Hung their heads, and then lay by,\n    In sweet music is such art,\n    Killing care and grief of heart\n    Fall asleep, or hearing die.\"\n\n        Shakespeare.\n\n    \"Are we not all lovers as Orpheus was, loving what is\n    gone from us forever, and seeking it vainly in the\n    solitudes and wilderness of the mind, and crying to\n    Eurydice to come again? And are we not all foolish as\n    Orpheus was, hoping by the agony of love and the ecstasy\n    of will to win back Eurydice; and do we not all fail, as\n    Orpheus failed, because we forsake the way of the other\n    world for the way of this world?\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\n\nIt is the custom nowadays for scientists and for other scholarly\npeople to take hold of the old myths, to take them to pieces, and to\nfind some deep, hidden meaning in each part of the story. So you will\nfind that some will tell you that Orpheus is the personification of\nthe winds which \"tear up trees as they course along, chanting their\nwild music,\" and that Eurydice is the morning \"with its short-lived\nbeauty.\" Others say that Orpheus is \"the mythological expression of\nthe delight which music gives to the primitive races,\" while yet\nothers accept without hesitation the idea that Orpheus is the sun\nthat, when day is done, plunges into the black abyss of night, in the\nvain hope of overtaking his lost bride, Eurydice, the rosy dawn. And,\nwhether they be right or wrong, it would seem that the sadness that\ncomes to us sometimes as the day dies and the last of the sun's rays\nvanish to leave the hills and valleys dark and cold, the sorrowful\nfeeling that we cannot understand when, in country places, we hear\nmusic coming from far away, or listen to the plaintive song of the\nbird, are things that very specially belong to the story of Orpheus.\n\nIn the country of Thrace, surrounded by all the best gifts of the\ngods, Orpheus was born. His father was Apollo, the god of music and of\nsong, his mother the muse Calliope. Apollo gave his little son a lyre,\nand himself taught him how to play it. It was not long before all the\nwild things in the woods of Thrace crept out from the green trees and\nthick undergrowth, and from the holes and caves in the rocks, to\nlisten to the music that the child's fingers made. The coo of the dove\nto his mate, the flute-clear trill of the blackbird, the song of the\nlark, the liquid carol of the nightingale--all ceased when the boy\nmade music. The winds that whispered their secrets to the trees owned\nhim for their lord, and the proudest trees of the forest bowed their\nheads that they might not miss one exquisite sigh that his fingers\ndrew from the magical strings. Nor man nor beast lived in his day that\nhe could not sway by the power of his melody. He played a lullaby, and\nall things slept. He played a love-lilt, and the flowers sprang up in\nfull bloom from the cold earth, and the dreaming red rosebud opened\nwide her velvet petals, and all the land seemed full of the loving\nechoes of the lilt he played. He played a war-march, and, afar off,\nthe sleeping tyrants of the forest sprang up, wide awake, and bared\ntheir angry teeth, and the untried youths of Thrace ran to beg their\nfathers to let them taste battle, while the scarred warriors felt on\ntheir thumbs the sharpness of their sword blades, and smiled, well\ncontent. While he played it would seem as though the very stones and\nrocks gained hearts. Nay, the whole heart of the universe became one\ngreat, palpitating, beautiful thing, an instrument from whose\ntrembling strings was drawn out the music of Orpheus.\n\nHe rose to great power, and became a mighty prince of Thrace. Not his\nlute alone, but he himself played on the heart of the fair Eurydice\nand held it captive. It seemed as though, when they became man and\nwife, all happiness must be theirs. But although Hymen, the god of\nmarriage, himself came to bless them on the day they wed, the omens on\nthat day were against them. The torch that Hymen carried had no golden\nflame, but sent out pungent black smoke that made their eyes water.\nThey feared they knew not what; but when, soon afterwards, as Eurydice\nwandered with the nymphs, her companions, through the blue-shadowed\nwoods of Thrace, the reason was discovered. A bold shepherd, who did\nnot know her for a princess, saw Eurydice, and no sooner saw her than\nhe loved her. He ran after her to proclaim to her his love, and she,\nafraid of his wild uncouthness, fled before him. She ran, in her\nterror, too swiftly to watch whither she went, and a poisonous snake\nthat lurked amongst the fern bit the fair white foot that flitted,\nlike a butterfly, across it. In agonised suffering Eurydice died. Her\nspirit went to the land of the Shades, and Orpheus was left\nbroken-hearted.\n\nThe sad winds that blow at night across the sea, the sobbing gales\nthat tell of wreck and death, the birds that wail in the darkness for\ntheir mates, the sad, soft whisper of the aspen leaves and the leaves\nof the heavy clad blue-black cypresses, all now were hushed, for\ngreater than all, more full of bitter sorrow than any, arose the music\nof Orpheus, a long-drawn sob from a broken heart in the Valley of the\nShadow of Death.\n\nGrief came alike to gods and to men as they listened, but no comfort\ncame to him from the expression of his sorrow. At length, when to bear\nhis grief longer was impossible for him, Orpheus wandered to Olympus,\nand there besought Zeus to give him permission to seek his wife in the\ngloomy land of the Shades. Zeus, moved by his anguish, granted the\npermission he sought, but solemnly warned him of the terrible perils\nof his undertaking.\n\nBut the love of Orpheus was too perfect to know any fear; thankfully\nhe hastened to the dark cave on the side of the promontory of\nTaenarus, and soon arrived at the entrance of Hades. Stark and grim\nwas the three-headed watchdog, Cerberus, which guarded the door, and\nwith the growls and the furious roaring of a wild beast athirst for\nits prey it greeted Orpheus. But Orpheus touched his lute, and the\nbrute, amazed, sank into silence. And still he played, and the dog\nwould gently have licked the player's feet, and looked up in his face\nwith its savage eyes full of the light that we see in the eyes of the\ndogs of this earth as they gaze with love at their masters. On, then,\nstrode Orpheus, playing still, and the melody he drew from his lute\npassed before him into the realms of Pluto.\n\nSurely never were heard such strains. They told of perfect, tender\nlove, of unending longing, of pain too great to end with death. Of all\nthe beauties of the earth they sang--of the sorrow of the world--of\nall the world's desire--of things past--of things to come. And ever,\nthrough the song that the lute sang, there came, like a thread of\nsilver that is woven in a black velvet pall, a limpid melody. It was\nas though a bird sang in the mirk night, and it spoke of peace and of\nhope, and of joy that knows no ending.\n\nInto the blackest depths of Hades the sounds sped on their way, and\nthe hands of Time stood still. From his bitter task of trying to quaff\nthe stream that ever receded from the parched and burning lips,\nTantalus ceased for a moment. The ceaseless course of Ixion's wheel\nwas stayed, the vulture's relentless beak no longer tore at the\nTitan's liver; Sisyphus gave up his weary task of rolling the stone\nand sat on the rock to listen, the Danaides rested from their labour\nof drawing water in a sieve. For the first time, the cheeks of the\nFuries were wet with tears, and the restless shades that came and went\nin the darkness, like dead autumn leaves driven by a winter gale,\nstood still to gaze and listen. Before the throne where Pluto and his\nqueen Proserpine were seated, sable-clad and stern, the relentless\nFates at their feet, Orpheus still played on. And to Proserpine then\ncame the living remembrance of all the joys of her girlhood by the\nblue AEgean Sea in the fair island of Sicily. Again she knew the\nfragrance and the beauty of the flowers of spring. Even into Hades the\nscent of the violets seemed to come, and fresh in her heart was the\nsorrow that had been hers on the day on which the ruthless King of\nDarkness tore her from her mother and from all that she held most\ndear. Silent she sat beside her frowning, stern-faced lord, but her\neyes grew dim.\n\nWhen, with a quivering sigh, the music stopped, Orpheus fearlessly\npled his cause. To let him have Eurydice, to give him back his more\nthan life, to grant that he might lead her with him up to \"the light\nof Heaven\"--that was his prayer.\n\nThe eyes of Pluto and Proserpine did not dare to meet, yet with one\naccord was their answer given. Eurydice should be given back to him,\nbut only on one condition. Not until he had reached the light of earth\nagain was he to turn round and look upon the face for a sight of which\nhis eyes were tired with longing. Eagerly Orpheus complied, and with a\nheart almost breaking with gladness he heard the call for Eurydice and\nturned to retrace his way, with the light footfall of the little feet\nthat he adored making music behind him. Too good a thing it\nseemed--too unbelievable a joy. She was there--quite close to him.\nTheir days of happiness were not ended. His love had won her back,\neven from the land of darkness. All that he had not told her of that\nlove while yet she was on earth he would tell her now. All that he had\nfailed in before, he would make perfect now. The little limping\nfoot--how it made his soul overflow with adoring tenderness. So near\nshe was, he might even touch her were he to stretch back his hand....\n\nAnd then there came to him a hideous doubt. What if Pluto had played\nhim false? What if there followed him not Eurydice, but a mocking\nshade? As he climbed the steep ascent that led upwards to the light,\nhis fear grew more cruelly real. Almost he could imagine that her\nfootsteps had stopped, that when he reached the light he would find\nhimself left once more to his cruel loneliness. Too overwhelming for\nhim was the doubt. So nearly there they were that the darkness was no\nlonger that of night, but as that of evening when the long shadows\nfall upon the land, and there seemed no reason for Orpheus to wait.\n\nSwiftly he turned, and found his wife behind him, but only for a\nmoment she stayed. Her arms were thrown open and Orpheus would fain\nhave grasped her in his own, but before they could touch each other\nEurydice was borne from him, back into the darkness.\n\n\"Farewell!\" she said--\"Farewell!\" and her voice was a sigh of hopeless\ngrief. In mad desperation Orpheus sought to follow her, but his\nattempt was vain. At the brink of the dark, fierce-flooded Acheron the\nboat with its boatman, old Charon, lay ready to ferry across to the\nfurther shore those whose future lay in the land of Shades. To him ran\nOrpheus, in clamorous anxiety to undo the evil he had wrought. But\nCharon angrily repulsed him. There was no place for such as Orpheus in\nhis ferry-boat. Those only who went, never to return, could find a\npassage there. For seven long days and seven longer nights Orpheus\nwaited beside the river, hoping that Charon would relent, but at last\nhope died, and he sought the depths of the forests of Thrace, where\ntrees and rocks and beasts and birds were all his friends.\n\nHe took his lyre again then and played:\n\n    \"Such strains as would have won the ear\n    Of Pluto, to have quite set free\n    His half-regained Eurydice.\"\n\n        Milton.\n\nDay and night he stayed in the shadow of the woodlands, all the sorrow\nof his heart expressing itself in the song of his lute. The fiercest\nbeasts of the forest crawled to his feet and looked up at him with\neyes full of pity. The song of the birds ceased, and when the wind\nmoaned through the trees they echoed his cry, \"Eurydice! Eurydice!\"\n\nIn the dawning hours it would seem to him that he saw her again,\nflitting, a thing of mist and rising sun, across the dimness of the\nwoods. And when evening came and all things rested, and the night\ncalled out the mystery of the forest, again he would see her. In the\nlong blue shadows of the trees she would stand--up the woodland paths\nshe walked, where her little feet fluttered the dry leaves as she\npassed. Her face was white as a lily in the moonlight, and ever she\nheld out her arms to Orpheus:\n\n    \"At that elm-vista's end I trace,\n    Dimly thy sad leave-taking face,\n    Eurydice! Eurydice!\n    The tremulous leaves repeat to me\n    Eurydice! Eurydice!\"\n\n        Lowell.\n\n[Illustration: SWIFTLY HE TURNED, AND FOUND HIS WIFE BEHIND HIM]\n\nFor Orpheus it was a good day when Jason, chief of the Argonauts,\nsought him out to bid him come with the other heroes and aid in the\nquest of the Golden Fleece.\n\n\"Have I not had enough of toil and of weary wandering far and wide,\"\nsighed Orpheus. \"In vain is the skill of the voice which my goddess\nmother gave me; in vain have I sung and laboured; in vain I went down\nto the dead, and charmed all the kings of Hades, to win back Eurydice,\nmy bride. For I won her, my beloved, and lost her again the same day,\nand wandered away in my madness even to Egypt and the Libyan sands,\nand the isles of all the seas.... While I charmed in vain the hearts\nof men, and the savage forest beasts, and the trees, and the lifeless\nstones, with my magic harp and song, giving rest, but finding\nnone.\"[3]\n\nBut in the good ship _Argo_, Orpheus took his place with the others\nand sailed the watery ways, and the songs that Orpheus sang to his\nshipmates and that tell of all their great adventures are called the\nSongs of Orpheus, or the Orphics, to this day.\n\nMany were the mishaps and disasters that his music warded off. With it\nhe lulled monsters to sleep; more powerful to work magic on the hearts\nof men were his melodies than were the songs of the sirens when they\ntried to capture the Argonauts by their wiles, and in their downward,\ndestroying rush his music checked mountains.\n\nWhen the quest of the Argonauts was ended, Orpheus returned to his own\nland of Thrace. As a hero he had fought and endured hardship, but his\nwounded soul remained unhealed. Again the trees listened to the songs\nof longing. Again they echoed, \"Eurydice! Eurydice!\"\n\nAs he sat one day near a river in the stillness of the forest, there\ncame from afar an ugly clamour of sound. It struck against the music\nof Orpheus' lute and slew it, as the coarse cries of the screaming\ngulls that fight for carrion slay the song of a soaring lark. It was\nthe day of the feast of Bacchus, and through the woods poured Bacchus\nand his Bacchantes, a shameless rout, satyrs capering around them,\ncentaurs neighing aloud. Long had the Bacchantes hated the loyal\npoet-lover of one fair woman whose dwelling was with the Shades. His\nears were ever deaf to their passionate voices, his eyes blind to\ntheir passionate loveliness as they danced through the green trees, a\nriot of colour, of fierce beauty, of laughter and of mad song. Mad\nthey were indeed this day, and in their madness the very existence of\nOrpheus was a thing not to be borne. At first they stoned him, but his\nmusic made the stones fall harmless at his feet. Then in a frenzy of\ncruelty, with the maniac lust to cause blood to flow, to know the joy\nof taking life, they threw themselves upon Orpheus and did him to\ndeath. From limb to limb they tore him, casting at last his head and\nhis blood-stained lyre into the river. And still, as the water bore\nthem on, the lyre murmured its last music and the white lips of\nOrpheus still breathed of her whom at last he had gone to join in the\nshadowy land, \"Eurydice! Eurydice!\"\n\n\"Combien d'autres sont morts de meme! C'est la lutte eternelle de la\nforce brutale contre l'intelligence douce et sublime inspiree du ciel,\ndont le royaume n'est pas de ce monde.\"\n\nIn the heavens, as a bright constellation called Lyra, or Orpheus, the\ngods placed his lute, and to the place of his martyrdom came the\nMuses, and with loving care carried the fragments of the massacred\nbody to Libetlera, at the foot of Mount Olympus, and there buried\nthem. And there, unto this day, more sweetly than at any other spot in\nany other land, the nightingale sings. For it sings of a love that\nknows no ending, of life after death, of a love so strong that it can\nconquer even Death, the all-powerful.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[3] Kingsley.\n\n\n\n\nAPOLLO AND DAPHNE\n\n\nConqueror of all conquerable earth, yet not always victorious over the\nheart of a maid was the golden-locked Apollo.\n\nAs mischievous Eros played one day with his bow and arrows, Apollo\nbeheld him and spoke to him mockingly.\n\n\"What hast thou to do with the weapons of war, saucy lad?\" he said.\n\"Leave them for hands such as mine, that know full well how to wield\nthem. Content thyself with thy torch, and kindle flames, if indeed\nthou canst, but such bolts as thy white young arms can drive will\nsurely not bring scathe to god nor to man.\"\n\nThen did the son of Aphrodite answer, and as he made answer he laughed\naloud in his glee. \"With thine arrows thou mayst strike all things\nelse, great Apollo, a shaft of mine shall surely strike thy heart!\"\n\nCarefully, then, did Eros choose two arrows from his quiver. One,\nsharp-pointed and of gold, he fitted carefully to his bow, drew back\nthe string until it was taut, and then let fly the arrow, that did not\nmiss its mark, but flew straight to the heart of the sun-god. With the\nother arrow, blunt, and tipped with lead, he smote the beautiful\nDaphne, daughter of Peneus, the river-god. And then, full joyously did\nthe boy-god laugh, for his roguish heart knew well that to him who\nwas struck by the golden shaft must come the last pangs that have\nproved many a man's and many a god's undoing, while that leaden-tipped\narrow meant to whomsoever it struck, a hatred of Love and an immunity\nfrom all the heart weakness that Love can bring. Those were the days\nwhen Apollo was young. Never before had he loved.\n\nBut as the first fierce storm that assails it bends the young, supple\ntree with its green budding leaves before its furious blast, so did\nthe first love of Apollo bend low his adoring heart. All day as he\nheld the golden reins of his chariot, until evening when its fiery\nwheels were cooled in the waters of the western seas, he thought of\nDaphne. All night he dreamed of her. But never did there come to\nDaphne a time when she loved Love for Love's sake. Never did she look\nwith gentle eye on the golden-haired god whose face was as the face of\nall the exquisite things that the sunlight shows, remembered in a\ndream. Her only passion was a passion for the chase. One of Diana's\nnymphs was she, cold and pure and white in soul as the virgin goddess\nherself.\n\nThere came a day when Apollo could no longer put curbing hands on his\nfierce longing. The flames from his chariot still lingered in\nreflected glories on sea and hill and sky. The very leaves of the\nbudding trees of spring were outlined in gold. And through the dim\nwood walked Daphne, erect and lithe and living as a sapling in the\nearly spring.\n\nWith beseeching hands, Apollo followed her. A god was he, yet to him\nhad come the vast humility of passionate intercession for the gift of\nlove to a little nymph. She heard his steps behind her and turned\nround, proud and angry that one should follow her when she had not\nwilled it.\n\n\"Stay!\" he said, \"daughter of Peneus. No foe am I, but thine own\nhumble lover. To thee alone do I bow my head. To all others on earth\nam I conqueror and king.\"\n\nBut Daphne, hating his words of passionate love, sped on. And when his\npassion lent wings to his feet and she heard him gaining on her as she\nfled, not as a lover did Daphne look on deathless Apollo, but as a\nhateful foe. More swiftly than she had ever run beside her mistress\nDiana, leaving the flying winds behind her as she sped, ran Daphne\nnow. But ever did Apollo gain upon her, and almost had he grasped her\nwhen she reached the green banks of the river of which her father,\nPeneus, was god.\n\n\"Help me, Peneus!\" she cried. \"Save me, oh my father, from him whose\nlove I fear!\"\n\nAs she spoke the arms of Apollo seized her, yet, even as his arms met\naround her waist, lissome and slight as a young willow, Daphne the\nnymph was Daphne the nymph no longer. Her fragrant hair, her soft\nwhite arms, her tender body all changed as the sun-god touched them.\nHer feet took root in the soft, damp earth by the river. Her arms\nsprouted into woody branches and green leaves. Her face vanished, and\nthe bark of a big tree enclosed her snow-white body. Yet Apollo did\nnot take away his embrace from her who had been his dear first love.\nHe knew that her cry to Peneus her father had been answered, yet he\nsaid, \"Since thou canst not be my bride, at least thou shalt be my\ntree; my hair, my lyre, my quiver shall have thee always, oh laurel\ntree of the Immortals!\"\n\nSo do we still speak of laurels won, and worn by those of deathless\nfame, and still does the first love of Apollo crown the heads of those\nwhose gifts have fitted them to dwell with the dwellers on Olympus.\n\n                \"I espouse thee for my tree:\n    Be thou the prize of honour and renown;\n    The deathless poet, and the poem, crown;\n    Thou shalt the Roman festivals adorn,\n    And, after poets, be by victors worn.\"\n\n        Ovid (_Dryden's translation_).\n\n\n\n\nPSYCHE\n\n\nThose who read for the first time the story of Psyche must at once be\nstruck by its kinship to the fairy tales of childhood. Here we have\nthe three sisters, the two elder jealous and spiteful, the youngest\nbeautiful and gentle and quite unable to defend herself against her\nsisters' wicked arts. Here, too, is the mysterious bridegroom who is\nnever seen and who is lost to his bride because of her lack of faith.\nTruly it is an old, old tale--older than all fairy tales--the story of\nlove that is not strong enough to believe and to wait, and so to \"win\nthrough\" in the end--the story of seeds of suspicion sown by one full\nof malice in an innocent heart, and which bring to the hapless reaper\na cruel harvest.\n\nOnce upon a time, so goes the tale, a king and queen had three\nbeautiful daughters. The first and the second were fair indeed, but\nthe beauty of the youngest was such that all the people of the land\nworshipped it as a thing sent straight from Olympus. They awaited her\noutside the royal palace, and when she came, they threw chaplets of\nroses and violets for her little feet to tread upon, and sang hymns of\npraise as though she were no mortal maiden but a daughter of the\ndeathless gods.\n\nThere were many who said that the beauty of Aphrodite herself was less\nperfect than the beauty of Psyche, and when the goddess found that men\nwere forsaking her altars in order to worship a mortal maiden, great\nwas her wrath against them and against the princess who, all\nunwittingly, had wrought her this shameful harm.\n\nIn her garden, sitting amongst the flowers and idly watching his\nmother's fair white doves as they preened their snowy feathers in the\nsun, Aphrodite found her son Eros, and angrily poured forth to him the\nstory of her shame.\n\n\"Thine must be the task of avenging thy mother's honour,\" she said.\n\"Thou who hast the power of making the loves of men, stab with one of\nthine arrows the heart of this presumptuous maiden, and shame her\nbefore all other mortals by making her love a monster from which all\nothers shrink and which all despise.\" With wicked glee Eros heard his\nmother's commands. His beautiful face, still the face of a mischievous\nboy, lit up with merriment. This was, in truth, a game after his own\nheart. In the garden of Aphrodite is a fountain of sweet, another of\nbitter water, and Eros filled two amber vases, one from each fountain,\nhung them from his quiver, and\n\n    \"Straight he rose from earth and down the wind\n    Went glittering 'twixt the blue sky and the sea.\"\n\nIn her chamber Psyche lay fast asleep, and swiftly, almost without a\nglance at her, Eros sprinkled some of the bitter drops upon her lips,\nand then, with one of his sharpest arrows, pricked her snowy breast.\nLike a child who half awakes in fear, and looks up with puzzled,\nwondering eyes, Psyche, with a little moan, opened eyes that were\nbluer than the violets in spring and gazed at Eros. He knew that he\nwas invisible, and yet her gaze made him tremble.\n\n\"They spoke truth!\" said the lad to himself. \"Not even my mother is as\nfair as this princess.\"\n\nFor a moment her eyelids quivered, and then dropped. Her long dark\nlashes fell on her cheeks that were pink as the hearts of the fragile\nshells that the waves toss up on western beaches, her red mouth,\ncurved like the bow of Eros, smiled happily, and Psyche slept again.\nWith heart that beat as it had never beaten before, Eros gazed upon\nher perfect loveliness. With gentle, pitying finger he wiped away the\nred drop where his arrow had wounded her, and then stooped and touched\nher lips with his own, so lightly that Psyche in her dreams thought\nthat they had been brushed by a butterfly's wings. Yet in her sleep\nshe moved, and Eros, starting back, pricked himself with one of his\narrows. And with that prick, for Eros there passed away all the\ncareless ease of the heart of a boy, and he knew that he loved Psyche\nwith the unquenchable love of a deathless god. Now, with bitter\nregret, all his desire was to undo the wrong he had done to the one\nthat he loved. Speedily he sprinkled her with the sweet water that\nbrings joy, and when Psyche rose from her couch she was radiant with\nthe beauty that comes from a new, undreamed-of happiness.\n\n    \"From place to place Love followed her that day\n    And ever fairer to his eyes she grew,\n    So that at last when from her bower he flew,\n    And underneath his feet the moonlit sea\n    Went shepherding his waves disorderly,\n    He swore that of all gods and men, no one\n    Should hold her in his arms but he alone;\n    That she should dwell with him in glorious wise\n    Like to a goddess in some paradise;\n    Yea, he would get from Father Jove this grace\n    That she should never die, but her sweet face\n    And wonderful fair body should endure\n    Till the foundations of the mountains sure\n    Were molten in the sea; so utterly\n    Did he forget his mother's cruelty.\"\n\n        William Morris.\n\nMeantime it came to be known all over that land, and in other lands to\nwhich the fame of the fair Psyche had spread, that the mighty goddess\nAphrodite had declared herself the enemy of the princess. Therefore\nnone dared seek her in marriage, and although many a noble youth\nsighed away his heart for love of her, she remained in her father's\npalace like an exquisite rose whose thorns make those who fain would\nhave it for their own, fear to pluck it from the parent stem. Her\nsisters married, and her father marvelled why so strange a thing\nshould come about and why the most beautiful by far of his three\ndaughters should remain unwed.\n\nAt length, laden with royal gifts, an embassy was sent by the king to\nthe oracle of Apollo to inquire what might be the will of the dwellers\non Olympus concerning his fairest daughter. In a horror of anxiety the\nking and his queen and Psyche awaited the return of the ambassadors.\nAnd when they returned, before ever a word was spoken, they knew that\nthe oracle had spoken Psyche's doom.\n\n\"No mortal lover shall fair Psyche know,\" said the oracle. \"For\nbridegroom she shall have a monster that neither man nor god can\nresist. On the mountain top he awaits her coming. Woe unutterable\nshall come to the king and to all the dwellers in his land if he dares\nto resist the unalterable dictum of the deathless gods!\"\n\n    \"... Of dead corpses shalt thou be the king,\n    And stumbling through the dark land shalt thou go,\n    Howling for second death to end thy woe.\"\n\n        William Morris.\n\nOnly for a little while did the wretched king strive to resist the\ndecrees of fate. And in her own chamber, where so short a time before the\nlittle princess had known the joy of something inexpressible--something\nmost exquisite--intangible--unknown--she sat, like a flower broken by the\nruthless storm, sobbing pitifully, dry-eyed, with sobs that strained her\nsoul, for the shameful, hideous fate that the gods had dealt her.\n\nAll night, until her worn-out body could no longer feel, her worn-out\nmind think, and kind sleep came to bring her oblivion, Psyche faced\nthe horror for the sake of her father and of his people, that she knew\nshe could not avoid. When morning came, her handmaids, white-faced and\nred-eyed, came to deck her in all the bridal magnificence that\nbefitted the most beautiful daughter of a king, and when she was\ndressed right royally, and as became a bride, there started up the\nmountain a procession at sight of which the gods themselves must have\nwept. With bowed heads the king and queen walked before the litter\nupon which lay their daughter in her marriage veil of saffron colour,\nwith rose wreath on her golden hair. White, white were the faces of\nthe maidens who bore the torches, and yet rose red were they by the\nside of Psyche. Minstrels played wedding hymns as they marched\nonwards, and it seemed as though the souls of unhappy shades sobbed\nthrough the reeds and moaned through the strings as they played.\n\nAt length they reached the rocky place where they knew they must leave\nthe victim bride, and her father dared not meet her eyes as he turned\nhis head to go. Yet Psyche watched the procession wending its way\ndownhill. No more tears had she to shed, and it seemed to her that\nwhat she saw was not a wedding throng, but an assembly of\nbroken-hearted people who went back to their homes with heavy feet\nafter burying one that they loved. She saw no sign of the monster who\nwas to be her bridegroom, yet at every little sound her heart grew\nsick with horror, and when the night wind swept through the craggy\npeaks and its moans were echoed in loneliness, she fell on her face in\ndeadly fear and lay on the cold rock in a swoon.\n\nYet, had Psyche known it, the wind was her friend. For Eros had used\nZephyrus as his trusty messenger and sent him to the mountain top to\nfind the bride of him \"whom neither man nor god could resist.\"\nTenderly--very tenderly--he was told, must he lift her in his arms,\nand bear her to the golden palace in that green and pleasant land\nwhere Eros had his home. So, with all the gentleness of a loving nurse\nto a tired little child Zephyrus lifted Psyche, and sped with her in\nhis strong arms to the flowery meadows behind which towered the golden\npalace of Eros, like the sun behind a sky of green and amber and blue\nand rose. Deeply, in the weariness of her grief, Psyche slept, and\nwhen she awoke it was to start up with the chill hands of the\nrealisation of terrible actualities on her heart. But when her eyes\nlooked round to find the barren rocks, the utter forsakenness, the\ncoming of an unnameable horror, before her she saw only fair groves\nwith trees bedecked with fruit and blossom, fragrant meadows, flowers\nwhose beauty made her eyes grow glad. And from the trees sang birds\nwith song more sweet than any that Psyche had ever known, and with\nbrilliant plumage which they preened caressingly when they had dipped\ntheir wings in crystal-sparkling fountains. There, too, stood a noble\npalace, golden fronted, and with arcades of stainless marble that\nshone like snow in the sun. At first all seemed like part of a dream\nfrom which she dreaded to awake, but soon there came to her the joy of\nknowing that all the exquisite things that made appeal to her senses\nwere indeed realities. Almost holding her breath, she walked forward\nto the open golden doors. \"It is a trap,\" she thought. \"By this means\ndoes the monster subtly mean to lure me into his golden cage.\" Yet,\neven as she thought, there seemed to be hovering round her winged\nwords, like little golden birds with souls. And in her ears they\nwhispered, \"Fear not. Doubt not. Recall the half-formed dreams that so\nshort a time ago brought to thy heart such unutterable joy. No evil\nshall come to thee--only the bliss of loving and of being loved.\"\n\n[Illustration: THUS DID PSYCHE LOSE HER FEAR, AND ENTER THE GOLDEN\nDOORS]\n\nThus did Psyche lose her fear, and enter the golden doors. And\ninside the palace she found that all the beautiful things of which she\nhad ever dreamed, all the perfect things for which she had ever\nlonged, were there to greet her. From one to another she flitted, like\na humming-bird that sucks honey from one and then from another\ngorgeous flower. And then, when she was tired with so much wearing out\nof her thankful mind, she found a banquet ready spread for her, with\nall the dainties that her dainty soul liked best; and, as she ate,\nmusic so perfect rejoiced her ears that all her soul was soothed and\njoyous and at peace. When she had refreshed herself, a soft couch\nstood before her, ready for her there to repose, and when that strange\nday had come to an end, Psyche knew that, monster or not, she was\nbeloved by one who had thought for her every thought, and who desired\nonly her desire.\n\nNight came at last, and when all was dark and still, and Psyche, wide\nawake, was full of forebodings and fears lest her happy dreams might\nonly be misleading fancies, and Horror incarnate might come to crown\nher peaceful day, Eros softly entered the palace that was his own.\nEven as he had gone to the palace of her father he went now, and found\nPsyche lying with violet eyes that stared into the velvety darkness,\nseeking something that she hoped for, trembling before something that\nbrought her dread.\n\nHis voice was as the voice of spring when it breathes on the sleeping\nearth; he knew each note in Love's music, every word in the great\nthing that is Love's vocabulary. Love loved, and Psyche listened, and\nsoon she knew that her lover was Love himself.\n\nThus, for Psyche, did a time of perfect happiness begin. All through\nthe day she roamed in her Love's dominion, and saw on every side the\nsigns of his passion and of his tenderness. All through the night he\nstayed by her, and satisfied all the longing of her heart. Yet always,\nere daybreak, Eros left her, and when she begged him to stay he only\nmade answer:\n\n    \"I am with thee only while I keep\n    My visage hidden; and if thou once shouldst see\n    My face, I must forsake thee; the high gods\n    Link Love with Faith, and he withdraws himself\n    From the full gaze of knowledge.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\nSo did time glide past for Psyche, and ever she grew more in love with\nLove; always did her happiness become more complete. Yet, ever and\nagain, there returned to her the remembrance of those sorrowful days\nwhen her father and mother had broken their hearts over her martyrdom,\nand her sisters had looked askance at her as at one whose punishment\nmust assuredly have come from her own misdoing. Thus at length she\nasked Eros to grant her, for love's sake, a boon--to permit her to\nhave her sisters come to see for themselves the happiness that was\nhers. Most unwillingly was her request granted, for the heart of Eros\ntold him that from their visit no good could come. Yet he was unable\nto deny anything to Psyche, and on the following day Zephyrus was sent\nto bring the two sisters to the pleasant valley where Psyche had her\nhome. Eagerly, as she awaited them, Psyche thought she might make the\nprincely palace wherein she dwelt yet fairer than it was. And almost\nere she could think, her thoughts became realities. When the two\nsisters came, they were bewildered with the beauty and the\nmagnificence of it all. Beside this, their own possessions were paltry\ntrifles indeed. Quickly, in their little hearts, black envy grew. They\nhad always been jealous of their younger sister, and now that they\nfound her, whom all the world believed to have been slain by a\nhorrible monster, more beautiful than ever, decked with rare jewels,\nradiant in her happiness, and queen of a palace fit for the gods,\ntheir envy soon turned to hatred, and they sought how best to wreak\ntheir malice upon the joyous creature who loaded them with priceless\ngifts. They began to ply Psyche with questions. He who was her lord,\nto whom she owed all her happiness, where was he? Why did he stay away\nwhen her sisters came to be presented to him? What manner of man was\nhe? Was he fair or dark? Young or old? And as they questioned her,\nPsyche grew like a bewildered child and answered in frightened words\nthat contradicted one another. And well the wicked sisters, who\nbrooded evil in their hearts, knew that this husband whom Psyche had\nnever seen must indeed be one of the deathless gods. Wily words they\nspoke to her then.\n\n\"Alas! unhappy one,\" they said, \"dost think to escape the evil fate\nthe gods meted out for thee? Thy husband is none other than the\nmonster of which the oracle spake! Oh, foolish Psyche! canst not\nunderstand that the monster fears the light? Too great horror would\nit mean for thee to see the loathsome thing that comes in the\nblackness of night and speaks to thee words of love.\"\n\nWhite-lipped and trembling, Psyche listened. Drop by drop the\npoisonous words passed into her soul. She had thought him king of all\nliving things--worthy to rule over gods as well as men. She was so\nsure that his body was worthy sheath for the heart she knew so\nwell.... She had pictured him beautiful as Eros, son of\nAphrodite--young and fair, with crisp, golden locks--a husband to\nglory in--a lover to adore. And now she knew, with shame and dread,\nthat he who had won her love between the twilight and the dawn was a\nthing to shame her, a monster to be shunned of men.\n\n\"What, then, shall I do?\" piteously she asked of her sisters. And the\nwomen, pitilessly, and well content, answered:\n\n\"Provide thyself with a lamp and a knife sharp enough to slay the man\nor monster. And when this creature to whom, to thy undying shame, thou\nbelongest, sleeps sound, slip from thy couch and in the rays of the\nlamp have courage to look upon him in all his horror. Then, when thou\nhast seen for thyself that what we say is truth, with thy knife\nswiftly slay him. Thus shalt thou free thyself from the pitiless doom\nmeted out by the gods.\"\n\nShaking with sobs, Psyche made answer:\n\n\"I love him so!... I love him so!\"\n\nAnd her sisters turned upon her with furious scorn and well-simulated\nwrath.\n\n\"Shameless one!\" they cried; \"and does our father's daughter confess\nto a thing so unutterable! Only by slaying the monster canst thou hope\nto regain thy place amongst the daughters of men.\"\n\nThey left her when evening fell, carrying with them their royal gifts.\nAnd while she awaited the coming of her lord, Psyche, provided with\nknife and lamp, crouched with her head in her hands, a lily broken by\na cruel storm. So glad was Eros to come back to her, to find her\nsafely there--for greatly had he feared the coming of that treacherous\npair--that he did not note her silence. Nor did the dark night show\nhim that her eyes in her sad face looked like violets in a snow\nwreath. He wanted only to hold her safely in his arms, and there she\nlay, passive and still, until sleep came to lay upon him an omnipotent\nhand. Then, very gently, she withdrew herself from his embrace, and\nstole to the place where her lamp was hidden. Her limbs shook under\nher as she brought it to the couch where he lay asleep; her arm\ntrembled as she held it aloft.\n\nAs a martyr walks to death, so did she walk. And when the yellow light\nfell upon the form of him who lay there, still she gazed steadily.\n\nAnd, lo, before her she saw the form of him who had ever been the\nideal of her dreams. Love himself, incarnate Love, perfect in beauty\nand in all else was he whom her sisters had told her was a\nmonster--he, of whom the oracle had said that neither gods nor men\ncould resist him. For a moment of perfect happiness she gazed upon his\nbeauty. Then he turned in his sleep, and smiled, and stretched out\nhis arms to find the one of his love. And Psyche started, and,\nstarting, shook the lamp; and from it fell a drop of burning oil on\nthe white shoulder of Eros. At once he awoke, and with piteous,\npitying eyes looked in those of Psyche. And when he spoke, his words\nwere like daggers that pierced deep into her soul. He told her all\nthat had been, all that might have been. Had she only had faith and\npatience to wait, an immortal life should have been hers.\n\n    \"Farewell! though I, a god, can never know\n    How thou canst lose thy pain, yet time will go\n    Over thine head, and thou mayst mingle yet\n    The bitter and the sweet, nor quite forget,\n    Nor quite remember, till these things shall seem\n    The wavering memory of a lovely dream.\"\n\n        William Morris.\n\nHe left her alone then, with her despair, and as the slow hours\ndragged by, Psyche, as she awaited the dawn, felt that in her heart no\nsun could ever rise again. When day came at last, she felt she could\nno longer endure to stay in the palace where everything spoke to her\nof the infinite tenderness of a lost love. Through the night a storm\nhad raged, and even with the day there came no calm. And Psyche, weary\nand chill, wandered away from the place of her happiness, onward and\never on, until she stood on the bank of a swift-flowing river. For a\nlittle she stayed her steps and listened to the sound of its wash\nagainst the rocks and tree roots as it hurried past, and to her as she\nwaited came the thought that here had she found a means by which to\nend her woe.\n\n\"I have lost my Love,\" she moaned. \"What is Life to me any longer!\nCome to me then, O Death!\"\n\nSo then she sprang into the wan water, hoping that very swiftly it\nmight bear her grief-worn soul down to the shades. But the river bore\nher up and carried her to its shallows in a fair meadow where Pan\nhimself sat on the bank and merrily dabbled his feet in the flowing\nwater. And when Psyche, shamed and wet, looked at him with sad eyes,\nthe god spoke to her gently and chid her for her folly. She was too\nyoung and much too fair to try to end her life so rudely, he said. The\nriver gods would never be so unkind as to drive so beautiful a maiden\nin rough haste down to the Cocytus valley.\n\n\"Thou must dree thy weird like all other daughters of men, fair\nPsyche,\" he said. \"He or she who fain would lose their lives, are ever\nheld longest in life. Only when the gods will it shall thy days on\nearth be done.\"\n\nAnd Psyche, knowing that in truth the gods had spared her to endure\nmore sorrow, looked in his face with a very piteous gaze, and wandered\non. As she wandered, she found that her feet had led her near the\nplace where her two sisters dwelt.\n\n\"I shall tell them of the evil they have wrought,\" she thought.\n\"Surely they must sorrow when they know that by their cruel words they\nstole my faith from me and robbed me of my Love and of my happiness.\"\n\nGladly the two women saw the stricken form of Psyche and looked at her\nface, all marred by grief. Well, indeed, had their plot succeeded;\ntheir malice had drunk deep, yet deeper still they drank, for with\nscornful laughter they drove her from their palace doors. Very\nquickly, when she had gone, the elder sought the place where she had\nstood when Zephyrus bore her in safety to that palace of pleasure\nwhere Psyche dwelt with her Love. Now that Psyche was no longer there,\nsurely the god by whom she had been beloved would gladly have as her\nsuccessor the beautiful woman who was now much more fair than the\nwhite-faced girl with eyes all red with weeping. And such certainty\ndid the vengeful gods put in her heart that she held out her arms, and\ncalling aloud:\n\n\"Bear me to him in thine arms, Zephyrus! Behold I come, my lord!\" she\nsprang from the high cliff on which she stood, into space. And the\nravens that night feasted on her shattered body. So also did it befall\nthe younger sister, deluded by the Olympians to her own destruction,\nso that her sin might be avenged.\n\nFor many a weary day and night Psyche wandered, ever seeking to find\nher Love, ever longing to do something by which to atone for the deed\nthat had been her undoing. From temple to temple she went, but nowhere\ndid she come near him, until at length in Cyprus she came to the place\nwhere Aphrodite herself had her dwelling. And inasmuch as her love had\nmade her very bold, and because she no longer feared death, nor could\nthink of pangs more cruel than those that she already knew, Psyche\nsought the presence of the goddess who was her enemy, and humbly\nbegged her to take her life away.\n\nWith flaming scorn and anger Aphrodite received her.\n\n    \"O thou fool,\" she said, \"I will not let thee die!\n    But thou shalt reap the harvest thou hast sown,\n    And many a day that wretched lot bemoan;\n    Thou art my slave, and not a day shall be\n    But I will find some fitting task for thee.\"\n\nThere began then for Psyche a time of torturing misery of which only\nthose could speak who have knowledge of the merciless stripes with\nwhich the goddess can scourge the hearts of her slaves. With cruel\ningenuity, Aphrodite invented labours for her.\n\nIn uncountable quantity, and mingled in inextricable and bewildering\nconfusion, there lay in the granary of the goddess grains of barley\nand of wheat, peas and millet, poppy and coriander seed. To sort out\neach kind and lay them in heaps was the task allotted for one day, and\nwoe be to her did she fail. In despair, Psyche began her hopeless\nlabour. While the sun shone, through a day that was for her too short,\nshe strove to separate the grains, but when the shadows of evening\nmade it hard for her to distinguish one sort from another, only a few\nvery tiny piles were the result of her weary toil. Very soon the\ngoddess would return, and Psyche dared not think what would be the\npunishment meted out to her. Rapidly the darkness fell, but while the\ndying light still lingered in some parts of the granary, it seemed to\nPsyche as though little dark trickles of water began to pour from\nunderneath the doors and through the cracks in the wall. Trembling she\nwatched the ceaseless motion of those long, dark lines, and then, in\namazement, realised that what she saw were unending processions of\nants. And as though one who loved her directed their labours, the\nmillions of busy little toilers swiftly did for Psyche what she\nherself had failed to do. When at length they went away, in those long\ndark lines that looked like the flow of a thread-like stream, the\ngrains were all piled up in high heaps, and the sad heart of Psyche\nknew not only thankful relief, but had a thrill of gladness.\n\n\"Eros sent them to me:\" she thought. \"Even yet his love for me is not\ndead.\"\n\nAnd what she thought was true.\n\nAmazed and angry, Aphrodite looked at the task she had deemed\nimpossible, well and swiftly performed. That Psyche should possess\nsuch magic skill only incensed her more, and next day she said to her\nnew slave:\n\n\"Behold, on the other side of that glittering stream, my\ngolden-fleeced sheep crop the sweet flowers of the meadow. To-day must\nthou cross the river and bring me back by evening a sample of wool\npulled from each one of their shining fleeces.\"\n\nThen did Psyche go down to the brink of the river, and even as her\nwhite feet splashed into the water, she heard a whisper of warning\nfrom the reeds that bowed their heads by the stream.\n\n\"Beware! O Psyche,\" they said. \"Stay on the shore and rest until the\ngolden-fleeced sheep lie under the shade of the trees in the evening\nand the murmur of the river has lulled them to sleep.\"\n\nBut Psyche said, \"Alas, I must do the bidding of the goddess. It will\ntake me many a weary hour to pluck the wool that she requires.\"\n\nAnd again the reeds murmured, \"Beware! for the golden-fleeced sheep,\nwith their great horns, are evil creatures that lust for the lives of\nmortals, and will slay thee even as thy feet reach the other bank.\nOnly when the sun goes down does their vice depart from them, and\nwhile they sleep thou canst gather of their wool from the bushes and\nfrom the trunks of the trees.\"\n\nAnd again the heart of Psyche felt a thrill of happiness, because she\nknew that she was loved and cared for still. All day she rested in the\nwood by the river and dreamt pleasant day-dreams, and when the sun had\nset she waded to the further shore and gathered the golden wool in the\nway that the reeds had told her. When in the evening she came to the\ngoddess, bearing her shining load, the brow of Aphrodite grew dark.\n\n\"If thou art so skilled in magic that no danger is danger to thee, yet\nanother task shall I give thee that is worthy of thy skill,\" she said,\nand laid upon Psyche her fresh commands.\n\nSick with dread, Psyche set out next morning to seek the black stream\nout of which Aphrodite had commanded her to fill a ewer. Part of its\nwaters flowed into the Styx, part into the Cocytus, and well did\nPsyche know that a hideous death from the loathly creatures that\nprotected the fountain must be the fate of those who risked so proud\nan attempt. Yet because she knew that she must \"dree her weird,\" as\nPan had said, she plodded onward, towards that dark mountain from\nwhose side gushed the black water that she sought. And then, once\nagain, there came to her a message of love. A whirring of wings she\nheard, and\n\n    \"O'er her head there flew the bird of Jove,\n    The bearer, of his servant, friend of Love,\n    Who, when he saw her, straightway towards her flew,\n    And asked her why she wept, and when he knew,\n    And who she was, he said, 'Cease all thy fear,\n    For to the black waves I thy ewer will bear,\n    And fill it for thee; but, remember me,\n    When thou art come unto thy majesty.'\"\n\nAnd, yet once again, the stricken heart of Psyche was gladdened, and\nwhen at nightfall she came with her ewer full of water from the dread\nstream and gave it to Aphrodite, although she knew that a yet more\narduous task was sure to follow, her fear had all passed away.\n\nWith beautiful, sullen eyes, Aphrodite received her when she brought\nthe water. And, with black brow, she said: \"If thou art so skilled in\nmagic that no danger is known to thee, I shall now give thee a task\nall worthy of thy skill.\"\n\nThereon she told her that she must seek that dark valley where no\nsilver nor golden light ever strikes on the black waters of Cocytus\nand of the Styx; and where Pluto reigns in gloomy majesty over the\nrestless shades. From Proserpine she was to crave for Aphrodite the\ngift of a box of magical ointment, the secret of which was known to\nthe Queen of Darkness alone, and which was able to bring to those who\nused it, beauty more exquisite than any that the eyes of gods or of\nmen had as yet looked upon.\n\n\"I grow weary and careworn,\" said Aphrodite, and she looked like a\nrose that has budded in Paradise as she spoke. \"My son was wounded by\na faithless slave in whom, most weakly, he put his trust, and in\ntending to his wound, my beauty has faded.\"\n\nAnd at these scornful words, the heart of Psyche leaped within her.\n\n\"In helping his mother, I shall help him!\" she thought. And again she\nthought, \"I shall atone.\" And so, when day was come, she took her way\nalong the weary road that leads to that dark place from whence no\ntraveller can ever hope to return, and still with gladness in her\nheart. But, as she went onward, \"cold thoughts and dreadful fears\"\ncame to her.\n\n\"Better were it for me to hasten my journey to the shades,\" she\nthought.\n\nAnd when she came to an old grey tower, that seemed like an old man\nthat Death has forgotten, she resolved to throw herself down from it,\nand thus swiftly to find herself at her journey's end. But as she\nstood on the top of the tower, her arms outstretched, like a white\nbutterfly that poises its wings for flight, a voice spoke in her ear.\n\n\"Oh, foolish one,\" it said, \"why dost thou strive to stay the hope\nthat is not dead?\" And while she held her breath, her great eyes wide\nopen, the voice spoke on, and told her by what means she might\nspeedily reach Hades and there find means to face with courage the\nKing of Darkness himself and his fair wife, Proserpine.\n\nAll that she was bidden to do, Psyche did, and so at last did she\ncome before the throne of Proserpine, and all that Psyche endured, all\nthat she saw, all that through which she came with bleeding heart and\nyet with unscathed soul, cannot here be written.\n\nTo her Proserpine gave the box of precious ointment that Aphrodite\ndescribed, and gladly she hastened homeward. Good, indeed, it was to\nher when again she reached the fair light of day. Yet, when she had\nwon there, there came to Psyche a winged thought, that beat against\nthe stern barriers of her mind like a little moth against a window.\n\n\"This ointment that I carry with me,\" said Psyche to herself, \"is an\nointment that will bring back to those all faded by time, or worn by\nsuffering, a beauty greater than any beauty that has joyed the\nImmortals!\" And then she thought:\n\n\"For my beauty, Eros--_Love_--loved me; and now my beauty is worn and\nwasted and well-nigh gone. Were I to open this box and make use of the\nointment of Proserpine, then indeed I should be fair enough to be the\nbride of him who, even now, believes that he loves me--of Eros whose\nlove is my life!\"\n\nSo it came to pass that she opened the fateful box. And out of it\nthere came not Beauty, but Sleep, that put his gyves upon her limbs,\nand on her eyelids laid heavy fingers. And Psyche sank down by the\nwayside, the prisoner of Sleep.\n\nBut Eros, who had loved her ever, with a love that knew the ebb and\nflow of no tides, rose from his bed and went in search of her who had\nbraved even the horrors of Hades for his dear sake. And by the wayside\nhe found her, fettered by sleep. Her little oval face was white as a\nsnowdrop. Like violets were her heavy eyelids, and underneath her\nsleeping eyes a violet shadow lay. Once had her mouth been as the bow\nof Eros, painted in carmine. Now either end of the bow was turned\ndownwards, and its colour was that of a faded rose-leaf.\n\nAnd as Eros looked at her that he loved, pity stirred his heart, as\nthe wind sweeps through the sighing, grey leaves of the willow, or\nsings through the bowing reeds.\n\n\"My _Beloved_!\" he said, and he knew that Psyche was indeed his\nbeloved. It was her fair soul that he loved, nor did it matter to him\nwhether her body was like a rose in June or as a wind-scourged tree in\nDecember. And as his lips met hers, Psyche awoke, and heard his soft\nwhisper:\n\n               \"Dear, unclose thine eyes.\n    Thou mayst look on me now. I go no more,\n    But am thine own forever.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\nThen did there spring from the fair white shoulders of Psyche, wings\nof silver and of gold, and, hand in hand with Eros, she winged her way\nto Olympus.\n\nAnd there all the deathless gods were assembled, and Aphrodite no\nlonger looked upon her who had once been her slave with darkened\nbrows, but smiled upon her as the sun smiles upon a new-born flower.\nAnd when into the hand of Psyche there was placed a cup of gold, the\nvoice of the great Father and King of Olympus rang out loud and clear:\n\n    \"Drink now, O beautiful, and have no fear!\n    For with this draught shalt thou be born again,\n    And live for ever free from care and pain.\"\n\n        William Morris.\n\nIn this wise did Psyche, a human soul, attain by bitter suffering to\nthe perfect happiness of purified love.\n\nAnd still do we watch the butterfly, which is her emblem, bursting\nfrom its ugly tomb in the dark soil, and spreading joyous white and\ngold-powdered wings in the caressing sunshine, amidst the radiance and\nthe fragrance of the summer flowers. Still, too, do we sadly watch her\nsister, the white moth, heedlessly rushing into pangs unutterable,\nthoughtlessly seeking the anguish that brings her a cruel death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CALYDONIAN HUNT\n\n\nOEneus and Althaea were king and queen of Calydon, and to them was\nborn a son who was his mother's joy and yet her bitterest sorrow.\nMeleager was his name, and ere his birth his mother dreamed a dream\nthat the child that she bore was a burning firebrand. But when the\nbaby came he was a royal child indeed, a little fearless king from the\nfirst moment that his eyes, like unseeing violets, gazed steadily up\nat his mother. To the chamber where he lay by his mother's side came\nthe three Fates, spinning, ceaselessly spinning.\n\n\"He shall be strong,\" said one, as she span her thread. \"He shall be\nfortunate and brave,\" said the second. But the third laid a billet of\nwood on the flames, and while her withered fingers held the fatal\nthreads, she looked with old, old, sad eyes at the new-born child.\n\n\"To thee, O New-Born,\" she said, \"and to this wood that burns, do we\ngive the same span of days to live.\"\n\nFrom her bed sprang Althaea, and, heedless of the flames, she seized\nthe burning wood, trod on it with her fair white feet, and poured on\nit water that swiftly quenched its red glow. \"Thou shalt live forever,\nO Beloved,\" she said, \"for never again shall fire char the brand that\nI have plucked from the burning.\"\n\nAnd the baby laughed.\n\n    \"Those grey women with bound hair\n    Who fright the gods frighted not him; he laughed\n    Seeing them, and pushed out hands to feel and haul\n    Distaff and thread.\"\n\nThe years sped on, and from fearless and beautiful babyhood, Meleager\ngrew into gallant boyhood, and then into magnificent youth. When Jason\nand his heroes sailed away into a distant land to win the Golden\nFleece, Meleager was one of the noble band. From all men living he won\ngreat praise for his brave deeds, and when the tribes of the north and\nwest made war upon AEtolia, he fought against their army and scattered\nit as a wind in autumn drives the fallen leaves before it.\n\nBut his victory brought evil upon him. When his father OEneus, at\nthe end of a fruitful year, offered sacrifices to the gods, he omitted\nto honour the goddess Diana by sacrificing to her, and to punish his\nneglect, she had sent this destroying army. When Meleager was victor,\nher wrath against his father grew yet more hot, and she sent a wild\nboar, large as the bulls of Epirus, and fierce and savage to kill and\nto devour, that it might ravage and lay waste the land of Calydon. The\nfields of corn were trampled under foot, the vineyards laid waste, and\nthe olive groves wrecked as by a winter hurricane. Flocks and herds\nwere slaughtered by it, or driven hither and thither in wild panic,\nworking havoc as they fled. Many went out to slay it, but went only to\nfind a hideous death. Then did Meleager resolve that he would rid the\nland of this monster, and called on all his friends, the heroes of\nGreece, to come to his aid. Theseus and his friend Pirithous came;\nJason; Peleus, afterwards father of Achilles; Telamon, the father of\nAjax; Nestor, then but a youth; Castor and Pollux, and Toxeus and\nPlexippus, the brothers of Althaea, the fair queen-mother. But there\ncame none more fearless nor more ready to fight the monster boar of\nCalydon than Atalanta, the daughter of the king of Arcadia. When\nAtalanta was born, her father heard of her birth with anger. He\ndesired no daughter, but only sturdy sons who might fight for him, and\nin the furious rage of bitter disappointment he had the baby princess\nleft on the Parthenian Hill that she might perish there. A she-bear\nheard the baby's piteous cries, and carried it off to its lair, where\nshe suckled it along with her young, and there the little Atalanta\ntumbled about and played with her furry companions and grew strong and\nvigorous as any other wild young creature of the forest.\n\nSome hunters came one day to raid the den and kill the foster-mother,\nand found, amazed, a fearless, white-skinned thing with rosy cheeks\nand brave eyes, who fought for her life and bit them as did her fierce\nfoster-brothers, and then cried human tears of rage and sorrow when\nshe saw the bear who had been her mother lying bloody and dead. Under\nthe care of the hunters Atalanta grew into a maiden, with all the\nbeauty of a maid and all the strength and the courage of a man. She\nran as swiftly as Zephyrus runs when he rushes up from the west and\ndrives the white clouds before him like a flock of timid fawns that a\nhound is pursuing. The shafts that her strong arm sped from her bow\nsmote straight to the heart of the beast that she chased, and almost\nas swift as her arrow was she there to drive her spear into her\nquarry. When at length her father the king learned that the beautiful\nhuntress, of whom all men spoke as of one only a little lower than\nDiana, was none other than his daughter, he was not slow to own her as\nhis child. So proud was he of her beauty and grace, and of her\nmarvellous swiftness of foot and skill in the chase, that he would\nfain have married her to one of the great ones of Greece, but Atalanta\nhad consulted an oracle. \"Marry not,\" said the oracle. \"To thee\nmarriage must bring woe.\"\n\nSo, with untouched heart, and with the daring and the courage of a\nyoung lad, Atalanta came along with the heroes to the Calydonian Hunt.\nShe was so radiantly lovely, so young, so strong, so courageous, that\nstraightway Meleager loved her, and all the heroes gazed at her with\neyes that adored her beauty. And Diana, looking down at her, also\nloved the maiden whom from childhood she had held in her protection--a\ngallant, fearless virgin dear to her heart.\n\nThe grey mist rose from the marshes as the hunt began, and the hunters\nof the boar had gone but a little way when they came upon traces of\nthe hated boar. Disembowelled beasts marked its track. Here, in a\nflowery meadow, had it wallowed. There, in rich wheat land, had it\nrouted, and the marks of its bestial tusks were on the gashed grey\ntrunks of the trees that had once lived in the peace of a fruitful\nolive grove.\n\nIn a marsh they found their enemy, and all the reeds quivered as it\nheaved its vast bulk and hove aside the weed in which it had wallowed,\nand rooted with its tusks amongst the wounded water-lilies before it\nleapt with a snort to meet and to slay the men who had come against\nit. A filthy thing it was, as its pink snout rose above the green ooze\nof the marshes, and it looked up lustingly, defying the purity of the\nblue skies of heaven, to bring to those who came against it a cruel,\nshameful death.\n\nUpon it, first of all, Jason cast his spear. But the sharp point only\ntouched it, and unwounded, the boar rushed on, its gross, bristly head\ndown, to disembowel, if it could, the gallant Nestor. In the branches\nof a tree Nestor found safety, and Telamon rushed on to destroy the\nfilthy thing that would have made carrion of the sons of the gods. A\nstraggling cypress root caught his fleeting foot and laid him prone, a\nhelpless prey for the rooting brute. His hounds fell before it, but\nere it could reach him, Atalanta, full of vengeful rage--the pure\nangered against the filthy and cruel--let draw her bow, with a prayer\nto Diana to guide her shaft aright. Into the boar's smoking flank sped\nthe arrow.\n\n                      \"The sudden string\n    Rang, and sprang inward, and the waterish air\n    Hissed, and the moist plumes of the songless reeds\n    Moved as a wave which the wind moves no more.\n    But the boar heaved half out of ooze and slime,\n    His tense flank trembling round the barbed wound,\n    Hateful; and fiery with invasive eyes\n    And bristling with intolerable hair\n    Plunged, and the hounds clung, and green flowers and white\n    Reddened and broke all round them where they came.\n    And charging with sheer tusk he drove, and smote\n    Hyleus; and sharp death caught his sudden soul,\n    And violent sleep shed night upon his eyes.\"\n\n        Swinburne.\n\nMore than ever terrible was the monster now that it was wounded. One\nafter the other the hunters fell before its mad rage, and were sent to\nthe shades by a bloody and merciless death.\n\nBefore its furious charge even the heart of a hero might have been\nstricken. Yet Meleager, like a mighty oak of the forest that will not\nsway even a little before the rush of a storm, stood full in its way\nand met its onslaught.\n\n    \"Aimed on the left side his well-handled spear\n    Grasped where the ash was knottiest hewn, and smote,\n    And with no missile wound, the monstrous boar\n    Right in the hairiest hollow of his hide\n    Under the last rib, sheer through bulk and bone,\n    Deep in; and deeply smitten, and to death,\n    The heavy horror with his hanging shafts,\n    Leapt, and fell furiously, and from raging lips\n    Foamed out the latest wrath of all his life.\"\n\nGreat was the shout that rose from those who still lived when that\ngrim hunt thus came to an end. And when, with his keen blade, Meleager\nstruck off the head, even as the quivering throat drew its last\nagonised breath, louder still shouted the men of Greece. But not for\nhimself did Meleager despoil the body of his foe. He laid the ugly\nthing at the feet of Atalanta.\n\n\"This is thy spoil, not mine,\" he said. \"The wounding shaft was sped\nby thee. To thee belongs the praise.\"\n\nAnd Atalanta blushed rosily, and laughed low and gladly, not only\nbecause Diana had heard her prayer and helped her slay the beast, but\nfor happiness that Meleager was so noble in his giving.\n\nAt that the brows of the heroes grew dark, and angrily one cried:\n\n                                \"Lo, now,\n    Shall not the Arcadian shoot out lips at us,\n    Saying all we were despoiled by this one girl.\"\n\nLike a spark that kindles the dry grass, their kindling anger spread,\nand they rushed against Atalanta, seized the trophy she had been\ngiven, and smote her as though she were but a shameless wanton and not\nthe noble daughter of a king.\n\nAnd because the heart of Meleager was given very wholly to the fair\nhuntress, and because those whom he deemed his friends had not only\ndishonoured her, but had done him a very grievous wrong, a great rage\nseized him. Right and left he smote, and they who had been most bitter\nin their jealousy of Atalanta, the two brothers of his own mother,\nwere laid low in death.\n\nTidings of the slaying of the boar had been brought to Althaea by swift\nmessengers, and she was on her way to the temples bearing gifts to the\ngods for the victory of her son, when she beheld the slow-footed\nprocession of those who bore the bodies of the dead. And when she saw\nthe still faces of her two dear brothers, quickly was her joy turned\ninto mourning. Terrible was her grief and anger when she learned by\nwhose hand they were slain, and her mother's love and pride dried up\nin her heart like the clear water of a fountain before the scorching\nof a devouring fire. No sacrifices to the gods would she offer, but\nher dead brothers should have the greatest sacrifice that mother could\nmake to atone for the guilt of her son. Back to the palace she went,\nand from its safe hiding-place drew out the brand that she had rescued\nfrom the flames when Meleager the hero was but a babe that made his\nmother's heart sing for joy. She commanded a fire to be prepared, and\nfour times, as its flames blazed aloft, she tried to lay the brand\nupon the pile. Yet four times she drew back, and then at last she\nthrew into the reddest of the ashes the charred brand that for a\nlittle she held so close to her breast that it seemed as though she\nfondled her child.\n\nA wreath of leaves as sign of victory was being placed on Atalanta's\nbeautiful head by the adoring hands of Meleager when his mother gave\nhim his doom. Through his body there rushed a pang of mortal agony.\nHis blood turned to fire, and the hand of Death that smote him was as\na hand of molten lead. In torture his gallant spirit passed away,\nuncomplaining, loving through his pain the maid for whose dear sake he\nhad brought woe upon himself. As the last white ashes in the fire\ncrumbled and fell away into nothingness, the soul of Meleager\ndeparted. Swiftly through the dark valley his mother's shade followed\nhim, for she fell upon a sword and so perished. And Diana, looking\ndown on the grief-stricken sisters of Meleager and on the bitter\nsorrow of his father, had compassion on them and turned them into\nbirds.\n\nSo ended the Calydonian Hunt, and Atalanta returned to Arcadia, heavy\nat heart for the evil she had wrought unwittingly. And still the Three\nFates span on, and the winds caught up the cold wood ashes and blew\nthem across the ravaged land that Meleager had saved and that quickly\ngrew fertile again.\n\n\n\n\nATALANTA\n\n\nAtalanta, daughter of the king of Arcadia, returned sad at heart to\nher own land. Only as comrades, as those against whose skill in the\nchase she was wont to pit her own skill, had she looked upon men. But\nMeleager, the hero who loved her and her fair honour more than life\nitself, and whose love had made him haste in all his gallant strength\nand youthful beauty to the land of the Shades, was one to touch her as\nnever before had she been touched. Her father, proud of her triumph in\nCalydon, again besought her to marry one of her many noble suitors.\n\n\"If indeed they love me as thou sayest,\" said Atalanta to her father,\n\"then must they be ready to face for my sake even the loss of dear\nlife itself. I shall be the prize of him who outruns me in a\nfoot-race. But he who tries and fails, must pay to Death his penalty.\"\n\nThereafter, for many days, a strange sight was to be seen in Arcadia.\nFor one after another the suitors came to race with the maiden whose\nface had bewitched them, though truly the race was no more fair to him\nwho ran than would be a race with Death. No mortal man was as fleet as\nAtalanta, who had first raced with the wild things of the mountains\nand the forests, and who had dared at last to race with the winds and\nleave even them behind. To her it was all a glorious game. Her\nconquest was always sure, and if the youths who entered in the contest\ncared to risk their lives, why should they blame her? So each day they\nstarted, throbbing hope and fierce determination to win her in the\nheart of him who ran--fading hope and despairing anger as he saw her\nskimming ahead of him like a gay-hued butterfly that a tired child\npursues in vain. And each day, as the race ended, another man paid the\nprice of his defeat.\n\nDaily, amongst those who looked on, stood her cousin Milanion. He\nwould fain have hated Atalanta for her ruthlessness and her joyousness\nas he saw his friends die for her sake, yet daily her beauty, her\npurity, and her gallant unconsciousness took a firmer hold upon his\nheart. To himself he vowed that he would win Atalanta, but not without\nhelp from the gods was this possible. Therefore he sought Aphrodite\nherself and asked her aid.\n\nMilanion was a beautiful youth, and to Aphrodite, who loved beauty, he\npled his cause as he told her how Atalanta had become to him more than\nlife, so that he had ceased to pity the youths, his friends, who had\ndied for love of her. The goddess smiled upon him with gentle\nsympathy.\n\nIn the garden of her temple grew a tree with branches and twigs of\ngold, and leaves as yellow as the little leaves of the silver birch\nwhen the autumn sun kisses them as it sets. On this tree grew golden\napples, and Aphrodite plucked three of them and gave them to the youth\nwho had not feared to ask her to aid him to win the maid he loved.\nHow he was to use the apples she then told him, and, well content,\nMilanion returned home.\n\nNext day he spoke to Atalanta.\n\n\"So far has victory been thine, Fairest on earth,\" he said, \"but so\nfar have thy little winged white feet had only the heavy-footed\nlaggards to outrun. Wilt have me run a race with thee? for assuredly I\nshall win thee for my own.\"\n\nAnd Milanion looked into the eyes of Atalanta with a smile as gay and\nfearless as that with which a hero is wont to look in the eyes of his\nfellow.\n\nLook for look did the virgin huntress give him.\n\nThen her cheeks grew red, as though the rosy-fingered dawn had touched\nthem, and the dawning of love came into her heart.\n\nEven Meleager was not quite so goodly a youth as this. Not even\nMeleager had been so wholly fearless.\n\n\"Thou art tempted by the deathless gods,\" she said, but her long\nlashes drooped on her cheek as she spoke. \"I pity you, Milanion, for\nwhen thou dost race with me, the goal is assuredly the meadows of\nasphodel near where sit Pluto and Persephone on their gloomy thrones.\"\n\nBut Milanion said, \"I am ready, Atalanta. Wilt race with me now?\" And\nsteadily he looked in her eyes until again they fell as though at last\nthey had found a conqueror.\n\nLike two swallows that skim across a sunny sea, filled with the\njoyousness of the coming of spring, Atalanta and Milanion started.\nScarcely did their feet seem to touch the solid earth, and all\nthose who stood by vowed that now, at length, was a race indeed, a\nrace worthy for the gods to behold.\n\n[Illustration: SHE STOPPED, AND PICKED UP THE TREASURE]\n\nBut as they ran, almost abreast, so that none could tell which was the\ngainer, Milanion obeyed the bidding of Aphrodite and let fall one of\nthe golden apples. Never before had Atalanta dreamed of such a\nthing--an apple of glistening gold! She stopped, poised on one foot as\na flying bird poises for a moment on the wing, and picked up the\ntreasure. But Milanion had sped several paces ahead ere she was again\nabreast of him, and even as she gained on him, he dropped the second\napple. Again Atalanta was tempted. Again she stopped, and again\nMilanion shot ahead of her. Her breath came short and fast, as once\nmore she gained the ground that she had lost. But, yet a third time,\nMilanion threw in her way one of the golden illusions of the gods.\nAnd, yet again, Atalanta stooped to pick up the apple of gold.\n\nThen a mighty shout from those who watched rent the air, and Atalanta,\nhalf fearful, half ashamed, yet wholly happy, found herself running,\nvanquished, into the arms of him who was indeed her conqueror. For not\nonly had Milanion won the race, but he had won the heart of the virgin\nhuntress, a heart once as cold and remote as the winter snow on the\npeak of Mount Olympus.\n\n\n\n\nARACHNE\n\n\nThe hay that so short a time ago was long, lush grass, with fragrant\nmeadow-sweet and gold-eyed marguerites growing amongst it in the green\nmeadow-land by the river, is now dry hay--fragrant still, though dead,\nand hidden from the sun's warm rays underneath the dark wooden rafters\nof the barn. Occasionally a cat on a hunting foray comes into the barn\nto look for mice, or to nestle cosily down into purring slumber. Now\nand then a hen comes furtively tip-toeing through the open door and\nmakes for itself a secret nest in which to lay the eggs which it\nsubsequently heralds with such loud clucks of proud rejoicing as to\ncompletely undo all its previous precautions. Sometimes children come\nin, pursuing cat or hen, or merely to tumble each other over amongst\nthe soft hay which they leave in chaotic confusion, and when they have\ngone away, a little more of the sky can be seen through the little\nwindow in the roof, and through the wooden bars of the window lower\ndown. Yet, whatever other living creatures may come or go, by those\nwindows of the barn, and high up on its dark rafters, there is always\na living creature working, ceaselessly working. When, through the\nskylight, the sun-god drives a golden sunbeam, and a long shaft of\ndancing dust-atoms passes from the window to what was once a part of\nthe early summer's glory, the work of the unresting toiler is also to\nbe seen, for the window is hung with shimmering grey tapestries made\nby Arachne, the spider, and from rafter to rafter her threads are\nsuspended with inimitable skill.\n\nShe was a nymph once, they say--the daughter of Idmon the dyer, of\nColophon, a city of Lydia. In all Lydia there was none who could weave\nas wove the beautiful Arachne. To watch her card the wool of the\nwhite-fleeced sheep until in her fingers it grew like the soft clouds\nthat hang round the hill tops, was pleasure enough to draw nymphs from\nthe golden river Pactolus and from the vineyards of Tymolus. And when\nshe drove her swift shuttle hither and thither, still it was joy to\nwatch her wondrous skill. Magical was the growth of the web, fine of\nwoof, that her darting fingers span, and yet more magical the\nexquisite devices that she then wrought upon it. For birds and flowers\nand butterflies and pictures of all the beautiful things on earth were\nlimned by Arachne, and old tales grew alive again under her creative\nneedle.\n\nTo Pallas Athene, goddess of craftsmen, came tidings that at Colophon\nin Lydia lived a nymph whose skill rivalled that of the goddess\nherself, and she, ever jealous for her own honour, took on herself the\nform of a woman bent with age, and, leaning on her staff, joined the\nlittle crowd that hung round Arachne as she plied her busy needle.\nWith white arms twined round each other the eager nymphs watched the\nflowers spring up under her fingers, even as flowers spring from the\nground on the coming of Demeter, and Athene was fain to admire, while\nshe marvelled at the magic skill of the fair Arachne.\n\nGently she spoke to Arachne, and, with the persuasive words of a wise\nold woman, warned her that she must not let her ambition soar too\nhigh. Greater than all skilled craftswomen was the great goddess\nAthene, and were Arachne, in impious vanity, to dream that one day she\nmight equal her, that were indeed a crime for any god to punish.\n\nGlancing up for a moment from the picture whose perfect colours grew\nfast under her slim fingers, Arachne fixed scornful eyes on the old\nwoman and gave a merry laugh.\n\n\"Didst say _equal_ Athene? old mother,\" she said. \"In good sooth thy\ndwelling must be with the goat-herds in the far-off hills and thou art\nnot a dweller in our city. Else hadst thou not spoken to Arachne of\n_equalling_ the work of Athene; _excelling_ were the better word.\"\n\nIn anger Pallas Athene made answer.\n\n\"Impious one!\" she said, \"to those who would make themselves higher\nthan the gods must ever come woe unutterable. Take heed what thou\nsayest, for punishment will assuredly be thine.\"\n\nLaughing still, Arachne made reply:\n\n\"I fear not, Athene, nor does my heart shake at the gloomy warning of\na foolish old crone.\" And turning to the nymphs who, half afraid,\nlistened to her daring words, she said: \"Fair nymphs who watch me day\nby day, well do ye know that I make no idle boast. My skill is as\ngreat as that of Athene, and greater still it shall be. Let Athene try\na contest with me if she dare! Well do I know who will be the victor.\"\n\nThen Athene cast off her disguise, and before the frightened nymphs\nand the bold Arachne stood the radiant goddess with eyes that blazed\nwith anger and insulted pride.\n\n\"Lo, Athene is come!\" she said, and nymphs and women fell on their\nknees before her, humbly adoring. Arachne alone was unabashed. Her\ncheeks showed how fast her heart was beating. From rosy red to white\nwent the colour in them, yet, in firm, low voice she spoke.\n\n\"I have spoken truth,\" she said. \"Not woman, nor goddess, can do work\nsuch as mine. Ready am I to abide by what I have said, and if I did\nboast, by my boast I stand. If thou wilt deign, great goddess, to try\nthy skill against the skill of the dyer's daughter and dost prove the\nvictor, behold me gladly willing to pay the penalty.\"\n\nThe eyes of Athene, the grey-eyed goddess, grew dark as the sea when a\nthunder-cloud hangs over it and a mighty storm is coming. Not for one\nmoment did she delay, but took her place by the side of Arachne. On\nthe loom they stretched out two webs with a fine warp, and made them\nfast on the beam.\n\n    \"The sley separates the warp, the woof is inserted in\n    the middle with sharp shuttles, which the fingers hurry\n    along, and, being drawn within the warp, the teeth\n    notched in the moving sley strike it. Both hasten on,\n    and girding up their garments to their breasts, they\n    move their skilful arms, their eagerness beguiling their\n    fatigue. There both the purple is being woven, which is\n    subjected to the Tyrian brazen vessel, and fine shades\n    of minute difference; just as the rainbow, with its\n    mighty arch, is wont to tint a long tract of sky by\n    means of the rays reflected by the shower; in which,\n    though a thousand different colours are shining, yet the\n    very transition eludes the eyes that look upon it....\n    There, too, the pliant gold is mixed with the threads.\"\n\n        Ovid.\n\nTheir canvases wrought, then did Athene and Arachne hasten to cover\nthem with pictures such as no skilled worker of tapestry has ever\nsince dreamed of accomplishing. Under the fingers of Athene grew up\npictures so real and so perfect that the watchers knew not whether the\ngoddess was indeed creating life. And each picture was one that told\nof the omnipotence of the gods and of the doom that came upon those\nmortals who had dared in their blasphemous presumption to struggle as\nequals with the immortal dwellers in Olympus. Arachne glanced up from\nher web and looked with eyes that glowed with the love of beautiful\nthings at the creations of Athene. Yet, undaunted, her fingers still\nsped on, and the goddess saw, with brow that grew yet more clouded,\nhow the daughter of Idmon the dyer had chosen for subjects the tales\nthat showed the weaknesses of the gods. One after another the living\npictures grew beneath her hand, and the nymphs held their breath in\nmingled fear and ecstasy at Arachne's godlike skill and most arrogant\ndaring. Between goddess and mortal none could have chosen, for the\ncolour and form and exquisite fancy of the pictures of the daughter of\nZeus were equalled, though not excelled, by those of the daughter of\nthe dyer of Colophon.\n\nDarker and yet more dark grew the eyes of Athene as they looked on\nthe magical beauty of the pictures, each one of which was an insult to\nthe gods. What picture had skilful hand ever drawn to compare with\nthat of Europa who,\n\n    \"riding on the back of the divine bull, with one hand\n    clasped the beast's great horn, and with the other\n    caught up her garment's purple fold, lest it might trail\n    and be drenched in the hoar sea's infinite spray. And\n    her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like the sail\n    of a ship, and lightly ever it wafted the maiden\n    onward.\"\n\n        Moschus.\n\nThen at last did the storm break, and with her shuttle the enraged\ngoddess smote the web of Arachne, and the fair pictures were rent into\nmotley rags and ribbons. Furiously, too, with her shuttle of boxwood\nshe smote Arachne. Before her rage, the nymphs fled back to their\ngolden river and to the vineyards of Tymolus, and the women of\nColophon in blind terror rushed away. And Arachne, shamed to the dust,\nknew that life for her was no longer worth possessing. She had\naspired, in the pride of her splendid genius, to a contest with a god,\nand knew now that such a contest must ever be vain. A cord hung from\nthe weaver's beam, and swiftly she seized it, knotted it round her\nwhite neck, and would have hanged herself. But ere the life had passed\nout of her, Athene grasped the cord, loosened it, and spoke Arachne's\ndoom:\n\n\"Live!\" she said, \"O guilty and shameless one! For evermore shalt thou\nlive and hang as now, thou and thy descendants, that men may never\nforget the punishment of the blasphemous one who dared to rival a\ngod.\"\n\nEven as she spoke, Arachne's fair form dried up and withered. Her\nstraight limbs grew grey and crooked and wiry, and her white arms were\nno more. And from the beam where the beautiful weaver of Lydia had\nbeen suspended, there hung from a fine grey thread the creature from\nwhich, to this day, there are but few who do not turn with loathing.\nYet still Arachne spins, and still is without a compeer.\n\n    \"Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most\n    In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne,\n    Nor anie weaver, which his worke doth boast\n    In dieper, in damaske, or in lyne,\n    Nor anie skil'd in workmanship embost,\n    Nor anie skil'd in loupes of fingring fine,\n    Might in their divers cunning ever dare\n    With this so curious networke to compare.\"\n\n        Spenser.\n\nThus, perhaps, does Arachne have her compensations, and in days that\nfollowed long after the twilight of the gods, did she not gain eternal\nhonour in the heart of every Scot by the tale of how she saved a\nnational hero? Kindly, too, are her labours for men as she slays their\nmortal enemies, the household flies, and when the peasant--practical,\nif not favoured by AEsculapius and Hygeia--runs to raid the loom of\nArachne in order to staunch the quick-flowing blood from the cut hand\nof her little child, much more dear to her heart is Arachne the spider\nthan the unknown Athene.\n\n    \"Also in spinners be tokens of divination, and of\n    knowing what weather shall fall--for oft by weathers\n    that shall fall, some spin or weave higher or lower.\n    Also multitude of spinners is token of much\n    rain.\"\n\n        Bartholomew.\n\nThe sun has not long enough shown his face to dry up the dew in the\ngarden, and behold on the little clipped tree of boxwood, a great\nmarvel! For in and out, and all over its twigs and leaves, Arachne has\nwoven her web, and on the web the dew has dropped a million diamond\ndrops. And, suddenly, all the colours in the sky are mirrored\ndazzlingly on the grey tapestry of her making. Arachne has come to her\nown again.\n\n\n\n\nIDAS AND MARPESSA\n\n\nBy day, while the sun-god drove his chariot in the high heavens and\nturned the blue-green AEgean Sea into the semblance of a blazing shield\nof brass, Idas and Marpessa sat together in the trees' soft shades, or\nwalked in shadowy valleys where violets and wild parsley grew, and\nwhere Apollo rarely deigned to come. At eventide, when, in royal\nsplendour of purple and crimson and gold, Apollo sought his rest in\nthe western sky, Idas and Marpessa wandered by the seashore watching\nthe little wavelets softly kissing the pebbles on the beach, or\nclimbed to the mountain side from whence they could see the first\nglimpse of Diana's silver crescent and the twinkling lights of the\nPleiades breaking through the blue canopy of the sky. While Apollo\nsought in heaven and on earth the best means to gratify his imperial\nwhims, Idas, for whom all joys had come to mean but one, sought ever\nto be by the side of Marpessa. Shadowy valley, murmuring sea, lonely\nmountain side, or garden where grew the purple amaranth and where\nroses of pink and amber-yellow and deepest crimson dropped their\nradiant petals on the snowy marble paths, all were the same to\nIdas--Paradise for him, were Marpessa by his side; without her, dreary\ndesert.\n\nMore beautiful than any flower that grew in the garden was Marpessa.\nNo music that Apollo's lute could make was as sweet in the ears of\nIdas as her dear voice. Its music was ever new to him--a melody to\nmake his heart more quickly throb. New, too, ever was her beauty. For\nhim it was always the first time that they met, always the same fresh\nravishment to look in her eyes. And when to Idas came the knowledge\nthat Marpessa gave him love for love, he had indeed won happiness so\ngreat as to draw upon him the envy of the gods.\n\n\"The course of true love never did run smooth,\" and, like many and\nmany another father since his day, Evenos, the father of Marpessa, was\nbitterly opposed to a match where the bridegroom was rich only in\nyouth, in health, and in love. His beautiful daughter naturally seemed\nto him worthy of something much more high. Thus it was an unhappy day\nfor Marpessa when, as she sat alone by the fountain which dripped\nslowly down on the marble basin, and dreamed of her lover, Idas,\nApollo himself, led by caprice, noiselessly walked through the rose\nbushes, whose warm petals dropped at his feet as he passed, and beheld\na maiden more fair than the fairest flower that grew. The hum of bees,\nthe drip, drip of the fountain, these lulled her mind and heart and\nsoothed her day-dreams, and Marpessa's red lips, curved like the bow\nof Eros, smiled as she thought of Idas, the man she loved. Silently\nApollo watched her. This queen of all the roses was not fit to be the\nbride of mortal man--Marpessa must be his.\n\nTo Evenos Apollo quickly imparted his desire. He was not used to\nhaving his imperial wishes denied, nor was Evenos anxious to do so.\nHere, indeed, was a match for his daughter. No insignificant mortal,\nbut the radiant sun-god himself! And to Marpessa he told what Apollo\nwished, and Marpessa shyly looked at her reflection in the pool of the\nfountain, and wondered if she were indeed beautiful enough to win the\nlove of a god.\n\n\"Am I in truth so wondrous fair?\" she asked her father.\n\n\"Fair enough to mate with Apollo himself!\" proudly answered Evenos.\n\nAnd joyously Marpessa replied, \"Ah, then am I happy indeed! I would be\nbeautiful for my Idas' sake!\"\n\nAn angry man was her father. There was to be no more pleasant dallying\nwith Idas in the shadowy wood or by the seashore. In the rose garden\nApollo took his place and charmed Marpessa's ears with his music,\nwhile her eyes could not but be charmed by his beauty. The god had no\ndoubts or fears. Only a little time he would give her, for a very\nlittle only would he wait, and then undoubtedly this mortal maiden\nwould be his, her heart conquered as assuredly as the rays from his\nchariot conquered the roses, whose warm crimson petals they strewed at\nhis feet. Yet as Marpessa looked and listened, her thoughts were often\nfar away and always her heart was with Idas. When Apollo played most\nexquisitely to her it seemed that he put her love for Idas into music.\nWhen he spoke to her of his love she thought, \"Thus, and thus did Idas\nspeak,\" and a sudden memory of the human lad's halting words brought\nto her heart a little gush of tenderness, and made her eyes sparkle\nso that Apollo gladly thought, \"Soon she will be mine.\"\n\n[Illustration: MARPESSA SAT ALONE BY THE FOUNTAIN]\n\nAnd all this while Idas schemed and plotted and planned a way in which\nhe could save his dear one from her obdurate father, and from the\npassion of a god. He went to Neptune, told his tale, and begged him to\nlend him a winged chariot in which he could fly away with Marpessa.\nNeptune good-naturedly consented, and when Idas flew up from the\nseashore one day, like a great bird that the tempests have blown\ninland, Marpessa joyously sprang up beside her lover, and swiftly they\ntook flight for a land where in peace they might live and love\ntogether. No sooner did Evenos realise that his daughter was gone,\nthan, in furious anger against her and her lover, he gave chase. One\nhas watched a hawk in pursuit of a pigeon or a bird of the moors and\nseen it, a little dark speck at first, gradually growing larger and\nmore large until at length it dominated and conquered its prey,\nswooping down from above, like an arrow from a bow, to bring with it\nsudden death.\n\nSo at first it seemed that Evenos must conquer Idas and Marpessa in\nthe winged chariot of Neptune's lending. But onwards Idas drove the\nchariot, ever faster and faster, until before the eyes of Marpessa the\ntrees of the forest grew into blurs of blue and brown, and the streams\nand rivers as they flew past them were streaks of silver. Not until he\nhad reached the river Lycormas did the angry father own that his\npursuit had been in vain. Over the swift-flowing stream flew the\nchariot driven by Idas, but Evenos knew that his horses, flecked with\nwhite foam, pumping each breath from hearts that were strained to\nbreaking-point, no longer could go on with the chase. The passage of\nthat deep stream would destroy them. The fierce water would sweep the\nwearied beasts down in its impelling current, and he with them. A\nshamed man would he be forever. Not for a moment did he hesitate, but\ndrew his sharp sword from his belt and plunged it into the breast of\none steed and then of the other who had been so willing and who yet\nhad failed him in the end. And then, as they, still in their traces,\nneighed shrilly aloud, and then fell over and died where they lay,\nEvenos, with a great cry, leaped into the river. Over his head closed\nthe eddies of the peat-brown water. Once only did he throw up his arms\nto ask the gods for mercy; then did his body drift down with the\nstream, and his soul hastened downwards to the Shades. And from that\nday the river Lycormas no more was known by that name, but was called\nthe river _Evenos_ forever.\n\nOnwards, triumphantly, drove Idas, but soon he knew that a greater\nthan Evenos had entered in the chase, and that the jealous sun-god's\nchariot was in pursuit of the winged car of Neptune. Quickly it gained\non him--soon it would have swept down on him--a hawk indeed, this\ntime, striking surely its helpless prey--but even as Apollo saw the\nwhite face of Marpessa and knew that he was the victor, a mighty\nthunderbolt that made the mountains shake, and rolled its echoes\nthrough the lonely fastnesses of a thousand hills, was sent to earth\nby Jupiter. While the echoes still re-echoed, there came from Olympus\nthe voice of Zeus himself.\n\n\"_Let her decide!_\" he said.\n\nApollo, like a white flame blown backward by the wind, withheld his\nhands that would have seized from Idas the woman who was his heart's\ndesire.\n\nAnd then he spoke, and while his burning gaze was fixed upon her, and\nhis face, in beautiful fury, was more perfect than any exquisite\npicture of her dreams, his voice was as the voice of the sea as it\ncalls to the shore in the moonlit hours, as the bird that sings in the\ndarkness of a tropic night to its longing mate.\n\n\"Marpessa!\" he cried, \"Marpessa! wilt thou not come to me? No woe nor\ntrouble, never any pain can touch me. Yet woe indeed was mine when\nfirst I saw thy fairest face. For even now dost thou hasten to sorrow,\nto darkness, to the dark-shadowed tomb. Thou art but mortal! thy\nbeauty is short-lived. Thy love for mortal man shall quickly fade and\ndie. Come to me, Marpessa, and my kisses on your lips shall make thee\nimmortal! Together we shall bring the sunbeams to a cold, dark land!\nTogether shall we coax the spring flowers from the still, dead earth!\nTogether we shall bring to men the golden harvest, and deck the trees\nof autumn in our liveries of red and gold. I love thee, Marpessa--not\nas mere mortal loves do I love thee. Come to me, Marpessa--my Love--my\nDesire!\"\n\nWhen his voice was silent, it seemed as if the very earth itself with\nall its thousand echoes still breathed his words: \"Marpessa--my\nLove--my Desire.\"\n\nAbashed before the god's entreaties stood Idas. And the heart of\nMarpessa was torn as she heard the burning words of the beautiful\nApollo still ringing through her head, and saw her mortal lover,\nsilent, white-lipped, gazing first at the god and then into her own\npale face. At length he spoke:\n\n    \"After such argument what can I plead?\n    Or what pale promise make? Yet since it is\n    In woman to pity rather than to aspire,\n    A little I will speak. I love thee then\n    Not only for thy body packed with sweet\n    Of all this world, that cup of brimming June,\n    That jar of violet wine set in the air,\n    That palest rose sweet in the night of life;\n    Nor for that stirring bosom all besieged\n    By drowsing lovers, or thy perilous hair;\n    Nor for that face that might indeed provoke\n    Invasion of old cities; no, nor all\n    Thy freshness stealing on me like strange sleep.\n    Nor for this only do I love thee, but\n    Because Infinity upon thee broods;\n    And thou art full of whispers and of shadows.\n    Thou meanest what the sea has striven to say\n    So long, and yearned up the cliffs to tell;\n    Thou art what all the winds have uttered not,\n    What the still night suggesteth to the heart.\n    Thy voice is like to music heard ere birth,\n    Some spirit lute touched on a spirit sea;\n    Thy face remembered is from other worlds,\n    It has been died for, though I know not when,\n    It has been sung of, though I know not where.\n    It has the strangeness of the luring West,\n    And of sad sea-horizons; beside thee\n    I am aware of other times and lands,\n    Of birth far-back, of lives in many stars.\n    O beauty lone and like a candle clear\n    In this dark country of the world! Thou art\n    My woe, my early light, my music dying.\"\n\n        Stephen Phillips.\n\nThen Idas, in the humility that comes from perfect love, drooped low\nhis head, and was silent. In silence for a minute stood the three--a\ngod, a man, and a woman. And from on high the watching stars looked\ndown and marvelled, and Diana stayed for a moment the course of her\nsilver car to watch, as she thought, the triumph of her own invincible\nbrother.\n\nFrom man to god passed the eyes of Marpessa, and back from god to man.\nAnd the stars forgot to twinkle, and Diana's silver-maned horses pawed\nthe blue floor of the sky, impatient at the firm hand of the mistress\non the reins that checked their eager course.\n\nMarpessa spoke at last, in low words that seemed to come \"remembered\nfrom other worlds.\"\n\nFor all the joys he offered her she thanked Apollo. What grander fate\nfor mortal woman than to rule the sunbeams--to bring bliss to the\nearth and to the sons of men? What more could mortal woman crave than\nthe gift of immortality shared with one whose power ruled the vast\nuniverse, and who still had stooped to lay the red roses of his\npassionate love at her little, human feet? And yet--and yet--in that\nsorrow-free existence that he promised, might there not still be\nsomething awanting to one who had once known tears?\n\n    \"Yet I, being human, human sorrow miss.\"\n\nThen were he indeed to give her the gift of immortal life, what value\nwere life to one whose beauty had withered as the leaves in autumn,\nwhose heart was tired and dead? What uglier fate than this, to endure\nan endless existence in which no life was, yoked to one whose youth\nwas immortal, whose beauty was everlasting?\n\nThen did she turn to Idas, who stood as one who awaits the judgment of\nthe judge in whose hands lies the power of meting out life or death.\nThus she spoke:\n\n    \"But if I live with Idas, then we two\n    On the low earth shall prosper hand in hand\n    In odours of the open field, and live\n    In peaceful noises of the farm, and watch\n    The pastoral fields burned by the setting sun.\n    And he shall give me passionate children, not\n    Some radiant god that will despise me quite,\n    But clambering limbs and little hearts that err.\n    ... So shall we live,\n    And though the first sweet sting of love be past,\n    The sweet that almost venom is; though youth,\n    With tender and extravagant delight,\n    The first and secret kiss by twilight hedge,\n    The insane farewell repeated o'er and o'er,\n    Pass off; there shall succeed a faithful peace;\n    Beautiful friendship tried by sun and wind,\n    Durable from the daily dust of life.\"\n\nThe sun-god frowned as her words fell from her lips. Even now, as she\nlooked at him, he held out his arms. Surely she only played with this\npoor mortal youth. To him she must come, this rose who could own no\nlesser god than the sun-god himself.\n\nBut Marpessa spoke on:\n\n    \"And thou beautiful god, in that far time,\n    When in thy setting sweet thou gazest down\n    On his grey head, wilt thou remember then\n    That once I pleased thee, that I once was young?\"\n\nSo did her voice cease, and on the earth fell sudden darkness. For to\nApollo had come the shame of love rejected, and there were those who\nsaid that to the earth that night there came no sunset, only the\nsullen darkness that told of the flight of an angry god. Yet, later,\nthe silver moonbeams of Diana seemed to greet the dark earth with a\nsmile, and, in the winged car of Neptune, Idas and Marpessa sped on,\ngreater than the gods, in a perfect harmony of human love that feared\nnor time, nor pain, nor Death himself.\n\n\n\n\nARETHUSA\n\n\n\"We have victualled and watered,\" wrote Nelson from Syracuse in 1798,\n\"and surely, watering at the fountain of Arethusa, we must have\nvictory. We shall sail with the first breeze; and be assured I will\nreturn either crowned with laurel or covered with cypress.\" Three days\nlater, he won the Battle of the Nile, one of the greatest sea-fights\nof history.\n\nHere in our own land the tales of the Greek gods seem very remote.\nLike the colours in an old, old portrait, the humanity of the stories\nseems to have faded. But in Sicily they grow vivid at once. Almost, as\nwe stand above Syracuse, that long yellow town by the sea--a\nblue-green sea, with deep purple shadows where the clouds above it\ngrow dark, and little white-sailed boats, like white butterflies, wing\ntheir way across to the far horizon--can we\n\n    \"Have glimpse of Proteus rising from the sea,\n    Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.\"\n\nHere, to this day, one of the myths most impossible of acceptance to\nthe scientific modern mind lives on, and Arethusa is not yet forgotten.\n\"In Ortygia,\" says Cicero, \"is a fountain of sweet water, the name of\nwhich is Arethusa, of incredible flow, very full of fish, which would\nbe entirely overwhelmed by the sea, were its waters not protected from\nthe waves by a rampart and a wall of stone.\" White marble walls have\ntaken the place of the protecting barrier, but the spring bubbles up to\nthis day, and Ortygia (Quail Island) is the name still given to that\npart of Syracuse. Fluffy-headed, long, green stalks of papyrus grow in\nthe fountain, and red and golden fish dart through its clear water.\nBeyond lie the low shores of Plemmgrium, the fens of Lysimeleia, the\nhills above the Anapus, and above all towers Etna, in snowy and\nmagnificent serenity and indifference to the changes wrought by the\ncenturies to gods and to men. Yet here the present is completely\novershadowed by the past, and even the story of Arethusa knocks loudly\nat the well-barricaded doors of twentieth-century incredulity.\n\nThe beautiful Arethusa was a nymph in Diana's train, and many a time\nin the chase did she thread her way through the dim woodland, as a\nstream flows down through the forest from the mountains to the sea.\nBut to her, at last, there came a day when she was no longer the\nhuntress but the hunted.\n\nThe flaming wheels of the chariot of Apollo had made the whole land\nscintillate with heat, and the nymph sought the kind shelter of a wood\nwhere she might bathe in the exquisite coolness of the river that\nstill was chilled by the snows of the mountain. On the branch of a\ntree that bent over the stream she hung her garments, and joyously\nstepped into the limpid water. A ray of the sun glanced through the\nleaves above her and made the soft sand in the river's bed gleam like\ngold and the beautiful limbs of the nymph seem as though carved from\npure white marble by the hand of Pygmalion himself. There was no sound\nthere but the gentle sound of the stream that murmured caressingly to\nher as it slowly moved on through the solitude, and so gently it\nflowed that almost it seemed to stand still, as though regretful to\nleave for the unknown forest so beautiful a thing as Arethusa.\n\n    \"The Earth seemed to love her\n    And Heaven smiled above her.\"\n\nBut suddenly the stillness of the stream was ruffled. Waves, like the\nnewly-born brothers of the billows of the sea, swept both down-stream\nand up-stream upon her, and the river no longer murmured gently, but\nspoke to her in a voice that thrilled with passionate longing.\nAlpheus, god of the river, had beheld her, and, beholding her, had\nloved her once and forever. An uncouth creature of the forest was he,\nunversed in all the arts of love-making. So not as a supplicant did he\ncome to her, but as one who demanded fiercely love for love. Terror\ncame upon Arethusa as she listened, and hastily she sprang from the\nwater that had brought fear upon her, and hastened to find shelter in\nthe woodlands. Then the murmur, as of the murmur of a river before a\nmighty flood comes to seize it and hold it for its own, took form in a\nvoice that pled with her, in tones that made her tremble as she heard.\n\n\"Hear me, Arethusa!\" it said. \"I am Alpheus, god of the river that now\nthou hast made sacred. I am the god of the rushing streams--the god of\nthe thundering cataracts. Where the mountain streams crash over the\nrocks and echo through the shadowy hollows of the hills, I hold my\nkingship. Down from Etna I come, and the fire of Etna is in my veins.\nI love thee! I love but thee, and thou shalt be mine, and I thine\nforever.\"\n\nThen Arethusa, in blind panic, fled before the god who loved her.\nThrough the shadowy forest she sped, while he swiftly gained upon her.\nThe asphodel bent under her flying feet, and the golden flowers of the\n_Fiori Maggio_ were swept aside as she fled. Yet ever Alpheus gained\nupon her, until at length she felt that the chase was ended, and cried\nto Diana to save her. Then a cloud, grey and thick and blinding as the\nmist that wraps the mountain tops, suddenly descended and enfolded\nher, and Alpheus groped for her in vain.\n\n\"Arethusa!\" she heard him cry, in a voice of piteous\nlonging--\"Arethusa!--my beloved!\"\n\nPatiently he waited, with the love that makes uncouth things\nbeautiful, until at length a little breath from Zephyrus blew aside\nthe soft grey veil that hid his beloved from his sight, and he saw\nthat the nymph had been transformed into a fountain. Not for a moment\ndid Alpheus delay, but, turning himself into a torrent in flood, he\nrushed on in pursuit of Arethusa. Then did Diana, to save her votary,\ncleave a way for her through the dark earth even into the gloomy realm\nof Pluto himself, and the nymph rushed onward, onward still, and then\nupward, until at length she emerged again to the freedom of the blue\nsky and green trees, and beheld the golden orange groves and the grey\nolives, the burning red geranium flowers and the great snow-capped\nmountain of Sicily.\n\nBut Alpheus had a love for her that cast out all fear. Through the\nterrible blackness of the Cocytus valley he followed Arethusa, and\nfound a means of bursting through the encumbering earth and joining\nher again. And in a spring that rises out of the sea near the shore he\nwas able at last to mingle his waters with those of the one for whom\nhe had lost his godship.\n\n      \"And now from their fountains\n      In Enna's mountains,\n    Down one vale where the morning basks,\n      Like friends once parted\n      Grown single-hearted,\n    They ply their watery tasks,\n      At sunrise they leap\n      From their cradles steep\n    In the cave of the shelving hill;\n      At noontide they flow\n      Through the woods below\n    And the meadows of asphodel;\n      And at night they sleep\n      In the rocking deep\n    Beneath the Ortygian shore;\n      Like spirits that lie\n      In the azure sky\n    When they love but live no more.\"\n\n        Shelley.\n\n\n\n\nPERSEUS THE HERO\n\n    \"We call such a man a hero in English to this day, and\n    call it a 'heroic' thing to suffer pain and grief, that\n    we may do good to our fellow-men.\"\n\n        Charles Kingsley.\n\n\nIn the pleasant land of Argos, now a place of unwholesome marshes,\nonce upon a time there reigned a king called Acrisius, the father of\none fair daughter. Danae was her name, and she was very dear to the\nking until a day when he longed to know what lay hid for him in the\nlap of the gods, and consulted an oracle. With hanging head he\nreturned from the temple, for the oracle had told him that when his\ndaughter Danae had borne a son, by the hand of that son death must\nsurely come upon him. And because the fear of death was in him more\nstrong than the love of his daughter, Acrisius resolved that by\nsacrificing her he would baffle the gods and frustrate Death itself. A\ngreat tower of brass was speedily built at his command, and in this\nprison Danae was placed, to drag out her weary days.\n\nBut who can escape the designs of the gods? From Olympus great Zeus\nhimself looked down and saw the air princess sighing away her youth.\nAnd, full of pity and of love, he himself entered the brazen tower in\na golden shower, and Danae became the bride of Zeus and happily passed\nwith him the time of her imprisonment.\n\nTo her at length was born a son, a beautiful and kingly child, and\ngreat was the wrath of her father when he had tidings of the birth.\nDid the gods in the high heavens laugh at him? The laugh should yet be\non his side. Down to the seashore he hurried Danae and her newly-born\nbabe, the little Perseus, put them in a great chest, and set them\nadrift to be a plaything for winds and waves and a prey for the cruel\nand hungry sea.\n\n    \"When in the cunningly-wrought chest the raging blast\n    and the stirred billow and terror fell upon her, with\n    tearful cheeks she cast her arm around Perseus and\n    spake, 'Alas, my child, what sorrow is mine! But thou\n    slumberest, in baby-wise sleeping in this woeful ark;\n    midst the darkness of the brazen rivet thou shinest and\n    in the swart gloom sent forth; thou heedest not the deep\n    foam of the passing wave above thy locks nor the voice\n    of the blast as thou liest in thy purple covering, a\n    sweet face. If terror had terrors for thee, and thou\n    wert giving ear to my gentle words--I bid thee sleep, my\n    babe, and may the sea sleep and our measureless woe; and\n    may change of fortune come forth, Father Zeus, from\n    thee. For that I make my prayer in boldness and beyond\n    right, forgive me.'\"\n\n        Simonides of Keos.\n\nFor days and nights the mother and child were tossed on the billows,\nbut yet no harm came near them, and one morning the chest grounded on\nthe rocky beach of Seriphos, an island in the AEgean Sea. Here a\nfisherman came on this strange flotsam and jetsam of the waves and\ntook the mother and child to Polydectes, the king, and the years that\nfollowed were peaceful years for Danae and for Perseus. But as Perseus\ngrew up, growing each day more goodly to look upon, more fearless,\nmore ready to gaze with serene courage into the eyes of gods and of\nmen, an evil thing befell his mother. She was but a girl when he was\nborn, and as the years passed she grew ever more fair. And the crafty\neyes of old Polydectes, the king, ever watched her more eagerly,\nalways more hotly desired her for his wife. But Danae, the beloved of\nZeus himself, had no wish to wed the old king of the Cyclades, and\nproudly she scorned his suit. Behind her, as she knew well, was the\nstout arm of her son Perseus, and while Perseus was there, the king\ncould do her no harm. But Perseus, unwitting of the danger his mother\ndaily had to face, sailed the seas unfearingly, and felt that peace\nand safety surrounded him on every side. At Samos one day, while his\nship was lading, Perseus lay down under the shade of a great tree, and\nsoon his eyelids grew heavy with sleep, and there came to him, like\nbutterflies that flit over the flowers in a sunlit garden, pleasant,\nlight-winged dreams. But yet another dream followed close on the merry\nheels of those that went before. And before Perseus there stood one\nwhose grey eyes were as the fathomless sea on the dawn of a summer\nday. Her long robes were blue as the hyacinths in spring, and the\nspear that she held in her hand was of a polished brightness, as the\ndart with which the gods smite the heart of a man, with joy\ninexpressible, with sorrow that is scarcely to be borne. To Perseus\nshe spoke winged words.\n\n\"I am Pallas Athene,\" she said, \"and to me the souls of men are known.\nThose whose fat hearts are as those of the beasts that perish do I\nknow. They live at ease. No bitter sorrow is theirs, nor any fierce\njoy that lifts their feet free from the cumbering clay. But dear to my\nheart are the souls of those whose tears are tears of blood, whose joy\nis as the joy of the Immortals. Pain is theirs, and sorrow.\nDisappointment is theirs, and grief. Yet their love is as the love of\nthose who dwell on Olympus. Patient they are and long-suffering, and\never they hope, ever do they trust. Ever they fight, fearless and\nunashamed, and when the sum of their days on earth is accomplished,\nwings, of whose existence they have never had knowledge, bear them\nupwards, out of the mist and din and strife of life, to the life that\nhas no ending.\"\n\nThen she laid her hand on the hand of Perseus. \"Perseus,\" she said,\n\"art thou of those whose dull souls forever dwell in pleasant ease, or\nwouldst thou be as one of the Immortals?\"\n\nAnd in his dream Perseus answered without hesitation:\n\n\"Rather let me die, a youth, living my life to the full, fighting\never, suffering ever,\" he said, \"than live at ease like a beast that\nfeeds on flowery pastures and knows no fiery gladness, no\nheart-bleeding pain.\"\n\nThen Pallas Athene, laughing for joy, because she loved so well a\nhero's soul, showed him a picture that made even his brave heart sick\nfor dread, and told him a terrible story.\n\nIn the dim, cold, far west, she said, there lived three sisters. One\nof them, Medusa, had been one of her priestesses, golden-haired and\nmost beautiful, but when Athene found that she was as wicked as she\nwas lovely, swiftly had she meted out a punishment. Every lock of her\ngolden hair had been changed into a venomous snake. Her eyes, that had\nonce been the cradles of love, were turned into love's stony tombs.\nHer rosy cheeks were now of Death's own livid hue. Her smile, which\ndrew the hearts of lovers from their bosoms, had become a hideous\nthing. A grinning mask looked on the world, and to the world her\ngaping mouth and protruding tongue meant a horror before which the\nworld stood terrified, dumb. There are some sadnesses too terrible for\nhuman hearts to bear, so it came to pass that in the dark cavern in\nwhich she dwelt, and in the shadowy woods around it, all living things\nthat had met the awful gaze of her hopeless eyes were turned into\nstone. Then Pallas Athene showed Perseus, mirrored in a brazen shield,\nthe face of one of the tragic things of the world. And as Perseus\nlooked, his soul grew chill within him. But when Athene, in low voice,\nasked him:\n\n\"Perseus, wilt even end the sorrow of this piteous sinful one?\" he\nanswered, \"Even that will I do--the gods helping me.\"\n\nAnd Pallas Athene, smiling again in glad content, left him to dream,\nand Perseus awoke, in sudden fear, and found that in truth he had but\ndreamed, yet held his dream as a holy thing in the secret\ntreasure-house of his heart.\n\nBack to Seriphos he sailed, and found that his mother walked in fear\nof Polydectes the king. She told her son--a strong man now, though\nyoung in years--the story of his cruel persecution. Perseus saw red\nblood, and gladly would he have driven his keen blade far home in the\nheart of Polydectes. But his vengeance was to be a great vengeance,\nand the vengeance was delayed.\n\nThe king gave a feast, and on that day every one in the land brought\nofferings of their best and most costly to do him honour. Perseus\nalone came empty-handed, and as he stood in the king's court as though\nhe were a beggar, the other youths mocked at him of whom they had ever\nbeen jealous.\n\n\"Thou sayest that thy father is one of the gods!\" they said. \"Where is\nthy godlike gift, O Perseus!\"\n\nAnd Polydectes, glad to humble the lad who was keeper of his mother's\nhonour, echoed their foolish taunt.\n\n\"Where is the gift of the gods that the noble son of the gods has\nbrought me?\" he asked, and his fat cheeks and loose mouth quivered\nwith ugly merriment.\n\nThen Perseus, his head thrown back, gazed in the bold eyes of\nPolydectes.\n\nSon of Zeus he was indeed, as he looked with royal scorn at those whom\nhe despised.\n\n\"A godlike gift thou shalt have, in truth, O king,\" he said, and his\nvoice rang out as a trumpet-call before the battle. \"The gift of the\ngods shall be thine. The gods helping me, thou shalt have the head of\nMedusa.\"\n\nA laugh, half-born, died in the throats of Polydectes and of those who\nlistened, and Perseus strode out of the palace, a glow in his heart,\nfor he knew that Pallas Athene had lit the fire that burned in him\nnow, and that though he should shed the last drop of his life's blood\nto win what he sought, right would triumph, and wrong must be worsted.\n\nStill quivering with anger, Perseus went down to the blue sea that\ngently whispered its secrets to the shore on which he stood.\n\n\"If Pallas Athene would but come,\" he thought--\"if only my dreams\nmight come true.\"\n\nFor, like many a boy before and since, Perseus had dreamed of gallant,\nfearless deeds. Like many a boy before and since, he had been the hero\nof a great adventure.\n\nSo he prayed, \"Come to me! I pray you, Pallas Athene, come! and let me\ndream true.\"\n\nHis prayer was answered.\n\nInto the sky there came a little silver cloud that grew and grew, and\never it grew nearer, and then, as in his dream, Pallas Athene came to\nhim and smiled on him as the sun smiles on the water in spring. Nor\nwas she alone. Beside her stood Hermes of the winged shoes, and\nPerseus knelt before the two in worship. Then, very gently, Pallas\nAthene gave him counsel, and more than counsel she gave.\n\nIn his hand she placed a polished shield, than which no mirror shone\nmore brightly.\n\n\"Do not look at Medusa herself; look only on her image here\nreflected--then strike home hard and swiftly. And when her head is\nsevered, wrap it in the goatskin on which the shield hangs. So wilt\nthou return in safety and in honour.\"\n\n\"But how, then, shall I cross the wet grey fields of this watery\nway?\" asked Perseus. \"Would that I were a white-winged bird that skims\nacross the waves.\"\n\nAnd, with the smile of a loving comrade, Hermes laid his hand on the\nshoulder of Perseus.\n\n\"My winged shoes shall be thine,\" he said, \"and the white-winged\nsea-birds shalt thou leave far, far behind.\"\n\n\"Yet another gift is thine,\" said Athene. \"Gird on, as gift from the\ngods, this sword that is immortal.\"\n\nFor a moment Perseus lingered. \"May I not bid farewell to my mother?\"\nhe asked. \"May I not offer burnt-offerings to thee and to Hermes, and\nto my father Zeus himself?\"\n\nBut Athene said Nay, at his mother's weeping his heart might relent,\nand the offering that the Olympians desired was the head of Medusa.\n\nThen, like a fearless young golden eagle, Perseus spread out his arms,\nand the winged shoes carried him across the seas to the cold northern\nlands whither Athene had directed him.\n\nEach day his shoes took him a seven days' journey, and ever the air\nthrough which he passed grew more chill, till at length he reached the\nland of everlasting snow, where the black ice never knows the\nconquering warmth of spring, and where the white surf of the moaning\nwaves freezes solid even as it touches the shore.\n\nIt was a dark grim place to which he came, and in a gloomy cavern by\nthe sea lived the Graeae, the three grey sisters that Athene had told\nhim he must seek. Old and grey and horrible they were, with but one\ntooth amongst them, and but one eye. From hand to hand they passed\nthe eye, and muttered and shivered in the blackness and the cold.\n\n[Illustration: THEY WHIMPERED AND BEGGED OF HIM]\n\nBoldly Perseus spoke to them and asked them to guide him to the place\nwhere Medusa and her sisters the Gorgons dwelt.\n\n\"No others know where they dwell,\" he said. \"Tell me, I pray thee, the\nway that I may find them.\"\n\nBut the Grey Women were kin to the Gorgons, and hated all the children\nof men, and ugly was their evil mirth as they mocked at Perseus and\nrefused to tell him where Medusa might be found.\n\nBut Perseus grew wily in his desire not to fail, and as the eye passed\nfrom one withered, clutching hand to another, he held out his own\nstrong young palm, and in her blindness one of the three placed the\neye within it.\n\nThen the Grey Women gave a piteous cry, fierce and angry as the cry of\nold grey wolves that have been robbed of their prey, and gnashed upon\nhim with their toothless jaws.\n\nAnd Perseus said: \"Wicked ye are and cruel at heart, and blind shall\nye remain forever unless ye tell me where I may find the Gorgons. But\ntell me that, and I give back the eye.\"\n\nThen they whimpered and begged of him, and when they found that all\ntheir beseeching was in vain, at length they told him.\n\n\"Go south,\" they said, \"so far south that at length thou comest to the\nuttermost limits of the sea, to the place where the day and night\nmeet. There is the Garden of the Hesperides, and of them must thou\nask the way.\" And \"Give us back our eye!\" they wailed again most\npiteously, and Perseus gave back the eye into a greedy trembling old\nhand, and flew south like a swallow that is glad to leave the gloomy\nfrozen lands behind.\n\nTo the garden of the Hesperides he came at last, and amongst the\nmyrtles and roses and sunny fountains he came on the nymphs who there\nguard the golden fruit, and begged them to tell him whither he must\nwing his way in order to find the Gorgons. But the nymphs could not\ntell.\n\n\"We must ask Atlas,\" they said, \"the giant who sits high up on the\nmountain and with his strong shoulders keeps the heavens and earth\napart.\"\n\nAnd with the nymphs Perseus went up the mountain and asked the patient\ngiant to guide him to the place of his quest.\n\n\"Far away I can see them,\" said Atlas, \"on an island in the great\nocean. But unless thou wert to wear the helmet of Pluto himself, thy\ngoing must be in vain.\"\n\n\"What is this helmet?\" asked Perseus, \"and how can I gain it?\"\n\n\"Didst thou wear the helmet of the ruler of Dark Places, thou wouldst\nbe as invisible as a shadow in the blackness of night,\" answered\nAtlas; \"but no mortal can obtain it, for only the Immortals can brave\nthe terrors of the Shadowy Land and yet return; yet if thou wilt\npromise me one thing, the helmet shall be thine.\"\n\n\"What wouldst thou?\" asked Perseus.\n\nAnd Atlas said, \"For many a long year have I borne this earth, and I\ngrow aweary of my burden. When thou hast slain Medusa, let me gaze\nupon her face, that I may be turned into stone and suffer no more\nforever.\"\n\nAnd Perseus promised, and at the bidding of Atlas one of the nymphs\nsped down to the land of the Shades, and for seven days Perseus and\nher sisters awaited her return. Her face was as the face of a white\nlily and her eyes were dark with sadness when she came, but with her\nshe bore the helmet of Pluto, and when she and her sisters had kissed\nPerseus and bidden him a sorrowful farewell, he put on the helmet and\nvanished away.\n\nSoon the gentle light of day had gone, and he found himself in a place\nwhere clammy fog blotted out all things, and where the sea was black\nas the water of that stream that runs through the Cocytus valley. And\nin that silent land where there is \"neither night nor day, nor cloud\nnor breeze nor storm,\" he found the cave of horrors in which the\nGorgons dwelt.\n\nTwo of them, like monstrous swine, lay asleep,\n\n    \"But a third woman paced about the hall,\n    And ever turned her head from wall to wall,\n    And moaned aloud and shrieked in her despair,\n    Because the golden tresses of her hair\n    Were moved by writhing snakes from side to side,\n    That in their writhing oftentimes would glide\n    On to her breast or shuddering shoulders white;\n    Or, falling down, the hideous things would light\n    Upon her feet, and, crawling thence, would twine\n    Their slimy folds upon her ankles fine.\"\n\n        William Morris.\n\nIn the shield of Pallas Athene the picture was mirrored, and as\nPerseus gazed on it his soul grew heavy for the beauty and the horror\nof Medusa. And \"Oh that it had been her foul sisters that I must\nslay!\" he thought at first, but then--\"To slay her will be kind\nindeed,\" he said. \"Her beauty has become corruption, and all the joy\nof life for her has passed into the agony of remembrance, the torture\nof unending remorse.\"\n\nAnd when he saw her brazen claws that still were greedy and lustful to\nstrike and to slay, his face grew stern, and he paused no longer, but\nwith his sword he smote her neck with all his might and main. And to\nthe rocky floor the body of Medusa fell with brazen clang, but her\nhead he wrapped in the goatskin, while he turned his eyes away. Aloft\nthen he sprang, and flew swifter than an arrow from the bow of Diana.\n\nWith hideous outcry the two other Gorgons found the body of Medusa,\nand, like foul vultures that hunt a little song-bird, they flew in\npursuit of Perseus. For many a league they kept up the chase, and\ntheir howling was grim to hear. Across the seas they flew, and over\nthe yellow sand of the Libyan desert, and as Perseus flew before them,\nsome blood-drops fell from the severed head of Medusa, and from them\nbred the vipers that are found in the desert to this day. But bravely\ndid the winged shoes of Hermes bear Perseus on, and by nightfall the\nGorgon sisters had passed from sight, and Perseus found himself once\nmore in the garden of the Hesperides. Ere he sought the nymphs, he\nknelt by the sea to cleanse from his hands Medusa's blood, and still\ndoes the seaweed that we find on sea-beaches after a storm bear the\ncrimson stains.\n\nAnd when Perseus had received glad welcome from the fair dwellers in\nthe garden of the Hesperides, he sought Atlas, that to him he might\nfulfil his promise; and eagerly Atlas beheld him, for he was aweary of\nhis long toil.\n\nSo Perseus uncovered the face of Medusa and held it up for the Titan\nto gaze upon.\n\nAnd when Atlas looked upon her whose beauty had once been pure and\nliving as that of a flower in spring, and saw only anguish and\ncruelty, foul wickedness, and hideous despair, his heart grew like\nstone within him. To stone, too, turned his great, patient face, and\ninto stone grew his vast limbs and strong, crouching back. So did\nAtlas the Titan become Atlas the Mountain, and still his head,\nwhite-crowned with snow, and his great shoulder far up in misty\nclouds, would seem to hold apart the earth and the sky.\n\nThen Perseus again took flight, and in his flight he passed over many\nlands and suffered weariness and want, and sometimes felt his faith\ngrowing low. Yet ever he sped on, hoping ever, enduring ever. In Egypt\nhe had rest and was fed and honoured by the people of the land, who\nwere fain to keep him to be one of their gods. And in a place called\nChemmis they built a statue of him when he had gone, and for many\nhundreds of years it stood there. And the Egyptians said that ever and\nagain Perseus returned, and that when he came the Nile rose high and\nthe season was fruitful because he had blessed their land.\n\nFar down below him as he flew one day he saw something white on a\npurple rock in the sea. It seemed too large to be a snowy-plumaged\nbird, and he darted swiftly downward that he might see more clearly.\nThe spray lashed against the steep rocks of the desolate island, and\nshowered itself upon a figure that at first he took to be a statue of\nwhite marble. The figure was but that of a girl, slight and very\nyouthful, yet more fair even than any of the nymphs of the Hesperides.\nInvisible in his Helmet of Darkness, Perseus drew near, and saw that\nthe fragile white figure was shaken by shivering sobs. The waves,\nevery few moments, lapped up on her little cold white feet, and he saw\nthat heavy chains held her imprisoned to that chilly rock in the sea.\nA great anger stirred the heart of Perseus, and swiftly he took the\nhelmet from his head and stood beside her. The maid gave a cry of\nterror, but there was no evil thing in the face of Perseus. Naught but\nstrength and kindness and purity shone out of his steady eyes.\n\nThus when, very gently, he asked her what was the meaning of her cruel\nimprisonment, she told him the piteous story, as a little child tells\nthe story of its grief to the mother who comforts it. Her mother was\nqueen of Ethiopia, she said, and very, very beautiful. But when the\nqueen had boasted that no nymph who played amongst the snow-crested\nbillows of the sea was as fair as she, a terrible punishment was sent\nto her. All along the coast of her father's kingdom a loathsome\nsea-monster came to hold its sway, and hideous were its ravages. Men\nand women, children and animals, all were equally desirable food for\nits insatiate maw, and the whole land of Ethiopia lay in mourning\nbecause of it. At last her father, the king, had consulted an oracle\nthat he might find help to rid the land of the monster. And the oracle\nhad told him that only when his fair daughter, Andromeda, had been\nsacrificed to the creature that scourged the sea-coast would the\ncountry go free. Thus had she been brought there by her parents that\none life might be given for many, and that her mother's broken heart\nmight expiate her sin of vanity. Even as Andromeda spoke, the sea was\nbroken by the track of a creature that cleft the water as does the\nforerunning gale of a mighty storm. And Andromeda gave a piteous cry.\n\n\"Lo! he comes!\" she cried. \"Save me! ah, save me! I am so young to\ndie.\"\n\nThen Perseus darted high above her and for an instant hung poised like\na hawk that is about to strike. Then, like the hawk that cannot miss\nits prey, swiftly did he swoop down and smote with his sword the\ndevouring monster of the ocean. Not once, but again and again he\nsmote, until all the water round the rock was churned into slime and\nblood-stained froth, and until his loathsome combatant floated on its\nback, mere carrion for the scavengers of the sea.\n\nThen Perseus hewed off the chains that held Andromeda, and in his arms\nhe held her tenderly as he flew with her to her father's land.\n\nWho so grateful then as the king and queen of Ethiopia? and who so\nhappy as Andromeda? for Perseus, her deliverer, dearest and greatest\nhero to her in all the world, not only had given her her freedom, but\nhad given her his heart.\n\nWillingly and joyfully her father agreed to give her to Perseus for\nhis wife. No marriage feast so splendid had ever been held in Ethiopia\nin the memory of man, but as it went on, an angry man with a band of\nsullen-faced followers strode into the banqueting-hall. It was\nPhineus, he who had been betrothed to Andromeda, yet who had not dared\nto strike a blow for her rescue. Straight at Perseus they rushed, and\nfierce was the fight that then began. But of a sudden, from the\ngoatskin where it lay hid, Perseus drew forth the head of Medusa, and\nPhineus and his warriors were turned into stone.\n\nFor seven days the marriage feast lasted, but on the eighth night\nPallas Athene came to Perseus in a dream.\n\n\"Nobly and well hast thou played the hero, O son of Zeus!\" she said;\n\"but now that thy toil is near an end and thy sorrows have ended in\njoy, I come to claim the shoes of Hermes, the helmet of Pluto, the\nsword, and the shield that is mine own. Yet the head of the Gorgon\nmust thou yet guard awhile, for I would have it laid in my temple at\nSeriphos that I may wear it on my shield for evermore.\"\n\nAs she ceased to speak, Perseus awoke, and lo, the shield and helmet\nand the sword and winged shoes were gone, so that he knew that his\ndream was no false vision.\n\nThen did Perseus and Andromeda, in a red-prowed galley made by cunning\ncraftsmen from Phoenicia, sail away westward, until at length they\ncame to the blue water of the AEgean Sea, and saw rising out of the\nwaves before them the rocks of Seriphos. And when the rowers rested on\ntheir long oars, and the red-prowed ship ground on the pebbles of the\nbeach, Perseus and his bride sought Danae, the fair mother of Perseus.\n\nBlack grew the brow of the son of Danae when she told him what cruel\nthings she had suffered in his absence from the hands of Polydectes\nthe king. Straight to the palace Perseus strode, and there found the\nking and his friends at their revels. For seven years had Perseus been\naway, and now it was no longer a stripling who stood in the palace\nhall, but a man in stature and bearing like one of the gods.\nPolydectes alone knew him, and from his wine he looked up with mocking\ngaze.\n\n\"So thou hast returned? oh nameless son of a deathless god,\" he said.\n\"Thou didst boast, but methinks thy boast was an empty one!\"\n\nBut even as he spoke, the jeering smile froze on his face, and the\nfaces of those who sat with him stiffened in horror.\n\n\"O king,\" Perseus said, \"I swore that, the gods helping me, thou\nshouldst have the head of Medusa. The gods have helped me. Behold the\nGorgon's head.\"\n\nWild horror in their eyes, Polydectes and his friends gazed on the\nunspeakable thing, and as they gazed they turned into stone--a ring of\ngrey stones that still sit on a hillside of Seriphos.\n\nWith his wife and his mother, Perseus then sailed away, for he had a\ngreat longing to take Danae back to the land of her birth and to see\nif her father, Acrisius, still lived and might not now repent of his\ncruelty to her and to his grandson. But there he found that the sins\nof Acrisius had been punished and that he had been driven from his\nthrone and his own land by a usurper. Not for long did the sword of\nPerseus dwell in its scabbard, and speedily was the usurper cast\nforth, and all the men of Argos acclaimed Perseus as their glorious\nking. But Perseus would not be their king.\n\n\"I go to seek Acrisius,\" he said. \"My mother's father is your king.\"\n\nAgain his galley sailed away, and at last, up the long Euboean Sea\nthey came to the town of Larissa, where the old king now dwelt.\n\nA feast and sports were going on when they got there, and beside the\nking of the land sat Acrisius, an aged man, yet a kingly one indeed.\n\nAnd Perseus thought, \"If I, a stranger, take part in the sports and\ncarry away prizes from the men of Larissa, surely the heart of\nAcrisius must soften towards me.\"\n\nThus did he take off his helmet and cuirass, and stood unclothed\nbeside the youths of Larissa, and so godlike was he that they all\nsaid, amazed, \"Surely this stranger comes from Olympus and is one of\nthe Immortals.\"\n\nIn his hand he took a discus, and full five fathoms beyond those of\nthe others he cast it, and a great shout arose from those who watched,\nand Acrisius cried out as loudly as all the rest.\n\n\"Further still!\" they cried. \"Further still canst thou hurl! thou art\na hero indeed!\"\n\nAnd Perseus, putting forth all his strength, hurled once again, and\nthe discus flew from his hand like a bolt from the hand of Zeus. The\nwatchers held their breath and made ready for a shout of delight as\nthey saw it speed on, further than mortal man had ever hurled before.\nBut joy died in their hearts when a gust of wind caught the discus as\nit sped and hurled it against Acrisius, the king. And with a sigh like\nthe sigh that passes through the leaves of a tree as the woodman fells\nit and it crashes to the earth, so did Acrisius fall and lie prone. To\nhis side rushed Perseus, and lifted him tenderly in his arms. But the\nspirit of Acrisius had fled. And with a great cry of sorrow Perseus\ncalled to the people:\n\n\"Behold me! I am Perseus, grandson of the man I have slain! Who can\navoid the decree of the gods?\"\n\nFor many a year thereafter Perseus reigned as king, and to him and to\nhis fair wife were born four sons and three daughters. Wisely and well\nhe reigned, and when, at a good old age, Death took him and the wife\nof his heart, the gods, who had always held him dear, took him up\namong the stars to live for ever and ever. And there still, on clear\nand starry nights, we may see him holding the Gorgon's head. Near him\nare the father and mother of Andromeda--Cepheus and Cassiopeia, and\nclose beside him stands Andromeda with her white arms spread out\nacross the blue sky as in the days when she stood chained to the rock.\nAnd those who sail the watery ways look up for guidance to one whose\nvoyaging is done and whose warfare is accomplished, and take their\nbearings from the constellation of Cassiopeia.\n\n\n\n\nNIOBE\n\n    \"... Like Niobe, all tears.\"\n\n        Shakespeare.\n\n\nThe quotation is an overworked quotation, like many another of those\nfrom _Hamlet_; yet, have half of those whose lips utter it more than\nthe vaguest acquaintance with the story of Niobe and the cause of her\ntears? The noble group--attributed to Praxiteles--of Niobe and her\nlast remaining child, in the Uffizi Palace at Florence, has been so\noften reproduced that it also has helped to make the anguished figure\nof the Theban queen a familiar one in pictorial tragedy, so that as\nlong as the works of those Titans of art, Shakespeare and Praxiteles,\nendure, no other monument is wanted for the memory of Niobe.\n\nLike many of the tales of mythology, her tragedy is a story of\nvengeance wreaked upon a mortal by an angry god. She was the daughter\nof Tantalus, and her husband was Amphion, King of Thebes, himself a\nson of Zeus. To her were born seven fair daughters and seven beautiful\nand gallant sons, and it was not because of her own beauty, nor her\nhusband's fame, nor their proud descent and the greatness of their\nkingdom, that the Queen of Thebes was arrogant in her pride. Very sure\nshe was that no woman had ever borne children like her own children,\nwhose peers were not to be found on earth nor in heaven. Even in our\nown day there are mortal mothers who feel as Niobe felt.\n\nBut amongst the Immortals there was also a mother with children whom\nshe counted as peerless. Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana, was\nmagnificently certain that in all time, nor in eternity to come, could\nthere be a son and daughter so perfect in beauty, in wisdom, and in\npower as the two that were her own. Loudly did she proclaim her proud\nbelief, and when Niobe heard it she laughed in scorn.\n\n\"The goddess has a son and a daughter,\" she said. \"Beautiful and wise\nand powerful they may be, but I have borne seven daughters and seven\nsons, and each son is more than the peer of Apollo, each daughter more\nthan the equal of Diana, the moon-goddess!\"\n\nAnd to her boastful words Latona gave ear, and anger began to grow in\nher heart.\n\nEach year the people of Thebes were wont to hold a great festival in\nhonour of Latona and her son and daughter, and it was an evil day for\nNiobe when she came upon the adoring crowd that, laurel-crowned, bore\nfrankincense to lay before the altars of the gods whose glories they\nhad assembled together to celebrate.\n\n\"Oh foolish ones!\" she said, and her voice was full of scorn, \"am I\nnot greater than Latona? I am the daughter of a goddess, my husband,\nthe king, the son of a god. Am I not fair? am I not queenly as Latona\nherself? And, of a surety, I am richer by far than the goddess who has\nbut one daughter and one son. Look on my seven noble sons! behold the\nbeauty of my seven daughters, and see if they in beauty and all else\ndo not equal the dwellers in Olympus!\"\n\nAnd when the people looked, and shouted aloud, for in truth Niobe and\nher children were like unto gods, their queen said, \"Do not waste thy\nworship, my people. Rather make the prayers to thy king and to me and\nto my children who buttress us round and make our strength so great,\nthat fearlessly we can despise the gods.\"\n\nIn her home on the Cynthian mountain top, Latona heard the arrogant\nwords of the queen of Thebes, and even as a gust of wind blows\nsmouldering ashes into a consuming fire, her growing anger flamed into\nrage. She called Apollo and Diana to her, and commanded them to avenge\nthe blasphemous insult which had been given to them and to their\nmother. And the twin gods listened with burning hearts.\n\n\"Truly shalt thou be avenged!\" cried Apollo. \"The shameless one shall\nlearn that not unscathed goes she who profanes the honour of the\nmother of the deathless gods!\"\n\nAnd with their silver bows in their hands, Apollo, the smiter from\nafar, and Diana, the virgin huntress, hasted to Thebes. There they\nfound all the noble youths of the kingdom pursuing their sports. Some\nrode, some were having chariot-races, and excelling in all things were\nthe seven sons of Niobe.\n\nApollo lost no time. A shaft from his quiver flew, as flies a bolt\nfrom the hand of Zeus, and the first-born of Niobe fell, like a young\npine broken by the wind, on the floor of his winning chariot. His\nbrother, who followed him, went on the heels of his comrade swiftly\ndown to the Shades. Two of the other sons of Niobe were wrestling\ntogether, their great muscles moving under the skin of white satin\nthat covered their perfect bodies, and as they gripped each other, yet\nanother shaft was driven from the bow of Apollo, and both lads fell,\njoined by one arrow, on the earth, and there breathed their lives\naway.\n\nTheir elder brother ran to their aid, and to him, too, came death,\nswift and sure. The two youngest, even as they cried for mercy to an\nunknown god, were hurried after them by the unerring arrows of Apollo.\nThe cries of those who watched this terrible slaying were not long in\nbringing Niobe to the place where her sons lay dead. Yet, even then,\nher pride was unconquered, and she defied the gods, and Latona, to\nwhose jealousy she ascribed the fate of her \"seven spears.\"\n\n\"Not yet hast thou conquered, Latona!\" she cried. \"My seven sons lie\ndead, yet to me still remain the seven perfect lovelinesses that I\nhave borne. Try to match them, if thou canst, with the beauty of thy\ntwo! Still am I richer than thou, O cruel and envious mother of one\ndaughter and one son!\"\n\nBut even as she spoke, Diana had drawn her bow, and as the scythe of a\nmower quickly cuts down, one after the other, the tall white blossoms\nin the meadow, so did her arrows slay the daughters of Niobe. When one\nonly remained, the pride of Niobe was broken. With her arms round the\nlittle slender frame of her golden-haired youngest born, she looked up\nto heaven, and cried upon all the gods for mercy.\n\n\"She is so little!\" she wailed. \"So young--so dear! Ah, spare me\n_one_,\" she said, \"only one out of so many!\"\n\nBut the gods laughed. Like a harsh note of music sounded the twang of\nDiana's bow. Pierced by a silver arrow, the little girl lay dead. The\ndignity of Latona was avenged.\n\nOverwhelmed by despair, King Amphion killed himself, and Niobe was\nleft alone to gaze on the ruin around her. For nine days she sat, a\nGreek Rachel, weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted,\nbecause they were not. On the tenth day, the sight was too much even\nfor the superhuman hearts of the gods to endure. They turned the\nbodies into stone and themselves buried them. And when they looked on\nthe face of Niobe and saw on it a bleeding anguish that no human hand\ncould stay nor the word of any god comfort, the gods were merciful.\nHer grief was immortalised, for Niobe, at their will, became a stone,\nand was carried by a wailing tempest to the summit of Mount Sipylus,\nin Lydia, where a spring of Argos bore her name. Yet although a rock\nwas Niobe, from her blind eyes of stone the tears still flowed, a\nclear stream of running water, symbol of a mother's anguish and\nnever-ending grief.\n\n\n\n\nHYACINTHUS\n\n                ... \"The sad death\n    Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath\n    Of Zephyr slew him--Zephyr penitent\n    Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,\n    Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.\"\n\n        Keats.\n\n\n\"Whom the gods love die young\"--truly it would seem so, as we read the\nold tales of men and of women beloved of the gods. To those men who\nwere deemed worthy of being companions of the gods, seemingly no good\nfortune came. Yet, after all, if even in a brief span of life they had\ntasted god-given happiness, was their fate one to be pitied? Rather\nlet us keep our tears for those who, in a colourless grey world, have\nseen the dull days go past laden with trifling duties, unnecessary\ncares and ever-narrowing ideals, and have reached old age and the\ngrave--no narrower than their lives--without ever having known a\nfulness of happiness, such as the Olympians knew, or ever having dared\nto reach upwards and to hold fellowship with the Immortals.\n\nHyacinthus was a Spartan youth, son of Clio, one of the Muses, and of\nthe mortal with whom she had mated, and from mother, or father, or\nfrom the gods themselves, he had received the gift of beauty. It\nchanced one day that as Apollo drove his chariot on its\nall-conquering round, he saw the boy. Hyacinthus was as fair to look\nupon as the fairest of women, yet he was not only full of grace, but\nwas muscular, and strong as a straight young pine on Mount Olympus\nthat fears not the blind rage of the North Wind nor the angry tempests\nof the South.\n\nWhen Apollo had spoken with him he found that the face of Hyacinthus\ndid not belie the heart within him, and gladly the god felt that at\nlast he had found the perfect companion, the ever courageous and\njoyous young mate, whose mood was always ready to meet his own. Did\nApollo desire to hunt, with merry shout Hyacinthus called the hounds.\nDid the great god deign to fish, Hyacinthus was ready to fetch the\nnets and to throw himself, whole-souled, into the great affair of\nchasing and of landing the silvery fishes. When Apollo wished to climb\nthe mountains, to heights so lonely that not even the moving of an\neagle's wing broke the everlasting stillness, Hyacinthus--his strong\nlimbs too perfect for the chisel of any sculptor worthily to\nreproduce--was ready and eager for the climb. And when, on the\nmountain top, Apollo gazed in silence over illimitable space, and\nwatched the silver car of his sister Diana rising slowly into the deep\nblue of the sky, silvering land and water as she passed, it was never\nHyacinthus who was the first to speak--with words to break the spell\nof Nature's perfect beauty, shared in perfect companionship. There\nwere times, too, when Apollo would play his lyre, and when naught but\nthe music of his own making could fulfil his longing. And when those\ntimes came, Hyacinthus would lie at the feet of his friend--of the\nfriend who was a god--and would listen, with eyes of rapturous joy, to\nthe music that his master made. A very perfect friend was this friend\nof the sun-god.\n\nNor was it Apollo alone who desired the friendship of Hyacinthus.\nZephyrus, god of the South Wind, had known him before Apollo crossed\nhis path and had eagerly desired him for a friend. But who could stand\nagainst Apollo? Sulkily Zephyrus marked their ever-ripening\nfriendship, and in his heart jealousy grew into hatred, and hatred\nwhispered to him of revenge. Hyacinthus excelled at all sports, and\nwhen he played quoits it was sheer joy for Apollo, who loved all\nthings beautiful, to watch him as he stood to throw the disc, his taut\nmuscles making him look like Hermes, ready to spurn the cumbering\nearth from off his feet. Further even than the god, his friend, could\nHyacinthus throw, and always his merry laugh when he succeeded made\nthe god feel that nor man nor god could ever grow old. And so there\ncame that day, fore-ordained by the Fates, when Apollo and Hyacinthus\nplayed a match together. Hyacinthus made a valiant throw, and Apollo\ntook his place, and cast the discus high and far. Hyacinthus ran\nforward eager to measure the distance, shouting with excitement over a\nthrow that had indeed been worthy of a god. Thus did Zephyrus gain his\nopportunity. Swiftly through the tree-tops ran the murmuring South\nWind, and smote the discus of Apollo with a cruel hand. Against the\nforehead of Hyacinthus it dashed, smiting the locks that lay upon it,\ncrashing through skin and flesh and bone, felling him to the earth.\nApollo ran towards him and raised him in his arms. But the head of\nHyacinthus fell over on the god's shoulder, like the head of a lily\nwhose stem is broken. The red blood gushed to the ground, an\nunquenchable stream, and darkness fell on the eyes of Hyacinthus, and,\nwith the flow of his life's blood, his gallant young soul passed away.\n\n\"Would that I could die for thee, Hyacinthus!\" cried the god, his\ngod's heart near breaking. \"I have robbed thee of thy youth. Thine is\nthe suffering, mine the crime. I shall sing thee ever--oh perfect\nfriend! And evermore shalt thou live as a flower that will speak to\nthe hearts of men of spring, of everlasting youth--of life that lives\nforever.\"\n\nAs he spoke, there sprang from the blood-drops at his feet a cluster\nof flowers, blue as the sky in spring, yet hanging their heads as if\nin sorrow.[4]\n\n[Illustration: DARKNESS FELL ON THE EYES OF HYACINTHUS]\n\nAnd still, when winter is ended, and the song of birds tell us of the\npromise of spring, if we go to the woods, we find traces of the vow of\nthe sun-god. The trees are budding in buds of rosy hue, the willow\nbranches are decked with silvery catkins powdered with gold. The\nlarches, like slender dryads, wear a feathery garb of tender green,\nand under the trees of the woods the primroses look up, like fallen\nstars. Along the woodland path we go, treading on fragrant\npine-needles and on the beech leaves of last year that have not yet\nlost their radiant amber. And, at a turn of the way, the sun-god\nsuddenly shines through the great dark branches of the giants of the\nforest, and before us lies a patch of exquisite blue, as though a god\nhad robbed the sky and torn from it a precious fragment that seems\nalive and moving, between the sun and the shadow.\n\nAnd, as we look, the sun caresses it, and the South Wind gently moves\nthe little bell-shaped flowers of the wild hyacinth as it softly\nsweeps across them. So does Hyacinthus live on; so do Apollo and\nZephyrus still love and mourn their friend.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[4] Legend says that on the petals of the hyacinth Apollo transcribed\nthe letters \"Ai,\"--\"Alas!\"\n\n\n\n\nKING MIDAS OF THE GOLDEN TOUCH\n\n\nIn the plays of Shakespeare we have three distinct divisions--three\nseparate volumes. One deals with Tragedy, another with Comedy, a third\nwith History; and a mistake made by the young in their aspect of life\nis that they do the same thing, and keep tragedy and comedy severely\napart, relegating them to separate volumes that, so they think, have\nnothing to do with each other. But those who have passed many\nmilestones on the road know that \"_History_\" is the only right label\nfor the Book of Life's many parts, and that the actors in the great\nplay are in truth tragic comedians.\n\nThis is the story of Midas, one of the chief tragic comedians of\nmythology.\n\nOnce upon a time the kingdom of Phrygia lacked a king, and in much\nperplexity, the people sought help from an oracle. The answer was very\ndefinite:\n\n\"The first man who enters your city riding in a car shall be your\nking.\"\n\nThat day there came slowly jogging into the city in their heavy,\nwooden-wheeled wain, the peasant Gordias and his wife and son, whose\ndestination was the marketplace, and whose business was to sell the\nproduce of their little farm and vineyard--fowls, a goat or two, and\na couple of skinsful of strong, purple-red wine. An eager crowd\nawaited their entry, and a loud shout of welcome greeted them. And\ntheir eyes grew round and their mouths fell open in amaze when they\nwere hailed as King and Queen and Prince of Phrygia.\n\nThe gods had indeed bestowed upon Gordias, the low-born peasant, a\nsurprising gift, but he showed his gratitude by dedicating his wagon\nto the deity of the oracle and tying it up in its place with the\nwiliest knot that his simple wisdom knew, pulled as tight as his\nbrawny arms and strong rough hands could pull. Nor could anyone untie\nthe famous Gordian knot, and therefore become, as the oracle promised,\nlord of all Asia, until centuries had passed, and Alexander the Great\ncame to Phrygia and sliced through the knot with his all-conquering\nsword.\n\nIn time Midas, the son of Gordias, came to inherit the throne and\ncrown of Phrygia. Like many another not born and bred to the purple,\nhis honours sat heavily upon him. From the day that his father's wain\nhad entered the city amidst the acclamations of the people, he had\nlearned the value of power, and therefore, from his boyhood onward,\npower, always more power, was what he coveted. Also his peasant father\nhad taught him that gold could buy power, and so Midas ever longed for\nmore gold, that could buy him a place in the world that no descendant\nof a long race of kings should be able to contest. And from Olympus\nthe gods looked down and smiled, and vowed that Midas should have the\nchance of realising his heart's desire.\n\nTherefore one day when he and his court were sitting in the solemn\nstate that Midas required, there rode into their midst, tipsily\nswaying on the back of a gentle full-fed old grey ass, ivy-crowned,\njovial and foolish, the satyr Silenus, guardian of the young god\nBacchus.\n\nWith all the deference due to the friend of a god Midas treated this\ndisreputable old pedagogue, and for ten days and nights on end he\nfeasted him royally. On the eleventh day Bacchus came in search of his\npreceptor, and in deep gratitude bade Midas demand of him what he\nwould, because he had done Silenus honour when to dishonour him lay in\nhis power.\n\nNot even for a moment did Midas ponder.\n\n\"I would have gold,\" he said hastily--\"much gold. I would have that\ntouch by which all common and valueless things become golden\ntreasures.\"\n\nAnd Bacchus, knowing that here spoke the son of peasants who many\ntimes had gone empty to bed after a day of toilful striving on the\nrocky uplands of Phrygia, looked a little sadly in the eager face of\nMidas, and answered: \"Be it as thou wilt. Thine shall be the golden\ntouch.\"\n\nThen Bacchus and Silenus went away, a rout of singing revellers at\ntheir heels, and Midas quickly put to proof the words of Bacchus.\n\nAn olive tree grew near where he stood, and from it he picked a little\ntwig decked with leaves of softest grey, and lo, it grew heavy as he\nheld it, and glittered like a piece of his crown. He stooped to touch\nthe green turf on which some fragrant violets grew, and turf grew into\ncloth of gold, and violets lost their fragrance and became hard,\nsolid, golden things. He touched an apple whose cheek grew rosy in the\nsun, and at once it became like the golden fruit in the Garden of the\nHesperides. The stone pillars of his palace as he brushed past them on\nentering, blazed like a sunset sky. The gods had not deceived him.\nMidas had the Golden Touch. Joyously he strode into the palace and\ncommanded a feast to be prepared--a feast worthy of an occasion so\nmagnificent.\n\nBut when Midas, with the healthy appetite of the peasant-born, would\nhave eaten largely of the savoury food that his cooks prepared, he\nfound that his teeth only touched roast kid to turn it into a slab of\ngold, that garlic lost its flavour and became gritty as he chewed,\nthat rice turned into golden grains, and curdled milk became a dower\nfit for a princess, entirely unnegotiable for the digestion of man.\nBaffled and miserable, Midas seized his cup of wine, but the red wine\nhad become one with the golden vessel that held it; nor could he\nquench his thirst, for even the limpid water from the fountain was\nmelted gold when it touched his dry lips. Only for a very few days was\nMidas able to bear the affliction of his wealth. There was nothing now\nfor him to live for. He could buy the whole earth if he pleased, but\neven children shrank in terror from his touch, and hungry and thirsty\nand sick at heart he wearily dragged along his weighty robes of gold.\nGold was power, he knew well, yet of what worth was gold while he\nstarved? Gold could not buy him life and health and happiness.\n\nIn despair, at length he cried to the god who had given him the gift\nthat he hated.\n\n\"Save me, O Bacchus!\" he said. \"A witless one am I, and the folly of\nmy desire has been my undoing. Take away from me the accursed Golden\nTouch, and faithfully and well shall I serve thee forever.\"\n\nThen Bacchus, very pitiful for him, told Midas to go to Sardis, the\nchief city of his worshippers, and to trace to its source the river\nupon which it was built. And in that pool, when he found it, he was to\nplunge his head, and so he would, for evermore, be freed from the\nGolden Touch.\n\nIt was a long journey that Midas then took, and a weary and a starving\nman was he when at length he reached the spring where the river\nPactolus had its source. He crawled forward, and timidly plunged in\nhis head and shoulders. Almost he expected to feel the harsh grit of\ngolden water, but instead there was the joy he had known as a peasant\nboy when he laved his face and drank at a cool spring when his day's\ntoil was ended. And when he raised his face from the pool, he knew\nthat his hateful power had passed from him, but under the water he saw\ngrains of gold glittering in the sand, and from that time forth the\nriver Pactolus was noted for its gold.\n\nOne lesson the peasant king had learnt by paying in suffering for a\nmistake, but there was yet more suffering in store for the tragic\ncomedian.\n\nHe had now no wish for golden riches, nor even for power. He wished to\nlead the simple life and to listen to the pipings of Pan along with\nthe goat-herds on the mountains or the wild creatures in the woods.\nThus it befell that he was present one day at a contest between Pan\nand Apollo himself. It was a day of merry-making for nymphs and fauns\nand dryads, and all those who lived in the lonely solitudes of Phrygia\ncame to listen to the music of the god who ruled them. For as Pan sat\nin the shade of a forest one night and piped on his reeds until the\nvery shadows danced, and the water of the stream by which he sat leapt\nhigh over the mossy stones it passed, and laughed aloud in its glee,\nthe god had so gloried in his own power that he cried:\n\n\"Who speaks of Apollo and his lyre? Some of the gods may be well\npleased with his music, and mayhap a bloodless man or two. But my\nmusic strikes to the heart of the earth itself. It stirs with rapture\nthe very sap of the trees, and awakes to life and joy the innermost\nsoul of all things mortal.\"\n\nApollo heard his boast, and heard it angrily.\n\n\"Oh, thou whose soul is the soul of the untilled ground!\" he said,\n\"wouldst thou place thy music, that is like the wind in the reeds,\nbeside my music, which is as the music of the spheres?\"\n\nAnd Pan, splashing with his goat's feet amongst the water-lilies of\nthe stream on the bank of which he sat, laughed loudly and cried:\n\n\"Yea, would I, Apollo! Willingly would I play thee a match--thou on\nthy golden lyre--I on my reeds from the river.\"\n\nThus did it come to pass that Apollo and Pan matched against each\nother their music, and King Midas was one of the judges.\n\nFirst of all Pan took his fragile reeds, and as he played, the leaves\non the trees shivered, and the sleeping lilies raised their heads, and\nthe birds ceased their song to listen and then flew straight to their\nmates. And all the beauty of the world grew more beautiful, and all\nits terror grew yet more grim, and still Pan piped on, and laughed to\nsee the nymphs and the fauns first dance in joyousness and then\ntremble in fear, and the buds to blossom, and the stags to bellow in\ntheir lordship of the hills. When he ceased, it was as though a\ntensely-drawn string had broken, and all the earth lay breathless and\nmute. And Pan turned proudly to the golden-haired god who had listened\nas he had spoken through the hearts of reeds to the hearts of men.\n\n\"Canst, then, make music like unto my music, Apollo?\" he said.\n\nThen Apollo, his purple robes barely hiding the perfection of his\nlimbs, a wreath of laurel crowning his yellow curls, looked down at\nPan from his godlike height and smiled in silence. For a moment his\nhand silently played over the golden strings of his lyre, and then his\nfinger-tips gently touched them. And every creature there who had a\nsoul, felt that that soul had wings, and the wings sped them straight\nto Olympus. Far away from all earth-bound creatures they flew, and\ndwelt in magnificent serenity amongst the Immortals. No longer was\nthere strife, or any dispeace. No more was there fierce warring\nbetween the actual and the unknown. The green fields and thick woods\nhad faded into nothingness, and their creatures, and the fair nymphs\nand dryads, and the wild fauns and centaurs longed and fought no more,\nand man had ceased to desire the impossible. Throbbing nature and\npassionately desiring life faded into dust before the melody that\nApollo called forth, and when his strings had ceased to quiver and\nonly the faintly remembered echo of his music remained, it was as\nthough the earth had passed away and all things had become new.\n\nFor the space of many seconds all was silence.\n\nThen, in low voice, Apollo asked:\n\n\"Ye who listen--who is the victor?\"\n\nAnd earth and sea and sky, and all the creatures of earth and sky, and\nof the deep, replied as one:\n\n\"The victory is thine, Divine Apollo.\"\n\nYet was there one dissentient voice.\n\nMidas, sorely puzzled, utterly un-understanding, was relieved when the\nmusic of Apollo ceased. \"If only Pan would play again,\" he murmured to\nhimself. \"I wish to live, and Pan's music gives me life. I love the\nwoolly vine-buds and the fragrant pine-leaves, and the scent of the\nviolets in the spring. The smell of the fresh-ploughed earth is dear\nto me, the breath of the kine that have grazed in the meadows of wild\nparsley and of asphodel. I want to drink red wine and to eat and love\nand fight and work and be joyous and sad, fierce and strong, and very\nweary, and to sleep the dead sleep of men who live only as weak\nmortals do.\"\n\nTherefore he raised his voice, and called very loud: \"Pan's music is\nsweeter and truer and greater than the music of Apollo. Pan is the\nvictor, and I, King Midas, give him the victor's crown!\"\n\nWith scorn ineffable the sun-god turned upon Midas, his peasant's face\ntransfigured by his proud decision. For a little he gazed at him in\nsilence, and his look might have turned a sunbeam to an icicle.\n\nThen he spoke:\n\n\"The ears of an ass have heard my music,\" he said. \"Henceforth shall\nMidas have ass's ears.\"\n\nAnd when Midas, in terror, clapped his hands to his crisp black hair,\nhe found growing far beyond it, the long, pointed ears of an ass.\nPerhaps what hurt him most, as he fled away, was the shout of\nmerriment that came from Pan. And fauns and nymphs and satyrs echoed\nthat shout most joyously.\n\nWillingly would he have hidden in the woods, but there he found no\nhiding-place. The trees and shrubs and flowering things seemed to\nshake in cruel mockery. Back to his court he went and sent for the\ncourt hairdresser, that he might bribe him to devise a covering for\nthese long, peaked, hairy symbols of his folly. Gladly the hairdresser\naccepted many and many oboli, many and many golden gifts, and all\nPhrygia wondered, while it copied, the strange headdress of the king.\n\nBut although much gold had bought his silence, the court barber was\nunquiet of heart. All day and all through the night he was tormented\nby his weighty secret. And then, at length, silence was to him a\ntorture too great to be borne; he sought a lonely place, there dug a\ndeep hole, and, kneeling by it, softly whispered to the damp earth:\n\"King Midas has ass's ears.\"\n\nGreatly relieved, he hastened home, and was well content until, on the\nspot where his secret lay buried, rushes grew up. And when the winds\nblew through them, the rushes whispered for all those who passed by to\nhear: \"King Midas has ass's ears! King Midas has ass's ears!\" Those\nwho listen very carefully to what the green rushes in marshy places\nwhisper as the wind passes through them, may hear the same thing to\nthis day. And those who hear the whisper of the rushes may, perhaps,\ngive a pitying thought to Midas--the tragic comedian of mythology.\n\n\n\n\nCEYX AND HALCYONE\n\n    \"St. Martin's summer, halcyon days.\"\n\n        _King Henry VI_, i. 2, 131.\n\n\n\"Halcyon days\"--how often is the expression made use of, how seldom do\nits users realise from whence they have borrowed it.\n\n\"These were halcyon days,\" says the old man, and his memory wanders\nback to a time when for him\n\n      \"All the world is young, lad,\n    And all the trees are green;\n    And every goose a swan, lad,\n    And every lass a queen.\"\n\nYet the story of Halcyone is one best to be understood by the\nheavy-hearted woman who wanders along the bleak sea-beach and strains\nher weary eyes for the brown sail of the fishing-boat that will never\nmore return.\n\nOver the kingdom of Thessaly, in the days of long ago, there reigned a\nking whose name was Ceyx, son of Hesperus, the Day Star, and almost as\nradiant in grace and beauty as was his father. His wife was the fair\nHalcyone, daughter of AEolus, ruler of the winds, and most perfectly\ndid this king and queen love one another. Their happiness was unmarred\nuntil there came a day when Ceyx had to mourn for the loss of a\nbrother. Following close on the heels of this disaster came direful\nprodigies which led Ceyx to fear that in some way he must have\nincurred the hostility of the gods. To him there was no way in which\nto discover wherein lay his fault, and to make atonement for it, but\nby going to consult the oracle of Apollo at Claros, in Ionia. When he\ntold Halcyone what he must do, she knew well that she must not try to\nturn him from his solemn purpose, yet there hung over her heart a\nblack shadow of fear and of evil foreboding that no loving words of\nassurance could drive away. Most piteously she begged him to take her\nwith him, but the king knew too well the dangers of the treacherous\nAEgean Sea to risk on it the life of the woman that he loved so well.\n\n\"I promise,\" he said, \"by the rays of my Father the Day Star, that if\nfate permits I will return before the moon shall have twice rounded\nher orb.\"\n\nDown by the shore the sailors of King Ceyx awaited his coming, and\nwhen with passionately tender love he and Halcyone had taken farewell\nof each other, the rowers sat down on the benches and dipped their\nlong oars into the water.\n\nWith rhythmic swing they drove the great ship over the grey sea, while\nCeyx stood on deck and gazed back at his wife until his eyes could no\nlonger distinguish her from the rocks on the shore, nor could she any\nlonger see the white sails of the ship as it crested the restless\nwaves. Heavier still was her heart when she turned away from the\nshore, and yet more heavy it grew as the day wore on and dark night\ndescended. For the air was full of the clamorous wailings of the\nfierce winds whose joy it is to lash the waves into rage and to strew\nwith dead men and broken timber the angry, surf-beaten shore.\n\n\"My King,\" she sighed to herself. \"My King! my Own!\" And through the\nweary hours she prayed to the gods to bring him safely back to her,\nand many times she offered fragrant incense to Juno, protectress of\nwomen, that she might have pity on a woman whose husband and true\nlover was out in the storm, a plaything for ruthless winds and waves.\n\nA helpless plaything was the king of Thessaly. Long ere the dim\nevening light had made of the shore of his own land a faint, grey\nline, the white-maned horses of Poseidon, king of the seas, began to\nrear their heads, and as night fell, a black curtain, blotting out\nevery landmark, and all home-like things, the East Wind rushed across\nthe AEgean Sea, smiting the sea-horses into madness, seizing the sails\nwith cruel grasp and casting them in tatters before it, snapping the\nmast as though it were but a dry reed by the river. Before so mighty a\ntempest no oars could be of any avail, and for a little time only the\nwinds and waves gambolled like a half-sated wolf-pack over their\nhelpless prey. With hungry roar the great weight of black water stove\nin the deck and swept the sailors out of the ship to choke them in its\nicy depths; and ever it would lift the wounded thing high up on its\nfoaming white crests, as though to toss it to the dark sky, and ever\nagain would suck it down into the blackness, while the shrieking winds\ndrove it onward with howling taunts and mocking laughter. While life\nstayed in him, Ceyx thought only of Halcyone. He had no fear, only\nthe fear of the grief his death must bring to her who loved him as he\nloved her, his peerless queen, his Halcyone. His prayers to the gods\nwere prayers for her. For himself he asked one thing only--that the\nwaves might bear his body to her sight, so that her gentle hands might\nlay him in his tomb. With shout of triumph that they had slain a king,\nwinds and waves seized him even as he prayed, and the Day Star that\nwas hidden behind the black pall of the sky knew that his son, a brave\nking and a faithful lover, had gone down to the Shades.\n\nWhen Dawn, the rosy-fingered, had come to Thessaly, Halcyone,\nwhite-faced and tired-eyed, anxiously watched the sea, that still was\ntossing in half-savage mood. Eagerly she gazed at the place where last\nthe white sail had been seen. Was it not possible that Ceyx, having\nweathered the gale, might for the present have foregone his voyage to\nIonia, and was returning to her to bring peace to her heart? But the\nsea-beach was strewn with wrack and the winds still blew bits of\ntattered surf along the shore, and for her there was only the heavy\nlabour of waiting, of waiting and of watching for the ship that never\ncame. The incense from her altars blew out, in heavy sweetness, to\nmeet the bitter-sweet tang of the seaweed that was carried in by the\ntide, for Halcyone prayed on, fearful, yet hoping that her prayers\nmight still keep safe her man--her king--her lover. She busied herself\nin laying out the garments he would wear on his return, and in\nchoosing the clothes in which she might be fairest in his eyes. This\nrobe, as blue as the sky in spring--silver-bordered, as the sea in\nkind mood is bordered with a feathery silver fringe. She could recall\njust how Ceyx looked when first he saw her wear it. She could hear his\nvery tones as he told her that of all queens she was the peeress, of\nall women the most beautiful, of all wives the most dear. Almost she\nforgot the horrors of the night, so certain did it seem that his dear\nvoice must soon again tell her the words that have been love's litany\nsince ever time began.\n\nIn the ears of Juno those petitions for him whose dead body was even\nthen being tossed hither and thither by the restless waves, his\nmurderers, came at last to be more than even she could bear. She gave\ncommand to her handmaiden Iris to go to the palace of Somnus, god of\nSleep and brother of Death, and to bid him send to Halcyone a vision,\nin the form of Ceyx, to tell her that all her weary waiting was in\nvain.\n\nIn a valley among the black Cimmerian mountains the death-god Somnus\nhad his abode. In her rainbow-hued robes, Iris darted through the sky\nat her mistress's bidding, tingeing, as she sped through them, the\nclouds that she passed. It was a silent valley that she reached at\nlast. Here the sun never came, nor was there ever any sound to break\nthe silence. From the ground the noiseless grey clouds, whose work it\nis to hide the sun and moon, rose softly and rolled away up to the\nmountain tops and down to the lowest valleys, to work the will of the\ngods. All around the cave lurked the long dark shadows that bring fear\nto the heart of children, and that, at nightfall, hasten the steps of\nthe timid wayfarer. No noise was there, but from far down the valley\nthere came a murmur so faint and so infinitely soothing that it was\nless a sound than of a lullaby remembered in dreams. For past the\nvalley of Sleep flow the waters of Lethe, the river of Forgetfulness.\nClose up to the door of the cave where dwelt the twin brothers, Sleep\nand Death, blood-red poppies grew, and at the door itself stood\nshadowy forms, their fingers on their lips, enjoining silence on all\nthose who would enter in, amaranth-crowned, and softly waving sheaves\nof poppies that bring dreams from which there is no awakening. There\nwas there no gate with hinges to creak or bars to clang, and into the\nstilly darkness Iris walked unhindered. From outer cave to inner cave\nshe went, and each cave she left behind was less dark than the one\nthat she entered. In the innermost room of all, on an ebony couch\ndraped with sable curtains, the god of sleep lay drowsing. His\ngarments were black, strewn with golden stars. A wreath of half-opened\npoppies crowned his sleepy head, and he leaned on the strong shoulder\nof Morpheus, his favourite son. All round his bed hovered pleasant\ndreams, gently stooping over him to whisper their messages, like a\nfield of wheat swayed by the breeze, or willows that bow their silver\nheads and murmur to each other the secrets that no one ever knows.\nBrushing the idle dreams aside, as a ray of sunshine brushes away the\ngrey wisps of mist that hang to the hillside, Iris walked up to the\ncouch where Somnus lay. The light from her rainbow-hued robe lit up\nthe darkness of the cave, yet Somnus lazily only half-opened his\neyes, moved his head so that it rested more easily, and in a sleepy\nvoice asked of her what might be her errand. \"Somnus,\" she said,\n\"gentlest of gods, tranquilliser of minds and soother of careworn\nhearts, Juno sends you her commands that you despatch a dream to\nHalcyone in the city of Trachine, representing her lost husband and\nall the events of the wreck.\"\n\nHer message delivered, Iris hastened away, for it seemed to her that\nalready her eyelids grew heavy, and that there were creeping upon her\nlimbs, throwing silver dust in her eyes, lulling into peaceful slumber\nher mind, those sprites born of the blood-red poppies that bring to\nweary mortals rest and sweet forgetfulness.\n\nOnly rousing himself sufficiently to give his orders, Somnus entrusted\nto Morpheus the task imposed upon him by Juno, and then, with a yawn,\nturned over on his downy pillow, and gave himself up to exquisite\nslumber.\n\nWhen he had winged his way to Trachine, Morpheus took upon himself the\nform of Ceyx and sought the room where Halcyone slept. She had watched\nthe far horizon many hours that day. For many an hour had she vainly\nburned incense to the gods. Tired in heart and soul, in body and in\nmind, she laid herself down on her couch at last, hoping for the gift\nof sleep. Not long had she slept, in the dead-still sleep that\nweariness and a stricken heart bring with them, when Morpheus came and\nstood by her side. He was only a dream, yet his face was the face of\nCeyx. Not the radiant, beautiful son of the Day Star was the Ceyx who\nstood by her now and gazed on her with piteous, pitying dead eyes.\nHis clothing dripped sea-water; in his hair was tangled the weed of\nthe sea, uprooted by the storm. Pale, pale was his face, and his white\nhands gripped the stones and sand that had failed him in his dying\nagony.\n\nHalcyone whimpered in her sleep as she looked on him, and Morpheus\nstooped over her and spoke the words that he had been told to say.\n\n\"I am thy husband, Ceyx, Halcyone. No more do prayers and the\nblue-curling smoke of incense avail me. Dead am I, slain by the storm\nand the waves. On my dead, white face the skies look down and the\nrestless sea tosses my chill body that still seeks thee, seeking a\nhaven in thy dear arms, seeking rest on thy warm, loving heart.\"\n\nWith a cry Halcyone started up, but Morpheus had fled, and there were\nno wet footprints nor drops of sea-water on the floor, marking, as she\nhad hoped, the way that her lord had taken. Not again did Sleep visit\nher that night.\n\nA grey, cold morning dawned and found her on the seashore. As ever,\nher eyes sought the far horizon, but no white sail, a messenger of\nhope, was there to greet her. Yet surely she saw something--a black\nspeck, like a ship driven on by the long oars of mariners who knew\nwell the path to home through the watery ways. From far away in the\ngrey it hasted towards her, and then there came to Halcyone the\nknowledge that no ship was this thing, but a lifeless body, swept\nonwards by the hurrying waves. Nearer and nearer it came, until at\nlength she could recognise the form of this flotsam and jetsam of the\nsea. With heart that broke as she uttered the words, she stretched\nout her arms and cried aloud: \"O Ceyx! my Beloved! is it thus that\nthou returnest to me?\"\n\nTo break the fierce assaults of sea and of storm there had been built\nout from the shore a mole, and on to this barrier leapt the distraught\nHalcyone. She ran along it, and when the dead, white body of the man\nshe loved was still out of reach, she prayed her last prayer--a\nwordless prayer of anguish to the gods.\n\n\"Only let me get near him,\" she breathed. \"Grant only that I nestle\nclose against his dear breast. Let me show him that, living or dead, I\nam his, and he mine forever.\"\n\nAnd to Halcyone a great miracle was then vouchsafed, for from out of\nher snowy shoulders grew snow-white pinions, and with them she skimmed\nover the waves until she reached the rigid body of Ceyx, drifting, a\nhelpless burden for the conquering waves, in with the swift-flowing\ntide. As she flew, she uttered cries of love and of longing, but only\nstrange raucous cries came from the throat that had once only made\nmusic. And when she reached the body of Ceyx and would fain have\nkissed his marble lips, Halcyone found that no longer were her own\nlips like the petals of a fair red rose warmed by the sun. For the\ngods had heard her prayer, and her horny beak seemed to the watchers\non the shore to be fiercely tearing at the face of him who had been\nking of Thessaly.\n\n[Illustration: A GREY COLD MORNING FOUND HER ON THE SEASHORE]\n\nYet the gods were not merciless--or, perhaps, the love of Halcyone was\nan all-conquering love. For as the soul of Halcyone had passed into\nthe body of a white-winged sea-bird, so also passed the soul of her\nhusband the king. And for evermore Halcyone and her mate, known as the\nHalcyon birds, defied the storm and tempest, and proudly breasted,\nside by side, the angriest waves of the raging seas.\n\nTo them, too, did the gods grant a boon: that, for seven days before\nthe shortest day of the year, and for seven days after it, there\nshould reign over the sea a great calm in which Halcyone, in her\nfloating nest, should hatch her young. And to those days of calm and\nsunshine, the name of the Halcyon Days was given.\n\nAnd still, as a storm approaches, the white-winged birds come flying\ninland with shrill cries of warning to the mariners whose ships they\npass in their flight.\n\n\"Ceyx!\" they cry. \"Remember Ceyx!\"\n\nAnd hastily the fishermen fill their sails, and the smacks drive\nhomeward to the haven where the blue smoke curls upwards from the\nchimneys of their homesteads, and where the red poppies are nodding\nsleepily amongst the yellow corn.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n    _Note._--The kingfisher is commonly known as the real\n    \"Halcyon\" bird. Of it Socrates says: \"The bird is not\n    great, but it has received great honour from the gods\n    because of its lovingness; for while it is making its\n    nest, all the world has the happy days which it calls\n    halcyonidae, excelling all others in their calmness.\"\n\n\n\n\nARISTAEUS THE BEE-KEEPER\n\n    \"... Every sound is sweet;\n    Myriads of rivers hurrying thro' the lawn,\n    The moan of doves in immemorial elms,\n    And murmuring of innumerable bees.\"\n\n        Tennyson.\n\n\nIn the fragrance of the blossom of the limes the bees are gleaning a\nluscious harvest. Their busy humming sounds like the surf on a reef\nheard from very far away, and would almost lull to sleep those who\nlazily, drowsily spend the sunny summer afternoon in the shadow of the\ntrees. That line of bee-hives by the sweet-pea hedge shows where they\nstore their treasure that men may rob them of it, but out on the\nuplands where the heather is purple, the wild bees hum in and out of\nthe honey-laden bells and carry home their spoils to their own free\nfastnesses, from which none can drive them unless there comes a foray\nagainst them from the brown men of the moors.\n\nHow many of us who watch their ardent labours know the story of\nAristaeus--he who first brought the art of bee-keeping to perfection in\nhis own dear land of Greece, and whose followers are those men in\nveils of blue and green, that motley throng who beat fire-irons and\ncreate a hideous clamour in order that the queen bee and her excited\nfollowers may be checked in their perilous voyagings and beguiled to\nswarm in the sanctuary of a hive.\n\nAristaeus was a shepherd, the son of Cyrene, a water nymph, and to him\nthere had come one day, as he listened to the wild bees humming\namongst the wild thyme, the great thought that he might conquer these\nbusy workers and make their toil his gain. He knew that hollow trees\nor a hole in a rock were used as the storage houses of their treasure,\nand so the wily shepherd lad provided for them the homes he knew that\nthey would covet, and near them placed all the food that they most\ndesired. Soon Aristaeus became noted as a tamer of bees, and even in\nOlympus they spoke of his honey as a thing that was food for the gods.\nAll might have gone well with Aristaeus had there not come for him the\nfateful day when he saw the beautiful Eurydice and to her lost his\nheart. She fled before the fiery protestations of his love, and trod\nupon the serpent whose bite brought her down to the Shades. The gods\nwere angry with Aristaeus, and as punishment they slew his bees. His\nhives stood empty and silent, and no more did \"the murmuring of\ninnumerable bees\" drowse the ears of the herds who watched their\nflocks cropping the red clover and the asphodel of the meadows.\n\nUnderneath the swift-flowing water of a deep river, the nymph who was\nthe mother of Aristaeus sat on her throne. Fishes darted round her\nwhite feet, and beside her sat her attendants, spinning the fine\nstrong green cords that twine themselves round the throats of those\nwho perish when their arms can no longer fight against the force of\nthe rushing current. A nymph sang as she worked, an old, old song,\nthat told one of the old, old tales of man's weakness and the power of\nthe creatures of water, but above her song those who listened heard a\nman's voice, calling loudly and pitifully.\n\nThe voice was that of Aristaeus, calling aloud for his mother. Then his\nmother gave command, and the waters of the river rolled asunder and\nlet Aristaeus pass down far below to where the fountains of the great\nrivers lie. A mighty roar of many waters dinned in his ears as the\nrivers started on the race that was to bring them all at last to their\nrestless haven, the Ocean. To Cyrene he came at length, and to her\ntold his sorrowful tale:\n\n\"To men who live their little lives and work and die as I\nmyself--though son of a nymph and of a god--must do,\" he said, \"I have\nbrought two great gifts, oh my mother. I have taught them that from\nthe grey olives they can reap a priceless harvest, and from me they\nhave learned that the little brown bees that hum in and out of the\nflowers may be made slaves that bring to them the sweetest riches of\nwhich Nature may be robbed.\"\n\n\"This do I already know, my son,\" said Cyrene, and smiled upon\nAristaeus.\n\n\"Yet dost thou not know,\" said Aristaeus, \"the doom that has overtaken\nmy army of busy workers. No longer does there come from my city of\nbees the boom of many wings and many busy little feet as they fly,\nswift and strong, hither and thither, to bring back to the hives\ntheir honeyed treasure. The comb is empty. The bees are all dead--or,\nif not dead, they have forsaken me forever.\"\n\nThen spoke Cyrene. \"Hast heard, my son,\" she said, \"of Proteus? It is\nhe who herds the flocks of the boundless sea. On days when the South\nWind and the North Wind wrestle together, and when the Wind from the\nEast smites the West Wind in shame before him, thou mayst see him\nraise his snowy head and long white beard above the grey-green waves\nof the sea, and lash the white-maned, unbridled, fierce sea-horses\ninto fury before him. Proteus only--none but Proteus--can tell thee by\nwhat art thou canst win thy bees back once more.\"\n\nThen Aristaeus with eagerness questioned his mother how he might find\nProteus and gain from him the knowledge that he sought, and Cyrene\nanswered: \"No matter how piteously thou dost entreat him, never, save\nby force, wilt thou gain his secret from Proteus. Only if thou canst\nchain him by guile as he sleeps and hold fast the chains, undaunted by\nthe shapes into which he has the power to change himself, wilt thou\nwin his knowledge from him.\"\n\nThen Cyrene sprinkled her son with the nectar of the deathless gods,\nand in his heart there was born a noble courage and through him a new\nlife seemed to run.\n\n\"Lead me now to Proteus, oh my mother!\" he said, and Cyrene left her\nthrone and led him to the cave where Proteus, herdsman of the seas,\nhad his dwelling. Behind the seaweed-covered rocks Aristaeus concealed\nhimself, while the nymph used the fleecy clouds for her covering. And\nwhen Apollo drove his chariot across the high heavens at noon, and all\nland and all sea were hot as molten gold, Proteus with his flocks\nreturned to the shade of his great cave by the sobbing sea, and on its\nsandy floor he stretched himself, and soon lay, his limbs all lax and\nrestful, in the exquisite joy of a dreamless sleep. From behind the\nrocks Aristaeus watched him, and when, at length, he saw that Proteus\nslept too soundly to wake gently he stepped forward, and on the\nsleep-drowsed limbs of Proteus fixed the fetters that made him his\ncaptive. Then, in joy and pride at having been the undoing of the\nshepherd of the seas, Aristaeus shouted aloud. And Proteus, awaking,\nswiftly turned himself into a wild boar with white tusks that lusted\nto thrust themselves into the thighs of Aristaeus. But Aristaeus,\nunflinching, kept his firm hold of the chain. Next did he become a\ntiger, tawny and velvet black, and fierce to devour. And still\nAristaeus held the chain, and never let his eye fall before the glare\nof the beast that sought to devour him. A scaly dragon came next,\nbreathing out flames, and yet Aristaeus held him. Then came a lion, its\nyellow pelt scented with the lust of killing, and while Aristaeus yet\nstrove against him there came to terrify his listening ears the sound\nof fire that lapped up and thirstily devoured all things that would\nstand against it. And ere the crackle of the flames and their great\nsigh of fierce desire had ceased, there came in his ears the sound of\nmany waters, the booming rush of an angry river in furious flood, the\nirresistible command of the almighty waves of the sea. Yet still\nAristaeus held the chains, and at last Proteus took his own shape\nagain, and with a sigh like the sigh of winds and waves on the\ndesolate places where ships become wrecks, and men perish and there is\nnever a human soul to save or to pity them, he spoke to Aristaeus.\n\n\"Puny one!\" he said, \"and puny are thy wishes! Because thou didst by\nthy foolish wooing send the beautiful Eurydice swiftly down to the\nShades and break the heart of Orpheus, whose music is the music of the\nImmortals, the bees that thou hast treasured have left their hives\nempty and silent. So little are the bees! so great, O Aristaeus, the\nbliss or woe of Orpheus and Eurydice! Yet, because by guile thou hast\nwon the power to gain from me the knowledge that thou dost seek,\nhearken to me now, Aristaeus! Four bulls must thou find--four cows of\nequal beauty. Then must thou build in a leafy grove four altars, and\nto Orpheus and Eurydice pay such funeral honours as may allay their\nresentment. At the end of nine days, when thou hast fulfilled thy\npious task, return and see what the gods have sent thee.\"\n\n\"This will I do most faithfully, O Proteus,\" said Aristaeus, and\ngravely loosened the chains and returned to where his mother awaited\nhim, and thence travelled to his own sunny land of Greece.\n\nMost faithfully, as he had said, did Aristaeus perform his vow. And\nwhen, on the ninth day, he returned to the grove of sacrifice, a sound\ngreeted him which made his heart stop and then go on beating and\nthrobbing as the heart of a man who has striven valiantly in a great\nfight and to whom the battle is assured.\n\nFor, from the carcase of one of the animals offered for sacrifice, and\nwhose clean white bones now gleamed in the rays of the sun that forced\nits way through the thick shade of the grove of grey olives, there\ncame the \"murmuring of innumerable bees.\"\n\n\"Out of the eater came forth meat, out of the strong came forth\nsweetness.\"\n\nAnd Aristaeus, a Samson of the old Greek days, rejoiced exceedingly,\nknowing that his thoughtless sin was pardoned, and that for evermore\nto him belonged the pride of giving to all men the power of taming\nbees, the glory of mastering the little brown creatures that pillage\nfrom the fragrant, bright-hued flowers their most precious treasure.\n\n\n\n\nPROSERPINE\n\n    \"Sacred Goddess, Mother Earth,\n    Thou from whose immortal bosom,\n    Gods, and men, and beasts have birth,\n    Leaf and blade, and bud and blossom,\n    Breathe thine influence most divine\n    On thine own child, Proserpine.\n\n    If with mists of evening dew\n    Thou dost nourish those young flowers\n    Till they grow, in scent and hue,\n    Fairest children of the hours,\n    Breathe thine influence most divine\n    On thine own child, Proserpine.\"\n\n        Shelley.\n\n\nThe story of Persephone--of Proserpine--is a story of spring. When the\nsun is warming the bare brown earth, and the pale primroses look up\nthrough the snowy blackthorns at a kind, blue sky, almost can we hear\nthe soft wind murmur a name as it gently sways the daffodils and\nbreathes through the honey sweetness of the gold-powdered catkins on\nthe grey willows by the river--\"Persephone! Persephone!\"\n\nNow once there was a time when there was no spring, neither summer nor\nautumn, nor chilly winter with its black frosts and cruel gales and\nbrief, dark days. Always was there sunshine and warmth, ever were\nthere flowers and corn and fruit, and nowhere did the flowers grow\nwith more dazzling colours and more fragrant perfume than in the fair\ngarden of Sicily.\n\nTo Demeter, the Earth Mother, was born a daughter more fair than any\nflower that grew, and ever more dear to her became her child, the\nlovely Proserpine. By the blue sea, in the Sicilian meadows,\nProserpine and the fair nymphs who were her companions spent their\nhappy days. Too short were the days for all their joy, and Demeter\nmade the earth yet fairer than it was that she might bring more\ngladness to her daughter Proserpine. Each day the blossoms that the\nnymphs twined into garlands grew more perfect in form and in hue, but\nfrom the anemones of royal purple and crimson, and the riotous red of\ngeraniums, Proserpine turned one morning with a cry of gladness, for\nthere stood before her beside a little stream, on one erect, slim\nstem, a wonderful narcissus, with a hundred blossoms. Her eager hand\nwas stretched out to pluck it, when a sudden black cloud overshadowed\nthe land, and the nymphs, with shrieks of fear, fled swiftly away. And\nas the cloud descended, there was heard a terrible sound, as of the\nrushing of many waters or the roll of the heavy wheels of the chariot\nof one who comes to slay. Then was the earth cleft open, and from it\nthere arose the four coal-black horses of Pluto, neighing aloud in\ntheir eagerness, while the dark-browed god urged them on, standing\nerect in his car of gold.\n\n    \"'The coal-black horses rise--they rise,\n    O mother, mother!' low she cries--\n    Persephone--Persephone!\n    'O light, light, light!' she cries, 'farewell;\n    The coal-black horses wait for me.\n    O shade of shades, where I must dwell,\n    Demeter, mother, far from thee!'\"[5]\n\nIn cold, strong arms Pluto seized her--in that mighty grasp that will\nnot be denied, and Proserpine wept childish tears as she shivered at\nhis icy touch, and sobbed because she had dropped the flowers she had\npicked, and had never picked the flower she most desired. While still\nshe saw the fair light of day, the little oddly-shaped rocky hills,\nthe vineyards and olive groves and flowery meadows of Sicily, she did\nnot lose hope. Surely the King of Terrors could not steal one so\nyoung, so happy, and so fair. She had only tasted the joy of living,\nand fain she would drink deeper in the coming years. Her mother must\nsurely save her--her mother who had never yet failed her--her mother,\nand the gods.\n\nBut ruthless as the mower whose scythe cuts down the seeded grass and\nthe half-opened flower and lays them in swathes on the meadow, Pluto\ndrove on. His iron-coloured reins were loose on the black manes of his\nhorses, and he urged them forward by name till the froth flew from\ntheir mouths like the foam that the furious surf of the sea drives\nbefore it in a storm. Across the bay and along the bank of the river\nAnapus they galloped, until, at the river head, they came to the pool\nof Cyane. He smote the water with his trident, and downward into the\nblackness of darkness his horses passed, and Proserpine knew no more\nthe pleasant light of day.\n\n    \"What ails her that she comes not home?\n    Demeter seeks her far and wide,\n    And gloomy-browed doth ceaseless roam\n    From many a morn till eventide.\n    'My life, immortal though it be,\n    Is nought,' she cries, 'for want of thee,\n    Persephone--Persephone!'\"\n\nSo, to the great Earth Mother came the pangs that have drawn tears of\nblood from many a mortal mother's heart for a child borne off to the\nShades.\n\n    \"'My life is nought for want of thee,--\n    Persephone! Persephone!'\" ...\n\nThe cry is borne down through the ages, to echo and re-echo so long as\nmothers love and Death is still unchained.\n\nOver land and sea, from where Dawn, the rosy-fingered, rises in the\nEast, to where Apollo cools the fiery wheels of his chariot in the\nwaters of far western seas, the goddess sought her daughter. With a\nblack robe over her head and carrying a flaming torch in either hand,\nfor nine dreary days she sought her loved one. And yet, for nine more\nweary days and nine sleepless nights the goddess, racked by human\nsorrow, sat in hopeless misery. The hot sun beat upon her by day. By\nnight the silver rays from Diana's car smote her more gently, and the\ndew drenched her hair and her black garments and mingled with the\nsaltness of her bitter tears. At the grey dawning of the tenth day her\nelder daughter, Hecate, stood beside her. Queen of ghosts and shades\nwas she, and to her all dark places of the earth were known.\n\n\"Let us go to the Sun God,\" said Hecate. \"Surely he hath seen the god\nwho stole away the little Proserpine. Soon his chariot will drive\nacross the heavens. Come, let us ask him to guide us to the place\nwhere she is hidden.\"\n\nThus did they come to the chariot of the glorious Apollo, and standing\nby the heads of his horses like two grey clouds that bar the passage\nof the sun, they begged him to tell them the name of him who had\nstolen fair Proserpine.\n\n\"No less a thief was he,\" said Apollo, \"than Pluto, King of Darkness\nand robber of Life itself. Mourn not, Demeter. Thy daughter is safe in\nhis keeping. The little nymph who played in the meadows is now Queen\nof the Shades. Nor does Pluto love her vainly. She is now in love with\nDeath.\"\n\nNo comfort did the words of the Sun God bring to the longing soul of\nDemeter. And her wounded heart grew bitter. Because she suffered,\nothers must suffer as well. Because she mourned, all the world must\nmourn. The fragrant flowers spoke to her only of Persephone, the\npurple grapes reminded her of a vintage when the white fingers of her\nchild had plucked the fruit. The waving golden grain told her that\nPersephone was as an ear of wheat that is reaped before its time.\n\nThen upon the earth did there come dearth and drought and barrenness.\n\n    \"The wheat\n    Was blighted in the ear, the purple grapes\n    Blushed no more on the vines, and all the gods\n    Were sorrowful ...\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\nGods and men alike suffered from the sorrow of Demeter. To her, in\npity for the barren earth, Zeus sent an embassy, but in vain it came.\nMerciless was the great Earth Mother, who had been robbed of what she\nheld most dear.\n\n\"Give me back my child!\" she said. \"Gladly I watch the sufferings of\nmen, for no sorrow is as my sorrow. Give me back my child, and the\nearth shall grow fertile once more.\"\n\nUnwillingly Zeus granted the request of Demeter.\n\n\"She shall come back,\" he said at last, \"and with thee dwell on earth\nforever. Yet only on one condition do I grant thy fond request.\nPersephone must eat no food through all the time of her sojourn in the\nrealm of Pluto, else must thy beseeching be all in vain.\"\n\nThen did Demeter gladly leave Olympus and hasten down to the darkness\nof the shadowy land that once again she might hold, in her strong\nmother's arms, her who had once been her little clinging child.\n\nBut in the dark kingdom of Pluto a strange thing had happened. No\nlonger had the pale-faced god, with dark locks, and eyes like the\nsunless pools of a mountain stream, any terrors for Proserpine. He was\nstrong, and cruel had she thought him, yet now she knew that the touch\nof his strong, cold hands was a touch of infinite tenderness. When,\nknowing the fiat of the ruler of Olympus, Pluto gave to his stolen\nbride a pomegranate, red in heart as the heart of a man, she had taken\nit from his hand, and, because he willed it, had eaten of the sweet\nseeds. Then, in truth, it was too late for Demeter to save her child.\nShe \"had eaten of Love's seed\" and \"changed into another.\"\n\n    \"He takes the cleft pomegranate seeds:\n    'Love, eat with me this parting day;'\n    Then bids them fetch the coal-black steeds--\n    'Demeter's daughter, wouldst away?'\n    The gates of Hades set her free;\n    'She will return full soon,' saith he--\n    'My wife, my wife Persephone.'\"\n\n        Ingelow.\n\nDark, dark was the kingdom of Pluto. Its rivers never mirrored a\nsunbeam, and ever moaned low as an earthly river moans before a coming\nflood, and the feet that trod the gloomy Cocytus valley were the feet\nof those who never again would tread on the soft grass and flowers of\nan earthly meadow. Yet when Demeter had braved all the shadows of\nHades, only in part was her end accomplished. In part only was\nProserpine now her child, for while half her heart was in the\nsunshine, rejoicing in the beauties of earth, the other half was with\nthe god who had taken her down to the Land of Darkness and there had\nwon her for his own. Back to the flowery island of Sicily her mother\nbrought her, and the peach trees and the almonds blossomed snowily as\nshe passed. The olives decked themselves with their soft grey leaves,\nthe corn sprang up, green and lush and strong. The lemon and orange\ngroves grew golden with luscious fruit, and all the land was carpeted\nwith flowers. For six months of the year she stayed, and gods and men\nrejoiced at the bringing back of Proserpine. For six months she left\nher green and pleasant land for the dark kingdom of him whom she\nloved, and through those months the trees were bare, and the earth\nchill and brown, and under the earth the flowers hid themselves in\nfear and awaited the return of the fair daughter of Demeter.\n\nAnd evermore has she come and gone, and seedtime and harvest have\nnever failed, and the cold, sleeping world has awaked and rejoiced,\nand heralded with the song of birds, and the bursting of green buds\nand the blooming of flowers, the resurrection from the dead--the\ncoming of spring.\n\n    \"Time calls, and Change\n    Commands both men and gods, and speeds us on\n    We know not whither; but the old earth smiles\n    Spring after spring, and the seed bursts again\n    Out of its prison mould, and the dead lives\n    Renew themselves, and rise aloft and soar\n    And are transformed, clothing themselves with change,\n    Till the last change be done.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[5] Jean Ingelow.\n\n\n\n\nLATONA AND THE RUSTICS\n\n\nThrough the tropic nights their sonorous, bell-like booming can be\nheard coming up from the marshes, and when they are unseen, the song\nof the bull-frogs would suggest creatures full of solemn dignity. The\ncroak of their lesser brethren is less impressive, yet there is no\nescape from it on those evenings when the dragon-flies' iridescent\nwings are folded in sleep, and the birds in the branches are still,\nwhen the lilies on the pond have closed their golden hearts, and even\nthe late-feeding trout have ceased to plop and to make eddies in the\nquiet water. \"Krroak! krroak! krroak!\" they go--\"krroak! krroak!\nkrroak!\"\n\nIt is unceasing, unending. It goes on like the whirr of the wheels of\na great clock that can never run down--a melancholy complaint against\nthe hardships of destiny--a raucous protest against things as they\nare.\n\nThis is the story of the frogs that have helped to point the gibes of\nAristophanes, the morals of AEsop, and which have always been, more or\nless, regarded as the low comedians of the animal world.\n\nLatona, or Leto, was the goddess of dark nights, and upon her the\nmighty Zeus bestowed the doubtful favour of his errant love. Great was\nthe wrath of Hera, his queen, when she found that she was no longer\nthe dearest wife of her omnipotent lord, and with furious upbraidings\nshe banished her rival to earth. And when Latona had reached the place\nof her exile she found that the vengeful goddess had sworn that she\nwould place her everlasting ban upon anyone, mortal or immortal, who\ndared to show any kindness or pity to her whose only fault had been\nthat Zeus loved her. From place to place she wandered, an outcast even\namong men, until, at length, she came to Lycia.\n\nOne evening, as the darkness of which she was goddess had just begun\nto fall, she reached a green and pleasant valley. The soft, cool grass\nwas a delight to her tired feet, and when she saw the silvery gleam of\nwater she rejoiced, for her throat was parched and her lips dry and\nshe was very weary. By the side of this still pond, where the lilies\nfloated, there grew lithe grey willows and fresh green osiers, and\nthese were being cut by a crowd of chattering rustics.\n\nHumbly, for many a rude word and harsh rebuff had the dictum of Hera\nbrought her during her wanderings, Latona went to the edge of the\npond, and, kneeling down, was most thankfully about to drink, when the\npeasants espied her. Roughly and rudely they told her to begone, nor\ndare to drink unbidden of the clear water beside which their willows\ngrew. Very pitifully Latona looked up in their churlish faces, and her\neyes were as the eyes of a doe that the hunters have pressed very\nhard.\n\n\"Surely, good people,\" she said, and her voice was sad and low, \"water\nis free to all. Very far have I travelled, and I am aweary almost to\ndeath. Only grant that I dip my lips in the water for one deep\ndraught. Of thy pity grant me this boon, for I perish of thirst.\"\n\nHarsh and coarse were the mocking voices that made answer. Coarser\nstill were the jests that they made. Then one, bolder than his\nfellows, spurned her kneeling figure with his foot, while another\nbrushed before her and stepping into the pond, defiled its clarity by\nchurning up the mud that lay below with his great splay feet.\n\nLoudly the peasants laughed at this merry jest, and they quickly\nfollowed his lead, as brainless sheep will follow the one that\nscrambles through a gap. Soon they were all joyously stamping and\ndancing in what had so lately been a pellucid pool. The water-lilies\nand blue forget-me-nots were trodden down, the fish that had their\nhomes under the mossy stones in terror fled away. Only the mud came\nup, filthy, defiling, and the rustics laughed in loud and foolish\nlaughter to see the havoc they had wrought.\n\nThe goddess Latona rose from her knees. No longer did she seem a mere\nwoman, very weary, hungry and athirst, travelled over far. In their\nsurprised eyes she grew to a stature that was as that of the deathless\ngods. And her eyes were dark as an angry sea at even.\n\n\"Shameless ones!\" she said, in a voice as the voice of a storm that\nsweeps destroyingly over forest and mountain. \"Ah! shameless ones! Is\nit thus that thou wouldst defy one who has dwelt on Olympus? Behold\nfrom henceforth shalt thou have thy dwelling in the mud of the\ngreen-scummed pools, thy homes in the water that thy flat feet have\ndefiled.\"\n\nAs she spoke, a change, strange and terrible, passed over the forms of\nthe trampling peasants. Their stature shrank. They grew squat and fat.\nTheir hands and feet were webbed, and their grinning mouths became\ngreat, sad, gaping openings by which to swallow worms and flies. Green\nand yellow and brown were their skins, and when they would fain have\ncried aloud for mercy, from their throats there would come only the\n\"_Krroak! krroak! krroak!_\" that we know so well.\n\nAnd when, that night, the goddess of darkness was wrapped in peace in\nthe black, silver star bespangled robe that none could take from her,\nthere arose from the pond over which the grey willows hung, weeping,\nthe clamour of a great lamentation. Yet no piteous words were there,\nonly the incessant, harsh complaint of the frogs that we hear in the\nmarshes.\n\nFrom that time the world went well with Latona. Down to the seashore\nshe came, and when she held out her arms in longing appeal to the\nAEgean islands that lay like purple flowers strewn, far apart, on a\nsoft carpet of limpid blue, Zeus heard her prayer. He asked Poseidon\nto send a dolphin to carry the woman he loved to the floating island\nof Delos, and when she had been borne there in safety, he chained the\nisland with chains of adamant to the golden-sanded floor of the sea.\n\nAnd on this sanctuary there were born to Latona twin children,\nthereafter to be amongst the most famed of the deathless gods--the\ngod and goddess, Apollo and Diana.\n\n    \"... Those hinds that were transformed to frogs\n    Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,\n    Which after held the sun and moon in fee.\"\n\n        Milton.\n\nYet are there times, as we look at the squat, bronze bodies of the\nfrogs--green-bronze, dark brown spotted, and all flecked with gold,\nthe turned-down corners of their wistful mouths, their very exquisite\nblack velvety eyes with golden rims--when the piteous croaks that come\nforth from their throats of pale daffodil colour do indeed awake a\nsympathy with their appeal against the inexorable decrees of destiny.\n\n\"We did not know! We did not understand! Pity us! Ah, pity us!\n_Krroak! krroak! krroak!_\"\n\n\n\n\nECHO AND NARCISSUS\n\n\nIn the solitudes of the hills we find her, and yet we may come on her\nunawares in the din of a noisy city. She will answer us where the\nwaves are lashing themselves against the rugged cliffs of our own\nBritish coast, or we may find her where the great yellow pillars of\nfallen temples lie hot in the sun close to the vivid blue water of the\nAfrican sea. At nightfall, on the lonely northern moors, she mimics\nthe cry of a wailing bird that calls for its mate, but it is she who\nprolongs the roll of the great organ in a vast cathedral, she who\nrepeats the rattle and crack and boom of the guns, no matter in what\nland the war may be raging. In the desolate Australian bush she makes\nthe crash of the falling limb of a dead gum tree go on and on, and\ntortures the human being who is lost, hopelessly lost, and facing a\ncruel death, by repeating his despairing calls for help. Through the\nnight, in old country-houses, she sports at will and gives new life to\nsad old tales of the restless dead who restlessly walk. But she echoes\nthe children's voices as they play by the seashore or pick primroses\nin the woods in spring, and when they greet her with laughter, she\nlaughs in merry response. They may fear her when the sun has gone\ndown, and when they are left all alone they begin to dread her\nmockery. Yet the nymph who sought for love and failed to gain what\nshe sought must surely find some comfort on those bright days of\nsummer and of spring when she gives the little children happiness and\nthey give her their love.\n\nWhen all the world was young, and nymphs and fauns and dryads dwelt in\nthe forests, there was no nymph more lovely and more gay than she\nwhose name was Echo. Diana would smile on her for her fleetness of\nfoot when she followed her in the chase, and those whom she met in the\nleafy pathways of the dim, green woods, would pass on smiling at the\nremembrance of her merry chatter and her tricksy humour.\n\nIt was an evil day for Echo when she crossed the path of Hera, queen\nof the gods. The jealous goddess sought her errant husband, who was\namusing himself with some nymphs, and Echo, full of mischievous glee,\nkept her in talk until the nymphs had fled to safety. Hera was furious\nindeed when she found out that a frolicsome nymph had dared to play on\nher such a trick, and ruthlessly she spoke fair Echo's doom.\n\n\"Henceforth,\" she said, \"the tongue with which thou hast cheated me\nshall be in bonds. No longer wilt thou have the power to speak in\ngreeting. To the tongues of others shall thy tongue be slave, and from\nthis day until time shall cease thou shalt speak only to repeat the\nlast words that have fallen on thine ears.\"\n\nA maimed nymph indeed was Echo then, yet whole in all that matters\nmost, in that her merry heart was still her own. But only for a little\nwhile did this endure.\n\nNarcissus, the beautiful son of a nymph and a river god, was hunting\nin a lonely forest one day when Echo saw him pass. To her he seemed\nmore fair than god or man, and once she had seen him she knew that she\nmust gain his love or die. From that day on, she haunted him like his\nshadow, gliding from tree to tree, nestling down amongst thick fern\nand undergrowth, motionless as one who stalks a wild thing, watching\nhim afar off while he rested, gladdening her eyes with his beauty. So\ndid she feed her hungering heart, and sought to find contentment by\nlooking on his face each day.\n\nTo her at length came a perfect moment when Narcissus was separated\nfrom his companions in the chase and, stopping suddenly where the\nevening sun chequered the pathway of the forest with black and gold,\nheard the nymph's soft footfall on the rustling leaves.\n\n\"Who's here?\" he called.\n\n\"_Here!_\" answered Echo.\n\nNarcissus, peering amongst the trees' long shadows and seeing no one,\ncalled \"Come!\"\n\nAnd \"_Come!_\" called the glad voice of Echo, while the nymph, with\nfast-beating heart, felt that her day of happiness had come indeed.\n\n\"Why do you shun me?\" then called Narcissus.\n\n\"_Why do you shun me?_\" Echo repeated.\n\n\"Let us join one another,\" said the lad, and the simple words seemed\nturned into song when Echo said them over.\n\n\"_Let us join one another!_\" she said, and not Eos herself, as with\nrosy fingers she turns aside the dark clouds of night, could be fairer\nthan was the nymph as she pushed aside the leaves of the trackless\nwood, and ran forward with white arms outstretched to him who was lord\nof her life.\n\n[Illustration: SHE HAUNTED HIM LIKE HIS SHADOW]\n\nWith cold eyes and colder heart the one she loved beheld her.\n\n\"Away!\" he cried, shrinking back as if from something that he hated.\n\"_Away!_ I would rather die than that you should have me!\"\n\n\"_Have me!_\" cried Echo pitifully, but she pled in vain. Narcissus had\nno love to give her, and his scorn filled her with shame. Thenceforth\nin the forest revels she never more was seen, and the nymphs danced\ngaily as ever, with never a care for her who had faded and gone away\nas completely as though she were a blossom in the passing of spring.\nIn the solitude of mountain cliffs and caves and rocky places, and in\nthe loneliest depths of the forest, Echo hid her grief, and when the\nwinds blew through the dark branches of the trees at night, moaning\nand sighing, they could hear far below them the voice of Echo\nrepeating their lamentations. For her, long nights followed hopeless\ndays, and nights and days only told her that her love was all in vain.\nThen came a night when the winds no longer saw the figure of the\nnymph, white and frail as a broken flower, crouching close to the\nrocks they passed over. Grief had slain the body of Echo. Only her\nvoice was left to repeat their mocking laughter, their wistful\nsighs--only her voice that lives on still though all the old gods are\ngone, and but few there are who know her story.\n\nHeartwhole and happy, Narcissus, slayer of happiness, went on his\nway, and other nymphs besides fair Echo suffered from loving him in\nvain. One nymph, less gentle than Echo, poured the tale of her love\nthat was scorned into the sympathetic ears of the goddess of Love, and\nimplored her to punish Narcissus.\n\nHot and tired from the chase, Narcissus sought one day a lonely pool\nin the woods, there to rest and to quench his thirst.\n\n    \"In some delicious ramble, he had found\n    A little space, with boughs all woven round;\n    And in the midst of all, a clearer pool\n    Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool\n    The blue sky here, and there, serenely peeping\n    Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping.\"\n\nAs he stooped down to drink, a face looked at his through the crystal\nclear water, and a pair of beautiful eyes met his own. His surprise\nand joy at the sight of what he felt sure must be the most beautiful\ncreature on earth, was evidently shared by the nymph of the pool, who\ngazed fearlessly up at him.\n\nRound her head she had a nimbus of curls than which that of\nAdonis--nay, of the sun-god himself, was not more perfect, while her\neyes were like the brown pools of water in a rippling mountain stream,\nflecked with sunshine, yet with depths untold. When Narcissus smiled\nat her in rapture, her red lips also parted in a smile. He stretched\nout his arms towards her, and her arms were stretched to him. Almost\ntrembling in his delight, he slowly stooped to kiss her. Nearer she\ndrew to him, nearer still, but when his mouth would have given itself\nto that other mouth that was formed like the bow of Eros--a thing to\nslay hearts--only the chilly water of the pool touched his lips, and\nthe thing of his delight vanished away. In passionate disappointment\nNarcissus waited for her to return, and as soon as the water of the\npool grew still, once more he saw her exquisite face gazing wistfully\nup into his. Passionately he pled with the beautiful creature--spoke\nof his love--besought her to have pity on him, but although the face\nin the pool reflected his every look of adoration and of longing, time\nand again he vainly tried to clasp in his arms what was but the\nmirrored likeness of himself.\n\nIn full measure had the avenging goddess meted out to Narcissus the\nrestless longing of unsatisfied love. By day and by night he haunted\nthe forest pool, and ere long the face that looked back at his was\npale as a lily in the dawn. When the moonbeams came straying down\nthrough the branches and all the night was still, they found him\nkneeling by the pool, and the white face that the water mirrored had\nthe eyes of one of the things of the woods to which a huntsman has\ngiven a mortal wound. Mortally wounded he truly was, slain, like many\nanother since his day, by a hopeless love for what was in truth but an\nimage, and that an image of his own creation. Even when his shade\npassed across the dark Stygian river, it stooped over the side of the\nboat that it might try to catch a glimpse of the beloved one in the\ninky waters.\n\nEcho and the other nymphs were avenged, yet when they looked on the\nbeautiful dead Narcissus, they were filled with sorrow, and when they\nfilled the air with their lamentations, most piteously did the voice\nof Echo repeat each mournful cry. Even the gods were pitiful, and when\nthe nymphs would have burned the body on a funeral pyre which their\nown fair hands had built for him, they sought it in vain. For the\nOlympians had turned Narcissus into a white flower, the flower that\nstill bears his name and keeps his memory sweet.\n\n                  \"A lonely flower he spied,\n    A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride,\n    Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness,\n    To woo its own sad image into nearness;\n    Deaf to light Zephyrus it would not move,\n    But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love.\"\n\n        Keats.\n\n\n\n\nICARUS\n\n\nFourteen years only have passed since our twentieth century began. In\nthose fourteen years how many a father's and mother's heart has bled\nfor the death of gallant sons, greatly-promising, greatly-daring, who\nhave sought to rule the skies? With wings not well enough tried, they\nhave soared dauntlessly aloft, only to add more names to the tragic\nlist of those whose lives have been sacrificed in order that the\ngroping hands of science may become sure, so that in time the sons of\nmen may sail through the heavens as fearlessly as their fathers sailed\nthrough the seas.\n\nHigh overhead we watch the monoplane, the great, swooping thing, like\na monster black-winged bird, and our minds travel back to the story of\nIcarus, who died so many years ago that there are those who say that\nhis story is but a foolish fable, an idle myth.\n\nDaedalus, grandson of a king of Athens, was the greatest artificer of\nhis day. Not only as an architect was he great, but as a sculptor he\nhad the creative power, not only to make men and women and animals\nthat looked alive, but to cause them to move and to be, to all\nappearances, endowed with life. To him the artificers who followed him\nowed the invention of the axe, the wedge, the wimble, and the\ncarpenter's level, and his restless mind was ever busy with new\ninventions. To his nephew, Talus, or Perdrix, he taught all that he\nhimself knew of all the mechanical arts. Soon it seemed that the\nnephew, though he might not excel his uncle, equalled Daedalus in his\ninventive power. As he walked by the seashore, the lad picked up the\nspine of a fish, and, having pondered its possibilities, he took it\nhome, imitated it in iron, and so invented the saw. A still greater\ninvention followed this. While those who had always thought that there\ncould be none greater than Daedalus were still acclaiming the lad,\nthere came to him the idea of putting two pieces of iron together,\nconnecting them at one end with a rivet, and sharpening both ends, and\na pair of compasses was made. Louder still were the acclamations of\nthe people. Surely greater than Daedalus was here. Too much was this\nfor the artist's jealous spirit.\n\nOne day they stood together on the top of the Acropolis, and Daedalus,\nmurder that comes from jealousy in his heart, threw his nephew down.\nDown, down he fell, knowing well that he was going to meet a cruel\ndeath, but Pallas Athene, protectress of all clever craftsmen, came to\nhis rescue. By her Perdrix was turned into the bird that still bears\nhis name, and Daedalus beheld Perdrix, the partridge, rapidly winging\nhis way to the far-off fields. Since then, no partridge has ever built\nor roosted in a high place, but has nestled in the hedge-roots and\namongst the standing corn, and as we mark it we can see that its\nflight is always low.\n\nFor his crime Daedalus was banished from Athens, and in the court of\nMinos, king of Crete, he found a refuge. He put all his mighty powers\nat the service of Minos, and for him designed an intricate labyrinth\nwhich, like the river Meander, had neither beginning nor ending, but\never returned on itself in hopeless intricacy. Soon he stood high in\nthe favour of the king, but, ever greedy for power, he incurred, by\none of his daring inventions, the wrath of Minos. The angry monarch\nthrew him into prison, and imprisoned along with him his son, Icarus.\nBut prison bars and locks did not exist that were strong enough to\nbaffle this master craftsman, and from the tower in which they were\nshut, Daedalus and his son were not long in making their escape. To\nescape from Crete was a less easy matter. There were many places in\nthat wild island where it was easy for the father and son to hide, but\nthe subjects of Minos were mostly mariners, and Daedalus knew well that\nall along the shore they kept watch lest he should make him a boat,\nhoist on it one of the sails of which he was part inventor, and speed\naway to safety like a sea-bird driven before the gale. Then did there\ncome to Daedalus, the pioneer of inventions, the great idea that by his\nskill he might make a way for himself and his son through another\nelement than water. And he laughed aloud in his hiding place amongst\nthe cypresses on the hillside at the thought of how he would baffle\nthe simple sailormen who watched each creek and beach down on the\nshore. Mockingly, too, did he think of King Minos, who had dared to\npit his power against the wits and skill of Daedalus, the mighty\ncraftsman.\n\nMany a Cretan bird was sacrificed before the task which the inventor\nhad set himself was accomplished. In a shady forest on the mountains\nhe fashioned light wooden frames and decked them with feathers, until\nat length they looked like the pinions of a great eagle, or of a swan\nthat flaps its majestic way from lake to river. Each feather was bound\non with wax, and the mechanism of the wings was so perfect a\nreproduction of that of the wings from which the feathers had been\nplucked, that on the first day that he fastened them to his back and\nspread them out, Daedalus found that he could fly even as the bird\nflew. Two pairs he made; having tested one pair, a second pair was\nmade for Icarus, and, circling round him like a mother bird that\nteaches her nestlings how to fly, Daedalus, his heart big with the\npride of invention, showed Icarus how he might best soar upwards to\nthe sun or dive down to the blue sea far below, and how he might\nconquer the winds and the air currents of the sky and make them his\nservants.\n\nThat was a joyous day for father and son, for the father had never\nbefore drunk deeper of the intoxicating wine of the gods--Success--and\nfor the lad it was all pure joy. Never before had he known freedom and\npower so utterly glorious. As a little child he had watched the birds\nfly far away over the blue hills to where the sun was setting, and had\nlonged for wings that he might follow them in their flight. At times,\nin his dreams, he had known the power, and in his dreaming fancy had\nrisen from the cumbering earth and soared high above the trees and\nfields on strong pinions that bore him away to the fair land of\nheart's desire--to the Islands of the Blessed. But when Sleep left\nhim and the dreams silently slipped out before the coming of the light\nof day, and the boy sprang from his couch and eagerly spread his arms\nas, in his dreams, he had done, he could no longer fly. Disappointment\nand unsatisfied longing ever came with his waking hours. Now all that\nhad come to an end, and Daedalus was glad and proud as well to watch\nhis son's joy and his fearless daring. One word of counsel only did he\ngive him.\n\n\"Beware, dear son of my heart,\" he said, \"lest in thy new-found power\nthou seekest to soar even to the gates of Olympus. For as surely as\nthe scorching rays from the burnished wheels of the chariot of Apollo\nsmite thy wings, the wax that binds on thy feathers will melt, and\nthen will come upon thee and on me woe unutterable.\"\n\nIn his dreams that night Icarus flew, and when he awoke, fearing to\nfind only the haunting remembrance of a dream, he found his father\nstanding by the side of his bed of soft leaves under the shadowy\ncypresses, ready to bind on his willing shoulders the great pinions\nthat he had made.\n\nGentle Dawn, the rosy-fingered, was slowly making her way up from the\nEast when Daedalus and Icarus began their flight. Slowly they went at\nfirst, and the goat-herds who tended their flocks on the slopes of\nMount Ida looked up in fear when they saw the dark shadows of their\nwings and marked the monster birds making their way out to sea. From\nthe river beds the waterfowl arose from the reeds, and with great\noutcry flew with all their swiftness to escape them. And down by the\nseashore the mariners' hearts sank within them as they watched,\nbelieving that a sight so strange must be a portent of disaster.\nHomewards they went in haste to offer sacrifices on the altars of\nPoseidon, ruler of the deep.\n\nSamos and Delos were passed on the left and Lebynthos on the right,\nlong ere the sun-god had started on his daily course, and as the\nmighty wings of Icarus cleft the cold air, the boy's slim body grew\nchilled, and he longed for the sun's rays to turn the waters of the\nAEgean Sea over which he flew from green-grey into limpid sapphire and\nemerald and burning gold. Towards Sicily he and his father bent their\ncourse, and when they saw the beautiful island afar off lying like a\ngem in the sea, Apollo made the waves in which it lay, for it a\nfitting setting. With a cry of joy Icarus marked the sun's rays paint\nthe chill water, and Apollo looked down at the great white-winged\nbird, a snowy swan with the face and form of a beautiful boy, who sped\nexulting onwards, while a clumsier thing, with wings of darker hue,\nfollowed less quickly, in the same line of flight. As the god looked,\nthe warmth that radiated from his chariot touched the icy limbs of\nIcarus as with the caressing touch of gentle, life-giving hands. Not\nlong before, his flight had lagged a little, but now it seemed as if\nnew life was his. Like a bird that wheels and soars and dives as if\nfor lightness of heart, so did Icarus, until each feather of his\nplumage had a sheen of silver and of gold. Down, down, he darted, so\nnear the water that almost the white-tipped waves caught at his wings\nas he skimmed over them. Then up, up, up he soared, ever higher,\nhigher still, and when he saw the radiant sun-god smiling down on\nhim, the warning of Daedalus was forgotten. As he had excelled other\nlads in foot races, now did Icarus wish to excel the birds themselves.\nDaedalus he left far behind, and still upwards he mounted. So strong he\nfelt, so fearless was he, that to him it seemed that he could storm\nOlympus, that he could call to Apollo as he swept past him in his\nflight, and dare him to race for a wager from the AEgean Sea to where\nthe sun-god's horses took their nightly rest by the trackless seas of\nthe unknown West.\n\nIn terror his father watched him, and as he called to him in a voice\nof anguished warning that was drowned by the whistling rush of the air\ncurrents through the wings of Icarus and the moist whisper of the\nclouds as through them he cleft a way for himself, there befell the\ndreaded thing. It seemed as though the strong wings had begun to lose\ntheir power. Like a wounded bird Icarus fluttered, lunged sidewise\nfrom the straight, clean line of his flight, recovered himself, and\nfluttered again. And then, like the bird into whose soft breast the\nsure hand of a mighty archer has driven an arrow, downwards he fell,\nturning over and yet turning again, downwards, ever downwards, until\nhe fell with a plunge into the sea that still was radiant in shining\nemerald and translucent blue.\n\nThen did the car of Apollo drive on. His rays had slain one who was\ntoo greatly daring, and now they fondled the little white feathers\nthat had fallen from the broken wings and floated on the water like\nthe petals of a torn flower.\n\nOn the dead, still face of Icarus they shone, and they spangled as if\nwith diamonds the wet plumage that still, widespread, bore him up on\nthe waves.\n\nStricken at heart was Daedalus, but there was no time to lament his\nson's untimely end, for even now the black-prowed ships of Minos might\nbe in pursuit. Onward he flew to safety, and in Sicily built a temple\nto Apollo, and there hung up his wings as a propitiatory offering to\nthe god who had slain his son.\n\nAnd when grey night came down on that part of the sea that bears the\nname of Icarus to this day, still there floated the body of the boy\nwhose dreams had come true. For only a little while had he known the\nexquisite realisation of dreamed-of potentialities, for only a few\nhours tasted the sweetness of perfect pleasure, and then, by an\nover-daring flight, had lost it all for ever.\n\nThe sorrowing Nereids sang a dirge over him as he was swayed gently\nhither and thither by the tide, and when the silver stars came out\nfrom the dark firmament of heaven and were reflected in the blackness\nof the sea at night, it was as though a velvet pall, silver-decked in\nhis honour, was spread around the slim white body with its\noutstretched snowy wings.\n\nSo much had he dared--so little accomplished.\n\nIs it not the oft-told tale of those who have followed Icarus? Yet who\ncan say that gallant youth has lived in vain when, as Icarus did, he\nhas breasted the very skies, has flown with fearless heart and soul to\nthe provinces of the deathless gods?--when, even for the space of a\nfew of the heart-beats of Time, he has tasted supreme power--the\necstasy of illimitable happiness?\n\n\n\n\nCLYTIE\n\n\nThe sunbeams are basking on the high walls of the old garden--smiling\non the fruit that grows red and golden in their warmth. The bees are\nhumming round the bed of purple heliotrope, and drowsily murmuring in\nthe shelter of the soft petals of the blush roses whose sweetness\nbrings back the fragrance of days that are gone. On the old grey\nsundial the white-winged pigeons sleepily croon as they preen their\nsnowy plumage, and the Madonna lilies hang their heads like a\nprocession of white-robed nuns who dare not look up from telling their\nbeads until the triumphal procession of an all-conquering warrior has\ngone by. What can they think of that long line of tall yellow flowers\nby the garden wall, who turn their faces sunwards with an arrogant\nassurance, and give stare for stare to golden-haired Apollo as he\ndrives his blazing car triumphant through the high heavens?\n\n\"Sunflowers\" is the name by which we know those flamboyant blossoms\nwhich somehow fail so wholly to suggest the story of Clytie, the nymph\nwhose destruction came from a faithful, unrequited love. She was a\nwater-nymph, a timid, gentle being who frequented lonely streams, and\nbathed where the blue dragon-flies dart across the white water-lilies\nin pellucid lakes. In the shade of the tall poplar trees and the\nsilvery willows she took her midday rest, and feared the hours when\nthe flowers drooped their heads and the rippling water lost its\ncoolness before the fierce glare of the sun.\n\nBut there came a day when, into the dark pool by which she sat, Apollo\nthe Conqueror looked down and mirrored his face. And nevermore did she\nhide from the golden-haired god who, from the moment when she had seen\nin the water the picture of his radiant beauty, became the lord and\nmaster of her heart and soul. All night she awaited his coming, and\nthe Dawn saw her looking eastward for the first golden gleams from the\nwheels of his chariot. All day she followed him with her longing gaze,\nnor did she ever cease to feast her eyes upon his beauty until the\nlast reflection of his radiance had faded from the western sky.\n\nSuch devotion might have touched the heart of the sun-god, but he had\nno wish to own a love for which he had not sought. The nymph's\nadoration irked him, nor did pity come as Love's pale substitute when\nhe marked how, day by day, her face grew whiter and more white, and\nher lovely form wasted away. For nine days, without food or drink, she\nkept her shamed vigil. Only one word of love did she crave. Unexacting\nin the humility of her devotion, she would gratefully have nourished\nher hungry heart upon one kindly glance. But Apollo, full of scorn and\nanger, lashed up his fiery steeds as he each day drove past her, nor\ndeigned for her a glance more gentle than that which he threw on the\nsatyrs as they hid in the dense green foliage of the shadowy woods.\n\nHalf-mocking, Diana said, \"In truth the fair nymph who throws her\nheart's treasures at the feet of my golden-locked brother that he may\ntrample on them, is coming to look like a faded flower!\" And, as she\nspoke, the hearts of the other immortal dwellers in Olympus were\nstirred with pity.\n\n\"A flower she shall be!\" they said, \"and for all time shall she live,\nin life that is renewed each year when the earth stirs with the\nquickening of spring. The long summer days shall she spend forever in\nfearless worship of the god of her love!\"\n\nAnd, as they willed, the nymph passed out of her human form, and took\nthe form of a flower, and evermore--the emblem of constancy--does she\ngaze with fearless ardour on the face of her love.\n\n    \"The heart that has truly loved never forgets,\n      But as truly loves on to the close;\n    As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets\n      The same look that she turned when he rose.\"\n\nSome there are who say that not into the bold-faced sunflower did her\nmetamorphosis take place, but into that purple heliotrope that gives\nan exquisite offering of fragrance to the sun-god when his warm rays\ntouch it. And in the old walled garden, while the bees drowsily hum,\nand the white pigeons croon, and the dashing sunflower gives Apollo\ngaze for gaze, and the scent of the mignonette mingles with that of\nclove pinks and blush roses, the fragrance of the heliotrope is, above\nall, worthy incense to be offered upon his altar by the devout lover\nof a god.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CRANES OF IBYCUS\n\n    \"For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak\n    With most miraculous organ.\"\n\n        Shakespeare.\n\n\nIbycus, the poet friend of Apollo, was a happy man as he journeyed on\nfoot through the country where the wild flowers grew thick and the\ntrees were laden with blossom towards the city of Corinth. His tuneful\nvoice sang snatches of song of his own making, and ever and again he\nwould try how his words and music sounded on his lyre. He was light of\nheart, because ever had he thought of good, and not evil, and had\nalways sung only of great and noble deeds and of those things that\nhelped his fellow-men. And now he went to Corinth for the great\nchariot-races, and for the great contest of musicians where every true\npoet and musician in Greece was sure to be found.\n\nIt was the time of the return to earth of Adonis and of Proserpine,\nand as he was reverently about to enter the sacred grove of Poseidon,\nwhere the trees grew thick, and saw, crowning the height before him,\nthe glittering towers of Corinth, he heard, overhead, the harsh cries\nof some other returned exiles. Ibycus smiled, as he looked up and\nbeheld the great flock of grey birds, with their long legs and strong,\noutstretched wings, come back from their winter sojourn on the golden\nsands of Egypt, to dance and beck and bow to each other by the marshes\nof his homeland.\n\n\"Welcome back, little brothers!\" he cried. \"May you and I both meet\nwith naught but kindness from the people of this land!\"\n\nAnd when the cranes again harshly cried, as if in answer to his\ngreeting, the poet walked gaily on, further into the shadow of that\ndark wood out of which he was never to pass as living man. Joyous, and\nfearing no evil, he had been struck and cast to the ground by cruel\nand murderous hands ere ever he knew that two robbers were hidden in a\nnarrow pass where the brushwood grew thick. With all his strength he\nfought, but his arms were those of a musician and not of a warrior,\nand very soon he was overpowered by those who assailed him. He cried\nin vain to gods and to men for help, and in his final agony he heard\nonce more the harsh voices of the migratory birds and the rush of\ntheir speeding wings. From the ground, where he bled to death, he\nlooked up to them.\n\n\"Take up my cause, dear cranes!\" he said, \"since no voice but yours\nanswers my cry!\"\n\nAnd the cranes screamed hoarsely and mournfully as if in farewell, as\nthey flapped their way towards Corinth and left the poet lying dead.\n\nWhen his body was found, robbed and terribly wounded, from all over\nGreece, where he was known and loved, there uprose a great clamour of\nlamentation.\n\n\"Is it thus I find you restored to me?\" said he who had expected him\nin Corinth as his honoured guest; \"I who hoped to place the victor's\nlaurels on your head when you triumphed in the temple of song!\"\n\nAnd all those whom the loving personality of Ibycus and the charm of\nhis music had made his friends were alert and eager to avenge so foul\na murder. But none knew how the wicked deed had come to pass--none,\nsave the cranes.\n\nThen came the day to which Ibycus had looked forward with such joy,\nwhen thousands upon thousands of his countrymen sat in the theatre at\nCyprus and watched a play that stirred their hearts within them.\n\nThe theatre had for roof the blue vault of heaven; the sun served for\nfootlights and for the lights above the heads of those who acted. The\nthree Furies--the Eumenides--with their hard and cruel faces and snaky\nlocks, and with blood dripping from their eyes, were represented by\nactors so great that the hearts of their beholders trembled within\nthem. In their dread hands lay the punishment of murder, of\ninhospitality, of ingratitude, and of all the cruellest and basest of\ncrimes. Theirs was the duty of hurrying the doomed spirits entrusted\nto their merciless care over the Phlegethon, the river of fire that\nflows round Hades, and through the brazen gates that led to Torment,\nand their robes were robes worn\n\n    \"With all the pomp of horror, dy'd in gore.\"\n\n        Virgil.\n\nIn solemn cadence, while the thousands of beholders watched and\nlistened enthralled, the Furies walked round the theatre and sang\ntheir song of terror:\n\n\"Woe! woe! to him whose hands are soiled with blood! The darkness\nshall not hide him, nor shall his dread secret lie hidden even in the\nbowels of the earth! He shall not seek by flight to escape us, for\nvengeance is ours, and swifter than a hawk that strikes its quarry\nshall we strike. Unwearying we pursue, nor are our swift feet and our\navenging arms made slow by pity. Woe! woe! to the shedder of innocent\nblood, for nor peace nor rest is his until we have hurried his\ntormented soul down to torture that shall endure everlastingly!\"\n\nAs the listeners heard the dirge of doom, there were none who did not\nthink of Ibycus, the gentle-hearted poet, so much beloved and so\nfoully done to death, and in the tensity of the moment when the voices\nceased, a great thrill passed over the multitudes as a voice, shrill\nwith amazed horror, burst from one of the uppermost benches:\n\n\"_See there! see there! behold, comrade, the cranes of Ibycus!_\"\n\nEvery eye looked upwards, and, harshly crying, there passed overhead\nthe flock of cranes to whom the poet had entrusted his dying message.\nThen, like an electric shock, there came to all those who beheld the\nknowledge that he who had cried aloud was the murderer of Ibycus.\n\n\"Seize him! seize him!\" cried in unison the voices of thousands.\n\"Seize the man, and him to whom he spoke!\"\n\nFrantically the trembling wretch tried to deny his words, but it was\ntoo late. The roar of the multitudes was as that of an angry sea that\nhungers for its prey and will not be denied. He who had spoken and him\nto whom he spoke were seized by a score of eager hands.\n\nIn white-faced terror, because the Furies had hunted them down, they\nmade confession of their crime and were put to death. And the flock of\ngrey-plumaged, rosy-headed cranes winged their way on to the marshes,\nthere to beck and bow to each other, and to dance in the golden\nsunset, well content because their message was delivered, and Ibycus,\nthe poet-musician who had given them welcome, was avenged.\n\n\n\n\nSYRINX\n\n    \"Is it because the wild-wood passion still lingers in\n    our hearts, because still in our minds the voice of\n    Syrinx lingers in melancholy music, the music of regret\n    and longing, that for most of us there is so potent a\n    spell in running waters?\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\n\nAs the evening shadows lengthen, and the night wind softly steals\nthrough the trees, touching with restless fingers the still waters of\nthe little lochans that would fain have rest, there can be heard a\nlong, long whisper, like a sigh. There is no softer, sadder note to be\nheard in all Pan's great orchestra, nor can one marvel that it should\nbe so, for the whisper comes from the reeds who gently sway their\nheads while the wind passes over them as they grow by lonely lake or\nriver.\n\nThis is the story of Syrinx, the reed, as Ovid has told it to us.\n\nIn Arcadia there dwelt a nymph whose name was Syrinx. So fair she was\nthat for her dear sake fauns and satyrs forgot to gambol, and sat in\nthe green woods in thoughtful stillness, that they might see her as\nshe passed. But for none of them had Syrinx a word of kindness. She\nhad no wish for love.\n\n    \"But as for Love, truly I know him not,\n    I have passionately turned my lips therefrom,\n    And from that fate the careless gods allot.\"\n\n        Lady Margaret Sackville.\n\nTo one only of the gods did she give her loyal allegiance. She\nworshipped Diana, and with her followed the chase. As she lightly sped\nthrough the forest she might have been Diana herself, and there were\nthose who said they would not know nymph from goddess, but that the\ngoddess carried a silver bow, while that of Syrinx was made of horn.\nFearless, and without a care or sorrow, Syrinx passed her happy days.\nNot for all the gold of Midas would she have changed places with those\nlove-lorn nymphs who sighed their hearts out for love of a god or of a\nman. Heartwhole, fancy free, gay and happy and lithe and strong, as a\nyoung boy whose joy it is to run and to excel in the chase, was\nSyrinx, whose white arms against the greenwood trees dazzled the eyes\nof the watching fauns when she drew back her bow to speed an arrow at\nthe stag she had hunted since early dawn. Each morning that she awoke\nwas the morning of a day of joy; each night that she lay down to rest,\nit was to sleep as a child who smiles in his sleep at the remembrance\nof a perfect day.\n\nBut to Syrinx, who knew no fear, Fear came at last. She was returning\none evening from the shadowy hills, untired by the chase that had\nlasted for many an hour, when, face to face, she met with one whom\nhitherto she had only seen from afar. Of him the other nymphs spoke\noften. Who was so great as Pan?--Pan, who ruled the woods. None could\nstand against Pan. Those who defied him must ever come under his power\nin the end. He was Fear; he was Youth; he was Joy; he was Love; he was\nBeast; he was Power; he was Man; he was God. He was Life itself. So\ndid they talk, and Syrinx listened with a smile. Not Pan himself could\nbring Fear to her.\n\nYet when he met her in the silent loneliness of a great forest and\nstood in her path and gazed on her with eyes of joyous amazement that\none so fair should be in his kingdom without his having had knowledge\nof it, Syrinx felt something come to her heart that never before had\nassailed it.\n\nPan's head was crowned with sharp pine-leaves. His face was young and\nbeautiful, and yet older than the mountains and the seas. Sadness and\njoy were in his eyes at the same time, and at the same moment there\nlooked out from them unutterable tenderness and merciless cruelty. For\nonly a little space of time did he stand and hold her eyes with his\nown, and then in low caressing voice he spoke, and his words were like\nthe song of a bird to his mate, like the call of the earth to the sun\nin spring, like the lap of the waves when they tell the rocks of their\neternal longing. Of love he spoke, of love that demanded love, and of\nthe nymph's most perfect beauty. Yet as he spoke, the unknown thing\ncame and smote with icy hands the heart of Syrinx.\n\n\"Ah! I have Fear! I have Fear!\" she cried, and more cruel grew the\ncruelty in the eyes of Pan, but his words were still the words of\npassionate tenderness. Like a bird that trembles, helpless, before the\nserpent that would slay it, so did Syrinx the huntress stand, and her\nface in the shade of the forest was like a white lily in the night.\nBut when the god would have drawn her close to him and kissed her red\nlips, Fear leapt to Terror, and Terror winged her feet. Never in the\nchase with Diana had she run as now she ran. But like a rushing storm\ndid Pan pursue her, and when he laughed she knew that what the nymphs\nhad said was true--he was Power--he was Fear--he was Beast--he was\nLife itself. The darkness of the forest swiftly grew more dark. The\nclimbing trails of ivy and the fragrant creeping plants caught her\nflying feet and made her stumble. Branches and twigs grew alive and\nsnatched at her and baulked her as she passed. Trees blocked her path.\nAll Nature had grown cruel, and everywhere there seemed to her to be a\nmurmur of mocking laughter, laughter from the creatures of Pan,\nechoing the merciless merriment of their lord and master. Nearer he\ncame, ever nearer. Almost she could feel his breath on her neck; but\neven as he stretched out his arms to seize the nymph whose breath came\nwith sobs like that of a young doe spent by the chase, they reached\nthe brink of the river Ladon. And to her \"watery sisters\" the nymphs\nof the river, Syrinx breathed a desperate prayer for pity and for\nhelp, then stumbled forward, a quarry run to the death.\n\nWith an exultant shout, Pan grasped her as she fell. And lo, in his\narms he held no exquisite body with fiercely beating heart, but a\nclump of slender reeds. Baffled he stood for a little space, and, as\nhe stood, the savagery of the beast faded from his eyes that were\nfathomless as dark mountain tarns where the sun-rays seldom come, and\nthere came into them a man's unutterable woe. At the reeds by the\nriver he gazed, and sighed a great sigh, the sigh that comes from the\nheart of a god who thinks of the pain of the world. Like a gentle\nzephyr the sigh breathed through the reeds, and from the reeds there\ncame a sound as of the sobbing sorrow of the world's desire. Then Pan\ndrew his sharp knife, and with it he cut seven of the reeds that grew\nby the murmuring river.\n\n\"Thus shalt thou still be mine, my Syrinx,\" he said.\n\nDeftly he bound them together, cut them into unequal lengths, and\nfashioned for himself an instrument, that to this day is called the\nSyrinx, or Pan's Pipes.\n\nSo did the god make music.\n\nAnd all that night he sat by the swift-flowing river, and the music\nfrom his pipe of reeds was so sweet and yet so passing sad, that it\nseemed as though the very heart of the earth itself were telling of\nits sadness. Thus Syrinx still lives--still dies:\n\n    \"A note of music by its own breath slain,\n    Blown tenderly from the frail heart of a reed,\"\n\nand as the evening light comes down on silent places and the trembling\nshadows fall on the water, we can hear her mournful whisper through\nthe swaying reeds, brown and silvery-golden, that grow by lonely\nlochan and lake and river.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF ADONIS\n\n    \"The fairest youth that ever maiden's dream conceived.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\n\nThe ideally beautiful woman, a subject throughout the centuries for\nall the greatest powers of sculptor's and painter's art, is Venus, or\nAphrodite, goddess of beauty and of love. And he who shares with her\nan unending supremacy of perfection of form is not one of the gods,\nher equals, but a mortal lad, who was the son of a king.\n\nAs Aphrodite sported one day with Eros, the little god of love, by\naccident she wounded herself with one of his arrows. And straightway\nthere came into her heart a strange longing and an ache such as the\nmortal victims of the bow of Eros knew well. While still the ache\nremained, she heard, in a forest of Cyprus, the baying of hounds and\nthe shouts of those who urged them on in the chase. For her the chase\npossessed no charms, and she stood aside while the quarry burst\nthrough the branches and thick undergrowth of the wood, and the hounds\nfollowed in hot pursuit. But she drew her breath sharply, and her eyes\nopened wide in amazed gladness, when she looked on the perfect beauty\nof the fleet-footed hunter, who was only a little less swift than the\nshining spear that sped from his hand with the sureness of a bolt from\nthe hand of Zeus. And she knew that this must be none other than\nAdonis, son of the king of Paphos, of whose matchless beauty she had\nheard not only the dwellers on earth, but the Olympians themselves\nspeak in wonder. While gods and men were ready to pay homage to his\nmarvellous loveliness, to Adonis himself it counted for nothing. But\nin the vigour of his perfect frame he rejoiced; in his fleetness of\nfoot, in the power of that arm that Michael Angelo has modelled, in\nthe quickness and sureness of his aim, for the boy was a mighty hunter\nwith a passion for the chase.\n\nAphrodite felt that her heart was no longer her own, and knew that the\nwound that the arrow of Eros had dealt would never heal until she knew\nthat Adonis loved her. No longer was she to be found by the Cytherian\nshores or in those places once held by her most dear, and the other\ngods smiled when they beheld her vying with Diana in the chase and\nfollowing Adonis as he pursued the roe, the wolf, and the wild boar\nthrough the dark forest and up the mountain side. The pride of the\ngoddess of love must often have hung its head. For her love was a\nthing that Adonis could not understand. He held her \"Something better\nthan his dog, a little dearer than his horse,\" and wondered at her\nwhim to follow his hounds through brake and marsh and lonely forest.\nHis reckless courage was her pride and her torture. Because he was to\nher so infinitely dear, his path seemed ever bestrewn with dangers.\nBut when she spoke to him with anxious warning and begged him to\nbeware of the fierce beasts that might one day turn on him and bring\nhim death, the boy laughed mockingly and with scorn.\n\nThere came at last a day when she asked him what he did on the morrow,\nand Adonis told her with sparkling eyes that had no heed for her\nbeauty, that he had word of a wild boar, larger, older, more fierce\nthan any he had ever slain, and which, before the chariot of Diana\nnext passed over the land of Cyprus, would be lying dead with a\nspear-wound through it.\n\nWith terrible foreboding, Aphrodite tried to dissuade him from his\nventure.\n\n    \"O, be advised: thou know'st not what it is\n    With javelin's point a churlish swine to gore,\n    Whose tushes never sheathed he whetteth still,\n    Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    Alas, he naught esteems that face of thine,\n    To which love's eyes pay tributary gazes;\n    Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne,\n    Whose full perfection all the world amazes;\n    But having thee at vantage--wondrous dread!--\n    Would root these beauties as he roots the mead.\"\n\n        Shakespeare.\n\nTo all her warnings, Adonis would but give smiles. Ill would it become\nhim to slink abashed away before the fierceness of an old monster of\nthe woods, and, laughing in the pride of a whole-hearted boy at a\nwoman's idle fears, he sped homewards with his hounds.\n\nWith the gnawing dread of a mortal woman in her soul, Aphrodite spent\nthe next hours. Early she sought the forest that she might again plead\nwith Adonis, and maybe persuade him, for love of her, to give up the\nperilous chase because she loved him so.\n\nBut even as the rosy gates of the Dawn were opening, Adonis had begun\nhis hunt, and from afar off the goddess could hear the baying of his\nhounds. Yet surely their clamour was not that of hounds in full cry,\nnor was it the triumphant noise that they so fiercely make as they\npull down their vanquished quarry, but rather was it baying, mournful\nas that of the hounds of Hecate. Swift as a great bird, Aphrodite\nreached the spot from whence came the sound that made her tremble.\n\nAmidst the trampled brake, where many a hound lay stiff and dead,\nwhile others, disembowelled by the tusks of the boar, howled aloud in\nmortal agony, lay Adonis. As he lay, he \"knew the strange, slow chill\nwhich, stealing, tells the young that it is death.\"\n\nAnd as, _in extremis_, he thought of past things, manhood came to\nAdonis and he knew something of the meaning of the love of\nAphrodite--a love stronger than life, than time, than death itself.\nHis hounds and his spear seemed but playthings now. Only the\neternities remained--bright Life, and black-robed Death.\n\nVery still he lay, as though he slept; marble-white, and beautiful as\na statue wrought by the hand of a god. But from the cruel wound in the\nwhite thigh, ripped open by the boar's profaning tusk, the red blood\ndripped, in rhythmic flow, crimsoning the green moss under him. With a\nmoan of unutterable anguish, Aphrodite threw herself beside him, and\npillowed his dear head in her tender arms. Then, for a little while,\nlife's embers flickered up, his cold lips tried to form themselves\ninto a smile of understanding and held themselves up to hers. And,\nwhile they kissed, the soul of Adonis passed away.\n\n    \"A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath Adonis, but a\n    deeper wound in her heart doth Cytherea[6] bear. About\n    him his dear hounds are loudly baying, and the nymphs of\n    the wild woods wail him; but Aphrodite with unbound\n    locks through the glades goes wandering--wretched, with\n    hair unbraided, with feet unsandalled, and the thorns as\n    she passes wound her and pluck the blossom of her sacred\n    blood. Shrill she wails as down the woodland she is\n    borne.... And the rivers bewail the sorrows of\n    Aphrodite, and the wells are weeping Adonis on the\n    mountains. The flowers flush red for anguish, and\n    Cytherea through all the mountain-knees, through every\n    dell doth utter piteous dirge:\n\n    \"'_Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely\n    Adonis!_'\"\n\n        Bion.\n\nPassionately the god besought Zeus to give her back her lost love, and\nwhen there was no answer to her prayers, she cried in bitterness: \"Yet\nshall I keep a memorial of Adonis that shall be to all everlasting!\"\nAnd, as she spoke, her tears and his blood, mingling together, were\nturned into flowers.\n\n\"A tear the Paphian sheds for each blood-drop of Adonis, and tears and\nblood on the earth are turned to flowers. The blood brings forth the\nroses, the tears, the wind-flower.\"\n\nYet, even then, the grief of Aphrodite knew no abatement. And when\nZeus, wearied with her crying, heard her, to his amazement, beg to be\nallowed to go down to the Shades that she might there endure eternal\ntwilight with the one of her heart, his soul was softened.\n\n\"Never can it be that the Queen of Love and of Beauty leaves Olympus\nand the pleasant earth to tread for evermore the dark Cocytus valley,\"\nhe said. \"Nay, rather shall I permit the beauteous youth of thy love\nto return for half of each year from the Underworld that thou and he\nmay together know the joy of a love that hath reached fruition.\"\n\nThus did it come to pass that when dark winter's gloom was past,\nAdonis returned to the earth and to the arms of her who loved him.\n\n    \"But even in death, so strong is love,\n    I could not wholly die; and year by year,\n    When the bright springtime comes, and the earth lives,\n    Love opens these dread gates, and calls me forth\n    Across the gulf. Not here, indeed, she comes,\n    Being a goddess and in heaven, but smooths\n    My path to the old earth, where still I know\n    Once more the sweet lost days, and once again\n    Blossom on that soft breast, and am again\n    A youth, and rapt in love; and yet not all\n    As careless as of yore; but seem to know\n    The early spring of passion, tamed by time\n    And suffering, to a calmer, fuller flow,\n    Less fitful, but more strong.\"\n\n        Lewis Morris.\n\nAnd when the time of the singing of birds has come, and the flowers\nhave thrown off their white snow pall, and the brown earth grows\nradiant in its adornments of green blade and of fragrant blossom, we\nknow that Adonis has returned from his exile, and trace his footprints\nby the fragile flower that is his very own, the white flower with the\ngolden heart, that trembles in the wind as once the white hands of a\ngrief-stricken goddess shook for sorrow.\n\n\"The flower of Death\" is the name that the Chinese give to the\nwind-flower--the wood-anemone. Yet surely the flower that was born of\ntears and of blood tells us of a life that is beyond the grave--of a\nlove which is unending.\n\nThe cruel tusk of a rough, remorseless winter still yearly slays the\n\"lovely Adonis\" and drives him down to the Shades. Yet we know that\nSpring, with its _Sursum Corda_, will return as long as the earth\nshall endure; even as the sun must rise each day so long as time shall\nlast, to make\n\n    \"Le ciel tout en fleur semble une immense rose\n    Qu'un Adonis celeste a teinte de son sang.\"\n\n        De Heredia.\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[6] Aphrodite.\n\n\n\n\nPAN\n\n    \"What was he doing, the great god Pan,\n      Down in the reeds by the river?\n    Spreading ruin and scattering ban,\n    Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,\n    And breaking the golden lilies afloat\n      With the dragon-fly on the river.\n\n    He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,\n      From the deep cool bed of the river:\n    The limpid water turbidly ran,\n    And the broken lilies a-dying lay,\n    And the dragon-fly had fled away,\n      Ere he brought it out of the river.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    'This is the way,' laughed the great god Pan\n      (Laughed while he sat by the river),\n    'The only way, since gods began\n    To make sweet music, they could succeed.'\n    Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,\n      He blew in power by the river.\n\n    Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!\n      Piercing sweet by the river!\n    Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!\n    The sun on the hill forgot to die,\n    And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly\n      Came back to dream on the river.\n\n    Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,\n      To laugh as he sits by the river,\n    Making a poet out of a man:\n    The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,\n    For the reed which grows nevermore again\n      As a reed with the reeds in the river.\"\n\n        E. B. Browning.\n\n\nWere we to take the whole of that immense construction of fable that\nwas once the religion of Greece, and treat it as a vast play in which\nthere were many thousands of actors, we should find that one of these\nactors appeared again and again. In one scene, then in another, in\nconnection with one character, then with another, unexpectedly\nslipping out from the shadows of the trees from the first act even to\nthe last, we should see Pan--so young and yet so old, so heedlessly\ngay, yet so infinitely sad.\n\nIf, rather, we were to regard the mythology of Greece as a colossal\nand wonderful piece of music, where the thunders of Jupiter and the\nharsh hoof-beats of the fierce black steeds of Pluto, the king whose\ncoming none can stay, made way for the limpid melodies of Orpheus and\nthe rustling whisper of the footfall of nymphs and of fauns on the\nleaves, through it all we should have an ever-recurring _motif_--the\nclear, magical fluting of the pipes of Pan.\n\nWe have the stories of Pan and of Echo, of Pan and of Midas, of Pan\nand Syrinx, of Pan and Selene, of Pan and Pitys, of Pan and Pomona.\nPan it was who taught Apollo how to make music. It was Pan who spoke\nwhat he deemed to be comfort to the distraught Psyche; Pan who gave\nDiana her hounds. The other gods had their own special parts in the\ngreat play that at one time would have Olympus for stage, at another\nthe earth. Pan was Nature incarnate. He was the Earth itself.\n\nMany are the stories of his genealogy, but the one that is given in\none of the Homeric hymns is that Hermes, the swift-footed young god,\nwedded Dryope, the beautiful daughter of a shepherd in Arcadia, and\nto them was born, under the greenwood tree, the infant, Pan. When\nDryope first looked on her child, she was smitten with horror, and\nfled away from him. The deserted baby roared lustily, and when his\nfather, Hermes, examined him he found a rosy-cheeked thing with prick\nears and tiny horns that grew amongst his thick curls, and with the\ndappled furry chest of a faun, while instead of dimpled baby legs he\nhad the strong, hairy hind legs of a goat. He was a fearless creature,\nand merry withal, and when Hermes had wrapped him up in a hare skin,\nhe sped to Olympus and showed his fellow-gods the son that had been\nborn to him and the beautiful nymph of the forest. Baby though he was,\nPan made the Olympians laugh. He had only made a woman, his own\nmother, cry; all others rejoiced at the new creature that had come to\nincrease their merriment. And Bacchus, who loved him most of all, and\nfelt that here was a babe after his own heart, bestowed on him the\nname by which he was forever known--Pan, meaning _All_.\n\nThus Pan grew up, the earthly equal of the Olympians, and, as he grew,\nhe took to himself the lordship of woods and of solitary places. He\nwas king of huntsmen and of fishermen, lord of flocks and herds and of\nall the wild creatures of the forest. All living, soulless things\nowned him their master; even the wild bees claimed him as their\noverlord. He was ever merry, and when a riot of music and of laughter\nslew the stillness of the shadowy woods, it was Pan who led the\ndancing throng of white-limbed nymphs and gambolling satyrs, for whom\nhe made melody from the pipes for whose creation a maid had perished.\n\nRound his horns and thick curls he presently came to wear a crown of\nsharp pine-leaves, remembrance of another fair nymph whose destruction\nhe had brought about.\n\nPitys listened to the music of Pan, and followed him even as the\nchildren followed the Pied Piper of later story. And ever his playing\nlured her further on and into more dangerous and desolate places,\nuntil at length she stood on the edge of a high cliff whose pitiless\nfront rushed sheer down to cruel rocks far below. There Pan's music\nceased, and Pitys knew all the joy and the sorrow of the world as the\ngod held out his arms to embrace her. But neither Pan nor Pitys had\nremembrance of Boreas, the merciless north wind, whose love the nymph\nhad flouted.\n\nEre Pan could touch her, a blast, fierce and strong as death, had\nseized the nymph's fragile body, and as a wind of March tears from the\ntree the first white blossom that has dared to brave the ruthless\ngales, and casts it, torn and dying, to the earth, so did Boreas grip\nthe slender Pitys and dash her life out on the rocks far down below.\nFrom her body sprang the pine tree, slender, erect, clinging for dear\nlife to the sides of precipices, and by the prickly wreath he always\nwore, Pan showed that he held her in fond remembrance.\n\nJoy, and youth, and force, and spring, was Pan to all the creatures\nwhose overlord he was. Pan meant the richness of the sap in the trees,\nthe lushness of grass and of the green stems of the blue hyacinths and\nthe golden daffodils; the throbbing of growth in the woodland and in\nthe meadows; the trilling of birds that seek for their mates and find\nthem; the coo of the doves on their nests of young; the arrogant\nvirility of bulls and of stags whose lowing and belling wake the\nsilence of the hills; the lightness of heart that made the nymphs\ndance and sing, the fauns leap high, and shout aloud for very joy of\nliving. All of these things was Pan to those of his own kingdom.\n\nYet to the human men and women who had also listened to his playing,\nPan did not mean only joyousness. He was to them a force that many\ntimes became a terror because of its sheer irresistibleness.\n\nWhile the sun shone and the herdsmen could see the nodding white\ncotton-grass, the asphodel, and the golden kingcups that hid the black\ndeath-traps of the pitiless marshes, they had no fear of Pan. Nor in\nthe daytime, when in the woods the sunbeams played amongst the trees\nand the birds sang of Spring and of love, and the syrinx sent an echo\nfrom far away that made the little silver birches give a whispering\nlaugh of gladness and the pines cease to sigh, did man or maid have\nany fear. Yet when darkness fell on the land, terror would come with\nit, and, deep in their hearts, they would know that the terror was\nPan. Blindly, madly, they would flee from something that they could\nnot see, something they could barely hear, and many times rush to\ntheir own destruction. And there would be no sweet sound of music\nthen, only mocking laughter. _Panic_ was the name given to this\nfear--the name by which it still is known. And, to this day, panic\nyet comes, and not only by night, but only in very lonely places.\nThere are those who have known it, and for shame have scarce dared to\nown it, in highland glens, in the loneliness of an island in the\nwestern sea, in a green valley amongst the \"solemn, kindly,\nround-backed hills\" of the Scottish Border, in the remoteness of the\nAustralian bush. They have no reasons to give--or their reasons are\nfar-fetched. Only, to them as to Mowgli, _Fear_ came, and the fear\nseemed to them to come from a malignant something from which they must\nmake all haste to flee, did they value safety of mind and of body. Was\nit for this reason that the Roman legionaries on the Great Wall so\noften reared altars in that lonely land of moor and mountain where so\nmany of them fought and died--\n\n    \"_To Pan, and to the Sylvan deities_\"?\n\nFor surely Pan was there, where the curlew cried and the pewit\nmourned, and sometimes the waiting soldiers must almost have imagined\nhis mocking laughter borne in the winds that swept across the bleak\nhills of their exiled solitude.\n\nHe who was surely one of the bravest of mankind, one who always, in\nhis own words, \"clung to his paddle,\" writes of such a fear when he\nescaped death by drowning from the Oise in flood.\n\n\"The devouring element in the universe had leaped out against me, in\nthis green valley quickened by a running stream. The bells were all\nvery pretty in their way, but I had heard some of the hollow notes of\nPan's music. Would the wicked river drag me down by the heels,\nindeed? and look so beautiful all the time? Nature's good humour was\nonly skin-deep, after all.\"\n\nAnd of the reeds he writes: \"Pan once played upon their forefathers;\nand so, by the hands of his river, he still plays upon these later\ngenerations down all the valley of the Oise; and plays the same air,\nboth sweet and shrill, to tell us of the beauty and the terror of the\nworld.\"\n\n\"_The Beauty and the terror of the world_\"--was not this what Pan\nstood for to the Greeks of long ago?\n\nThe gladness of living, the terror of living--the exquisite joy and\nthe infinite pain--that has been the possession of Pan--for we have\nnot yet found a more fitting title--since ever time began. And because\nPan is as he is, from him has evolved a higher Pantheism. We have done\naway with his goat's feet and his horns, although these were handed on\nfrom him to Satan when Christianity broke down the altars of Paganism.\n\n\"Nature, which is the Time-vesture of God and reveals Him to the wise,\nhides Him from the foolish,\" writes Carlyle. Pan is Nature, and Nature\nis not the ugly thing that the Calvinists would once have had us\nbelieve it to be. Nature is capable of being made the garment of God.\n\n    \"In Being's floods, in Action's storm,\n    I walk and work, above, beneath,\n    Work and weave in endless motion!\n            Birth and Death,\n            An infinite ocean;\n            A seizing and giving\n            The fire of Living;\n    'Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply,\n    And weave for God the Garment thou seest Him by.\"\n\nSo speaks the _Erdgeist_ in Goethe's _Faust_, and yet another of the\ngreatest of the poets writes:\n\n    \"The sun, the moon, the stars, the seas, the hills and the plains--\n    Are not these, O Soul, the Vision of Him who reigns?\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    And the ear of man cannot hear, and the eye of man cannot see;\n    But if we could see and hear, this Vision--were it not He?\"\n\n        Tennyson.\n\nCarlyle says that \"The whole universe is the Garment of God,\" and he\nwho lives very close to Nature must, at least once in a lifetime,\ncome, in the solitude of the lonely mountain tops, upon that bush that\nburns and is not yet consumed, and out of the midst of which speaks\nthe voice of the Eternal.\n\nThe immortal soul--the human body--united, yet ever in conflict--that\nis Pan. The sighing and longing for things that must endure\neverlastingly--the riotous enjoyment of the beauty of life--the\nperfect appreciation of the things that are. Life is so real, so\nstrong, so full of joyousness and of beauty,--and on the other side of\na dark stream, cold, menacing, cruel, stands Death. Yet Life and Death\nmake up the sum of existence, and until we, who live our paltry little\nlives here on earth in the hope of a Beyond, can realise what is the\ntrue air that is played on those pipes of Pan, there is no hope for us\nof even a vague comprehension of the illimitable Immortality.\n\nIt is a very old tale that tells us of the passing of Pan. In the\nreign of Tiberius, on that day when, on the hill of Calvary, at\nJerusalem in Syria, Jesus Christ died as a malefactor, on the\ncross--\"And it was about the sixth hour, and there was a darkness all\nover the earth\"--Thamus, an Egyptian pilot, was guiding a ship near\nthe islands of Paxae in the Ionian Sea; and to him came a great voice,\nsaying, \"Go! make everywhere the proclamation, _Great Pan is dead!_\"\n\nAnd from the poop of his ship, when, in great heaviness of heart,\nbecause for him the joy of the world seemed to have passed away,\nThamus had reached Palodes, he shouted aloud the words that he had\nbeen told. Then, from all the earth there arose a sound of great\nlamentation, and the sea and the trees, the hills, and all the\ncreatures of Pan sighed in sobbing unison an echo of the pilot's\nwords--\"_Pan is dead--Pan is dead._\"\n\n    \"The lonely mountains o'er\n    And the resounding shore,\n    A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament;\n    From haunted spring and dale\n    Edg'd with poplar pale,\n    The parting genius is with sighing sent;\n    With flow'r-inwoven tresses torn,\n    The Nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.\"\n\n        Milton.\n\nPan was dead, and the gods died with him.\n\n    \"Gods of Hellas, gods of Hellas,\n    Can ye listen in your silence?\n    Can your mystic voices tell us\n    Where ye hide? In floating islands,\n    With a wind that evermore\n    Keeps you out of sight of shore?\n          Pan, Pan is dead.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    Gods! we vainly do adjure you,--\n    Ye return nor voice nor sign!\n    Not a votary could secure you\n    Even a grave for your Divine!\n    Not a grave to show thereby,\n    '_Here these grey old gods do lie,_'\n          Pan, Pan is dead.\"\n\n        E. B. Browning.\n\nPan is dead. In the old Hellenistic sense Pan is gone forever. Yet\nuntil Nature has ceased to be, the thing we call Pan must remain a\nliving entity. Some there be who call his music, when he makes all\nhumanity dance to his piping, \"_Joie de vivre_,\" and De Musset speaks\nof \"_Le vin de la jeunesse_\" which ferments \"_dans les veines de\nDieu_.\" It is Pan who inspires Seumas, the old islander, of whom Fiona\nMacleod writes, and who, looking towards the sea at sunrise, says,\n\"Every morning like this I take my hat off to the beauty of the\nworld.\"\n\nHalf of the flesh and half of the spirit is Pan. There are some who\nhave never come into contact with him, who know him only as the emblem\nof Paganism, a cruel thing, more beast than man, trampling, with\ngoat's feet, on the gentlest flowers of spring. They know not the\nmeaning of \"the Green Fire of Life,\" nor have they ever known Pan's\nmoods of tender sadness. Never to them has come in the forest, where\nthe great grey trunks of the beeches rise from a carpet of primroses\nand blue hyacinths, and the slender silver beeches are the guardian\nangels of the starry wood-anemones, and the sunbeams slant through the\noak and beech leaves of tender green and play on the dead amber leaves\nof a year that is gone, the whisper of little feet that cannot be\nseen, the piercing sweet music from very far away, that fills the\nheart with gladness and yet with a strange pain--the ache of the\n_Weltschmerz_--the echo of the pipes of Pan.\n\n    \"... Oftenest in the dark woods I hear him sing\n    Dim, half-remembered things, where the old mosses cling\n    To the old trees, and the faint wandering eddies bring\n    The phantom echoes of a phantom spring.\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\n\n\n\nLORELEI\n\n    \"Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,\n    Dass ich so traurig bin;\n    Ein Maerchen aus alten Zeiten,\n    Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    Die schoenste Jungfrau sitzet\n    Dort oben wunderbar,\n    Ihr gold'nes Geschmeide blitzet,\n    Sie kaemmt ihr gold'nes Haar.\n\n    Sie kaemmt es mit gold'nem Kamme,\n    Und singt ein Lied dabei;\n    Das hat eine wundersame,\n    Gewaltige Melodei.\"\n\n        Heine.\n\n\nIn every land, North and South, East and West, from sea to sea, myth\nand legend hand down to us as cruel and malignant creatures, who\nceaselessly seek to slay man's body and to destroy his soul, the\nhalf-human children of the restless sea and of the fiercely running\nstreams.\n\nIn Scotland and in Australia, in every part of Europe, we have tales\nof horrible formless things which frequent lonely rivers and lochs and\nmarshes, and to meet which must mean Death. And equal in malignity\nwith them, and infinitely more dangerous, are the beautiful beings who\nwould seem to claim descent from Lilith, the soulless wife of Adam.\n\nSuch were the sirens who would have compassed the destruction of\nOdysseus. Such are the mermaids, to wed with one of whom must bring\nunutterable woe upon any of the sons of men. In lonely far-off places\nby the sea there still are tales of exquisite melodies heard in the\ngloaming, or at night when the moon makes a silver pathway across the\nwater; still are there stories of women whose home is in the depths of\nthe ocean, and who come to charm away men's souls by their beauty and\nby their pitiful longing for human love.\n\nThose who have looked on the yellow-green waters of the Seine, or who\nhave seen the more turbid, more powerful Thames sweeping her serious,\nmajestic way down towards the open ocean, at Westminster, or at London\nBridge, can perhaps realise something of that inwardness of things\nthat made the people of the past, and that makes the mentally\nuncontrolled people of the present, feel a fateful power calling upon\nthem to listen to the insistence of the exacting waters, and to\nsurrender their lives and their souls forever to a thing that called\nand which would brook no denial. In the Morgue, or in a mortuary by\nthe river-side, their poor bodies have lain when the rivers have\nworked their will with them, and \"Suicide,\" \"Death by drowning,\" or\n\"By Misadventure\" have been the verdicts given. We live in a too\npractical, too utterly common-sensical age to conceive a poor woman\nwith nothing on earth left to live for, being lured down to the Shades\nby a creature of the water, or a man who longs for death seeing a\nbeautiful daughter of a river-god beckoning to him to come where he\nwill find peace everlasting.\n\nYet ever we war with the sea. All of us know her seductive charm, but\nall of us fear her. The boundary line between our fear of the fierce,\nremorseless, ever-seeking, cruel waves that lap up life swiftly as a\nthirsty beast laps water, and the old belief in cruel sea-creatures\nthat sought constantly for the human things that were to be their\nprey, is a very narrow one. And once we have seen the sea in a rage,\nflinging herself in terrible anger against the poor, frail toy that\nthe hands of men have made and that was intended to rule and to resist\nher, foaming and frothing over the decks of the thing that carries\nhuman lives, we can understand much of the old pagan belief. If one\nhas watched a river in spate, red as with blood, rushing triumphantly\nover all resistance, smashing down the trees that baulk it, sweeping\naway each poor, helpless thing, brute or human, that it encounters,\ndealing out ruin and death, and proceeding superbly on to carry its\ntrophies of disaster to the bosom of the Ocean Mother, very easy is it\nto see from whence came those old tales of cruelty, of irresistible\nstrength, of desire.\n\nMany are the tales of sea-maidens who have stolen men's lives from\nthem and sent their bodies to move up and down amidst the wrack, like\nbroken toys with which a child has grown tired of playing and cast\naway in weariness. In an eighth-century chronicle concerning St.\nFechin, we read of evil powers whose rage is \"seen in that watery fury\nand their hellish hate and turbulence in the beating of the sea\nagainst the rocks.\" \"The bitter gifts of our lord Poseidon\" is the\nname given to them by one of the earliest poets of Greece[7] and a\npoet of our own time--poet of the sea, of running water, and of lonely\nplaces--quotes from the saying of a fisherman of the isle of Ulva\nwords that show why simple minds have so many times materialised the\nrestless, devouring element into the form of a woman who is very\nbeautiful, but whose tender mercies are very cruel. \"She is like a\nwoman of the old tales whose beauty is dreadful,\" said Seumas, the\nislander, \"and who breaks your heart at last whether she smiles or\nfrowns. But she doesn't care about that, or whether you are hurt or\nnot. It's because she has no heart, being all a wild water.\"[8]\n\nTreacherous, beautiful, remorseless, that is how men regard the sea\nand the rushing rivers, of whom the sirens and mermaids of old\ntradition have come to stand as symbols. Treacherous and pitiless, yet\nwith a fascination that can draw even the moon and the stars to her\nbreast:\n\n    \"Once I sat upon a promontory,\n    And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back,\n    Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath,\n    That the rude sea grew civil at her song;\n    And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,\n    To hear the sea-maid's music.\"\n\n        Shakespeare.\n\nVery many are the stories of the women of the sea and of the rivers,\nbut that one who must forever hold her own, because Heine has\nimmortalised her in song, is the river maiden of the Rhine--the\nLorelei.\n\nNear St. Goar, there rises out of the waters of the Rhine a\nperpendicular rock, some four hundred feet high. Many a boatman in\nbygone days there met his death, and the echo which it possesses is\nstill a mournful one. Those who know the great river, under which lies\nhid the treasure of the Nibelungs, with its \"gleaming towns by the\nriver-side and the green vineyards combed along the hills,\" and who\nhave felt the romance of the rugged crags, crowned by ruined castles,\nthat stand like fantastic and very ancient sentries to guard its\nchannel, can well understand how easy of belief was the legend of the\nLorelei.\n\nDown the green waters came the boatman's frail craft, ever drawing\nnearer to the perilous rock. All his care and all his skill were\nrequired to avert a very visible danger. But high above him, from the\nrock round which the swirling eddies splashed and foamed, there came a\nvoice.\n\n    \"Her voice was like the voice the stars\n    Had when they sang together.\"\n\nAnd when the boatman looked up at the sound of such sweet music, he\nbeheld a maiden more fair than any he had ever dreamed of. On the rock\nshe sat, combing her long golden hair with a comb of red gold. Her\nlimbs were white as foam and her eyes green like the emerald green of\nthe rushing river. And her red lips smiled on him and her arms were\nheld out to him in welcome, and the sound of her song thrilled through\nthe heart of him who listened, and her eyes drew his soul to her arms.\n\nForgotten was all peril. The rushing stream seized the little boat\nand did with it as it willed. And while the boatman still gazed\nupwards, intoxicated by her matchless beauty and the magic of her\nvoice, his boat was swept against the rock, and, with the jar and\ncrash, knowledge came back to him, and he heard, with broken heart,\nthe mocking laughter of the Lorelei as he was dragged down as if by a\nthousand icy hands, and, with a choking sigh, surrendered his life to\nthe pitiless river.\n\nTo one man only was it granted to see the siren so near that he could\nhold her little, cold, white hands, and feel the wondrous golden hair\nsweep across his eyes. This was a young fisherman, who met her by the\nriver and listened to the entrancing songs that she sang for him\nalone. Each evening she would tell him where to cast his nets on the\nmorrow, and he prospered greatly and was a marvel to all others who\nfished in the waters of the Rhine. But there came an evening when he\nwas seen joyously hastening down the river bank in response to the\nvoice of the Lorelei, that surely never had sounded so honey-sweet\nbefore, and he came back nevermore. They said that the Lorelei had\ndragged him down to her coral caves that he might live with her there\nforever, and, if it were not so, the rushing water could never whisper\nher secret and theirs, of a lifeless plaything that they swept\nseawards, and that wore a look of horror and of great wonder in its\ndead, wide-open eyes.\n\nIt is \"ein Maerchen aus alten Zeiten\"--a legend of long ago.\n\nBut it is a very much older _Maerchen_ that tells us of the warning of\nCirce to Odysseus:\n\n\"To the Sirens first shalt thou come, who bewitch all men, whosoever\nshall come to them. Whoso draws nigh them unwittingly and hears the\nsound of the Siren's voice, never doth he see wife or babes stand by\nhim on his return, nor have they joy at his coming; but the Sirens\nenchant him with their clear song.\"\n\nAnd until there shall be no more sea and the rivers have ceased to\nrun, the enchantment that comes from the call of the water to the\nhearts of men must go on. Day by day the toll of lives is paid, and\nstill the cruel daughters of the deep remain unsatisfied. We can hear\ntheir hungry whimper from the rushing river through the night, and the\nwaves of the sea that thunders along the coast would seem to voice the\ninsistence of their desire. And we who listen to their ceaseless,\nrestless moan can say with Heine:\n\n    \"_Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,_\n    _Dass ich so traurig bin._\"\n\nFor the sadness of heart, the melancholy that their music brings us is\na mystery which none on this earth may ever unravel.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[7] Archilochus of Paros.\n\n[8] Fiona Macleod (_The Winged Destiny_).\n\n\n\n\nFREYA, QUEEN OF THE NORTHERN GODS\n\n\n\"Friday's bairn is loving and giving,\" says the old rhyme that sets\nforth the special qualities of the children born on each day of the\nweek, and to the superstitious who regard Friday as a day of evil\nomen, it seems strange that Friday's bairn should be so blessed. But\nthey forget that before Christianity swept paganism before it, and\ntaught those who worshipped the northern gods the story of that first\nblack \"Good Friday,\" the tragedy in which all humanity was involved,\nFriday was the day of Freya, \"The Beloved,\" gentle protectress, and\nmost generous giver of all joys, delights, and pleasures. From her, in\nmediaeval times, the high-born women who acted as dispensers to their\nlords first took the title _Frouwa_ (=Frau), and when, in its\ntransition stage, the old heathenism had evolved into a religion of\nstrong nature worship, overshadowed by fatalism, only thinly veneered\nby Christianity, the minds of the Christian converts of Scandinavia,\nlike those of puzzled children, transferred to the Virgin Mary the\nattributes that had formerly been those of their \"Lady\"--Freya, the\ngoddess of Love.\n\nLong before the Madonna was worshipped, Freya gave her name to plants,\nto flowers, and even to insects, and the child who says to the\nbeautiful little insect, that he finds on a leaf, \"Ladybird, ladybird,\nfly away home,\" is commemorating the name of the Lady, Freya, to whom\nhis ancestors offered their prayers.\n\nIn her home in the Hall of Mists, Freya (or Frigga), wife of Odin the\nAll Father, sat with her golden distaff spinning the clouds. Orion's\nBelt was known as \"Frigga's spindle\" by the Norsemen, and the men on\nthe earth, as they watched the great cumulous masses of snowy-white,\ngolden or silver edged, the fleecy cloudlets of grey, soft as the\nfeathers on the breast of a dove, or the angry banks of black and\npurple, portending a storm, had constant proof of the diligence of\ntheir goddess. She was the protectress of those who sailed the seas,\nand the care of children as they came into the world was also hers.\nHers, too, was the happy task of bringing together after death, lovers\nwhom Death had parted, and to her belonged the glorious task of going\ndown to the fields of battle where the slain lay strewn like leaves in\nautumn and leading to Valhalla the half of the warriors who, as\nheroes, had died. Her vision enabled her to look over all the earth,\nand she could see into the Future, but she held her knowledge as a\nprofound secret that none could prevail upon her to betray.\n\n    \"Of me the gods are sprung;\n    And all that is to come I know, but lock\n    In my own breast, and have to none reveal'd.\"\n\n        Matthew Arnold.\n\n[Illustration: FREYA SAT SPINNING THE CLOUDS]\n\nThus she came to be pictured crowned with heron plumes, the symbol of\nsilence--the silence of the lonely marshes where the heron stands in\nmutest contemplation--a tall, very stately, very queenly, wholly\nbeautiful woman, with a bunch of keys at her girdle--symbol of her\nprotection of the Northern housewife--sometimes clad in snow-white\nrobes, sometimes in robes of sombre black. And because her care was\nfor the anxious, weary housewife, for the mother and her new-born\nbabe, for the storm-tossed mariner, fighting the billows of a hungry\nsea, for those whose true and pure love had suffered the crucifixion\nof death, and for the glorious dead on the field of battle, it is very\neasy to see Freya as her worshippers saw her--an ideal of perfect\nwomanhood.\n\nBut the gods of the Norsemen were never wholly gods. Always they, like\nthe gods of Greece, endeared themselves to humanity by possessing some\nlittle, or big, human weakness. And Freya is none the less lovable to\nthe descendants of her worshippers because she possessed the so-called\n\"feminine weakness\" of love of dress. Jewels, too, she loved, and\nknowing the wondrous skill of the dwarfs in fashioning exquisite\nornaments, she broke off a piece of gold from the statue of Odin, her\nhusband, and gave it to them to make into a necklace--the marvellous\njewelled necklace Brisingamen, that in time to come was possessed by\nBeowulf. It was so exquisite a thing that it made her beauty twice\nmore perfect, and Odin loved her doubly much because of it. But when\nhe discovered that his statue had been tampered with, his wrath was\nvery great, and furiously he summoned the dwarfs--they who dealt\nalways with fine metal--and demanded of them which of them had done\nhim this grievous wrong. But the dwarfs loved Freya, and from them he\ngot no answer.\n\nThen he placed the statue above the temple gate, and laboured with\nguile to devise runes that might give it the power of speech, so that\nit might shout aloud the name of the impious robber as the robber went\nby. Freya, no longer an omnipotent goddess, but a frightened wife,\ntrembled before his wrath, and begged the dwarfs to help her. And when\none of them--the most hideous of all--promised that he would prevent\nthe statue from speaking if Freya would but deign to smile upon him,\nthe queen of the gods, who had no dread of ugly things, and whose\nheart was full of love and of pity, smiled her gentle smile on the\npiteous little creature who had never known looks of anything but\nhorror and disgust from any of the deathless gods. It was for him a\nwondrous moment, and the payment was worth Death itself. That night a\ndeep sleep fell on the guards of Odin's statue, and, while they slept,\nthe statue was pulled down from its pedestal and smashed into pieces.\nThe dwarf had fulfilled his part of the bargain.\n\nWhen Odin next morning discovered the sacrilege, great was his anger,\nand when no inquiry could find for him the criminal, he quitted Asgard\nin furious wrath. For seven months he stayed away, and in that time\nthe Ice Giants invaded his realm, and all the land was covered with a\npall of snow, viciously pinched by black frosts, chilled by clinging,\ndeadening, impenetrable mists. But at the end of seven dreary months\nOdin returned, and with him came the blessings of light and of\nsunshine, and the Ice Giants in terror fled away.\n\nWell was it for woman or for warrior to gain the favour of Freya, the\nBeloved, who knew how to rule even Odin, the All Father, himself. The\nWinilers who were warring with the Vandals once sought her aid, and\ngained her promise of help. From Hlidskialf, the mighty watch-tower,\nhighest point in Asgard, from whence Odin and his queen could look\ndown and behold what was happening all the world over, amongst gods\nand men, dwarfs, elves, and giants, and all creatures of their\nkingdom, Freya watched the Vandals and the Winilers making ready for\nthe battle which was to decide forever which people should rule the\nother.\n\nNight was descending, but in the evening light the two gods beheld the\nglitter of spears, the gleam of brass helmets and of swords, and heard\nfrom afar the hoarse shouts of the warriors as they made ready for the\ngreat fight on the morrow. Knowing well that her lord favoured the\nVandals, Freya asked him to tell her which army was to gain the\nvictory. \"The army upon which my eyes shall first rest when I awake at\nthe dawning,\" said Odin, full well knowing that his couch was so\nplaced that he could not fail to see the Vandals when he woke. Well\npleased with his own astuteness, he then retired to rest, and soon\nsleep lay heavy on his eyelids. But, while he slept, Freya gently\nmoved the couch upon which he lay, so that he must open his eyes not\non the army who had won his favour, but on the army that owned hers.\nTo the Winilers, she gave command to dress up their women as men, and\nlet them meet the gaze of Odin in the dawning, in full battle array.\n\n    \"Take thou thy women-folk,\n    Maidens and wives;\n    Over your ankles\n    Lace on the white war-hose;\n    Over your bosoms\n    Link up the hard mail-nets;\n    Over your lips\n    Plait long tresses with cunning;--\n    So war beasts full-bearded\n    King Odin shall deem you,\n    When off the grey sea-beach\n    At sunrise ye greet him.\"\n\n        Charles Kingsley.\n\nWhen the sun sent its first pale green light next morning over grey\nsky and sea, Odin awoke, and gazed from his watch-tower at the army on\nthe beach. And, with great amazement, \"What Longbeards are those?\" he\ncried.\n\n\"They are Winilers!\" said Freya, in joyous triumph, \"but you have\ngiven them a new name. Now must you also give them a gift! Let it be\nthe victory, I pray you, dear lord of mine.\"\n\nAnd Odin, seeing himself outwitted and knowing that honour bade him\nfollow the Northern custom and give the people he had named a gift,\nbestowed on the Longbeards and their men the victory that Freya\ncraved. Nor was the gift of Odin one for that day alone, for to him\nthe _Langobarden_ attributed the many victories that led them at last\nto find a home in the sunny land of Italy, where beautiful Lombardy\nstill commemorates by its name the stratagem of Freya, the queen.\n\nWith the coming of Christianity, Freya, the Beloved, was cast out\nalong with all the other old forgotten gods. The people who had loved\nand worshipped her were taught that she was an evil thing and that to\nworship her was sin. Thus she was banished to the lonely peaks of the\nmountains of Norway and of Sweden and to the Brocken in Germany, no\nlonger a goddess to be loved, but transformed into a malignant power,\nfull of horror and of wickedness. On Walpurgis Night she led the\nwitches' revels on the Brocken, and the cats who were said to draw her\ncar while still she was regarded as a beneficent protectress of the\nweak and needy, ceased to be the gentle creatures of Freya the Good,\nand came under the ban of religion as the satanic companions of\nwitches by habit and repute.\n\nOne gentle thing only was her memory allowed to keep. When, not as an\nomnipotent goddess but as a heart-broken mother, she wept the death of\nher dearly-loved son, Baldur the Beautiful, the tears that she shed\nwere turned, as they fell, into pure gold that is found in the beds of\nlonely mountain streams. And we who claim descent from the peoples who\nworshipped her--\n\n    \"Saxon and Norman and Dane are we\"--\n\ncan surely cleanse her memory from all the ugly impurities of\nsuperstition and remember only the pure gold of the fact that our\nwarrior ancestors did not only pray to a fierce and mighty god of\nbattles, but to a woman who was \"loving and giving\"--the little\nchild's deification of the mother whom it loves and who holds it very\ndear.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF BALDUR\n\n    \"I heard a voice, that cried,\n    'Baldur the Beautiful\n    Is dead, is dead!'\n    And through the misty air\n    Passed like the mournful cry\n    Of sunward sailing cranes.\"\n\n        Longfellow.\n\n\nAmong the gods of Greece we find gods and goddesses who do unworthy\ndeeds, but none to act the permanent part of villain of the play. In\nthe mythology of the Norsemen we have a god who is wholly treacherous\nand evil, ever the villain of the piece, cunning, malicious,\nvindictive, and cruel--the god Loki. And as his foil, and his victim,\nwe have Baldur, best of all gods, most beautiful, most greatly\nbeloved. Baldur was the Galahad of the court of Odin the king, his\nfather.\n\n    \"My strength is of the strength of ten,\n    Because my heart is pure.\"\n\nNo impure thing was to be found in his dwelling; none could impugn his\ncourage, yet ever he counselled peace, ever was gentle and infinitely\nwise, and his beauty was as the beauty of the whitest of all the\nflowers of the Northland, called after him _Baldrsbra_. The god of the\nNorsemen was essentially a god of battles, and we are told by great\nauthorities that Baldur was originally a hero who fought on the\nearth, and who, in time, came to be deified. Even if it be so, it is\ngood to think that a race of warriors could worship one whose chief\nqualities were wisdom, purity, and love.\n\nIn perfect happiness, loving and beloved, Baldur lived in Asgard with\nhis wife Nanna, until a night when his sleep was assailed by horrible\ndreams of evil omen. In the morning he told the gods that he had\ndreamed that Death, a thing till then unknown in Asgard, had come and\ncruelly taken his life away. Solemnly the gods debated how this ill\nhappening might be averted, and Freya, his mother, fear for her best\nbeloved hanging heavy over her heart, took upon herself the task of\nlaying under oath fire and water, iron and all other metals, trees and\nshrubs, birds, beasts and creeping things, to do no harm to Baldur.\nWith eager haste she went from place to place, nor did she fail to\nexact the oath from anything in all nature, animate or inanimate, save\none only.\n\n\"A twig of mistletoe, tender and fair, grew high above the field,\" and\nsuch a little thing it was, with its dainty green leaves and waxen\nwhite berries, nestling for protection under the strong arm of a great\noak, that the goddess passed it by. Assuredly no scathe could come to\nBaldur the Beautiful from a creature so insignificant, and Freya\nreturned to Asgard well pleased with her quest.\n\nThen indeed was there joy and laughter amongst the gods, for each one\ntried how he might slay Baldur, but neither sword nor stone, hammer\nnor battle-axe could work him any ill.\n\nOdin alone remained unsatisfied. Mounted on his eight-footed grey\nsteed, Sleipnir, he galloped off in haste to consult the giant\nprophetess Angrbotha, who was dead and had to be followed to Niflheim,\nthe chilly underworld that lies far north from the world of men, and\nwhere the sun never comes. Hel, the daughter of Loki and of Angrbotha,\nwas queen of this dark domain.\n\n    \"There, in a bitterly cold place, she received the souls\n    of all who died of sickness or old age; care was her\n    bed, hunger her dish, starvation her knife. Her walls\n    were high and strong, and her bolts and bars huge; 'Half\n    blue was her skin, and half the colour of human flesh. A\n    goddess easy to know, and in all things very stern and\n    grim.'\"\n\n        Dasent.\n\nIn her kingdom no soul that passed away in glorious battle was\nreceived, nor any that fought out the last of life in a fierce combat\nwith the angry waves of the sea. Only those who died ingloriously were\nher guests.\n\nWhen he had reached the realm of Hel, Odin found that a feast was\nbeing prepared, and the couches were spread, as for an honoured guest,\nwith rich tapestry and with gold. For many a year had Angrbotha rested\nthere in peace, and it was only by chanting a magic spell and tracing\nthose runes which have power to raise the dead that Odin awoke her.\nWhen she raised herself, terrible and angry from her tomb, he did not\ntell her that he was the mighty father of gods and men. He only asked\nher for whom the great feast was prepared, and why Hel was spreading\nher couches so gorgeously. And to the father of Baldur she revealed\nthe secret of the future, that Baldur was the expected guest, and that\nby his blind brother Hodur his soul was to be hastened to the Shades.\n\n\"Who, then, would avenge him?\" asked the father, great wrath in his\nheart. And the prophetess replied that his death should be avenged by\nVali, his youngest brother, who should not wash his hands nor comb his\nhair until he had brought the slayer of Baldur to the funeral pyre.\nBut yet another question Odin would fain have answered.\n\n\"_Who_,\" he asked, \"_would refuse to weep at Baldur's death?_\"\n\nThereat the prophetess, knowing that her questioner could be none\nother than Odin, for to no mortal man could be known so much of the\nfuture, refused for evermore to speak, and returned to the silence of\nher tomb. And Odin was forced to mount his steed and to return to his\nown land of warmth and pleasure.\n\nOn his return he found that all was well with Baldur. Thus he tried to\nstill his anxious heart and to forget the feast in the chill regions\nof Niflheim, spread for the son who was to him the dearest, and to\nlaugh with those who tried in vain to bring scathe to Baldur.\n\nOnly one among those who looked at those sports and grew merry, as he\nwhom they loved stood like a great cliff against which the devouring\nwaves of the fierce North Sea beat and foam and crash in vain, had\nmalice in his heart as he beheld the wonder. In the evil heart of Loki\nthere came a desire to overthrow the god who was beloved by all gods\nand by all men. He hated him because he was pure, and the mind of Loki\nwas as a stream into which all the filth of the world is discharged.\nHe hated him because Baldur was truth and loyalty, and he, Loki, was\ntreachery and dishonour. He hated him because to Loki there came never\na thought that was not full of meanness and greed and cruelty and\nvice, and Baldur was indeed one _sans peur et sans reproche_.\n\nThus Loki, taking upon himself the form of a woman, went to Fensalir,\nthe palace, all silver and gold, where dwelt Freya, the mother of\nBaldur.\n\nThe goddess sat, in happy majesty, spinning the clouds, and when Loki,\napparently a gentle old woman, passed by where she sat, and then\npaused and asked, as if amazed, what were the shouts of merriment that\nshe heard, the smiling goddess replied:\n\n\"All things on earth have sworn to me never to injure Baldur, and all\nthe gods use their weapons against him in vain. Baldur is safe for\nevermore.\"\n\n\"All things?\" queried Loki.\n\nAnd Freya answered, \"All things but the mistletoe. No harm can come to\nhim from a thing so weak that it only lives by the lives of others.\"\n\nThen the vicious heart of Loki grew joyous. Quickly he went to where\nthe mistletoe grew, cut a slender green branch, shaped it into a\npoint, and sought the blind god Hodur.\n\nHodur stood aside, while the other gods merrily pursued their sport.\n\n\"Why dost thou not take aim at Baldur with a weapon that fails and so\njoin in the laughter?\" asked Loki.\n\nAnd Hodur sadly made answer:\n\n\"Well dost thou know that darkness is my lot, nor have I ought to\ncast at my brother.\"\n\nThen Loki placed in his hand the shaft of mistletoe and guided his\naim, and well and surely Hodur cast the dart. He waited, then, for the\nmerry laughter that followed ever on the onslaught of those against\nhim whom none could do harm. But a great and terrible cry smote his\nears. \"_Baldur the Beautiful is dead! is dead!_\"\n\nOn the ground lay Baldur, a white flower cut down by the scythe of the\nmower. And all through the realm of the gods, and all through the land\nof the Northmen there arose a cry of bitter lamentation.\n\n\"That was the greatest woe that ever befell gods and men,\" says the\nstory.\n\nThe sound of terrible mourning in place of laughter brought Freya to\nwhere\n\n    \"on the floor lay Baldur dead; and round lay thickly\n    strewn swords, axes, darts, and spears, which all the\n    gods in sport had lightly thrown at Baldur, whom no\n    weapon pierced or clove; but in his breast stood fixed\n    the fatal bough of mistletoe.\"\n\n        Matthew Arnold.\n\nWhen she saw what had befallen him, Freya's grief was a grief that\nrefused to be comforted, but when the gods, overwhelmed with sorrow,\nknew not what course to take, she quickly commanded that one should\nride to Niflheim and offer Hel a ransom if she would permit Baldur to\nreturn to Asgard.\n\nHermoder the Nimble, another of the sons of Odin, undertook the\nmission, and, mounted on his father's eight-footed steed, he speedily\nreached the ice-cold domain of Hel.\n\nThere he found Baldur, sitting on the noblest seat of those who\nfeasted, ruling among the people of the Underworld. With burning words\nHermoder pled with Hel that she would permit Baldur to return to the\nworld of gods and the world of men, by both of whom he was so dearly\nbeloved. Said Hel:\n\n    \"Come then! if Baldur was so dear beloved,\n    And this is true, and such a loss is Heaven's--\n    Hear, how to Heaven may Baldur be restored.\n    Show me through all the world the signs of grief!\n    Fails but one thing to grieve, here Baldur stops!\n    Let all that lives and moves upon the earth\n    Weep him, and all that is without life weep;\n    Let Gods, men, brutes, beweep him; plants and stones,\n    So shall I know the loss was dear indeed,\n    And bend my heart, and give him back to Heaven.\"\n\n        Matthew Arnold.\n\nGladly Hermoder made answer:\n\n\"All things shall weep for Baldur!\"\n\nSwiftly he made his perilous return journey, and at once, when the\ngods heard what Hel had said, messengers were despatched all over the\nearth to beg all things, living and dead, to weep for Baldur, and so\ndear to all nature was the beautiful god, that the messengers\neverywhere left behind them a track of the tears that they caused to\nbe shed.\n\nMeantime, in Asgard, preparations were made for Baldur's pyre. The\nlongest of the pines in the forest were cut down by the gods, and\npiled up in a mighty pyre on the deck of his great ship _Ringhorn_,\nthe largest in the world.\n\n[Illustration: \"BALDUR THE BEAUTIFUL IS DEAD\"]\n\n    \"Seventy ells and four extended\n    On the grass the vessel's keel;\n    High above it, gilt and splendid,\n    Rose the figure-head ferocious\n    With its crest of steel.\"\n\n        Longfellow.\n\nDown to the seashore they bore the body, and laid it on the pyre with\nrich gifts all round it, and the pine trunks of the Northern forests\nthat formed the pyre, they covered with gorgeous tapestries and\nfragrant flowers. And when they had laid him there, with all love and\ngentleness, and his fair young wife, Nanna, looked on his beautiful\nstill face, sorrow smote her heart so that it was broken, and she fell\ndown dead. Tenderly they laid her beside him, and by him, too, they\nlaid the bodies of his horse and his hounds, which they slew to bear\ntheir master company in the land whither his soul had fled; and around\nthe pyre they twined thorns, the emblem of sleep.\n\nYet even then they looked for his speedy return, radiant and glad to\ncome home to a sunlit land of happiness. And when the messengers who\nwere to have brought tidings of his freedom were seen drawing near,\neagerly they crowded to hear the glad words, \"_All creatures weep, and\nBaldur shall return!_\"\n\nBut with them they brought not hope, but despair. All things, living\nand dead, had wept, save one only. A giantess who sat in a dark cave\nhad laughed them to scorn. With devilish merriment she mocked:\n\n    \"Neither in life, nor yet in death,\n    Gave he me gladness.\n    Let Hel keep her prey.\"\n\nThen all knew that yet a second time had Baldur been betrayed, and\nthat the giantess was none other than Loki, and Loki, realising the\nfierce wrath of Odin and of the other gods, fled before them, yet\ncould not escape his doom. And grief unspeakable was that of gods and\nof men when they knew that in the chill realm of the inglorious dead\nBaldur must remain until the twilight of the gods had come, until old\nthings had passed away, and all things had become new.\n\nNot only the gods, but the giants of the storm and frost, and the\nfrost elves came to behold the last of him whom they loved. Then the\npyre was set alight, and the great vessel was launched, and glided out\nto sea with its sails of flame.\n\n    \"They launched the burning ship!\n    It floated far away\n    Over the misty sea,\n    Till like the sun it seemed,\n    Sinking beneath the waves,\n    Baldur returned no more!\"\n\nYet, ere he parted from his dead son, Odin stooped over him and\nwhispered a word in his ear. And there are those who say that as the\ngods in infinite sorrow stood on the beach staring out to sea,\ndarkness fell, and only a fiery track on the waves showed whither he\nhad gone whose passing had robbed Asgard and the Earth of their most\nbeautiful thing, heavy as the weight of chill Death's remorseless hand\nwould have been their hearts, but for the knowledge of that word. They\nknew that with the death of Baldur the twilight of the gods had begun,\nand that by much strife and infinite suffering down through the ages\nthe work of their purification and hallowing must be wrought. But when\nall were fit to receive him, and peace and happiness reigned again on\nearth and in heaven, Baldur would come back. For the word was\n_Resurrection_.\n\n    \"So perish the old Gods!\n    But out of the sea of time\n    Rises a new land of song,\n    Fairer than the old.\"\n\n        Longfellow.\n\n    \"Heartily know,\n    When half-gods go,\n    The gods arrive.\"\n\n        Emerson.\n\n\n\n\nBEOWULF\n\n    \"He was of mankind\n    In might the strongest.\"\n\n        Longfellow's Translation.\n\n\nWhether those who read it be scholars who would argue about the origin\nand date of the poem, ingenious theorists who would fain use all the\nfragmentary tales and rhymes of the nursery as parts of a vast jig-saw\npuzzle of nature myths, or merely simple folk who read a tale for a\ntale's sake, every reader of the poem of Beowulf must own that it is\none of the finest stories ever written.\n\nIt is \"the most ancient heroic poem in the Germanic language,\" and was\nbrought to Britain by the \"Winged Hats\" who sailed across the grey\nNorth Sea to conquer and to help to weld that great amalgam of peoples\ninto what is now the British Race.\n\nBut once it had arrived in England, the legend was put into a dress\nthat the British-born could more readily appreciate. In all\nprobability the scene of the story was a corner of that island of\nSaeland upon which Copenhagen now stands, but he who wrote down the\npoem for his countrymen and who wrote it in the pure literary\nAnglo-Saxon of Wessex, painted the scenery from the places that he and\nhis readers knew best. And if you should walk along the breezy,\nmagnificent, rugged Yorkshire coast for twelve miles, from Whitby\nnorthward to the top of Bowlby Cliff, you would find it quite easy to\nbelieve that it was there amongst the high sea-cliffs that Beowulf\nand his hearth-sharers once lived, and there, on the highest ness of\nour eastern coast, under a great barrow, that Beowulf was buried.\n_Beowulfesby_--_Bowlby_ seems a quite easy transition. But the people\nof our island race have undoubtedly a gift for seizing the imports of\nother lands and hall-marking them as their own, and, in all\nprobability, the Beowulf of the heroic poem was one who lived and died\nin the land of Scandinavia.\n\nIn Denmark, so goes the story, when the people were longing for a\nking, to their shores there drifted, on a day when the white birds\nwere screaming over the sea-tangle and wreckage that a stormy sea, now\nsinking to rest, was sweeping up on the shore, a little boat in which,\non a sheaf of ripe wheat and surrounded by priceless weapons and\njewels, there lay a most beautiful babe, who smiled in his sleep. That\nhe was the son of Odin they had no doubt, and they made him their\nking, and served him faithfully and loyally for the rest of his life.\n\nA worthy and a noble king was King Scyld Scefing, a ruler on land and\non the sea, of which even as an infant he had had no fear. But when\nmany years had come and gone, and when Scyld Scefing felt that death\ndrew near, he called his nobles to him and told them in what manner he\nfain would pass. So they did as he said, and in a ship they built a\nfuneral pyre, and round it placed much gold and jewels, and on it laid\na sheaf of wheat. Then with very great pain and labour, for he was old\nand Death's hand lay heavy upon him, the king climbed into the ship\nand stretched out his limbs on the pyre, and said farewell to all his\nfaithful people. And the ship drifted out with the tide, and the\nhearts of the watchers were heavy as they saw the sails of the vessel\nthat bore him vanish into the grey, and knew that their king had gone\nback to the place from whence he came, and that they should look on\nhis face no more.\n\nBehind him Scyld left descendants, and one after the other reigned\nover Denmark. It was in the reign of his great-grandson, Hrothgar,\nthat there took place those things that are told in the story of\nBeowulf.\n\nA mighty king and warrior was Hrothgar, and far across the northern\nseas his fame spread wide, so that all the warriors of the land that\nhe ruled were proud to serve under him in peace, and in war to die for\nhim. During his long life he and his men never went forth in their\nblack-prowed ships without returning with the joyous shouts of the\nvictor, with for cargo the rich spoil they had won from their enemies.\nAs he grew old, Hrothgar determined to raise for himself a mighty\nmonument to the magnificence of his reign, and so there was builded\nfor him a vast hall with majestic towers and lofty pinnacles--the\nfinest banqueting-hall that his skilled artificers could dream of. And\nwhen at length the hall was completed, Hrothgar gave a feast to all\nhis thanes, and for days and for nights on end the great rafters of\nHeorot--as his palace was named--echoed the shouts and laughter of the\nmighty warriors, and the music of the minstrels and the songs that\nthey sang. A proud man was Hrothgar on the night that the banquet was\nended amidst the acclamations of his people, and a proud and happy man\nhe lay down to rest, while his bodyguard of mighty warriors stretched\nthemselves on the rush-strewn floor of the great room where they had\nfeasted, and deeply slumbered there.\n\nNow, in the dark fens of that land there dwelt a monster--fierce,\nnoisome, and cruel, a thing that loved evil and hated all that was\njoyous and good. To its ears came the ring of the laughter and the\nshouts of King Hrothgar's revellers, and the sweet song of the gleemen\nand the melody of harps filled it with fierce hatred. From its wallow\nin the marshes, where the pestilent grey fog hung round its dwelling,\nthe monster, known to all men as the Grendel, came forth, to kill and\nto devour. Through the dark night, across the lonely moorland, it made\nits way, and the birds of the moor flew screaming in terror before it,\nand the wild creatures of the desolate country over which it padded\nclapped down in their coverts and trembled as it passed. It came at\nlength to the great hall where\n\n    \"A fair troop of warrior thanes guarding it found he;\n    Heedlessly sleeping, they recked not of sorrow.\"\n\nNever a thought did they give to the Grendel,--\n\n    \"A haunter of marshes, a holder of moors,\n                                ... Secret\n    The land he inhabits; dark, wolf-haunted ways\n    Of the windy hillside, by the treacherous tarn;\n    Or where, covered up in its mist, the hill stream\n    Downward flows.\"\n\nSoundly slept Hrothgar, nor opened eye until, in the bright light of\nthe morning, he was roused by terrified servants, forgetful of his\naugust royalty, impelled by terror, crying aloud their terrible tale.\nThey had come, they said, to lay on the floor of the banqueting-hall,\nsweet, fresh rushes from the meadows, and to clear away all trace of\nthe feasting overnight. But the two-and-thirty knights who, in full\narmour, had lain down to sleep were all gone, and on the floor was\nthe spoor of something foul and noisome, and on the walls and on the\ntrampled rushes were great and terrible smears of human blood.\n\nThey tracked the Grendel back to the marsh from whence he had come,\nand shuddered at the sight of bestial footprints that left\nblood-stains behind.\n\nTerrible indeed was the grief of Hrothgar, but still more terrible was\nhis anger. He offered a royal reward to any man who would slay the\nGrendel, and full gladly ten of his warriors pledged themselves to\nsleep that night in the great hall and to slay the Grendel ere morning\ncame.\n\nBut dawn showed once more a piteous sight. Again there were only\ntrampled and blood-stained rushes, with the loathsome smell of unclean\nflesh. Again the foul tracks of the monster were found where it had\npadded softly back to its noisome fens.\n\nThere were many brave men in the kingdom of Hrothgar the Dane, and yet\nagain did they strive to maintain the dignity of the great hall,\nHeorot, and to uphold the honour of their king. But through twelve\ndismal years the Grendel took its toll of the bravest in the realm,\nand to sleep in the place that Hrothgar had built as monument to his\nmagnificent supremacy, ever meant, for the sleeper, shameful death.\nWell content was the Grendel, that grew fat and lusty amongst the grey\nmists of the black marshes, unknowing that in the land of the Goths\nthere was growing to manhood one whose feet already should be echoing\nalong that path from which Death was to come.\n\nIn the realm of the Goths, Hygelac was king, and no greater hero\nlived in his kingdom than Beowulf, his own sister's son. From the age\nof seven Beowulf was brought up at the court of his uncle.\n\nA great, fair, blue-eyed lad was Beowulf, lazy, and very slow to\nwrath. When he had at last become a yellow-haired giant, of wondrous\ngood-temper, and leisurely in movement, the other young warriors of\nGothland had mocked at him as at one who was only a very huge, very\namiable child. But, like others of the same descent, Beowulf's anger,\nif slow to kindle, was a terrible fire once it began to flame. A few\nof those flares-up had shown the folk of his uncle's kingdom that no\nmean nor evil deed might lightly be done, nor evil word spoken in the\npresence of Beowulf. In battle against the Swedes, no sword had hewn\ndown more men than the sword of Beowulf. And when the champion swimmer\nof the land of the Goths challenged the young giant Beowulf to swim a\nmatch with him, for five whole days they swam together. A tempest\ndriving down from the twilight land of the ice and snow parted them\nthen, and he who had been champion was driven ashore and thankfully\nstruggled on to the beach of his own dear country once again. But the\nfoaming seas cast Beowulf on some jagged cliffs, and would fain have\nbattered his body into broken fragments against them, and as he fought\nand struggled to resist their raging cruelty, mermaids and nixies and\nmany monsters of the deep joined forces with the waves and strove to\nwrest his life from him. And while with one hand he held on to a sharp\nrock, with the other he dealt with his sword stark blows on those\nchildren of the deep who would fain have devoured him. Their bodies,\ndeep-gashed and dead, floated down to the coast of Gothland, and the\nking and all those who looked for the corpse of Beowulf saw them,\namazed. Then at length came Beowulf himself, and with great gladness\nwas he welcomed, and the king, his uncle, gave him his treasured\nsword, Naegeling, in token of his valour.\n\nIn the court of Hrothgar, the number of brave warriors ever grew\nsmaller. One man only had witnessed the terrible slaughter of one of\nthose black nights and yet had kept his life. He was a bard--a\nscald--and from the land where he had seen such grim horror, he fled\nto the land of the Goths, and there, in the court of the king, he sang\nthe gloomy tale of the never-ending slaughter of noble warriors by the\nfoul Grendel of the fens and moors.\n\nBeowulf listened, enthralled, to his song. But those who knew him saw\nhis eyes gleam as the good steel blade of a sword gleams when it is\ndrawn for battle, and when he asked his uncle to allow him to go to\nthe land of the Danes and slay this filthy thing, his uncle smiled,\nwith no surprise, and was very well content.\n\nSo it came to pass that Beowulf, in his black-prowed ship, with\nfourteen trusty followers, set sail from Gothland for the kingdom of\nHrothgar.\n\nThe warden of the Danish coast was riding his rounds one morning when\nhe beheld from the white cliffs a strange war-vessel making for the\nshore. Skilfully the men on board her ran her through the surf, and\nbeached her in a little creek between the cliffs, and made her fast to\na rock by stout cables. Only for a little time the valiant warden\nwatched them from afar, and then, one man against fifteen, he rode\nquickly down and challenged the warriors.\n\n    \"What are ye warlike men      wielding bright weapons,\n    Wearing grey corselets and      boar-adorned helmets,\n    Who o'er the water-paths      come with your foaming keel\n    Ploughing the ocean surge?      I was appointed\n    Warden of Denmark's shores;      watch hold I by the wave\n    That on this Danish coast      no deadly enemy\n    Leading troops over sea      should land to injure.\n    None have here landed yet      more frankly coming\n    Than this fair company:      and yet ye answer not\n    The password of warriors,      and customs of kinsmen.\n    Ne'er have mine eyes beheld      a mightier warrior,\n    An earl more lordly than      is he the chief of you;\n    He is no common man;      if looks belie him not,\n    He is a hero bold,      worthily weaponed.\n    Anon must I know of you      kindred and country,\n    Lest ye of spies should go      free on our Danish soil.\n    Now ye men from afar,      sailing the surging sea,\n    Have heard my earnest thought:      best is a quick reply,\n    That I may swiftly know      whence ye have hither come.\"\n\nThen Beowulf, with fearless eyes, gazed in the face of the warden and\ntold him simply and unboastfully who he was, from whence he came, and\nwhat was his errand. He had come as the nation's deliverer, to slay\nthe thing that\n\n    \"Cometh in dark of night,      sateth his secret hate,\n    Worketh through fearsome awe,      slaughter and shame.\"\n\nWith joy the warden heard his noble words.\n\n\"My men shall beach your ship,\" he said, \"and make her fast with a\nbarrier of oars against the greedy tide. Come with me to the king.\"\n\nIt was a gallant band that strode into Heorot, where sat the old\nking, gloom overshadowing his soul. And fit leader for a band of\nheroes was Beowulf, a giant figure in ring-mail, spear and shield\ngleaming in his hand, and by his side the mighty sword, Naegeling. To\nHrothgar, as to the warden, Beowulf told the reason of his coming, and\nhope began again to live in the heart of the king.\n\nThat night the warriors from the land of the Goths were feasted in the\ngreat banqueting-hall where, for twelve unhappy years, voices had\nnever rung out so bravely and so merrily. The queen herself poured out\nthe mead with which the king and the men from Gothland pledged each\nother, and with her own hand she passed the goblet to each one. When,\nlast of it all, it came to the guest of honour, Beowulf took the cup\nof mead from the fair queen and solemnly pledged himself to save the\nland from the evil thing that devoured it like a pestilence, or to die\nin his endeavour.\n\n    \"Needs must I now perform knightly deeds in this hall,\n    Or here must meet my doom in darksome night.\"\n\nWhen darkness fell the feast came to an end, and all left the hall\nsave Beowulf and his fourteen followers. In their armour, with swords\ngirt on their sides, the fourteen heroes lay down to rest, but Beowulf\nlaid aside all his arms and gave his sword to a thane to bear away.\nFor, said he,\n\n    \"I have heard\n    That that foul miscreant's dark and stubborn flesh\n    Recks not the force of arms ...\n    Hand to hand ... Beowulf will grapple with the mighty foe.\"\n\nFrom his fastnesses in the fens, the Grendel had heard the shouts of\nrevelry, and as the Goths closed their eyes to sleep, knowing they\nmight open them again only to grapple with hideous death, yet unafraid\nbecause of their sure belief that \"What is to be goes ever as it\nmust,\" the monster roused himself. Through the dank, chill, clinging\nmists he came, and his breath made the poisonous miasma of the marshes\nmore deadly as he padded over the shivering reeds and trembling\nrushes, across the bleak moorland and the high cliffs where the fresh\ntang of the grey sea was defiled by the hideous stench of a foul beast\nof prey. There was fresh food for him to-night, he knew, some blood\nmore potent than any that for twelve years had come his bestial way.\nAnd he hastened on with greedy eagerness, nightmare incarnate. He\nfound the great door of the banqueting-hall bolted and barred, but one\nangry wrench set at naught the little precautionary measures of mere\nmen.\n\nThe dawn was breaking dim and grey and very chill when Beowulf heard\nthe stealthy tread without, and the quick-following crash of the bolts\nand bars that gave so readily. He made no movement, but only waited.\nIn an instant the dawn was blotted out by a vast black shadow, and\nswifter than any great bear could strike, a scaly hand had struck one\nof the friends of Beowulf. In an instant the man was torn from limb to\nlimb, and in a wild disgust and hatred Beowulf heard the lapping of\nblood, the scrunching of bones and chewing of warm flesh as the\nmonster ravenously devoured him. Again the loathsome hand was\nstretched out to seize and to devour. But in the darkness two hands,\nlike hands of iron, gripped the outstretched arm, and the Grendel knew\nthat he had met his match at last. The warriors of Beowulf awoke to\nfind a struggle going on such as their eyes never before beheld, for\nit was a fight to the death between man and monster. Vainly they tried\nto aid their leader, but their weapons only glanced harmlessly off the\nGrendel's scaly hide. Up and down the hall the combatants wrestled,\nuntil the walls shook and the great building itself rocked to its\nfoundations. Ever and again it seemed as though no human power could\nprevail against teeth and claws and demonic fury, and as tables and\nbenches crashed to the ground and broke under the tramping feet of the\nGrendel, it appeared an impossible thing that Beowulf should overcome.\nYet ever tighter and more tight grew the iron grip of Beowulf. His\nfingers seemed turned to iron. His hatred and loathing made his grasp\ncrash through scales, into flesh, and crush the marrow out of the bone\nit found there. And when at length the Grendel could no more, and with\na terrible cry wrenched himself free, and fled, wailing, back to the\nfenland, still in his grasp Beowulf held the limb. The Grendel had\nfreed himself by tearing the whole arm out of its socket, and, for\nonce, the trail of blood across the moors was that of the monster and\nnot of its victims.\n\nGreat indeed was the rejoicing of Hrothgar and of his people when, in\nthe morning, instead of crimson-stained rushes and the track of vermin\nclaws imbrued in human blood, they found all but one of the men from\nGothland alive, and looked upon the hideous trophy that told them\nthat their enemy could only have gone to find a shameful death in the\nmarshes. They cleansed out the great hall, hung it with lordly\ntrappings, and made it once more fit habitation for the lordliest in\nthe land. That night a feast was held in it, such as had never before\nbeen held all through the magnificent reign of Hrothgar. The best of\nthe scalds sung songs in honour of the triumph of Beowulf, and the\nqueen herself pledged the hero in a cup of mead and gave to him the\nbeautiful most richly jewelled collar Brisingamen, of exquisite\nancient workmanship, that once was owned by Freya, queen of the gods,\nand a great ring of the purest red gold. To Beowulf, too, the king\ngave a banner, all broidered in gold, a sword of the finest, with\nhelmet and corselet, and eight fleet steeds, and on the back of the\none that he deemed the best Hrothgar had placed his own saddle,\ncunningly wrought, and decked with golden ornaments. To each of the\nwarriors of Beowulf there were also given rich gifts. And ere the\nqueen, with her maidens, left the hall that night she said to Beowulf:\n\n\"Enjoy thy reward, O dear Beowulf, while enjoy it thou canst. Live\nnoble and blessed! Keep well thy great fame, and to my dear sons, in\ntime to come, should ever they be in need, be a kind protector!\"\n\nWith happy hearts in very weary bodies, Beowulf and his men left the\nhall when the feast was ended, and they slept through the night in\nanother lodging as those sleep who have faced death through a very\nlong night, and to whom joy has come in the morning.\n\nBut the Danish knights, careless in the knowledge that the Grendel\nmust even now be in his dying agonies, and that once more Hereot was\nfor them a safe and noble sleeping-place, lay themselves down to sleep\nin the hall, their shields at their heads, and, fastened high up on\nthe roof above them, the hideous trophy of Beowulf.\n\nNext morning as the grey dawn broke over the northern sea, it saw a\nsight that made it more chill than death. Across the moorland went a\nthing--half wolf, half woman--the mother of Grendel. The creature she\nhad borne had come home to die, and to her belonged his avenging.\nSoftly she went to Hereot. Softly she opened the unguarded door.\nGladly, in her savage jaws, she seized Aschere, the thane who was to\nHrothgar most dear, and from the roof she plucked her desired\ntreasure--the arm of Grendel, her son. Then she trotted off to her\nfar-off, filthy den, leaving behind her the noise of lamentation.\n\nTerrible was the grief of Hrothgar over the death of Aschere, dearest\nof friends and sharer of his councils. And to his lamentations Beowulf\nlistened, sad at heart, humble, yet with a heart that burned for\nvengeance. The hideous creature of the night was the mother of\nGrendel, as all knew well. On her Beowulf would be avenged, for\nAschere's sake, for the king's, and for the sake of his own honour.\nThen once again did he pledge himself to do all that man's strength\ncould do to rid the land of an evil thing. Well did he know how\ndangerous was the task before him, and he gave directions for the\ndisposal of all that he valued should he never return from his quest.\nTo the King, who feared greatly that he was going forth on a forlorn\nhope, he said:\n\n    \"Grieve not!... Each man must undergo death at the end of life.\n    Let him win, while he may, warlike fame in the world!\n    That is best after death for the slain warrior.\"\n\nHis own men, and Hrothgar, and a great company of Danes went with him\nwhen he set out to trace the blood-stained tracks of the Grendel's\nmother. Near the edge of a gloomy mere they found the head of Aschere.\nAnd when they looked at the fiord itself, it seemed to be\nblood-stained--stained with blood that ever welled upwards, and in\nwhich revelled with a fierce sort of joy--the rapture of bestial\ncruelty--water-monsters without number.\n\nBeowulf, his face white and grim like that of an image of Thor cast in\nsilver, watched a little while, then drew his bow and drove a bolt\ninto the heart of one of them, and when they had drawn the slain\ncarcase to shore, the thanes of Hrothgar marvelled at the horror of\nit.\n\nThen Beowulf took leave of Hrothgar and told him that if in two days\nhe did not return, certain it would be that he would return no more.\nThe hearts of all who said farewell to him were heavy, but Beowulf\nlaughed, and bade them be of good cheer. Then into the black waters he\ndived, sword in hand, clad in ring-armour, and the dark pool closed\nover him as the river of Death closes over the head of a man when his\nday is done. To him it seemed as if the space of a day had passed ere\nhe reached the bottom, and in his passing he encountered many dread\ndangers from tusk and horn of a myriad evil creatures of the water who\nsought to destroy him. Then at length he reached the bottom of that\nsinister mere, and there was clasped in the murderous grip of the\nWolf-Woman who strove to crush his life out against her loathsome\nbreast. Again and again, when her hideous embrace failed to slay him,\nshe stabbed him with her knife. Yet ever did he escape. His good\narmour resisted the power of her arm, and his own great muscles thrust\nher from him. Yet his own sword failed him when he would have smitten\nher, and the hero would have been in evil case had he not spied,\nhanging on the wall of that most foul den,\n\n                                \"A glorious sword,\n    An old brand gigantic,      trusty in point and edge,\n    An heirloom of heroes.\"\n\nSwiftly he seized it, and with it he dealt the Wolf-Woman a blow that\nshore her head from her body. Through the foul blood that flowed from\nher and that mingled with the black water of the mere, Beowulf saw a\nvery terrible horror--the body of the Grendel, lying moaning out the\nlast of his life. Again his strong arm descended, and, his left hand\ngripping the coiled locks of the Evil Thing, he sprang upwards through\nthe water, that lost its blackness and its clouded crimson as he went\never higher and more high. In his hand he still bore the sword that\nhad saved him, but the poisonous blood of the dying monsters had made\nthe water of such fiery heat that the blade melted as he rose, and\nonly the hilt, with strange runes engraved upon it, remained in his\nhand.\n\nWhere he left them, his followers, and the Danes who went with them,\nremained, watching, waiting, ever growing more hopeless as night\nturned into day, and day faded into night, and they saw the black\nwaters of the lonely fen bubbling up, terrible and blood-stained. But\nwhen the waters cleared, hope returned to their hearts, and when, at\nlength, Beowulf uprose from the water of the mere and they saw that in\nhis hand he bore the head of the Grendel, there was no lonely scaur,\nnor cliff, nor rock of the land of the Danes that did not echo the\nglad cry of \"_Beowulf! Beowulf!_\"\n\nWell-nigh overwhelmed by gifts from those whom he had preserved was\nthe hero, Beowulf. But in modest, wise words he spoke to the King:\n\n                                \"Well hast thou treated us.\n    If on this earth I can      do more to win thy love,\n    O prince of warriors,      than I have wrought as yet,\n    Here stand I ready now      weapons to wield for thee.\n    If I shall ever hear      o'er the encircling flood\n    That any neighbouring foes      threaten thy nation's fall,\n    As Grendel grim before,      swift will I bring to thee\n    Thousands of noble thanes,      heroes to help thee.\"\n\nThen, in their ship, that the Warden of the Coast once had challenged,\nBeowulf and his warriors set sail for their own dear land.\n\nGaily the vessel danced over the waves, heavy though it was with\ntreasure, nobly gained. And when Beowulf had come in safety to his\nhomeland and had told his kinsman the tale of the slaying of the\nGrendel and of the Wolf-Woman, he gave the finest of his steeds to the\nKing, and to the Queen the jewelled collar, Brisingamen, that the\nQueen of the Goths had bestowed on him. And the heart of his uncle was\nglad and proud indeed, and there was much royal banqueting in the\nhero's honour. Of him, too, the scalds made up songs, and there was no\nhero in all that northern land whose fame was as great as was the fame\nof Beowulf.\n\n\"The Must Be often helps an undoomed man when he is brave\" was the\nprecept on which he ruled his life, and he never failed the King whose\nchief champion and warrior he was. When, in an expedition against the\nFrieslanders, King Hygelac fell a victim to the cunning of his foes,\nthe sword of Beowulf fought nobly for him to the end, and the hero was\na grievously wounded man when he brought back to Gothland the body of\nthe dead King. The Goths would fain have made him their King, in\nHygelac's stead, but Beowulf was too loyal a soul to supplant his\nuncle's own son. On his shield he laid the infant prince, Hardred, and\nheld him up for the people to see. And when he had proclaimed the\nchild King and vowed to serve him faithfully all the days of his life,\nthere was no man there who did not loyally echo the promise of their\nhero, Beowulf.\n\nWhen Hardred, a grown man, was treacherously slain by a son of Othere,\nhe who discovered the North Cape, Beowulf once again was chosen King,\nand for forty years he reigned wisely and well. The fame of his arms\nkept war away from the land, and his wisdom as a statesman brought\ngreat prosperity and happiness to his people. He had never known fear,\nand so for him there was nothing to dread when the weakness of age\nfell upon him and when he knew that his remaining years could be but\nfew:\n\n    \"Seeing that Death, a necessary end,\n    Will come when it will come.\"[9]\n\nThrough all those years of peace, the thing that was to bring death to\nhim had lurked, unknown, unimagined, in a cave in the lonely\nmountains.\n\nMany centuries before the birth of Beowulf, a family of mighty\nwarriors had won by their swords a priceless treasure of weapons and\nof armour, of richly chased goblets and cups, of magnificent ornaments\nand precious jewels, and of gold \"beyond the dreams of avarice.\" In a\ngreat cave among the rocks it was hoarded by the last of their line,\nand on his death none knew where it was hidden. Upon it one day there\nstumbled a fiery dragon--a Firedrake--and for three hundred years the\nmonster gloated, unchallenged, over the magnificent possession. But at\nthe end of that time, a bondsman, who fled before his master's\nvengeance and sought sanctuary in the mountains, came on an opening in\nthe rocks, and, creeping in, found the Firedrake asleep upon a mass of\nred gold and of sparkling gems that dazzled his eyes even in the\ndarkness. For a moment he stood, trembling, then, sure of his master's\nforgiveness if he brought him as gift a golden cup all studded with\njewels, he seized one and fled with it ere the monster could awake.\nWith its awakening, terror fell upon the land. Hither and thither it\nflew, searching for him who had robbed it, and as it flew, it sent\nflames on the earth and left behind it a black trail of ruin and of\ndeath.\n\nWhen news of its destroyings came to the ears of the father of his\npeople, Beowulf knew that to him belonged the task of saving the land\nfor them and for all those to come after them. But he was an old man,\nand strength had gone from him, nor was he able now to wrestle with\nthe Firedrake as once he had wrestled with the Grendel and the\nWolf-Woman, but had to trust to his arms. He had an iron shield made\nto withstand the Firedrake's flaming breath, and, with a band of\neleven picked followers, and taking the bondsman as guide, Beowulf\nwent out to fight his last fight. As they drew near the place, he bade\nhis followers stay where they were, \"For I alone,\" he said, \"will win\nthe gold and save my people, or Death shall take me.\"\n\nFrom the entrance to the cave there poured forth a sickening cloud of\nsteam and smoke, suffocating and blinding, and so hot that he could\nnot go forward. But with a loud voice the old warrior shouted an\narrogant challenge of defiance to his enemy, and the Firedrake rushed\nforth from its lair, roaring with the roar of an unquenchable fire\nwhose fury will destroy a city. From its wings of flame and from its\neyes heat poured forth scorchingly, and its great mouth belched forth\ndevouring flames as it cast itself on Beowulf.\n\n[Illustration: A STROKE SHIVERED THE SWORD]\n\nThe hero's sword flashed, and smote a stark blow upon its scaly head.\nBut Beowulf could not deal death strokes as once he had done, and\nonly for a moment was his adversary stunned. In hideous rage the\nmonster coiled its snaky folds around him, and the heat from his body\nmade the iron shield redden as though the blacksmith in his smithy\nwere welding it, and each ring of the armour that Beowulf wore seared\nright into his flesh. His breast swelled with the agony, and his great\nheart must have come near bursting for pain and for sorrow. For he saw\nthat panic had come on his followers and that they were fleeing,\nleaving him to his fate. Yet not all of them were faithless. Wiglaf,\nyoung and daring, a dear kinsman of Beowulf, from whom he had received\nmany a kindness, calling shame on the dastards who fled, rushed\nforward, sword in hand, and with no protection but that of his shield\nof linden wood. Like a leaf scorched in a furnace the shield curled\nup, but new strength came to Beowulf with the knowledge that Wiglaf\nhad not failed him in his need. Together the two heroes made a gallant\nstand, although blood flowed in a swift red stream from a wound that\nthe monster had made in Beowulf's neck with its venomous fangs, and\nran down his corselet. A stroke which left the Firedrake unharmed\nshivered the sword that had seen many fights, but Wiglaf smote a\nshrewd blow ere his lord could be destroyed, and Beowulf swiftly drew\nhis broad knife and, with an effort so great that all the life that\nwas left in him seemed to go with it, he shore the Firedrake asunder.\n\nThen Beowulf knew that his end drew very near, and when he had thanked\nWiglaf for his loyal help, he bade him enter the cave and bring forth\nthe treasure that he might please his dying eyes by looking on the\nriches that he had won for his people. And Wiglaf hastened into the\ncave, for he knew that he raced with Death, and brought forth armfuls\nof weapons, of magnificent ornaments, of goblets and of cups, of bars\nof red gold. Handfuls of sparkling jewels, too, he brought, and each\ntime he came and went, seizing without choosing, whatever lay nearest,\nit seemed as though the Firedrake's hoard were endless. A magical\ngolden standard and armour and swords that the dwarfs had made brought\na smile of joy into the dying King's eyes. And when the ten shamed\nwarriors, seeing that the fight was at an end, came to where their\nmighty ruler lay, they found him lying near the vile carcase of the\nmonster he had slain, and surrounded by a dazzlement of treasure\nuncountable. To them, and to Wiglaf, Beowulf spoke his valediction,\nurging on them to maintain the honour of the land of the Goths, and\nthen he said:\n\n    \"I thank God eternal,      the great King of Glory,\n    For the vast treasures      which I here gaze upon,\n    That I ere my death-day      might for my people\n    Win so great wealth--      Since I have given my life,\n    Thou must now look to      the needs of the nation;\n    Here dwell I no longer,      for Destiny calleth me!\n    Bid thou my warriors      after my funeral pyre\n    Build me a burial-cairn      high on the sea-cliffs head;\n    It shall for memory      tower up to Hronesness,\n    So that the sea-farers      Beowulf's Barrow\n    Henceforth shall name it,      they who drive far and wide\n    Over the mighty flood      their foaming Reels.\n    Thou art the last of all      the kindred of Wagmund!\n    Wyrd[10] has swept all my kin,      all the brave chiefs away!\n    Now must I follow them!\"\n\nSuch was the passing of Beowulf, greatest of Northern heroes, and\nunder a mighty barrow on a cliff very high above the sea, they buried\nhim, and with him a great fortune from the treasure he had won. Then\nwith heavy hearts, \"round about the mound rode his hearth-sharers, who\nsang that he was of kings, of men, the mildest, kindest, to his people\nsweetest, and the readiest in search of praise\":\n\n    \"Gentlest, most gracious, most keen to win glory.\"\n\nAnd if, in time, the great deeds of a mighty king of the Goths have\nbecome more like fairy tale than solid history, this at least we know,\nthat whether it is in Saeland or on the Yorkshire coast--where\n\n    \"High on the sea-cliff ledges\n    The white gulls are trooping and crying\"\n\n--the barrow of Beowulf covers a very valiant hero, a very perfect\ngentleman.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[9] Shakespeare (_Julius Caesar_).\n\n[10] Goddess of Fate.\n\n\n\n\nROLAND THE PALADIN\n\n    \"Roland, the flower of chivalry,\n    Expired at Roncevall.\"\n\n        Thomas Campbell.\n\n    \"Hero-worship endures for ever while man\n    endures.\"\n\n        Carlyle.\n\n    \"Roland, the gode knight.\"\n\n        Turpin's _History of Charlemagne_.\n\n\nThe old chroniclers tell us that on that momentous morning when\nWilliam the Conqueror led his army to victory at Hastings, a Norman\nknight named Taillefer (and a figure of iron surely was his) spurred\nhis horse to the front. In face of the enemy who hated all things that\nhad to do with France, he lifted up his voice and chanted aloud the\nexploits of Charlemagne and of Roland. As he sang, he threw his sword\nin the air and always caught it in his right hand as it fell, and,\nproudly, the whole army, moving at once, joined with him in the\n_Chanson de Roland_, and shouted, as chorus, \"God be our help! God be\nour help!\"\n\n    \"Taillefer ... chantoit de Rollant\n    Et d'Olivier, et de Vassaux\n    Qui mourent en Rainschevaux.\"\n\n        Wace, _Roman de Rose_.\n\nFifteen thousand of those who sang fell on that bloody day, and one\nwonders how many of those who went down to the Shades owed half their\ndesperate courage to the remembrance of the magnificent deeds of the\nhero of whom they sang, ere ever sword met sword, or spear met the\nsullen impact of the stark frame of a Briton born, fighting for his\nown.\n\nThe story of Roland, so we are told, is only a splendid coating of\npaint put on a very slender bit of drawing. A contemporary chronicle\ntells of the battle of Roncesvalles, and says: \"In which battle was\nslain Roland, prefect of the marches of Brittany.\" Merely a Breton\nsquire, we are told to believe--a very gallant country gentleman whose\nname would not have been preserved in priestly archives had he not won\nfor himself, by his fine courage, such an unfading laurel crown. But\nbecause we are so sure that \"it is the memory that the soldier leaves\nafter him, like the long trail of light that follows the sunken sun,\"\nand because so often oral tradition is less misleading than the\nwritten word, we gladly and undoubtingly give Roland high place in the\nValhalla of heroes of all races and of every time.\n\n777 or 778 A.D. is the date fixed for the great fight at Roncesvalles,\nwhere Roland won death and glory. Charlemagne, King of the Franks, and\nHead of the Holy Roman Empire, was returning victoriously from a seven\nyears' campaign against the Saracens in Spain.\n\n    \"No fortress stands before him unsubdued,\n    Nor wall, nor city left to be destroyed,\"\n\nsave one--the city of Saragossa, the stronghold of King Marsile or\nMarsiglio. Here amongst the mountains the King and his people still\nheld to their idols, worshipped \"Mahommed, Apollo, and Termagaunt,\"\nand looked forward with horror to a day when the mighty Charlemagne\nmight, by the power of the sword, thrust upon them the worship of the\ncrucified Christ. Ere Charlemagne had returned to his own land,\nMarsile held a council with his peers. To believe that the great\nconqueror would rest content with Saragossa still unconquered was too\nmuch to hope for. Surely he would return to force his religion upon\nthem. What, then, was it best to do? A very wily emir was Blancandrin,\nbrave in war, and wise in counsel, and on his advice Marsile sent\nambassadors to Charlemagne to ask of him upon what conditions he would\nbe allowed to retain his kingdom in peace and to continue to worship\nthe gods of his fathers. Mounted on white mules, with silver saddles,\nand with reins of gold, and bearing olive branches in their hands,\nBlancandrin and the ten messengers sent by Marsile arrived at Cordova,\nwhere Charlemagne rested with his army. Fifteen thousand tried\nveterans were with him there, and his \"Douzeperes\"--his Twelve\nPeers--who were to him what the Knights of the Round Table were to\nKing Arthur of Britain. He held his court in an orchard, and under a\ngreat pine tree from which the wild honeysuckle hung like a fragrant\ncanopy, the mighty king and emperor sat on a throne of gold.\n\nThe messengers of Marsile saw a man of much more than ordinary stature\nand with the commanding presence of one who might indeed conquer\nkingdoms, but his sword was laid aside and he watched contentedly the\ncontests between the older of his knights who played chess under the\nshade of the fruit trees, and the fencing bouts of the younger\nwarriors. Very dear to him were all his Douzeperes, yet dearest of all\nwas his own nephew, Roland. In him he saw his own youth again, his own\nimperiousness, his reckless gallantry, his utter fearlessness--all\nthose qualities which endeared him to the hearts of other men. Roland\nwas his sister's son, and it was an evil day for the fair Bertha when\nshe told her brother that, in spite of his anger and scorn, she had\ndisobeyed his commands and had wed the man she loved, Milon, a poor\nyoung knight.\n\nNo longer would Charlemagne recognise her as sister, and in obscurity\nand poverty Roland was born. He was still a very tiny lad when his\nfather, in attempting to ford a flooded river, was swept down-stream\nand drowned, and Bertha had no one left to fend for her and for her\nchild. Soon they had no food left, and the little Roland watched with\namazed eyes his famished mother growing so weak that she could not\nrise from the bed where she lay, nor answer him when he pulled her by\nthe hand and tried to make her come with him to seek his father and to\nfind something to eat. And when he saw that it was hopeless, the child\nknew that he must take his father's place and get food for the mother\nwho lay so pale, and so very still. Into a great hall where\nCharlemagne and his lords were banqueting Roland strayed. Here was\nfood in plenty! Savoury smelling, delicious to his little empty\nstomach were the daintily cooked meats which the Emperor and his court\nate from off their silver platters. Only one plateful of food such as\nthis must, of a surety, make his dear mother strong and well once\nmore. Not for a moment did Roland hesitate. Even as a tiny sparrow\ndarts into a lion's cage and picks up a scrap almost out of the\nmonarch's hungry jaws, so acted Roland. A plateful of food stood\nbeside the King. At this Roland sprang, seized it with both hands, and\njoyfully ran off with his prey. When the serving men would have caught\nhim, Charlemagne, laughing, bade them desist.\n\n\"A hungry one this,\" he said, \"and very bold.\"\n\nSo the meal went on, and when Roland had fed his mother with some\npieces of the rich food and had seen her gradually revive, yet another\nthought came to his baby mind.\n\n\"My father gave her wine,\" he thought. \"They were drinking wine in\nthat great hall. It will make her white cheeks red again.\"\n\nThus he ran back, as fast as his legs could carry him, and Charlemagne\nsmiled yet more when he saw the beautiful child, who knew no fear,\nreturn to the place where he had thieved. Right up to the King's chair\nhe came, solemnly measured with his eye the cups of wine that the\ngreat company quaffed, saw that the cup of Charlemagne was the most\nbeautiful and the fullest of the purple-red wine, stretched out a\ndaring little hand, grasped the cup, and prepared to go off again,\nlike a marauding bright-eyed bird. Then the King seized in his own\nhand the hand that held the cup.\n\n\"No! no! bold thief,\" he said, \"I cannot have my golden cup stolen\nfrom me, be it done by ever so sturdy a robber. Tell me, who sent thee\nout to steal?\"\n\nAnd Roland, an erect, gallant, little figure, his hand still in the\niron grip of the King, fearlessly and proudly gazed back into the eyes\nof Charlemagne.\n\n\"No one sent me,\" he said. \"My mother lay very cold and still and\nwould not speak, and she had said my father would come back no more,\nso there was none but me to seek her food. Give me the wine, I say!\nfor she is so cold and so very, very white\"--and the child struggled\nto free his hand that still held the cup.\n\n\"Who art thou, then?\" asked Charlemagne.\n\n\"My name is Roland--let me go, I pray thee,\" and again he tried to\ndrag himself free. And Charlemagne mockingly said:\n\n\"Roland, I fear thy father and mother have taught thee to be a clever\nthief.\"\n\nThen anger blazed in Roland's eyes.\n\n\"My mother is a lady of high degree!\" he cried, \"and I am her page,\nher cupbearer, her knight! I do not speak false words!\"--and he would\nhave struck the King for very rage.\n\nThen Charlemagne turned to his lords and asked--\"Who is this child?\"\n\nAnd one made answer: \"He is the son of thy sister Bertha, and of Milon\nthe knight, who was drowned these three weeks agone.\"\n\nThen the heart of Charlemagne grew heavy with remorse when he found\nthat his sister had so nearly died of want, and from that day she\nnever knew aught but kindness and tenderness from him, while Roland\nwas dear to him as his own child.\n\nHe was a Douzepere now, and when the envoys from Saragossa had\ndelivered their message to Charlemagne, he was one of those who helped\nto do them honour at a great feast that was held for them in a\npavilion raised in the orchard.\n\nEarly in the morning Charlemagne heard mass, and then, on his golden\nthrone under the great pine, he sat and took counsel with his\nDouzeperes. Not one of them trusted Marsile, but Ganelon, who had\nmarried the widowed Bertha and who had a jealous hatred for his\nstep-son--so beloved by his mother, so loved and honoured by the\nKing--was ever ready to oppose the counsel of Roland. Thus did he\npersuade Charlemagne to send a messenger to Marsile, commanding him to\ndeliver up the keys of Saragossa, in all haste to become a Christian,\nand in person to come and, with all humility, pay homage as vassal to\nCharlemagne.\n\nThen arose the question as to which of the peers should bear the\narrogant message. Roland, ever greedy for the post of danger,\nimpetuously asked that he might be chosen. But Charlemagne would have\nneither him nor his dear friend and fellow-knight, Oliver--he who was\nthe Jonathan of Roland's David--nor would he have Naismes de Baviere,\nnor Turpin, \"the chivalrous and undaunted Bishop of Rheims.\" He could\nnot afford to risk their lives, and Marsile was known to be\ntreacherous. Then he said to his peers:\n\n\"Choose ye for me whom I shall send. Let it be one who is wise;\nbrave, yet not over-rash, and who will defend mine honour valiantly.\"\n\nThen Roland, who never knew an ungenerous thought, quickly said:\n\"Then, indeed, it must be Ganelon who goes, for if he goes, or if he\nstays, you have none better than he.\"\n\nAnd all the other peers applauded the choice, and Charlemagne said to\nGanelon:\n\n\"Come hither, Ganelon, and receive my staff and glove, which the voice\nof all the Franks have given to thee.\"\n\nBut the honour which all the others coveted was not held to be an\nhonour by Ganelon. In furious rage he turned upon Roland:\n\n\"You and your friends have sent me to my death!\" he cried. \"But if by\na miracle I should return, look you to yourself, Roland, for assuredly\nI shall be revenged!\"\n\nAnd Roland grew red, then very white, and said:\n\n\"I had taken thee for another man, Ganelon. Gladly will I take thy\nplace. Wilt give me the honour to bear thy staff and glove to\nSaragossa, sire?\" And eagerly he looked Charlemagne in the face--eager\nas, when a child, he had craved the cup of wine for his mother's sake.\n\nBut Charlemagne, with darkened brow, shook his head.\n\n\"Ganelon must go,\" he said, \"for so have I commanded. Go! for the\nhonour of Jesus Christ, and for your Emperor.\"\n\nThus, sullenly and unwillingly, and with burning hatred against\nRoland in his heart, Ganelon accompanied the Saracens back to\nSaragossa. A hate so bitter was not easy to hide, and as he rode\nbeside him the wily Blancandrin was not long in laying a probing\nfinger on this festering sore. Soon he saw that Ganelon would pay even\nthe price of his honour to revenge himself upon Roland and on the\nother Douzeperes whose lives were more precious than his in the eyes\nof Charlemagne. Yet, when Saragossa was reached, like a brave man and\na true did Ganelon deliver the insulting message that his own brain\nhad conceived and that the Emperor, with magnificent arrogance, had\nbidden him deliver. And this he did, although he knew his life hung\nbut by a thread while Marsile and the Saracen lords listened to his\nwords. But Marsile kept his anger under, thinking with comfort of what\nBlancandrin had told him of his discovery by the way. And very soon he\nhad shown Ganelon how he might be avenged on Roland and on the friends\nof Roland, and in a manner which his treachery need never be known,\nand very rich were the bribes that he offered to the faithless knight.\n\nThus it came about that Ganelon sold his honour, and bargained with\nthe Saracens to betray Roland and his companions into their hands in\ntheir passage of the narrow defiles of Roncesvalles. For more than\nfifty pieces of silver Marsile purchased the soul of Ganelon, and when\nthis Judas of the Douzeperes returned in safety to Cordova, bringing\nwith him princely gifts for Charlemagne, the keys of Saragossa, and\nthe promise that in sixteen days Marsile would repair to France to do\nhomage and to embrace the Christian faith, the Emperor was happy\nindeed. All had fallen out as he desired. Ganelon, who had gone forth\nin wrath, had returned calm and gallant, and had carried himself\nthroughout his difficult embassy as a wise statesman and a brave and\nloyal soldier.\n\n\"Thou hast done well, Ganelon,\" said the king. \"I give thanks to my\nGod and to thee. Thou shalt be well rewarded.\"\n\nThe order then was speedily given for a return to France, and for ten\nmiles the great army marched before they halted and encamped for the\nnight. But when Charlemagne slept, instead of dreams of peace he had\ntwo dreams which disturbed him greatly. In the first, Ganelon roughly\nseized the imperial spear of tough ash-wood and it broke into\nsplinters in his hand. In the next, Charlemagne saw himself attacked\nby a leopard and a bear, which tore off his right arm, and as a\ngreyhound darted to his aid he awoke, and rose from his couch heavy at\nheart because of those dreams of evil omen.\n\nIn the morning he held a council and reminded his knights of the\ndangers of the lonely pass of Roncesvalles. It was a small oval plain,\nshut in all round, save on the south where the river found its outlet,\nby precipitous mountain ridges densely covered with beech woods.\nMountains ran sheer up to the sky above it, precipices rushed sheer\ndown below, and the path that crossed the crest of the Pyrenees and\nled to it was so narrow that it must be traversed in single file. The\ndangers for the rearguard naturally seemed to Charlemagne to be the\ngreatest, and to his Douzeperes he turned, as before, for counsel.\n\n\"Who, then, shall command the rearguard?\" he asked. And quickly\nGanelon answered, \"Who but Roland? Ever would he seek the post where\ndanger lies.\"\n\nAnd Charlemagne, feeling he owed much to Ganelon, gave way to his\ncounsel, though with heavy forebodings in his heart. Then all the\nother Douzeperes, save Ganelon, said that for love of Roland they\nwould go with him and see him safely through the dangers of the way.\nLoudly they vaunted his bravery:\n\n    \"_For dred of dethe, he hid neuer his hed._\"\n\nLeaving them behind with twenty thousand men, and with Ganelon\ncommanding the vanguard, Charlemagne started.\n\n\"Christ keep you!\" he said on parting with Roland--\"_I betak you to\nCrist._\"\n\nAnd Roland, clad in his shining armour, his lordly helmet on his head,\nhis sword Durendala by his side, his horn Olifant slung round him, and\nhis flower-painted shield on his arm, mounted his good steed\nVeillantif, and, holding his bright lance with its white pennon and\ngolden fringe in his hand, led the way for his fellow-knights and for\nthe other Franks who so dearly loved him.\n\nNot far from the pass of Roncesvalles he saw, gleaming against the\ndark side of the purple mountain, the spears of the Saracens. Ten\nthousand men, under Sir Gautier, were sent by Roland to reconnoitre,\nbut from every side the heathen pressed upon them, and every one of\nthe ten thousand were slain--hurled into the valley far down below.\nGautier alone, sorely wounded, returned to Roland, to tell him, ere\nhis life ebbed away, of the betrayal by Ganelon, and to warn him of\nthe ambush. Yet even then they were at Roncesvalles, and the warning\ncame too late. Afar off, amongst the beech trees, and coming down\namongst the lonely passes of the mountains, the Franks could see the\ngleam of silver armour, and Oliver, well knowing that not even the\nmost dauntless valour could withstand such a host as the one that came\nagainst them, besought Roland to blow a blast on his magic horn that\nCharlemagne might hear and return to aid him. And all the other\nDouzeperes begged of him that thus he would call for help. But Roland\nwould not listen to them.\n\n    \"I will fight with them that us hathe sought\n    And or I se my brest blod throughe my harnes ryn\n    Blow never horn for no help then.\"\n\nThrough the night they knew their enemies were coming ever nearer,\nhemming them in, but there were no night alarms, and day broke fair\nand still. There was no wind, there was dew on the grass; \"dew dymmd\nthe floures,\" and amongst the trees the birds sang merrily. At\ndaybreak the good Bishop Turpin celebrated Mass and blessed them, and\neven as his voice ceased they beheld the Saracen host close upon them.\nThen Roland spoke brave words of cheer to his army and commended their\nsouls and his own to Christ, \"who suffrid for us paynes sore,\" and\nfor whose sake they had to fight the enemies of the Cross. Behind\nevery tree and rock a Saracen seemed to be hidden, and in a moment the\nwhole pass was alive with men in mortal strife.\n\nSurely never in any fight were greater prodigies of valour performed\nthan those of Roland and his comrades. Twelve Saracen kings fell\nbefore their mighty swords, and many a Saracen warrior was hurled down\nthe cliffs to pay for the lives of the men of France whom they had\ntrapped to their death. Never before, in one day, did one man slay so\nmany as did Roland and Oliver his friend--\"A Roland for an Oliver\" was\nno good exchange, and yet a very fair one, as the heathen quickly\nlearned.\n\n    \"Red was Roland, red with bloodshed;\n    Red his corselet, red his shoulders,\n    Red his arm, and red his charger.\"\n\nIn the thickest of the fight he and Oliver came together, and Roland\nsaw that his friend was using for weapon and dealing death-blows with\nthe truncheon of a spear.\n\n    \"'Friend, what hast thou there?' cried Roland.\n    'In this game 'tis not a distaff,\n    But a blade of steel thou needest.\n    Where is now Hauteclaire, thy good sword,\n    Golden-hilted, crystal-pommelled?'\n    'Here,' said Oliver; 'so fight I\n    That I have not time to draw it.'\n    'Friend,' quoth Roland, 'more I love thee\n    Ever henceforth than a brother.'\"\n\nWhen the sun set on that welter of blood, not a single Saracen was\nleft, and those of the Frankish rearguard who still lived were very\nweary men.\n\nThen Roland called on his men to give thanks to God, and Bishop\nTurpin, whose stout arm had fought well on that bloody day, offered up\nthanks for the army, though in sorry plight were they, almost none\nunwounded, their swords and lances broken, and their hauberks rent and\nblood-stained. Gladly they laid themselves down to rest beside the\ncomrades whose eyes never more would open on the fair land of France,\nbut even as Roland was about to take his rest he saw descending upon\nhim and his little band a host of Saracens, led by Marsile himself.\n\nA hundred thousand men, untired, and fiercely thirsting for revenge,\ncame against the handful of wearied, wounded heroes. Yet with\nunwavering courage the Franks responded to their leaders' call.\n\nThe war-cry of the soldiers of France--\"Montjoie! Montjoie!\"--rang\nclear above the fierce sound of the trumpets of the Saracen army.\n\n    \"'Soldiers of the Lord,' cried Turpin,\n    'Be ye valiant and steadfast,\n    For this day shall crowns be given you\n    Midst the flowers of Paradise.\n    In the name of God our Saviour,\n    Be ye not dismayed nor frighted,\n    Lest of you be shameful legends\n    Chanted by the tongues of minstrels.\n    Rather let us die victorious,\n    Since this eve shall see us lifeless!--\n    Heaven has no room for cowards!\n    Knights, who nobly fight, and vainly,\n    Ye shall sit among the holy\n    In the blessed fields of Heaven.\n    On then, Friends of God, to glory!'\"\n\nMarsile fell, the first victim to a blow from the sword of Roland,\nand even more fiercely than the one that had preceded it, waged this\nterrible fight.\n\nAnd now it seemed as though the Powers of Good and of Evil also took\npart in the fray, for a storm swept down from the mountains, thick\ndarkness fell, and the rumble of thunder and the rush of heavy rain\ndulled the shouts of those who fought and the clash and clang of their\nweapons. When a blood-red cloud came up, its lurid light showed the\ntrampled ground strewn with dead and dying. At that piteous sight\nRoland proposed to send a messenger to Charlemagne to ask him for aid,\nbut it was then too late.\n\nWhen only sixty Franks remained, the pride of Roland gave way to pity\nfor the men whom he had led to death, and he took the magic horn\nOlifant in his hand, that he might blow on it a blast that would bring\nCharlemagne, his mighty army behind him, to wipe out the Saracen host\nthat had done him such evil. But Oliver bitterly protested. Earlier in\nthe day, when he had willed it, Roland had refused to call for help.\nNow the day was done. The twilight of death--Death the inevitable--was\nclosing in upon them. Why, then, call now for Charlemagne, when nor he\nnor any other could help them? But Turpin with all his force backed\nthe wish of Roland.\n\n\"The blast of thy horn cannot bring back the dead to life,\" he said.\n\"Yet if our Emperor return he can save our corpses and weep over them\nand bear them reverently to la belle France. And there shall they lie\nin sanctuary, and not in a Paynim land where the wild beasts devour\nthem and croaking wretches with foul beaks tear our flesh and leave\nour bones dishonoured.\"\n\n\"That is well said,\" quoth Roland and Oliver.\n\nThen did Roland blow three mighty blasts upon his horn, and so great\nwas the third that a blood-vessel burst, and the red drops trickled\nfrom his mouth.\n\nFor days on end Charlemagne had been alarmed at the delay of his\nrearguard, but ever the false Ganelon had reassured him.\n\n\"Why shouldst thou fear, sire?\" he asked. \"Roland has surely gone\nafter some wild boar or deer, so fond is he of the chase.\"\n\nBut when Roland blew the blast that broke his mighty heart,\nCharlemagne heard it clearly, and no longer had any doubt of the\nmeaning of its call. He knew that his dreams had come true, and at\nonce he set his face towards the dire pass of Roncesvalles that he\nmight, even at the eleventh hour, save Roland and his men.\n\nLong ere Charlemagne could reach the children of his soul who stood in\nsuch dire need, the uncle of Marsile had reached the place of battle\nwith a force of fifty thousand men. Pierced from behind by a cowardly\nlance, Oliver was sobbing out his life's blood. Yet ever he cried,\n\"Montjoie! Montjoie!\" and each time his voice formed the words, a\nthrust from his sword, or from the lances of his men, drove a soul\ndown to Hades. And when he was breathing his last, and lay on the\nearth, humbly confessing his sins and begging God to grant him rest in\nParadise, he asked God's blessing upon Charlemagne, his lord the\nking, and upon his fair land of France, and, above all other men, to\nkeep free from scathe his heart's true brother and comrade, Roland,\nthe gallant knight. Then did he gently sigh his last little measure of\nlife away, and as Roland bent over him he felt that half of the\nglamour of living was gone. Yet still so dearly did he love Aude the\nFair, the sister of Oliver, who was to be his bride, that his muscles\ngrew taut as he gripped his sword, and his courage was the dauntless\ncourage of a furious wave that faces all the cliffs of a rocky coast\nin a winter storm, when again, he faced the Saracen host.\n\nOf all the Douzeperes, only Gautier and Turpin and Roland now\nremained, and with them a poor little handful of maimed men-at-arms.\nSoon a Saracen arrow drove through the heart of Gautier, and Turpin,\nwounded by four lances, stood alone by Roland's side. But for each\nlance thrust he slew a hundred men, and when at length he fell,\nRoland, himself sorely wounded, seized once more his horn and blew\nupon it a piercing blast:\n\n      \"... a blast of that dread horn,\n    On Fontarabian echoes borne,\n      That to King Charles did come,\n    When Rowland brave, and Olivier,\n    And every paladin and peer,\n      On Roncesvalles died.\"\n\n        Sir Walter Scott.\n\n[Illustration: ROLAND SEIZED ONCE MORE HIS HORN]\n\nThat blast pierced right into the heart of Charlemagne, and\nstraightway he turned his army towards the pass of Roncesvalles that\nhe might succour Roland, whom he so greatly loved. Yet then it was too\nlate. Turpin was nearly dead. Roland knew himself to be dying.\nVeillantif, Roland's faithful warhorse, was enduring agonies from\nwounds of the Paynim arrows, and him Roland slew with a shrewd blow\nfrom his well-tried sword. From far, far away the hero could hear the\nblare of the trumpets of the Frankish army, and, at the sound, what\nwas left of the Saracen host fled in terror. He made his way, blindly,\npainfully, to where Turpin lay, and with fumbling fingers took off his\nhauberk and unlaced his golden helmet. With what poor skill was left\nto him, he strove to bind up his terrible wounds with strips of his\nown tunic, and he dragged him, as gently as he could, to a spot under\nthe beech trees where the fresh moss still was green.\n\n    \"'Ah, gentle lord,' said Roland, 'give me leave\n    To carry here our comrades who are dead,\n    Whom we so dearly loved; they must not lie\n    Unblest; but I will bring their corpses here\n    And thou shalt bless them, and me, ere thou die.'\n    'Go,' said the dying priest, 'but soon return.\n    Thank God! the victory is yours and mine!'\"\n\nWith exquisite pain Roland carried the bodies of Oliver and of the\nrest of the Douzeperes from the places where they had died to where\nTurpin, their dear bishop, lay a-dying. Each step that he took cost\nhim a pang of agony; each step took from him a toll of blood. Yet\nfaithfully he performed his task, until they all lay around Turpin,\nwho gladly blessed them and absolved them all. And then the agony of\nsoul and of heart and body that Roland had endured grew overmuch for\nhim to bear, and he gave a great cry, like the last sigh of a mighty\ntree that the woodcutters fell, and dropped down, stiff and chill, in\na deathly swoon. Then the dying bishop dragged himself towards him and\nlifted the horn Olifant, and with it in his hand he struggled, inch by\ninch, with very great pain and labour, to a little stream that\ntrickled down the dark ravine, that he might fetch some water to\nrevive the hero that he and all men loved. But ere he could reach the\nstream, the mists of death had veiled his eyes. He joined his hands in\nprayer, though each movement meant a pang, and gave his soul to\nChrist, his Saviour and his Captain. And so passed away the soul of a\nmighty warrior and a stainless priest.\n\nThus was Roland alone amongst the dead when consciousness came back to\nhim. With feeble hands he unlaced his helmet and tended to himself as\nbest he might. And, as Turpin had done, so also did he painfully crawl\ntowards the stream. There he found Turpin, the horn Olifant by his\nside, and knew that it was in trying to fetch him water that the brave\nbishop had died, and for tenderness and pity the hero wept.\n\n    \"Alas! brave priest, fair lord of noble birth,\n    Thy soul I give to the great King of Heaven!\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    May thy fair soul escape the pains of Hell,\n    And Paradise receive thee in its bowers!\"\n\nThen did Roland know that for him, also, there \"was no other way but\ndeath.\" With dragging steps he toiled uphill a little way, his good\nsword Durendala in one hand, and in the other his horn Olifant. Under\na little clump of pines were some rough steps hewn in a boulder of\nmarble leading yet higher up the hill, and these Roland would have\nclimbed, but his throbbing heart could no more, and again he fell\nswooning on the ground. A Saracen who, out of fear, had feigned death,\nsaw him lying there and crawled out of the covert where he lay\nconcealed.\n\n\"It is Roland, the nephew of the Emperor!\" he joyously thought, and in\ntriumph he said to himself, \"I shall bear his sword back with me!\" But\nas his Pagan hand touched the hilt of the sword and would have torn it\nfrom Roland's dying grasp, the hero was aroused from his swoon. One\ngreat stroke cleft the Saracen's skull and laid him dead at Roland's\nfeet. Then to Durendala Roland spoke:\n\n    \"I surely die; but, ere I end,\n    Let me be sure that thou art ended too my friend!\n    For should a heathen grasp thee when I am clay,\n    My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment day!\"\n\nMore ghost than man he looked as with a mighty effort of will and of\nbody he struggled to his feet and smote with his blade the marble\nboulder. Before the stroke the marble split asunder as though the\npick-axe of a miner had cloven it. On a rock of sardonyx he strove to\nbreak it then, but Durendala remained unharmed. A third time he\nstrove, and struck a rock of blue marble with such force that the\nsparks rushed out as from a blacksmith's anvil. Then he knew that it\nwas in vain, for Durendala would not be shattered. And so he raised\nOlifant to his lips and blew a dying blast that echoed down the cliffs\nand up to the mountain tops and rang through the trees of the forest.\nAnd still, to this day, do they say, when the spirit of the warrior\nrides by night down the heights and through the dark pass of\nRoncesvalles, even such a blast may be heard, waking all the echoes\nand sounding through the lonely hollows of the hills.\n\nThen he made confession, and with a prayer for pardon of his sins and\nfor mercy from the God whose faithful servant and soldier he had been\nunto his life's end, the soul of Roland passed away.\n\n              \"... With hands devoutly joined\n    He breathed his last. God sent his Cherubim,\n    Saint Raphael, Saint Michel del Peril.\n    Together with them Gabriel came.--All bring\n    The soul of Count Rolland to Paradise.\n                                      Aoi.\"\n\nCharlemagne and his army found him lying thus, and very terrible were\nthe grief and the rage of the Emperor as he looked on him and on the\nothers of his Douzeperes and on the bodies of that army of twenty\nthousand.\n\n\"All the field was with blod ouer roun\"--\"Many a good swerd was broken\nther\"--\"Many a fadirles child ther was at home.\"\n\nBy the side of Roland, Charlemagne vowed vengeance, but ere he avenged\nhis death he mourned over him with infinite anguish:\n\n    \"'The Lord have mercy, Roland, on thy soul!\n    Never again shall our fair France behold\n    A knight so worthy, till France be no more!\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    How widowed lies our fair France, and how lone!\n    How will the realms that I have swayed rebel,\n    Now thou art taken from my weary age!\n    So deep my woe that fain would I die too\n    And join my valiant Peers in Paradise,\n    While men inter my weary limbs with thine!'\"\n\nA terrible vengeance was the one that he took next day, when the\nSaracen army was utterly exterminated; and when all the noble dead had\nbeen buried where they fell, save only Roland, Oliver, and Turpin, the\nbodies of these three heroes were carried to Blaye and interred with\ngreat honour in the great cathedral there.\n\nCharlemagne then returned to Aix, and as he entered his palace, Aude\nthe Fair, sister of Oliver, and the betrothed of Roland, hastened to\nmeet him. Where were the Douzeperes? What was the moaning murmur as of\nwomen who wept, that had heralded the arrival in the town of the\nEmperor and his conquering army? Eagerly she questioned Charlemagne of\nthe safety of Roland, and when the Emperor, in pitying grief, told\nher:\n\n\"Roland, thy hero, like a hero died,\" Aude gave a bitter cry and fell\nto the ground like a white lily slain by a cruel wind. The Emperor\nthought she had fainted, but when he would have lifted her up, he\nfound that she was dead, and, in infinite pity, he had her taken to\nBlaye and buried by the side of Roland.\n\nVery tender was Charlemagne to the maiden whom Roland had loved, but\nwhen the treachery of Ganelon had been proved, for him there was no\nmercy. At Aix-la-Chapelle, torn asunder by wild horses, he met a\nshameful and a horrible death, nor is his name forgotten as that of\nthe blackest of traitors. But the memory of Roland and of the other\nDouzeperes lives on and is, however fanciful, forever fragrant.\n\n                    \"... Roland, and Olyvere,\n    And of the twelve Tussypere,\n    That dieden in the batayle of Runcyvale;\n    Jesu lord, heaven king,\n    To his bliss hem and us both bring,\n    To liven withouten bale!\"\n\n        Sir Otuel.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHILDREN OF LIR\n\n    \"Silent, O Moyle, be the roar of thy water;\n    Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose;\n    While murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter\n    Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.\"\n\n        Moore.\n\n\nThey are the tragedies, not the comedies of the old, old days that are\nhanded down to us, and the literature of the Celts is rich in tragedy.\nTo the romantic and sorrowful imagination of the Celts of the green\nisland of Erin we owe the hauntingly piteous story of the children of\nLir.\n\nIn the earliest times of all, when Ireland was ruled by the Dedannans,\na people who came from Europe and brought with them from Greece magic\nand other arts so wonderful that the people of the land believed them\nto be gods, the Dedannans had so many chiefs that they met one day to\ndecide who was the best man of them all, that they might choose him to\nbe their king. The choice fell upon Bodb the Red, and gladly did every\nman acclaim him as king, all save Lir of Shee Finnaha, who left the\ncouncil in great wrath because he thought that he, and not Bodb,\nshould have been chosen. In high dudgeon he retired to his own place,\nand in the years that followed he and Bodb the Red waged fierce war\nagainst one another. At last a great sorrow came to Lir, for after an\nillness of three days his wife, who was very dear to him, was taken\nfrom him by death. Then Bodb saw an opportunity for reconciliation\nwith the chief whose enemy he had no wish to be. And to the\ngrief-stricken husband he sent a message:\n\n\"My heart weeps for thee, yet I pray thee to be comforted. In my house\nhave I three maidens, my foster-daughters, the most beautiful and the\nbest instructed in all Erin. Choose which one thou wilt for thy wife,\nand own me for thy lord, and my friendship shall be thine forever.\"\n\nAnd the message brought comfort to Lir, and he set out with a gallant\ncompany of fifty chariots, nor ever halted until he had reached the\npalace of Bodb the Red at Lough Derg, on the Shannon. Warm and kindly\nwas the welcome that Lir received from his overlord, and next day, as\nthe three beautiful foster-daughters of Bodb sat on the same couch as\nhis queen, Bodb said to Lir:\n\n\"Behold my three daughters. Choose which one thou wilt.\"\n\nAnd Lir answered, \"They are all beautiful, but Eve is the eldest, so\nshe must be the noblest of the three. I would have her for my wife.\"\n\nThat day he married Eve, and Lir took his fair young wife back with\nhim to his own place, Shee Finnaha, and happy were both of them in\ntheir love. To them in course of time were born a twin son and a\ndaughter. The daughter they named Finola and the son Aed, and the\nchildren were as beautiful, as good, and as happy as their mother.\nAgain she bore twins, boys, whom they named Ficra and Conn, but as\ntheir eyes opened on the world, the eyes of their mother closed on\npleasant life forever, and once again Lir was a widower, more bowed\ndown by grief than before.\n\nThe tidings of the death of Eve brought great sorrow to the palace of\nBodb the Red, for to all who knew her Eve was very dear. But again the\nking sent a message of comfort to Lir:\n\n\"We sorrow with thee, yet in proof of our friendship with thee and our\nlove for the one who is gone, we would give thee another of our\ndaughters to be a mother to the children who have lost their mother's\ncare.\"\n\nAnd again Lir went to the palace at Loch Derg, the Great Lake, and\nthere he married Eva, the second of the foster-daughters of the king.\n\nAt first it seemed as if Eva loved her dead sister's children as\nthough they were her own. But when she saw how passionate was her\nhusband's devotion to them, how he would have them to sleep near him\nand would rise at their slightest whimper to comfort and to caress\nthem, and how at dawn she would wake to find he had left her side to\nsee that all was well with them, the poisonous weed of jealousy began\nto grow up in the garden of her heart. She was a childless woman, and\nshe knew not whether it was her sister who had borne them whom she\nhated, or whether she hated the children themselves. But steadily the\nhatred grew, and the love that Bodb the Red bore for them only\nembittered her the more. Many times in the year he would come to see\nthem, many times would take them away to stay with him, and each year\nwhen the Dedannans held the Feast of Age--the feast of the great god\nMannanan, of which those who partook never grew old--the four children\nof Lir were present, and gave joy to all who beheld them by their\ngreat beauty, their nobility, and their gentleness.\n\nBut as the love that all others gave to the four children of Lir grew,\nthe hatred of Eva, their stepmother, kept pace with it, until at\nlength the poison in her heart ate into her body as well as her soul,\nand she grew worn and ill out of her very wickedness. For nearly a\nyear she lay sick in bed, while the sound of the children's laughter\nand their happy voices, their lovely faces like the faces of the\nchildren of a god, and the proud and loving words with which their\nfather spoke of them were, to her, like acid in a festering wound. At\nlast there came a black day when jealousy had choked all the flowers\nof goodness in her heart, and only treachery and merciless cruelty\nremained. She rose from her couch and ordered the horses to be yoked\nto her chariot that she might take the four children to the Great Lake\nto see the king, her foster-father. They were but little children, yet\nthe instinct that sometimes tells even a very little child when it is\nnear an evil thing, warned Finola that harm would come to her and to\nher brothers were they to go. It may also have been, perhaps, that she\nhad seen, with the sharp vision of a woman child, the thing to which\nLir was quite blind, and that in a tone of her stepmother's voice, in\na look she had surprised in her eyes, she had learned that the love\nthat her father's wife professed for her and for the others was only\nhatred, cunningly disguised. Thus she tried to make excuses for\nherself and the little brothers to whom she was a child-mother, so\nthat they need not go. But Eva listened with deaf ears, and the\nchildren said farewell to Lir, who must have wondered at the tears\nthat stood in Finola's eyes and the shadow that darkened their blue,\nand drove off in the chariot with their stepmother.\n\nWhen they had driven a long way, Eva turned to her attendants: \"Much\nwealth have I,\" she said, \"and all that I have shall be yours if you\nwill slay for me those four hateful things that have stolen from me\nthe love of my man.\"\n\nThe servants heard her in horror, and in horror and shame for her they\nanswered: \"Fearful is the deed thou wouldst have us do; more fearful\nstill is it that thou shouldst have so wicked a thought. Evil will\nsurely come upon thee for having wished to take the lives of Lir's\ninnocent little children.\"\n\nAngrily, then, she seized a sword and herself would fain have done\nwhat her servants had scorned to do. But she lacked strength to carry\nout her own evil wish, and so they journeyed onwards. They came to\nLake Darvra at last--now Lough Derravaragh, in West Meath--and there\nthey all alighted from the chariot, and the children, feeling as\nthough they had been made to play at an ugly game, but that now it was\nover and all was safety and happiness again, were sent into the loch\nto bathe. Joyously and with merry laughter the little boys splashed\ninto the clear water by the rushy shore, all three seeking to hold\nthe hands of their sister, whose little slim white body was whiter\nthan the water-lilies and her hair more golden than their hearts.\n\nIt was then that Eva struck them, as a snake strikes its prey. One\ntouch for each, with a magical wand of the Druids, then the low\nchanting of an old old rune, and the beautiful children had vanished,\nand where their tiny feet had pressed the sand and their yellow hair\nhad shown above the water like four daffodil heads that dance in the\nwind, there floated four white swans. But although to Eva belonged the\npower of bewitching their bodies, their hearts and souls and speech\nstill belonged to the children of Lir. And when Finola spoke, it was\nnot as a little timid child, but as a woman who could look with sad\neyes into the future and could there see the terrible punishment of a\nshameful act.\n\n\"Very evil is the deed that thou hast done,\" she said. \"We only gave\nthee love, and we are very young, and all our days were happiness. By\ncruelty and treachery thou hast brought our childhood to an end, yet\nis our doom less piteous than thine. Woe, woe unto thee, O Eva, for a\nfearful doom lies before thee!\"\n\nThen she asked--a child still, longing to know when the dreary days of\nits banishment from other children should be over--\"Tell us how long a\ntime must pass until we can take our own forms again.\"\n\n[Illustration: ONE TOUCH FOR EACH, WITH A MAGICAL WAND OF THE DRUIDS]\n\nAnd, relentlessly, Eva made answer: \"Better had it been for thy peace\nhadst thou left unsought that knowledge. Yet will I tell thee thy\ndoom. Three hundred years shall ye live in the smooth waters of Lake\nDarvra; three hundred years on the Sea of Moyle,[11] which is\nbetween Erin and Alba; three hundred years more at Ivros Domnann[12]\nand at Inis Glora,[13] on the Western Sea. Until a prince from the\nnorth shall marry a princess from the south; until the Tailleken (St.\nPatrick) shall come to Erin, and until ye shall hear the sound of the\nChristian bell, neither my power nor thy power, nor the power of any\nDruid's runes can set ye free until that weird is dreed.\"\n\nAs she spoke, a strange softening came into the evil woman's heart.\nThey were so still, those white creatures who gazed up at her with\neager, beseeching eyes, through which looked the souls of the little\nchildren that once she had loved. They were so silent and piteous, the\nlittle Ficra and Conn, whose dimpled baby faces she often used to\nkiss. And she said, that her burden of guilt might be the lighter:\n\n\"This relief shall ye have in your troubles. Though ye keep your human\nreason and your human speech, yet shall ye suffer no grief because\nyour form is the form of swans, and you shall sing songs more sweet\nthan any music that the earth has ever known.\"\n\nThen Eva went back to her chariot and drove to the palace of her\nfoster-father at the Great Lake, and the four white swans were left on\nthe lonely waters of Darvra.\n\nWhen she reached the palace without the children, the king asked in\ndisappointment why she had not brought them with her.\n\n\"Lir loves thee no longer,\" she made answer. \"He will not trust his\nchildren to thee, lest thou shouldst work them some ill.\"\n\nBut her father did not believe her lying words. Speedily he sent\nmessengers to Shee Finnaha that they might bring back the children who\never carried joy with them. Amazed, Lir received the message, and when\nhe learned that Eva had reached the palace alone, a terrible dread\narose in his heart. In great haste he set out, and as he passed by\nLake Darvra he heard voices singing melodies so sweet and moving that\nhe was fain, in spite of his fears, to stop and listen. And lo, as he\nlistened, he found that the singers were four swans, that swam close\nup to where he stood, and greeted him in the glad voices of his own\ndear children. All that night he stayed beside them, and when they had\ntold him their piteous tale and he knew that no power could free them\ntill the years of their doom were accomplished, Lir's heart was like\nto break with pitying love and infinite sorrow. At dawn he took a\ntender leave of them and drove to the house of Bodb the Red. Terrible\nwere the words of Lir, and dark was his face as he told the king the\nevil thing that Eva had done. And Eva, who had thought in the madness\nof her jealousy that Lir would give her all his love when he was a\nchildless man, shrank, white and trembling, away from him when she saw\nthe furious hatred in his eyes. Then said the king, and his anger was\neven as the anger of Lir:\n\n\"The suffering of the little children who are dear to our souls shall\ncome to an end at last. Thine shall be an eternal doom.\"\n\nAnd he put her on oath to tell him \"what shape of all others, on the\nearth, or above the earth, or beneath the earth, she most abhorred,\nand into which she most dreaded to be transformed.\"\n\n\"A demon of the air,\" answered the cowering woman.\n\n\"A demon of the air shalt thou be until time shall cease!\" said her\nfoster-father. Thereupon he smote her with his druidical wand, and a\ncreature too hideous for men's eyes to look upon, gave a great scream\nof anguish, and flapped its black wings as it flew away to join the\nother demons of the air.\n\nThen the king of the Dedannans and all his people went with Lir to\nLake Darvra, and listened to the honey-sweet melodies that were sung\nto them by the white swans that had been the children of their hearts.\nAnd such magic was in the music that it could lull away all sorrow and\npain, and give rest to the grief-stricken and sleep to the toil-worn\nand the heavy at heart. And the Dedannans made a great encampment on\nthe shores of the lake that they might never be far from them. There,\ntoo, as the centuries went by, came the Milesians, who succeeded the\nDedannans in Erin, and so for the children of Lir three hundred years\npassed happily away.\n\nSad for them and for Lir, and for all the people of the Dedannans, was\nthe day when the years at Darvra were ended and the four swans said\nfarewell to their father and to all who were so dear to them, spread\ntheir snowy pinions, and took flight for the stormy sea. They sang a\nsong of parting that made grief sit heavy on the hearts of all those\nwho listened, and the men of Erin, in memory of the children of Lir\nand of the good things they had wrought by the magic of their music,\nmade a law, and proclaimed it throughout all the land, that from that\ntime forth no man of their land should harm a swan.\n\nWeary were the great white wings of the children of Lir when they\nreached the jagged rocks by the side of the fierce grey sea of Moyle,\nwhose turbulent waves fought angrily together. And the days that came\nto them there were days of weariness, of loneliness, and of hardship.\nVery cold were they often, very hungry, and yet the sweetness of their\nsong pierced through the vicious shriek of the tempest and the sullen\nboom and crash of the great billows that flung themselves against the\ncliffs or thundered in devouring majesty over the wrack-strewn shore,\nlike a thread of silver that runs through a pall. One night a tempest\ndrove across and down the Sea of Moyle from the north-east, and lashed\nit into fury. And the mirk darkness and the sleet that drove in the\nteeth of the gale like bullets of ice, and the huge, irresistible\nbreakers that threshed the shore, filled the hearts of the children of\nLir with dread. For always they had desired love and beauty, and the\nugliness of unrestrained cruelty and fury made them sick at soul.\n\nTo her brothers Finola said: \"Beloved ones, of a surety the storm must\ndrive us apart. Let us, then, appoint a place of meeting, lest we\nnever look upon each other again.\"\n\nAnd, knowing that she spoke wisely and well, the three brothers\nappointed as their meeting-place the rock of Carricknarone.\n\nNever did a fiercer storm rage on the sea between Alba and Erin than\nthe storm that raged that night. Thunderous, murky clouds blotted out\nstars and moon, nor was there any dividing line between sky and sea,\nbut both churned themselves up together in a passion of destruction.\nWhen the lightning flashed, it showed only the fury of the cruel seas,\nthe shattered victims of the destroying storm. Very soon the swans\nwere driven one from another and scattered over the face of the angry\ndeep. Scarcely could their souls cling to their bodies while they\nstruggled with the winds and waves. When the long, long night came to\nan end, in the grey and cheerless dawn Finola swam to the rock of\nCarricknarone. But no swans were there, only the greedy gulls that\nsought after wreckage, and the terns that cried very dolorously.\n\nThen great grief came upon Finola, for she feared she would see her\nbrothers nevermore. But first of all came Conn, his feathers all\nbattered and broken and his head drooping, and in a little Ficra\nappeared, so drenched and cold and beaten by the winds that no word\ncould he speak. And Finola took her younger brothers under her great\nwhite wings, and they were comforted and rested in that warm shelter.\n\n\"If Aed would only come,\" she said, \"then should we be happy indeed.\"\n\nAnd even as she spoke, they beheld Aed sailing towards them like a\nproud ship with its white sails shining in the sun, and Finola held\nhim close to the snowy plumage of her breast, and happiness returned\nto the children of Lir.\n\nMany another tempest had they to strive with, and very cruel to them\nwere the snow and biting frosts of the dreary winters. One January\nnight there came a frost that turned even the restless sea into solid\nice, and in the morning, when the swans strove to rise from the rock\nof Carricknarone, the iron frost clung to them and they left behind\nthem the skin of their feet, the quills of their wings, and the soft\nfeathers of their breasts, and when the frost had gone, the salt water\nwas torture for their wounds. Yet ever they sang their songs, piercing\nsweet and speaking of the peace and joy to come, and many a\nstorm-tossed mariner by them was lulled to sleep and dreamt the happy\ndreams of his childhood, nor knew who had sung him so magical a\nlullaby. It was in those years that Finola sang the song which a poet\nwho possessed the wonderful heritage of a perfect comprehension of the\nsoul of the Gael has put into English words for us.\n\n    \"Happy our father Lir afar,\n    With mead, and songs of love and war:\n    The salt brine, and the white foam,\n    With these his children have their home.\n\n    In the sweet days of long ago,\n    Soft-clad we wandered to and fro:\n    But now cold winds of dawn and night\n    Pierce deep our feathers thin and light.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    Beneath my wings my brothers lie\n    When the fierce ice-winds hurtle by;\n    On either side and 'neath my breast\n    Lir's sons have known no other rest.\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod (William Sharp).\n\nOnly once during those dreary three hundred years did the children of\nLir see any of their friends. When they saw, riding down to the shore\nat the mouth of the Bann on the north coast of Erin, a company in\ngallant attire, with glittering arms, and mounted on white horses, the\nswans hastened to meet them. And glad were their hearts that day, for\nthe company was led by two sons of Bodb the Red, who had searched for\nthe swans along the rocky coast of Erin for many a day, and who\nbrought them loving greetings from the good king of the Dedannans and\nfrom their father Lir.\n\nAt length the three hundred years on the Sea of Moyle came to an end,\nand the swans flew to Ivros Domnann and the Isle of Glora in the\nwestern sea. And there they had sufferings and hardships to bear that\nwere even more grievous than those that they had endured on the Sea of\nMoyle, and one night the snow that drifted down upon them from the ice\nwas scourged on by a north-west wind, and there came a moment when the\nthree brothers felt that they could endure no more.\n\nBut Finola said to them:\n\n\"It is the great God of truth who made both land and sea who alone can\nsuccour us, for He alone can wholly understand the sorrows of our\nhearts. Put your trust in Him, dear brothers, and He will send us\ncomfort and help.\"\n\nThen said her brothers: \"In Him we put our trust,\" and from that\nmoment the Lord of Heaven gave them His help, so that no frost, nor\nsnow, nor cold, nor tempest, nor any of the creatures of the deep\ncould work them any harm.\n\nWhen the nine hundred years of their sorrowful doom had ended, the\nchildren of Lir joyously spread their wings and flew to their father's\nhome at Shee Finnaha.\n\nBut the house was there no more, for Lir, their father, was dead. Only\nstones, round which grew rank grass and nettles, and where no human\ncreature had his habitation, marked the place for which they had\nlonged with an aching, hungry longing, through all their weary years\nof doom. Their cries were piteous as the cries of lost children as\nthey looked on the desolate ruins, but all night they stayed there,\nand their songs were songs that might have made the very stones shed\ntears.\n\nNext day they winged their way back to Inis Glora, and there the\nsweetness of their singing drew so many birds to listen that the\nlittle lake got the name of the Lake of the Bird-Flocks. Near and far,\nfor long thereafter, flew the swans, all along the coast of the\nWestern Sea, and at the island of Iniskea they held converse with the\nlonely crane that has lived there since the beginning of the world,\nand which will live there until time is no more.\n\nAnd while the years went by, there came to Erin one who brought glad\ntidings, for the holy Patrick came to lead men out of darkness into\nlight. With him came Kemoc, and Kemoc made his home on Inis Glora.\n\nAt dawn one morning, the four swans were roused by the tinkle of a\nlittle bell. It was so far away that it rang faintly, but it was like\nno sound they had ever known, and the three brothers were filled with\nfear and flew hither and thither, trying to discover from whence the\nstrange sound came. But when they returned to Finola, they found her\nfloating at peace on the water.\n\n\"Dost not know what sound it is?\" she asked, divining their thoughts.\n\n\"We heard a faint, fearful voice,\" they said, \"but we know not what it\nis.\"\n\nThen said Finola: \"It is the voice of the Christian bell. Soon, now,\nshall our suffering be ended, for such is the will of God.\"\n\nSo very happily and peacefully they listened to the ringing of the\nbell, until Kemoc had said matins. Then said Finola: \"Let us now sing\nour music,\" and they praised the Lord of heaven and earth.\n\nAnd when the wonderful melody of their song reached the ears of Kemoc,\nhe knew that none but the children of Lir could make such magic-sweet\nmelody. So he hastened to where they were, and when he asked them if\nthey were indeed the children of Lir, for whose sake he had come to\nInis Glora, they told him all their piteous tale.\n\nThen said Kemoc, \"Come then to land, and put your trust in me, for on\nthis island shall your enchantment come to an end.\" And when most\ngladly they came, he caused a cunning workman to fashion two slender\nsilver chains; one he put between Finola and Aed, and the other\nbetween Ficra and Conn, and so joyous were they to know again human\nlove, and so happy to join each day with Kemoc in praising God, that\nthe memory of their suffering and sorrow lost all its bitterness. Thus\nin part were the words of Eva fulfilled, but there had yet to take\nplace the entire fulfilment of her words.\n\nDecca, a princess of Munster, had wed Larguen, king of Connaught, and\nwhen news came to her of the wonderful swans of Kemoc, nothing would\nsuffice her but that she should have them for her own. By constant\nbeseeching, she at length prevailed upon Larguen to send messengers to\nKemoc, demanding the swans. When the messengers returned with a stern\nrefusal from Kemoc, the king was angry indeed. How dared a mere cleric\nrefuse to gratify the whim of the queen of Larguen of Connaught! To\nInis Glora he went, posthaste, himself.\n\n\"Is it truth that ye have dared to refuse a gift of your birds to my\nqueen?\" he asked, in wrath.\n\nAnd Kemoc answered: \"It is truth.\"\n\nThen Larguen, in furious anger, seized hold of the silver chain that\nbound Finola and Aed together, and of the chain by which Conn and\nFicra were bound, and dragged them away from the altar by which they\nsat, that he might take them to his queen.\n\nBut as the king held their chains in his rude grasp, a wondrous thing\ntook place.\n\nInstead of swans, there followed Larguen a very old woman,\nwhite-haired and feeble, and three very old men, bony and wrinkled\nand grey. And when Larguen beheld them, terror came upon him and he\nhastened homeward, followed by the bitter denunciations of Kemoc. Then\nthe children of Lir, in human form at last, turned to Kemoc and\nbesought him to baptize them, because they knew that death was very\nnear.\n\n\"Thou art not more sorrowful at parting from us than we are to part\nwith you, dear Kemoc,\" they said. And Finola said, \"Bury us, I pray\nyou, together.\"\n\n    \"As oft in life my brothers dear\n      Were sooth'd by me to rest--\n    Ficra and Conn beneath my wings,\n      And Aed before my breast;\n\n    So place the two on either hand--\n      Close, like the love that bound me;\n    Place Aed as close before my face,\n      And twine their arms around me.\"\n\n        Joyce.\n\nSo Kemoc signed them in Holy Baptism with the blessed Cross, and even\nas the water touched their foreheads, and while his words were in\ntheir ears, death took them. And, as they passed, Kemoc looked up,\nand, behold, four beautiful children, their faces radiant with joy,\nand with white wings lined with silver, flying upwards to the clouds.\nAnd soon they vanished from his sight and he saw them no more.\n\nHe buried them as Finola had wished, and raised a mound over them, and\ncarved their names on a stone.\n\nAnd over it he sang a lament and prayed to the God of all love and\npurity, a prayer for the pure and loving souls of those who had been\nthe children of Lir.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[11] The North Channel.\n\n[12] Erris, in Mayo.\n\n[13] A small island off Benmullet.\n\n\n\n\nDEIRDRE\n\n    \"Her beauty filled the old world of the Gael with a\n    sweet, wonderful, and abiding rumour. The name of\n    Deirdre has been as a harp to a thousand poets. In a\n    land of heroes and brave and beautiful women, how shall\n    one name survive? Yet to this day and for ever, men will\n    remember Deirdre....\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\n\nSo long ago, that it was before the birth of our Lord, so says\ntradition, there was born that\n\n          \"Morning star of loveliness,\n    Unhappy Helen of a Western land,\"\n\nwho is known to the Celts of Scotland as Darthool, to those of Ireland\nas Deirdre. As in the story of Helen, it is not easy, or even possible\nin the story of Deirdre, to disentangle the old, old facts of actual\nhistory from the web of romantic fairy tale that time has woven about\nthem, yet so great is the power of Deirdre, even unto this day, that\nit has been the fond task of those men and women to whom the Gael owes\nso much, to preserve, and to translate for posterity, the tragic\nromance of Deirdre the Beautiful and the Sons of Usna.\n\nIn many ancient manuscripts we get the story in more or less complete\nform. In the Advocates' Library of Edinburgh, in the Glenmasan MS. we\nget the best and the fullest version, while the oldest and the\nshortest is to be found in the twelfth-century _Book of Leinster_.\n\nBut those who would revel in the old tale and have Deirdre lead them\nby the hand into the enchanted realm of the romance of misty, ancient\ndays of our Western Isles must go for help to Fiona Macleod, to\nAlexander Carmichael, to Lady Gregory, to Dr. Douglas Hyde, to W. F.\nSkene, to W. B. Yeats, to J. M. Synge, and to those others who, like\ntrue descendants of the Druids, possess the power of unlocking the\nentrance gates of the Green Islands of the Blest.\n\nConchubar, or Conor, ruled the kingdom of the Ultonians, now Ulster,\nwhen Deirdre was born in Erin. All the most famous warriors of his\ntime, heroes whose mighty deeds live on in legend, and whose title was\n\"The Champions of the Red Branch,\" he gathered round him, and all\nthrough Erin and Alba rang the fame of the warlike Ultonians.\n\nThere came a day when Conor and his champions, gorgeous in their gala\ndress of crimson tunic with brooches of inlaid gold and white-hooded\nshirt embroidered in red gold, went to a feast in the house of one\ncalled Felim. Felim was a bard, and because not only was his arm in\nwar strong and swift to strike, but because, in peace, his fingers\ncould draw the sweetest of music from his harp, he was dear to the\nking. As they feasted, Conor beheld a dark shadow of horror and of\ngrief fall on the face of Cathbad, a Druid who had come in his train,\nand saw that his aged eyes were gazing far into the Unseen. Speedily\nhe bade him tell him what evil thing it was that he saw, and Cathbad\nturned to the childless Felim and told him that to his wife there was\nabout to be born a daughter, with eyes like stars that are mirrored\nby night in the water, with lips red as the rowan berries and teeth\nmore white than pearls; with a voice more sweet than the music of\nfairy harps. \"A maiden fair, tall, long haired, for whom champions\nwill contend ... and mighty kings be envious of her lovely, faultless\nform.\" For her sweet sake, he said, more blood should be spilt in Erin\nthan for generations and ages past, and many heroes and bright torches\nof the Gaels should lose their lives. For love of her, three heroes of\neternal renown must give their lives away, the sea in which her starry\neyes should mirror themselves would be a sea of blood, and woe\nunutterable should come on the sons of Erin. Then up spoke the lords\nof the Red Branch, and grimly they looked at Felim the Harper:\n\n\"If the babe that thy wife is about to bear is to bring such evil upon\nour land, better that thou shouldst shed her innocent blood ere she\nspills the blood of our nation.\"\n\nAnd Felim made answer:\n\n\"It is well spoken. Bitter it is for my wife and for me to lose a\nchild so beautiful, yet shall I slay her that my land may be saved\nfrom such a doom.\"\n\nBut Conor, the king, spoke then, and because the witchery of the\nperfect beauty and the magic charm of Deirdre was felt by him even\nbefore she was born, he said: \"She shall not die. Upon myself I take\nthe doom. The child shall be kept apart from all men until she is of\nan age to wed. Then shall I take her for my wife, and none shall dare\nto contend for her.\"\n\nHis voice had barely ceased, when a messenger came to Felim to tell\nhim that a daughter was born to him, and on his heels came a\nprocession of chanting women, bearing the babe on a flower-decked\ncushion. And all who saw the tiny thing, with milk-white skin, and\nlocks \"more yellow than the western gold of the summer sun,\" looked on\nher with the fear that even the bravest heart feels on facing the\nUnknown. And Cathbad spoke: \"Let Deirdre be her name, sweet menace\nthat she is.\" And the babe gazed up with starry eyes at the\nwhite-haired Druid as he chanted to her:\n\n    \"_Many will be jealous of your face, O flame of beauty;\n    for your sake heroes shall go to exile. For there is\n    harm in your face; it will bring banishment and death on\n    the sons of kings. In your fate, O beautiful child, are\n    wounds and ill-doings, and shedding of blood._\n\n    \"_You will have a little grave apart to yourself; you\n    will be a tale of wonder for ever, Deirdre._\"\n\n        Lady Gregory's Translation.\n\nAs Conor commanded, Deirdre, the little \"babe of destiny,\" was left\nwith her mother for only a month and a day, and then was sent with a\nnurse and with Cathbad the Druid to a lonely island, thickly wooded,\nand only accessible by a sort of causeway at low tide. Here she grew\ninto maidenhood, and each day became more fair. She had instruction\nfrom Cathbad in religion and in all manner of wisdom, and it would\nseem as though she also learned from him some of that mystical power\nthat enabled her to see things hidden from human eyes.\n\n\"Tell me,\" one day she asked her teacher, \"who made the stars, the\nfirmament above, the earth, the flowers, both thee and me?\"\n\nAnd Cathbad answered: \"God. But who God is, alas! no man can say.\"\n\nThen Deirdre, an impetuous child, seized the druidical staff from the\nhand of Cathbad, broke it in two, and flung the pieces far out on the\nwater. \"Ah, Cathbad!\" she cried, \"there shall come One in the dim\nfuture for whom all your Druid spells and charms are naught.\"\n\nThen seeing Cathbad hang his head, and a tear trickle down his face,\nfor he knew that the child spoke truth, the child, grieved at giving\npain to the friend whom she loved, threw her arms about the old man's\nneck, and by her kisses strove to comfort him.\n\nAs Deirdre grew older, Conor sent one from his court to educate her in\nall that any queen should know. They called her the Lavarcam, which,\nin our tongue, really means the Gossip, and she was one of royal blood\nwho belonged to a class that in those days had been trained to be\nchroniclers, or story-tellers. The Lavarcam was a clever woman, and\nshe marvelled at the wondrous beauty of the child she came to teach,\nand at her equally marvellous mind.\n\nOne winter day, when the snow lay deep, it came to pass that Deirdre\nsaw lying on the snow a calf that had been slain for her food. The red\nblood that ran from its neck had brought a black raven swooping down\nupon the snow. And to Lavarcam Deirdre said: \"If there were a man who\nhad hair of the blackness of that raven, skin of the whiteness of the\nsnow, and cheeks as red as the blood that stains its whiteness, to him\nshould I give my heart.\"\n\nAnd Lavarcam, without thought, made answer:\n\n\"One I know whose skin is whiter than the snow, whose cheeks are ruddy\nas the blood that stained the snow, and whose hair is black and glossy\nas the raven's wing. He has eyes of the darkest blue of the sky, and\nhead and shoulders is he above all the men of Erin.\"\n\n\"And what will be the name of that man, Lavarcam?\" asked Deirdre. \"And\nwhence is he, and what his degree?\"\n\nAnd Lavarcam made answer that he of whom she spoke was Naoise, one of\nthe three sons of Usna, a great lord of Alba, and that these three\nsons were mighty champions who had been trained at the famed military\nschool at Sgathaig[14] in the Isle of Skye.\n\nThen said Deirdre: \"My love shall be given to none but Naoise, son of\nUsna. To him shall it belong forever.\"\n\nFrom that day forward, Naoise held kingship over the thoughts and\ndreams of Deirdre.\n\nAnd when Lavarcam saw how deep her careless words had sunk into the\nheart of the maiden, she grew afraid, and tried to think of a means by\nwhich to undo the harm which, in her thoughtlessness, she had wrought.\n\nNow Conor had made a law that none but Cathbad, Lavarcam, and the\nnurse of Deirdre should pass through the forest that led to her\nhiding-place, and that none but they should look upon her until his\nown eyes beheld her and he took her for his wife. But as Lavarcam one\nday came from seeing Deirdre, and from listening to her many eager\nquestions about Naoise, she met a swineherd, rough in looks and\nspeech, and clad in the pelt of a deer, and with him two rough\nfellows, bondmen of the Ultonians, and to her quick mind there came a\nplan. Thus she bade them follow her into the forbidden forest and\nthere to remain, by the side of a well, until they should hear the\nbark of a fox and the cry of a jay. Then they were to walk slowly on\nthrough the woods, speaking to none whom they might meet, and still\nkeeping silence when they were again out of the shadow of the trees.\n\nThen Lavarcam sped back to Deirdre and begged her to come with her to\nenjoy the beauty of the woods. In a little, Lavarcam strayed away from\nher charge, and soon the cry of a jay and the bark of a fox were\nheard, and while Deirdre still marvelled at the sounds that came so\nclose together, Lavarcam returned. Nor had she been back a minute\nbefore three men came through the trees and slowly walked past, close\nto where Lavarcam and Deirdre were hidden.\n\n\"I have never seen men so near before,\" said Deirdre. \"Only from the\noutskirts of the forest have I seen them very far away. Who are these\nmen, who bring no joy to my eyes?\"\n\nAnd Lavarcam made answer: \"These are Naoise, Ardan, and Ainle--the\nthree sons of Usna.\"\n\nBut Deirdre looked hard at Lavarcam, and scorn and laughter were in\nher merry eyes.\n\n\"Then shall I have speech with Naoise, Ardan, and Ainle,\" she said,\nand ere Lavarcam could stop her, she had flitted through the trees by\na path amongst the fern, and stood suddenly before the three men.\n\nAnd the rough hinds, seeing such perfect loveliness, made very sure\nthat Deirdre was one of the _sidhe_[15] and stared at her with the\nround eyes and gaping mouths of wondering terror.\n\nFor a moment Deirdre gazed at them. Then: \"Are ye the Sons of Usna?\"\nshe asked.\n\nAnd when they stood like stocks, frightened and stupid, she lashed\nthem with her mockery, until the swineherd could no more, and blurted\nout the whole truth to this most beautiful of all the world. Then,\nvery gently, like pearls from a silver string, the words fell from the\nrowan-red lips of Deirdre: \"I blame thee not, poor swineherd,\" she\nsaid, \"and that thou mayst know that I deem thee a true man, I would\nfain ask thee to do one thing for me.\"\n\nAnd when the eyes of the herd met the eyes of Deirdre, a soul was born\nin him, and he knew things of which he never before had dreamed.\n\n\"If I can do one thing to please thee, that will I do,\" he said. \"Aye,\nand gladly pay for it with my life. Thenceforth my life is thine.\"\n\nAnd Deirdre said: \"I would fain see Naoise, one of the Sons of Usna.\"\n\nAnd once more the swineherd said: \"My life is thine.\"\n\nThen Deirdre, seeing in his eyes a very beautiful thing, stooped and\nkissed the swineherd on his weather-beaten, tanned forehead.\n\n\"Go, then,\" she said, \"to Naoise. Tell him that I, Deirdre, dream of\nhim all the night and think of him all the day, and that I bid him\nmeet me here to-morrow an hour before the setting of the sun.\"\n\nThe swineherd watched her flit into the shadows of the trees, and then\nwent on his way, through the snowy woods, that he might pay with his\nlife for the kiss that Deirdre had given him.\n\nSorely puzzled was Lavarcam over the doings of Deirdre that day, for\nDeirdre told her not a word of what had passed between her and the\nswineherd. On the morrow, when she left her to go back to the court of\nKing Conor, she saw, as she drew near Emain Macha, where he stayed,\nblack wings that flapped over something that lay on the snow. At her\napproach there rose three ravens, three kites, and three hoodie-crows,\nand she saw that their prey was the body of the swineherd with gaping\nspear-wounds all over him. Yet even then he looked happy. He had died\nlaughing, and there was still a smile on his lips. Faithfully had he\ndelivered his message, and when he had spoken of the beauty of\nDeirdre, rumour of his speech had reached the king, and the spears of\nConor's men had enabled him to make true the words he had said to\nDeirdre: \"I will pay for it with my life.\" In this way was shed the\nfirst blood of that great sea of blood that was spilt for the love of\nDeirdre, the Beauty of the World.\n\nFrom where the swineherd lay, Lavarcam went to the camp of the Sons\nof Usna, and to Naoise she told the story of the love that Deirdre\nbore him, and counselled him to come to the place where she was\nhidden, and behold her beauty. And Naoise, who had seen how even a\nrough clod of a hind could achieve the noble chivalry of a race of\nkings for her dear sake, felt his heart throb within him. \"I will\ncome,\" he said to Lavarcam.\n\nDays passed, and Deirdre waited, very sure that Naoise must come to\nher at last. And one day she heard a song of magical sweetness coming\nthrough the trees. Three voices sung the song, and it was as though\none of the _sidhe_ played a harp to cast a spell upon men. The voice\nof Ainle, youngest of the Sons of Usna, was like the sweet upper\nstrings of the harp, that of Ardan the strings in the middle, and the\nvoice of Naoise was like the strings whose deep resonance can play\nupon the hearts of warriors and move them to tears. Then Deirdre knew\nthat she heard the voice of her beloved, and she sped to him as a bird\nspeeds to her mate. Even as Lavarcam had told her was Naoise, eldest\nof the Sons of Usna, but no words had been able to tell Naoise of the\nbeauty of Deirdre.\n\n    \"It was as though a sudden flood of sunshine burst forth\n    in that place. For a woman came from the thicket more\n    beautiful than any dream he had ever dreamed. She was\n    clad in a saffron robe over white that was like the\n    shining of the sun on foam of the sea, and this was\n    claspt with great bands of yellow gold, and over her\n    shoulders was the rippling flood of her hair, the sprays\n    of which lightened into delicate fire, and made a mist\n    before him, in the which he could see her eyes like two\n    blue pools wherein purple shadows dreamed.\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\nFrom that moment Naoise \"gave his love to Deirdre above every other\ncreature,\" and their souls rushed together and were one for evermore.\nIt was for them the beginning of a perfect love, and so sure were they\nof that love from the very first moment that it seemed as though they\nmust have been born loving one another.\n\nOf that love they talked, of the anger of Conor when he knew that his\ndestined bride was the love of Naoise, and together they planned how\nit was best for Deirdre to escape from the furious wrath of the king\nwho desired her for his own.\n\nOf a sudden, the hands of Naoise gripped the iron-pointed javelin that\nhung by his side, and drove it into a place where the snow weighed\ndown the bracken.\n\n\"Is it a wolf?\" cried Deirdre.\n\nAnd Naoise made answer: \"Either a dead man, or the mark of where a man\nhas lain hidden thou wilt find under the bracken.\"\n\nAnd when they went to look they found, like the clap of a hare, the\nmark of where a man had lain hidden, and close beside the javelin that\nwas driven in the ground there lay a wooden-hilted knife.\n\nThen said Naoise: \"Well I knew that Conor would set a spy on my\ntracks. Come with me now, Deirdre, else may I lose thee forever.\"\n\nAnd with a glad heart Deirdre went with him who was to be her lord,\nand Naoise took her to where his brothers awaited his coming. To\nDeirdre, both Ainle and Ardan swiftly gave their lifelong allegiance\nand their love, but they were full of forebodings for her and for\nNaoise because of the certain wrath of Conor, the king.\n\nThen said Naoise: \"Although harm should come, for her dear sake I am\nwilling to live in disgrace for the rest of my days.\"\n\nAnd Ardan and Ainle made answer: \"Of a certainty, evil will be of it,\nyet though there be, thou shalt not be under disgrace as long as we\nshall be alive. We will go with her to another country. There is not\nin Erin a king who will not bid us welcome.\"\n\nThen did the Sons of Usna decide to cross the Sea of Moyle, and in\ntheir own land of Alba to find a happy sanctuary. That night they\nfled, and with them took three times fifty men, three times fifty\nwomen, three times fifty horses, and three times fifty greyhounds. And\nwhen they looked back to where they had had their dwelling, they saw\nred flames against the deep blue sky of the night, and knew that the\nvengeance of Conor had already begun. And first they travelled round\nErin from Essa to Beinn Etair,[16] and then in a great black galley\nthey set sail, and Deirdre had a heart light as the white-winged\nsea-birds as the men pulled at the long oars and sang together a\nrowing song, and she leaned on the strong arm of Naoise and saw the\nblue coast-line of Erin fading into nothingness.\n\nIn the bay of Aros, on the eastern shores of the island of Mull, they\nfound their first resting-place, but there they feared treachery from\na lord of Appin. For the starry eyes of Deirdre were swift to discern\nevil that the eyes of the Sons of Usna could not see. Thus they fared\nonward until they reached the great sea-loch of Etive, with hills\naround it, and Ben Cruachan, its head in mist, towering above it like\na watchman placed there by Time, to wait and to watch over the people\nof those silent hills and lonely glens until Time should give place to\nhis brother, Eternity.\n\nJoy was in the hearts of the three Sons of Usna when they came back to\nthe home of their fathers. Usna was dead, but beyond the Falls of Lora\nwas still the great dun--the vitrified fort--which he had built for\nhimself and for those who should follow him.\n\nFor Deirdre then began a time of perfect happiness. Naoise was her\nheart, but very dear to her also were the brothers of Naoise, and each\nof the three vied with one another in their acts of tender and loving\nservice. Their thrice fifty vassals had no love for Alba, and rejoiced\nwhen their lord, Naoise, allowed them to return to Erin, but the Sons\nof Usna were glad to have none to come between them and their serving\nof Deirdre, the queen of their hearts. Soon she came to know well each\nlittle bay, each beach, and each little lonely glen of Loch Etive, for\nthe Sons of Usna did not always stay at the dun which had been their\nfather's, but went a-hunting up the loch. At various spots on the\nshores of Etive they had camping places, and at Dail-an-eas[17] they\nbuilt for Deirdre a sunny bower.\n\nOn a sloping bank above the waterfall they built the little nest,\nthatched with the royal fern of the mountains, the red clay of the\npools, and with soft feathers from the breasts of birds. There she\ncould sit and listen to the murmur and drip of the clear water over\nthe mossy boulders, the splash of the salmon in the dark pools, and\nsee the distant silver of the loch. When the summer sun was hot on the\nbog myrtle and heather, the hum of the wild bees would lull her to\nsleep, and in autumn, when the bracken grew red and golden and the\nrowan berries grew red as Deirdre's lips, her keen eyes would see the\nstags grazing high up among the grey boulders of the mist-crowned\nmountains, and would warn the brothers of the sport awaiting them. The\ncrow of the grouse, the belling of stags, the bark of the hill-fox,\nthe swish of the great wings of the golden eagle, the song of birds,\nthe lilt of running water, the complaining of the wind through the\nbirches--all these things made music to Deirdre, to whom all things\nwere dear.\n\n\"_Is tu mein na Dearshul agha_\"--\"The tenderness of heartsweet\nDeirdre\"--so runs a line in an old, old Gaelic verse, and it is always\nof her tenderness as well as her beauty that the old _Oea_ speak.\n\nSometimes she would hunt the red deer with Naoise and his brothers, up\nthe lonely glens, up through the clouds to the silent mountain tops,\nand in the evening, when she was weary, her three loyal worshippers\nwould proudly bear her home upon their bucklers.\n\nSo the happy days passed away, and in Erin the angry heart of Conor\ngrew yet more angry when tidings came to him of the happiness of\nDeirdre and the Sons of Usna. Rumour came to him that the king of\nAlba had planned to come against Naoise, to slay him, and to take\nDeirdre for his wife, but that ere he could come the Sons of Usna and\nDeirdre had sailed yet further north in their galley, and that there,\nin the land of his mother, Naoise ruled as a king. And not only on\nLoch Etive, but on Loch Awe and Loch Fyne, Loch Striven, Loch Ard,\nLoch Long, Loch Lomond and all along the sea-loch coast, the fame of\nthe Sons of Usna spread, and the wonder of the beauty of Deirdre,\nfairest of women.\n\nAnd ever the hatred of Conor grew, until one day there came into his\nmind a plan of evil by which his burning thirst for revenge might be\nhandsomely assuaged.\n\nHe made, therefore, a great feast, at which all the heroes of the Red\nBranch were present. When he had done them every honour, he asked them\nif they were content. As one man: \"Well content indeed!\" answered\nthey.\n\n\"And that is what I am not,\" said the king. Then with the guile of\nfair words he told them that to him it was great sorrow that the three\nheroes, with whose deeds the Western Isles and the whole of the north\nand west of Alba were ringing, should not be numbered amongst his\nfriends, sit at his board in peace and amity, and fight for the\nUltonians like all the other heroes of the Red Branch.\n\n\"They took from me the one who would have been my wife,\" he said, \"yet\neven that I can forgive, and if they would return to Erin, glad would\nmy welcome be.\"\n\nAt these words there was great rejoicing amongst the lords of the Red\nBranch and all those who listened, and Conor, glad at heart, said,\n\"My three best champions shall go to bring them back from their\nexile,\" and he named Conall the Victorious, Cuchulainn, and Fergus,\nthe son of Rossa the Red. Then secretly he called Conall to him and\nasked him what he would do if he were sent to fetch the Sons of Usna,\nand, in spite of his safe-conduct, they were slain when they reached\nthe land of the Ultonians. And Conall made answer that should such a\nshameful thing come to pass he would slay with his own hand all the\ntraitor dogs. Then he sent for Cuchulainn, and to him put the same\nquestion, and, in angry scorn, the young hero replied that even Conor\nhimself would not be safe from his vengeance were such a deed of black\ntreachery to be performed.\n\n\"Well did I know thou didst bear me no love,\" said Conor, and black\nwas his brow.\n\nHe called for Fergus then, and Fergus, sore troubled, made answer that\nwere there to be such a betrayal, the king alone would be held sacred\nfrom his vengeance.\n\nThen Conor gladly gave Fergus command to go to Alba as his emissary,\nand to fetch back with him the three brothers and Deirdre the\nBeautiful.\n\n\"Thy name of old was Honeymouth,\" he said, \"so I know well that with\nguile thou canst bring them to Erin. And when thou shalt have returned\nwith them, send them forward, but stay thyself at the house of\nBorrach. Borrach shall have warning of thy coming.\"\n\nThis he said, because to Fergus and to all the other of the Red\nBranch, a _geasa_, or pledge, was sacrosanct. And well he knew that\nFergus had as one of his _geasa_ that he would never refuse an\ninvitation to a feast.\n\nNext day Fergus and his two sons, Illann the Fair and Buinne the Red,\nset out in their galley for the dun of the Sons of Usna on Loch Etive.\n\nThe day before their hurried flight from Erin, Ainle and Ardan had\nbeen playing chess in their dun with Conor, the king. The board was of\nfair ivory, and the chessmen were of red-gold, wrought in strange\ndevices. It had come from the mysterious East in years far beyond the\nmemory of any living man, and was one of the dearest of Conor's\npossessions. Thus, when Ainle and Ardan carried off the chess-board\nwith them in their flight, after the loss of Deirdre, that was the\nloss that gave the king the greatest bitterness. Now it came to pass\nthat as Naoise and Deirdre were sitting in front of their dun, the\nlittle waves of Loch Etive lapping up on the seaweed, yellow as the\nhair of Deirdre, far below, and playing chess at this board, they\nheard a shout from the woods down by the shore where the hazels and\nbirches grew thick.\n\n\"That is the voice of a man of Erin!\" said Naoise, and stopped in his\ngame to listen.\n\nBut Deirdre said, very quickly: \"Not so! It is the voice of a Gael of\nAlba.\"\n\nYet so she spoke that she might try to deceive her own heart, that\neven then was chilled by the black shadow of an approaching evil. Then\ncame another shout, and yet a third. And when they heard the third\nshout, there was no doubt left in their minds, for they all knew the\nvoice for that of Fergus, the son of Rossa the Red. And when Ardan\nhastened down to the harbour to greet him, Deirdre confessed to Naoise\nwhy she had refused at first to own that it was a voice from Erin that\nshe heard.\n\n\"I saw in a dream last night,\" she said, \"three birds that flew hither\nfrom Emain Macha, carrying three sips of honey in their beaks. The\nhoney they left with us, but took away three sips of blood.\"\n\nAnd Naoise said: \"What then, best beloved, dost thou read from this\ndream of thine?\"\n\nAnd Deirdre said: \"I read that Fergus comes from Conor with honeyed\nwords of peace, but behind his treacherous words lies death.\"\n\nAs they spake, Ardan and Fergus and his following climbed up the\nheight where the bog-myrtle and the heather and sweet fern yielded\ntheir sweetest incense as they were wounded under their firm tread.\n\nAnd when Fergus stood before Deirdre and Naoise, the man of her heart,\nhe told them of Conor's message, and of the peace and the glory that\nawaited them in Erin if they would but listen to the words of welcome\nthat he brought.\n\nThen said Naoise: \"I am ready.\" But his eyes dared not meet the\nsea-blue eyes of Deirdre, his queen.\n\n\"Knowest thou that my pledge is one of honour?\" asked Fergus.\n\n\"I know it well,\" said Naoise.\n\nSo in joyous feasting was that night spent, and only over the heart\nof Deirdre hung that black cloud of sorrow to come, of woe\nunspeakable.\n\nWhen the golden dawn crept over the blue hills of Loch Etive, and the\nwhite-winged birds of the sea swooped and dived and cried in the\nsilver waters, the galley of the Sons of Usna set out to sea.\n\nAnd Deirdre, over whom hung a doom she had not the courage to name,\nsang a song at parting:\n\nTHE LAY OF DEIRDRE\n\n    \"Beloved land, that Eastern land,\n    Alba, with its wonders.\n    O that I might not depart from it,\n    But that I go with Naoise.\n\n    Beloved is Dunfidgha and Dun Fin;\n    Beloved the Dun above them;\n    Beloved is Innisdraighende;[18]\n    And beloved Dun Suibhne.[19]\n\n    Coillchuan! O Coillchuan!\n    Where Ainnle would, alas! resort;\n    Too short, I deem, was then my stay\n    With Ainnle in Oirir Alban.\n\n    Glenlaidhe![20] O Glenlaidhe!\n    I used to sleep by its soothing murmur;\n    Fish, and flesh of wild boar and badger,\n    Was my repast in Glenlaidhe.\n\n    Glenmasan! O Glenmasan![21]\n    High its herbs, fair its boughs.\n    Solitary was the place of our repose\n    On grassy Invermasan.\n\n    Gleneitche![22] O Gleneitche!\n    There was raised my earliest home.\n    Beautiful its woods on rising,\n    When the sun struck on Gleneitche.\n\n    Glen Urchain![23] O Glen Urchain!\n    It was the straight glen of smooth ridges,\n    Not more joyful was a man of his age\n    Than Naoise in Glen Urchain.\n\n    Glendaruadh![24] O Glendaruadh!\n    My love each man of its inheritance.\n    Sweet the voice of the cuckoo, on bending bough,\n    On the hill above Glendaruadh.\n\n    Beloved is Draighen and its sounding shore;\n    Beloved is the water o'er the pure sand.\n    O that I might not depart from the east,\n    But that I go with my beloved!\"\n\n        _Translated by W. F. Skene, LL.D._\n\nThus they fared across the grey-green sea betwixt Alba and Erin, and\nwhen Ardan and Ainle and Naoise heard the words of the song of\nDeirdre, on their hearts also descended the strange sorrow of an evil\nthing from which no courage could save them.\n\nAt Ballycastle, opposite Rathlin Island, where a rock on the shore\n(\"Carraig Uisneach\") still bears the name of the Sons of Usna, Fergus\nand the returned exiles landed. And scarcely were they out of sight of\nthe shore when a messenger came to Fergus, bidding him to a feast of\nale at the dun of Borrach. Then Fergus, knowing well that in this was\nthe hand of Conor and that treachery was meant, reddened all over with\nanger and with shame. But yet he dared not break his _geasa_, even\nalthough by holding to it the honour he had pledged to the three\nbrothers for their safe-conduct and that of Deirdre was dragged\nthrough the mire. He therefore gave them his sons for escort and went\nto the feast at the dun of Borrach, full well knowing that Deirdre\nspoke truth when she told him sadly that he had sold his honour. The\ngloomy forebodings that had assailed the heart of Deirdre ere they had\nleft Loch Etive grew ever the stronger as they went southwards. She\nbegged Naoise to let them go to some place of safety and there wait\nuntil Fergus had fulfilled his _geasa_ and could rejoin them and go\nwith them to Emain Macha. But the Sons of Usna, strong in the\nknowledge of their own strength, and simply trustful of the pledged\nword of Conor and of Fergus, laughed at her fears, and continued on\ntheir way. Dreams of dread portent haunted her sleep, and by daytime\nher eyes in her white face looked like violets in the snow. She saw a\ncloud of blood always hanging over the beautiful Sons of Usna, and all\nof them she saw, and Illann the Fair, with their heads shorn off, gory\nand awful. Yet no pleading words could prevail upon Naoise. His fate\ndrove him on.\n\n\"To Emain Macha we must go, my beloved,\" he said. \"To do other than\nthis would be to show that we have fear, and fear we have none.\"\n\nThus at last did they arrive at Emain Macha, and with courteous\nwelcome Conor sent them word that the house of the heroes of the Red\nBranch was to be theirs that night. And although the place the king\nhad chosen for their lodgment confirmed all the intuitions and\nforebodings of Deirdre, the evening was spent by in good cheer, and\nDeirdre had the joy of a welcome there from her old friend Lavarcam.\nFor to Lavarcam Conor had said: \"I would have thee go to the House of\nthe Red Branch and bring me back tidings if the beauty of Deirdre has\nwaned, or if she is still the most beautiful of all women.\"\n\nAnd when Lavarcam saw her whom she had loved as a little child,\nplaying chess with her husband at the board of ivory and gold, she\nknew that love had made the beauty of Deirdre blossom, and that she\nwas now more beautiful than the words of any man or woman could tell.\nNor was it possible for her to be a tool for Conor when she looked in\nthe starry eyes of Deirdre, and so she poured forth warning of the\ntreachery of Conor, and the Sons of Usna knew that there was truth in\nthe dreams of her who was the queen of their hearts. And even as\nLavarcam ceased there came to the eyes of Deirdre a vision such as\nthat of Cathbad the Druid on the night of her birth.\n\n    \"I see three torches quenched this night,\" she said.\n    \"And these three torches are the Three Torches of Valour\n    among the Gael, and their names are the names of the\n    Sons of Usna. And more bitter still is this sorrow,\n    because that the Red Branch shall ultimately perish\n    through it, and Uladh itself be overthrown, and blood\n    fall this way and that as the whirled rains of\n    winter.\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\nThen Lavarcam went her way, and returned to the palace at Emain Macha\nand told Conor that the cruel winds and snows of Alba had robbed\nDeirdre of all her loveliness, so that she was no more a thing to be\ndesired. But Naoise had said to Deirdre when she foretold his doom:\n\"Better to die for thee and for thy deathless beauty than to have\nlived without knowledge of thee and thy love,\" and it may have been\nthat some memory of the face of Deirdre, when she heard these words,\ndwelt in the eyes of Lavarcam and put quick suspicion into the evil\nheart of the king. For when Lavarcam had gone forth, well pleased that\nshe had saved her darling, Conor sent a spy--a man whose father and\nthree brothers had fallen in battle under the sword of Naoise--that he\nmight see Deirdre and confirm or contradict the report of Lavarcam.\nAnd when this man reached the house of the Red Branch, he found that\nthe Sons of Usna had been put on their guard, for all the doors and\nwindows were barred. Thus he climbed to a narrow upper window and\npeered in. There, lying on the couches, the chess-board of ivory and\ngold between them, were Naoise and Deirdre. So beautiful were they,\nthat they were as the deathless gods, and as they played that last\ngame of their lives, they spoke together in low voices of love that\nsounded like the melody of a harp in the hands of a master player.\nDeirdre was the first to see the peering face with the eyes that\ngloated on her loveliness. No word said she, but silently made the\ngaze of Naoise follow her own, even as he held a golden chessman in\nhis hand, pondering a move. Swift as a stone from a sling the chessman\nwas hurled, and the man fell back to the ground with his eyeball\nsmashed, and found his way to Emain Macha as best he could, shaking\nwith agony and snarling with lust for revenge. Vividly he painted for\nthe king the picture of the most beautiful woman on earth as she\nplayed at the chess-board that he held so dear, and the rage of Conor\nthat had smouldered ever since that day when he learned that Naoise\nhad stolen Deirdre from him, flamed up into madness. With a bellow\nlike that of a wounded bull, he called upon the Ultonians to come with\nhim to the House of the Red Branch, to burn it down, and to slay all\nthose within it with the sword, save only Deirdre, who was to be saved\nfor a more cruel fate.\n\nIn the House of the Red Branch, Deirdre and the three brothers and the\ntwo sons of Fergus heard the shouts of the Ultonians and knew that the\nstorm was about to break. But, calm as rocks against which the angry\nwaves beat themselves in vain, sat those whose portion at dawn was to\nbe cruel death. And Naoise and Ainle played chess, with hands that did\nnot tremble. At the first onslaught, Buinne the Red, son of Fergus,\nsallied forth, quenched the flames, and drove back the Ultonians with\ngreat slaughter. But Conor called to him to parley and offered him a\nbribe of land, and Buinne, treacherous son of a treacherous father,\nwent over to the enemy. His brother, Illann the Fair, filled with\nshame, did what he could to make amends. He went forth, and many\nhundreds of the besieging army fell before him, ere death stayed his\nloyal hand. At his death the Ultonians again fired the house, and\nfirst Ardan and then Ainle left their chess for a fiercer game, and\nglutted their sword blades with the blood of their enemies. Last came\nthe turn of Naoise. He kissed Deirdre, and drank a drink, and went out\nagainst the men of Conor, and where his brothers had slain hundreds,\na thousand fell before his sword.\n\nThen fear came into the heart of Conor, for he foresaw that against\nthe Sons of Usna no man could prevail, save by magic. Thus he sent for\nCathbad the Druid, who was even then very near death, and the old man\nwas carried on a litter to the House of the Red Branch, from which the\nflames were leaping, and before which the dead lay in heaps.\n\nAnd Conor besought him to help him to subdue the Sons of Usna ere they\nshould have slain every Ultonian in the land. So by his magic Cathbad\nraised a hedge of spears round the house. But Naoise, Ardan, and\nAinle, with Deirdre in their centre, sheltered by their shields, burst\nsuddenly forth from the blazing house, and cut a way for themselves\nthrough the hedge as though they sheared green wheat. And, laughing\naloud, they took a terrible toll of lives from the Ultonians who would\nhave withstood them. Then again the Druid put forth his power, and a\nnoise like the noise of many waters was in the ears of all who were\nthere. So suddenly the magic flood arose that there was no chance of\nescape for the Sons of Usna. Higher it mounted, ever higher, and\nNaoise held Deirdre on his shoulder, and smiled up in her eyes as the\nwater rose past his middle. Then suddenly as it had come, the flood\nabated, and all was well with the Ultonians who had sheltered on a\nrising ground. But the Sons of Usna found themselves entrapped in a\nmorass where the water had been. Conor, seeing them in his hands at\nlast, bade some of his warriors go and take them. But for shame no\nUltonian would go, and it was a man from Norway who walked along a dry\nspit of land to where they stood, sunk deep in the green bog. \"Slay me\nfirst!\" called Ardan as he drew near, sword in hand. \"I am the\nyoungest, and, who knows, my death may change the tides of fate!\"\n\nAnd Ainle also craved that death might be dealt to him the first. But\nNaoise held out his own sword, \"The Retaliator,\" to the executioner.\n\n\"Mannanan, the son of Lir, gave me my good sword,\" he said. \"With it\nstrike my dear brothers and me one blow only as we stand here like\nthree trees planted in the soil. Then shall none of us know the grief\nand shame of seeing the other beheaded.\" And because it was hard for\nany man to disobey the command of Naoise, a king of men, the Norseman\nreached out his hand for the sword. But Deirdre sprang from the\nshoulder of Naoise and would have killed the man ere he struck.\nRoughly he threw her aside, and with one blow he shore off the heads\nof the three greatest heroes of Alba.\n\nFor a little while there was a great stillness there, like the silence\nbefore the coming of a storm. And then all who had beheld the end of\nthe fair and noble Sons of Usna broke into great lamentation. Only\nConor stood silent, gazing at the havoc he had wrought. To Cuchulainn,\nthe mighty champion, a good man and a true, Deirdre fled, and begged\nhim to protect her for the little span of life that she knew yet\nremained to her. And with him she went to where the head of Naoise\nlay, and tenderly she cleansed it from blood and from the stains of\nstrife and stress, and smoothed the hair that was black as a raven's\nwing, and kissed the cold lips again and again. And as she held it\nagainst her white breast, as a mother holds a little child, she\nchanted for Naoise, her heart, and for his brothers, a lament that\nstill lives in the language of the Gael.\n\n    \"Is it honour that ye love, brave and chivalrous Ultonians?\n    Or is the word of a base king better than noble truth?\n    Of a surety ye must be glad, who have basely slain honour\n    In slaying the three noblest and best of your brotherhood.\n\n               *   *   *   *   *\n\n    Let now my beauty that set all this warring aflame,\n    Let now my beauty be quenched as a torch that is spent--\n    For here shall I quench it, here, where my loved one lies,\n    A torch shall it be for him still through the darkness of death.\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod's Translation.\n\nThen, at the bidding of Cuchulainn, the Ultonian, three graves were\ndug for the brothers, but the grave of Naoise was made wider than the\nothers, and when he was placed in it, standing upright, with his head\nplaced on his shoulders, Deirdre stood by him and held him in her\nwhite arms, and murmured to him of the love that was theirs and of\nwhich not Death itself could rob them. And even as she spoke to him,\nmerciful Death took her, and together they were buried. At that same\nhour a terrible cry was heard: \"_The Red Branch perisheth! Uladh\npasseth! Uladh passeth!_\" and when he had so spoken, the soul of\nCathbad the Druid passed away.\n\nTo the land of the Ultonians there came on the morrow a mighty host,\nand the Red Branch was wiped out for ever. Emain Macha was cast into\nruins, and Conor died in a madness of sorrow.\n\nAnd still, in that land of Erin where she died, still in the lonely\ncleuchs and glens, and up the mist-hung mountain sides of Loch Etive,\nwhere she knew her truest happiness, we can sometimes almost hear the\nwind sighing the lament: \"Deirdre the beautiful is dead ... is dead!\"\n\n    \"I hear a voice crying, crying, crying: is it the wind\n    I hear, crying its old weary cry time out of mind?\n\n    _The grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps, the grey wind weeps:_\n    _Dust on her breast, dust on her eyes, the grey wind weeps._\"\n\n        Fiona Macleod.\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[14] Now Dunskaith.\n\n[15] Fairies.\n\n[16] The Hill of Howth, at Dublin Bay.\n\n[17] Dale of the Waterfall: now Dalness.\n\n[18] Inistrynich.\n\n[19] Dun Sween.\n\n[20] Glen Lug.\n\n[21] At the head of Holy Loch, Argyllshire.\n\n[22] Glen Etive.\n\n[23] Glenorchy.\n\n[24] Glendaruel.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX\n\n\nAcheron, 37\n\nAchilles, 71\n\nAcrisius, 105, 121, 122, 123\n\nAdam, 220\n\nAdonis, 178, 192, 202, 203, 205, 206, 207, 208\n\nAdvocates' Library, 306\n\nAed, 290, 299, 300, 304, 305\n\nAEgean Sea, 36, 90, 106, 121, 145, 146, 186\n\nAEgean Islands, 172\n\nAEolus, 144\n\nAEsculapius, 88\n\nAEsop, 169\n\nAinle, 313, 315, 316, 317, 322, 325, 329, 330, 331\n\nAinnle, 324\n\nAix, 287\n\nAix-la-Chapelle, 287\n\nAjax, 71\n\nAlba, 295, 299, 307, 311, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 325, 327, 331\n\nAlban, Oirir, 324\n\nAlexander the Great, 135\n\nAlpheus, 102, 103, 104\n\nAlthaea, 69, 71, 75\n\nAmphion, 124, 128\n\nAnapus, 101\n\nAndromeda, 119, 120, 123\n\nAngelo, Michael, 203\n\nAnglo-Saxon, 245\n\nAngrbotha, 236\n\nAphrodite, 5, 13, 14, 15, 42, 46, 47, 49, 56, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65,\n    66, 67, 79, 81, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206\n\nApollo, 5, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 24, 27, 28, 29, 32, 42, 43, 44, 45,\n    49, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 101, 125, 126, 127, 129, 130,\n    131, 132, 133, 139, 140, 141, 142, 145, 164, 165, 173, 185, 186,\n    187, 188, 190, 191, 192, 267\n\nApollo Belvidere, 11\n\nApollo, Phoebus, 19\n\nAppin, 317\n\nArachne, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 88, 89\n\nArcadia, 71, 77, 78, 197, 211\n\nArcadian, 75\n\nArchilochus, 223\n\nArd, Loch, 320\n\nArdan, 312, 315, 316, 317, 322, 323, 325, 329, 330, 331\n\nArethusa, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104\n\nArgo, 39\n\nArgonauts, 39\n\nArgos, 105, 122, 128\n\nAristaeus, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160\n\nAristophanes, 169\n\nArgyllshire, 324\n\nArnold, Matthew, 228, 239, 240\n\nAros, 317\n\nArtemis, 26, 27\n\nArthur, King, 268\n\nAschere, 256\n\nAsgard, 230, 231, 235, 239, 240, 242\n\nAsia, 135\n\nAtalanta, 71, 72, 73, 74, 76, 78, 79, 80, 81\n\nAthene, Pallas, 3, 4, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111,\n    112, 115, 120, 182\n\nAthens, 181, 182\n\nAtlas, 114, 115, 117\n\nAude the Fair, 282, 287\n\nAurora, 20, 21\n\nAustralia, 220\n\nAwe, Loch, 320\n\n\nBacchantes, 40\n\nBacchus, 40, 136, 138\n\nBaldrsbra, 234\n\nBaldur, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 243\n\nBallycastle, 325\n\nBann, 301\n\nBartholomew, 88\n\nBaviere, Naismes de, 272\n\nBelvidere, Apollo, 11\n\nBen Cruachan, 318\n\nBen Etair, 317\n\nBenmullet, 295\n\nBeowulf, 229, 244, 245, 246, 249, 250, 251, 252, 253, 254, 255, 256,\n    257, 258, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265\n\nBeowulf's Barrow, 264\n\nBeowulfesby, 245\n\nBertha, 269, 271, 272\n\nBion, 206\n\nBlancandrin, 268, 274\n\nBlaye, 287\n\nBodb the Red, 289, 290, 291, 296, 301\n\nBoreas, 212\n\nBorrach, 321, 325, 326\n\nBowlby Cliff, 244, 245\n\nBranch, Red, 307, 308, 320, 321, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332, 333\n\nBreton, 267\n\nBrisingamen, 229, 255, 260\n\nBritain, 244, 268\n\nBrittany, 267\n\nBrocken, 233\n\nBrowning, E. B., 209, 218\n\nBuinne the Red, 322, 329\n\nByron, 10\n\n\nCalliope, 32\n\nCalvary, 216\n\nCalvinism, 215\n\nCalydon, 69, 70, 71, 78\n\nCalydonian Hunt, 69, 72, 76\n\nCampbell, Thos., 266\n\nCarlyle, Thos., 215, 216, 266\n\nCarmichael, Alexander, 307\n\nCarraig Uisneach, 325\n\nCarricknarone, 299, 300\n\nCassiopeia, 123\n\nCastor, 71\n\nCathbad, 307, 309, 310, 311, 327, 330, 332\n\nCaucasus, Mt., 8\n\nCelts, 289, 306\n\nCepheus, 123\n\nCerberus, 34\n\nCeyx, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 150, 151, 152, 153\n\nChampions of the Red Branch, 307, 308\n\nChanson de Roland, 266\n\nChaos, 2\n\nCharlemagne, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276,\n    277, 280, 281, 282, 286, 287\n\nCharles, King, 282\n\nCharon, 37, 38\n\nChemmis, 117\n\nChinese, 208\n\nChristian, 272, 275, 295, 303\n\nChristianity, 215, 227, 232\n\nCimmerian Mountains, 148\n\nCirce, 226\n\nClaros, 145\n\nClio, 129\n\nClymene, 16, 17, 18, 24\n\nClytie, 189\n\nCocytus, 59, 63, 64, 104, 115, 167, 207\n\nCoillchuan, 324\n\nColophon, 83, 86, 87\n\nConall, 321\n\nConchubar, 307\n\nConn, 290, 295, 299, 304, 305\n\nConnaught, 304\n\nConor, 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 313, 316, 317, 319, 320, 321, 322,\n    323, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 333\n\nCopenhagen, 244\n\nCordova, 268, 274\n\nCorinth, 192, 193\n\nCrete, 182, 183\n\nCruachan, Ben, 318\n\nCuchulainn, 321, 331, 332\n\nCyane, 163\n\nCyclades, 107\n\nCycnus, 24\n\nCynthian, 126\n\nCyprus, 11, 13, 60, 194, 202, 204\n\nCyrene, 155, 156, 157\n\nCytherea, 206\n\nCytherian shores, 203\n\n\nDaedalus, 181, 182, 183, 184, 185, 187, 188\n\nDail-an-eas, 318\n\nDalness, 318\n\nDanae, 105, 106, 107, 121\n\nDanaides, 35\n\nDane, 233, 248, 250, 257, 259\n\nDanish, 250, 251, 256\n\nDante, 16\n\nDaphne, 42, 43, 44\n\nDarthool, 306\n\nDarvra, Lake, 293, 295, 296, 297\n\nDasent, 236\n\nDavid, 272\n\nDay, 2\n\nDearshul, 319\n\nDecca, 304\n\nDedannans, 289, 291, 297, 301\n\nDeirdre, 306, 307, 308, 309, 310, 311, 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317,\n    318, 319, 320, 321, 322, 323, 324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330,\n    331, 332, 333\n\nDelos, 172, 186\n\nDemeter, 84, 162, 165, 166, 167, 168\n\nDenmark, 245, 251\n\nDerg, Lough, 290, 291\n\nDerravaragh, Lough, 293\n\nDestiny, The Winged, 223\n\nDiana, II., 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 43, 70, 72, 73, 75, 76, 90, 97, 99,\n    101, 103, 116, 125, 126, 127, 128, 130, 164, 173, 175, 190, 198,\n    200, 203, 204, 210\n\nDiana Vernon, 26\n\nDouzeperes, 268, 269, 272, 274, 275, 277, 282, 283, 286, 287\n\nDraighen, 325\n\nDruid, 307, 309, 310, 327, 330, 332\n\nDruid's runes, 295\n\nDruids, 294\n\nDryden, 45\n\nDryope, 210, 211\n\nDublin Bay, 317\n\nDunfidgha, 324\n\nDun Fin, 324\n\nDunskaith, 311\n\nDun Suibhne, 324\n\nDun Sween, 324\n\nDurendala, 276, 284, 285\n\n\nEcho, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 210\n\nEdinburgh, 306\n\nEgypt, 39, 117, 193\n\nEgyptian, 217\n\nEgyptians, 117\n\nEmain Macha, 314, 323, 326, 327, 328, 333\n\nEmerson, 243\n\nEndymion, 26, 28, 29, 30\n\nEngland, 344\n\nEnna, 104\n\nEpaphos, 16, 17, 21\n\nEpimethus, 2, 5, 6, 7\n\nEpirus, 70\n\nErdgeist, 216\n\nErebus, 2\n\nEridanus, 24\n\nErin, 289, 290, 295, 297, 298, 299, 301, 302, 307, 308, 311, 317, 319,\n    320, 321, 322, 323, 325, 333\n\nErris, 295\n\nEros, 2, 42, 47, 48, 51, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 62, 66, 67, 91, 202, 203\n\nEssa, 317\n\nEtair, Ben, 317\n\nEthiopia, 118, 119, 120\n\nEthiopians, 23\n\nEtive, Glen, 325\n\nEtive, Loch, 318, 320, 322, 324, 326, 333\n\nEtna, 101, 103\n\nEuboean Sea, 122\n\nEumenides, 194\n\nEuropa, 87\n\nEurope, 289\n\nEurydice, 31, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 115, 159\n\nEva, 291, 292, 293, 294, 295, 296\n\nEve, 290, 291\n\nEvenos, 91, 92, 93, 94\n\n\nFaust, 216\n\nFechin, St., 222\n\nFelim, 307, 308, 309\n\nFensalir, 238\n\nFergus, 321, 322, 323, 325, 326, 329\n\nFicra, 290, 295, 299, 304, 305\n\nFinola, 290, 292, 293, 294, 298, 299, 300, 301, 303, 304, 305\n\nFiori Maggio, 103\n\nFiredrake, 261, 262, 263, 264\n\nFleece, Golden, 39, 70\n\nFlorence, 124\n\nFontarabian, 282\n\nFrance, 266, 275, 278, 279, 280, 282, 286\n\nFranks, 267, 273, 276, 277, 279, 280\n\nFreya, 227, 229, 230, 231, 232, 233, 235, 238, 239, 255\n\nFriday, 277\n\nFrieslanders, 260\n\nFrigga, 228\n\nFuries, 35, 194, 196\n\n\nGabriel, 286\n\nGael, 300, 306, 307, 322, 332\n\nGaelic, 319\n\nGalahad, 234\n\nGalatea, 13, 14, 15\n\nGanelon, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 277, 287\n\nGautier, Sir, 277, 282\n\nGeasa, 326\n\nGermanic language, 244\n\nGermany, 233\n\nGlendaruadh, 325\n\nGlendaruel, 325\n\nGleneitche, 325\n\nGlenlaidhe, 324\n\nGlenmasan, 324\n\nGlenmasan MS., 306\n\nGlenorchy, 325\n\nGoar, St., 224\n\nGoethe, 216\n\nGolden Fleece, 39, 70\n\nGordias, 134, 135\n\nGorgons, 113, 114, 115, 116, 120, 121, 123\n\nGoths, 248, 249, 250, 252, 253, 260, 264, 265\n\nGothland, 249, 250, 252, 260\n\nGraeae, 112\n\nGreece, 26, 71, 72, 74, 154, 192, 193, 210, 223, 229, 234, 289\n\nGreek, 100, 128, 160\n\nGreeks, 3, 215\n\nGreen Islands, 307\n\nGregory, Lady, 307, 309\n\nGrendel, 247, 248, 250, 253, 254, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260, 262\n\n\nHades, 34, 35, 36, 39, 65, 67, 167, 194\n\nHalcyon birds, 153\n\nHalcyone, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 150, 151, 152, 153\n\nHamlet, 124\n\nHardred, 260\n\nHastings, 266\n\nHauteclaire, 278\n\nHecate, 164, 205\n\nHeine, 220, 223, 226\n\nHel, 236, 239, 240, 241\n\nHeliades, 24\n\nHellas, 217\n\nHellenistic, 218\n\nHenry VI, King, 144\n\nHeorot, 246, 248, 251, 256\n\nHera, 169, 170, 175\n\nHeredia, De, 208\n\nHermes, 5, 111, 112, 116, 120, 210, 211\n\nHermoder, 239, 240\n\nHesiod, 4\n\nHesperides, Garden of the, 113, 114, 116, 117, 118, 137\n\nHesperus, 144\n\nHlidskialf, 231\n\nHodur, 238, 239\n\nHoly Loch, 324\n\nHomeric Hymns, 210\n\nHowth, Hill of, 317\n\nHrothgar, 246, 247, 248, 250, 251, 254, 255, 256, 257\n\nHyacinthus, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133\n\nHyde, Dr. Douglas, 307\n\nHygeia, 88\n\nHygelac, 248, 260\n\nHyleus, 74\n\nHymen, 33\n\n\nIbycus, 192, 194, 195, 196\n\nIcarus, 181, 183, 184, 185, 186, 187, 188\n\nIce Giants, 230\n\nIda, Mount, 185\n\nIdas, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 97, 98, 99\n\nIdmon, 83, 86\n\nIllann the Fair, 322, 326, 329\n\nIngelow, Jean, 167\n\nInis Glora, 295, 301, 302, 303, 304\n\nIniskea, 302\n\nInistrynich, 324\n\nInnisdraighende, 324\n\nInvermasan, 324\n\nIonia, 145, 147\n\nIonian Sea, 217\n\nIreland, 289, 306\n\nIris, 148, 149\n\nIvros Domnann, 295, 301\n\nIxion, 35\n\n\nJason, 39, 70, 71, 73\n\nJerusalem, 216\n\nJonathan, 272\n\nJove, 4, 25, 49, 64\n\nJoyce, 305\n\nJudas, 274\n\nJulius Caesar, 261\n\nJuno, 146, 148, 150\n\nJupiter, 8, 95, 210\n\n\nKeats, 129, 180\n\nKeos, 106\n\nKemoc, 303, 304, 305\n\nKingsley, Charles, 105, 232\n\n\nLadon, 200\n\nLang, Andrew, 27\n\nLangobarden, 232\n\nLarguen, 304, 305\n\nLarissa, 122\n\nLatmos, Mount, 27, 30\n\nLatona, 125, 126, 127, 128, 169, 170, 171, 172\n\nLavarcam, 310, 311, 312, 313, 314, 315, 327, 328\n\nLebynthos, 186\n\nLeinster, Book of, 306\n\nLethe, 149\n\nLeto, 169\n\nLibetlera, 41\n\nLibya, 23, 116\n\nLibyan, 39\n\nLight, 2\n\nLiguria, 24\n\nLilith, 220\n\nLir, 289, 290, 291, 292, 293, 294, 296, 297, 298, 300, 301, 302, 303,\n    305\n\nLoki, 234, 236, 237, 238, 239, 242\n\nLombardy, 232\n\nLomond, Loch, 320\n\nLondon Bridge, 221\n\nLong Loch, 320\n\nLongbeards, 232\n\nLongfellow, 234, 241, 243, 244\n\nLora, Falls of, 318\n\nLorelei, 220, 223, 224, 225\n\nLove, 2\n\nLowell, 10, 38\n\nLuna, 27\n\nLycia, 170\n\nLycormas, 93, 94\n\nLydia, 83, 88, 128\n\nLyra, 41\n\nLysimeleia, 101\n\n\nMacleod, Fiona, 31, 197, 218, 219, 223, 301, 306, 307, 315, 332, 333\n\nMadonna, 227\n\nMahommed, 267\n\nMannanan, 292, 331\n\nMarpessa, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99\n\nMarsiglio, 267\n\nMarsile, 267, 268, 272, 274, 275, 279, 280, 281\n\nMary, Virgin, 227\n\nMayo, 295\n\nMeander, 183\n\nMeath, West, 293\n\nMedusa, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 115, 116, 120\n\nMeleager, 69, 70, 72, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 80\n\nMichael, St., 286\n\nMidas, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 141, 142, 143, 198, 210\n\nMilanion, 79, 80, 81\n\nMilesians, 297\n\nMilo, 10\n\nMilon, 269, 271\n\nMilton, 8, 38, 217\n\nMinos, 182, 183, 188\n\nMontjoie, 279, 281\n\nMoore, Thos., 289\n\nMorgue, 221\n\nMorpheus, 149, 150, 151\n\nMorris, William, 49, 50, 58, 68, 115\n\n---- Lewis, 29, 67, 165, 168, 202, 207\n\nMoschus, 87\n\nMount Olympus, 41, 81\n\nMowgli, 214\n\nMoyle, 289, 295, 298, 301, 317\n\nMull, 317\n\nMunster, 304\n\nMuses, 41, 129\n\nMusset, De, 218\n\n\nNaegeling, 250, 251\n\nNaiades, 25\n\nNaismes de Baviere, 272\n\nNanna, 235, 241\n\nNaoise, 311, 312, 313, 314, 315, 316, 317, 318, 319, 320, 322, 323,\n    324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332\n\nNarcissus, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180\n\nNelson, 100\n\nNeptune, 93, 94, 99\n\nNereids, 188\n\nNestor, 71, 72\n\nNibelungs, 224\n\nNiflheim, 236, 237, 239\n\nNiobe, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128\n\nNorman, 233, 266\n\nNorseman, 331\n\nNorsemen, 228, 229, 234\n\nNorth Channel, 295\n\nNorth Cape, 260\n\nNorth Sea, 244\n\nNorway, 233, 331\n\n\nOdin, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232, 234, 235, 236, 237\n\nOdysseus, 221, 226\n\nOea, 319\n\nOEneus, 69, 70\n\nOise, 214, 215\n\nOlifant, 276, 280, 284, 285\n\nOliver, 272, 277, 278, 280, 281, 282, 283, 287\n\nOlivier, 266, 282\n\nOlympians, 6, 9, 60, 112, 129, 180, 211\n\nOlympus, 3, 4, 5, 24, 45, 46, 49, 67, 68, 86, 95, 105, 108, 122, 126,\n    135, 140, 155, 166, 171, 185, 187, 191, 203, 207, 210, 211\n\nOlympus, Mount, 130\n\nOrion's Belt, 228\n\nOrpheus, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 159, 210\n\nOrphics, 39, 40, 41\n\nOrtygia, 100, 104\n\nOtuel, Sir, 288\n\nOvid, 25, 45, 86, 197\n\n\nPactolus, 83, 138\n\nPagan, 285\n\nPaganism, 215, 216\n\nPallas Athene, 3, 83, 84, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 115, 120\n\nPalodes, 217\n\nPan, 59, 63, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 209,\n    210, 211, 212, 213, 214, 215, 216, 217, 218, 219\n\nPandora, 1, 2, 5, 6, 7\n\nPantheism, 215, 216\n\nPaphian, 206\n\nPaphos, 15, 203\n\nParos, 223\n\nParthenian Hill, 71\n\nPatrick, St., 295, 302\n\nPaxae, 217\n\nPaynim, 280, 283\n\nPeleus, 71\n\nPeneus, 42, 43, 44, 45\n\nPerdrix, 182\n\nPerseus, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116,\n    117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123\n\nPersephone, 80, 161, 164, 165, 167\n\nPhaeton, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25\n\nPhillips, Stephen, 96\n\nPhineus, 120\n\nPhlegethon, 194\n\nPhoebus, 129\n\nPhoebus Apollo, 18, 19\n\nPhoenicians, 120\n\nPhrygia, 134, 135, 136, 142\n\nPied Piper, 212\n\nPirithous, 71\n\nPitys, 210, 212\n\nPleiades, 27, 90\n\nPlemmgrium, 101\n\nPlexippus, 71\n\nPluto, 23, 35, 36, 37, 38, 64, 80, 103, 115, 120, 162, 163, 165, 166,\n    167, 210\n\nPollux, 71\n\nPolydectes, 106, 107, 109, 110, 121\n\nPomona, 210\n\nPoseidon, 146, 172, 186, 192, 222\n\nPraxiteles, 124\n\nPrometheus, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 10\n\nProserpine, 35, 36, 64, 65, 66, 161, 162, 163, 165, 166, 167, 192\n\nProteus, 100, 157, 158, 159\n\nPsyche, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60,\n    61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 210\n\nPurgatorio, 16\n\nPygmalion, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 102\n\nPyrenees, 275\n\n\nQuail Island, 101\n\n\nRachel, 128\n\nRainschevaux, 266\n\nRaphael, St., 286\n\nRathlin Island, 325\n\nRed Branch, Champions of, 307, 308, 320, 321, 332, 333\n\nRed Branch, House of, 327, 328, 329, 330\n\nRetaliator, The, 331\n\nRheims, Bishop of, 272\n\nRhine, 224, 225\n\nRinghorn, 240\n\nRoland, 266, 267, 269, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274, 276, 277, 278, 279,\n    280, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 287, 288\n\nRollant, 266\n\nRoman de Rose, 266\n\nRoman Empire, 267\n\nRomans, 27\n\nRoncevall, 266\n\nRoncesvalles, 267, 274, 275, 276, 277, 281, 282, 286\n\nRossa the Red, 321, 323\n\nRound Table, 268\n\nRowland, 282\n\nRuncyvale, 288\n\n\nSackville, Lady Margaret, 197\n\nSaeland, 244, 265\n\nSamos, 107, 186\n\nSamson, 160\n\nSaracens, 267, 274, 276, 277, 278, 279, 280, 282, 283, 285, 286\n\nSaragossa, 267, 272\n\nSaxon, 233\n\nScandinavia, 227, 245\n\nScotland, 220, 306\n\nScott, Sir Walter, 26, 282\n\nScyld Scefing, 245, 246\n\nSeine, 221\n\nSelene, 27, 210\n\nSeriphos, 106, 109, 120, 121\n\nSeumas, 218, 223\n\nSgathaig, 311\n\nShakespeare, 31, 124, 134, 192, 204, 223, 261\n\nShannon, 290\n\nSharp, William, 301\n\nShee Finnaha, 289, 290, 296, 302\n\nShelley, 9, 104, 161\n\nSicily, 36, 100, 104, 162, 163, 167, 186, 188\n\nSilenus, 136\n\nSimonides, 106\n\nSipylus, Mount, 128\n\nSirens, 226\n\nSisyphus, 35\n\nSkene, W. F., 307\n\nSkye, Isle of, 311\n\nSleipnir, 236\n\nSocrates, 153\n\nSomnus, 148, 149, 150\n\nSpain, 267\n\nSpartan, 129\n\nSpenser, 88\n\nStriven, Loch, 320\n\nStyx, 19, 63, 64\n\nSweden, 233\n\nSwedes, 249\n\nSwinburne, 74\n\nSylvan deities, 214\n\nSynge, J. M., 307\n\nSyracuse, 100, 101\n\nSyria, 216\n\nSyrinx, 197, 198, 199, 200, 201, 210\n\n\nTaenarus, 34\n\nTaillefer, 266\n\nTailleken, 295\n\nTalus, 182\n\nTantalus, 35, 124\n\nTelamon, 71, 73\n\nTennyson, 27, 154, 216\n\nTermagaunt, 267\n\nThames, 221\n\nThamus, 217\n\nTheban, 124\n\nThebes, 124, 125, 126\n\nTheseus, 71\n\nThessaly, 144, 146, 147, 152\n\nThrace, 32, 33, 38, 39\n\nTiberius, 216\n\nTitan, 8, 9, 35\n\nTitans, 2, 4, 117, 124\n\nToxeus, 71\n\nTrachine, 150\n\nTriton, 100\n\nTussypere, 288\n\nTurpin, 266, 277, 279, 280, 282, 283, 284, 287\n\nTymolus, 83, 87\n\nTyrian, 86\n\n\nUffizi Palace, 124\n\nUlster, 307\n\nUltonians, 307, 313, 320, 329, 330, 331, 332, 333\n\nUladh, 332\n\nUlva, 222\n\nUrchain, Glen, 325\n\nUsna, Sons of, 306, 311, 312, 313, 315, 317, 318, 319, 320, 321, 322,\n    324, 325, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332, 333\n\n\nValhalla, 228, 267\n\nVali, 237\n\nVandals, 231\n\nVatican, 11\n\nVeillantif, 276, 282\n\nVenus, 11, 26, 202\n\nVernon, Diana, 26\n\nVersailles, 11\n\nVirgil, 194\n\nVulcan, 4\n\n\nWace, 266\n\nWagmund, 264\n\nWalpurgis Night, 233\n\nWessex, 244\n\nWestminster, 221\n\nWhitby, 244\n\nWiglaf, 263, 264\n\nWilliam the Conqueror, 266\n\nWinged Destiny, The, 223\n\nWinilers, 231, 232\n\nWolf Woman, 258, 260, 262, 263\n\n\nYeats, W. B., 307\n\nYorkshire, 244, 265\n\n\nZeus, 3, 4, 8, 9, 22, 24, 30, 34, 86, 95, 105, 106, 107, 112, 120,\n    123, 124, 166, 169, 170, 172, 202, 206\n\nZephyr, 129\n\nZephyrus, 51, 54, 59, 71, 103, 131, 133, 180\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\nMinor typographical errors (omitted punctuation, omitted or transposed\nletters, etc.) have been amended without note. Inconsistent\nhyphenation and accent use has been made consistent within the main\ntext, again without note. Any inconsistencies between quotations and\nthe main text remain as printed.\n\nThere is a lot of archaic language in this text, which remains as\nprinted. The author also used alternative spelling in places (e.g.\nEpimethus rather than the more usual Epimetheus); this remains as\nprinted. There is a reference to Michael Angelo on page 203 and in\nthe Index, by which the author presumably meant Michelangelo; this\nhas also been left as printed.\n\nThe following amendments have been made:\n\n  Page 268--were amended to was--\"... with Saragossa still\n  unconquered was too much to hope for.\"\n\n  Page 304--Kemoc amended to Larguen--\"Then Larguen, in\n  furious anger, ...\"\n\nIllustrations have been moved so that they are not in mid-paragraph.\nThe frontispiece illustration has been moved to follow the title page.\n\nOE and oe ligatures have not been retained in this version.\n\nIndex entries have been made consistent with the main text, as\nfollows:\n\n  Page 334--Aristaeus amended to Aristaeus; Athene, Pallas\n  amended to Athene, Pallas.\n\n  Page 335--page reference 230 amended to 300 in\n  Carricknarone entry; page reference 313 added to Deirdre\n  entry.\n\n  Page 336--page reference 344 amended to 244 in England\n  entry; Eridamus amended to Eridanus.\n\n  Page 337--page reference 86 added to Idmon entry; Inis Rea\n  amended to Iniskea.\n\n  Page 338--Naides amended to Naiades; page references 319\n  and 325 added to Naoise entry; Oeneus amended to OEneus;\n  entry for Olivier originally had page references\n  duplicating the entry for Oliver, these have been amended\n  to the actual references in the text; page reference 119\n  added to Perseus entry.\n\n  Page 339--page reference 19 added to Phaeton entry;\n  Pirithons amended to Pirithous; Rachael amended to Rachel;\n  Roncevalles amended to Roncesvalles; Shee Finaha amended\n  to Shee Finnaha; Sisyplus amended to Sisyphus; Taillekin\n  amended to Tailleken.\n\n  Page 340--Tiberias amended to Tiberius; Uffizzi Palace\n  amended to Uffizi Palace; Uluadh amended to Uladh.","title":"A Book of Myths","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93296}