{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_9313/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_9313","id":"gutenberg_9313","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9313","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Mythology, Greek -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen, and Project\nGutenberg Distributed Proofreaders\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOLD GREEK FOLK STORIES TOLD ANEW\n\nBy Josephine Preston Peabody\n\n1897\n\n\n\n\nPUBLISHERS' NOTE.\n\n\nHawthorne, in his _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_, has told, in a\nmanner familiar to multitudes of American children and to many more who\nonce were children, a dozen of the old Greek folk stories. They have\nserved to render the persons and scenes known as no classical\ndictionary would make them known. But Hawthorne chose a few out of the\nmany myths which are constantly appealing to the reader not only of\nancient but of modern literature. The group contained in the collection\nwhich follows will help to fill out the list; it is designed to serve\nas a complement to the _Wonder-Book_ and _Tanglewood Tales_, so that\nthe references to the stories in those collections are brief and\nallusive only. In order to make the entire series more useful, the\nindex added to this number of the _Riverside Literature Series_ is made\nto include also the stories contained in the other numbers of the\nseries which contain Hawthorne's two books. Thus the index serves as a\ntolerably full clue to the best-known characters in Greek mythology.\n\n_Once upon a time, men made friends with the Earth. They listened to\nall that woods and waters might say; their eyes were keen to see\nwonders in silent country places and in the living creatures that had\nnot learned to be afraid. To this wise world outside the people took\ntheir joy and sorrow; and because they loved the Earth, she answered\nthem._\n\n_It was not strange that Pan himself sometimes brought home a\nshepherd's stray lamb. It was not strange, if one broke the branches of\na tree, that some fair life within wept at the hurt. Even now, the\nEarth is glad with us in springtime, and we grieve for her when the\nleaves go. But in the old days there was a closer union, clearer speech\nbetween men and all other creatures, Earth and the stars about her._\n\n_Out of the life that they lived together, there have come down to us\nthese wonderful tales; and, whether they be told well or ill, they are\ntoo good to be forgotten._\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nTHE WOOD-FOLK\n\nTHE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS\n\nPROMETHEUS\n\nTHE DELUGE\n\nORPHEUS AND EURYDICE\n\nICARUS AND DAEDALUS\n\nPHAETHON\n\nNIOBE\n\nADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD\n\nALCESTIS\n\nAPOLLO'S SISTER\n\n   I. DIANA AND ACTAEON\n\n  II. DIANA AND ENDYMION\n\nTHE CALYDONIAN HUNT\n\nATALANTA'S RACE\n\nARACHNE\n\nPYRAMUS AND THISBE\n\nPYGMALION AND GALATEA\n\nOEDIPUS\n\nCUPID AND PSYCHE\n\nTHE TRIAL OF PSYCHE\n\nSTORIES OP THE TROJAN WAR\n\n    I. THE APPLE OF DISCORD\n\n   II. THE ROUSING OF THE HEROES\n\n  III. THE WOODEN HORSE\n\nTHE HOUSE OF AGAMEMNON\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF ODYSSEUS\n\n    I. THE CURSE OF POLYPHEMUS\n\n   II. THE WANDERING OF ODYSSEUS\n\n  III. THE HOME-COMING\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE WOOD-FOLK.\n\n\nPan led a merrier life than all the other gods together. He was beloved\nalike by shepherds and countrymen, and by the fauns and satyrs, birds\nand beasts, of his own kingdom. The care of flocks and herds was his,\nand for home he had all the world of woods and waters; he was lord of\neverything out-of-doors! Yet he felt the burden of it no more than he\nfelt the shadow of a leaf when he danced, but spent the days in\nlaughter and music among his fellows. Like him, the fauns and satyrs\nhad furry, pointed ears, and little horns that sprouted above their\nbrows; in fact, they were all enough like wild creatures to seem no\nstrangers to anything untamed. They slept in the sun, piped in the\nshade, and lived on wild grapes and the nuts that every squirrel was\nready to share with them.\n\nThe woods were never lonely. A man might wander away into those\nsolitudes and think himself friendless; but here and there a river\nknew, and a tree could tell, a story of its own. Beautiful creatures\nthey were, that for one reason or another had left off human shape.\nSome had been transformed against their will, that they might do no\nmore harm to their fellow-men. Some were changed through the pity of\nthe gods, that they might share the simple life of Pan, mindless of\nmortal cares, glad in rain and sunshine, and always close to the heart\nof the Earth.\n\nThere was Dryope, for instance, the lotus-tree. Once a careless, happy\nwoman, walking among the trees with her sister Iole and her own baby,\nshe had broken a lotus that held a live nymph hidden, and blood dripped\nfrom the wounded plant. Too late, Dryope saw her heedlessness; and\nthere her steps had taken root, and there she had said good-by to her\nchild, and prayed Iole to bring him sometimes to play beneath her\nshadow. Poor mother-tree! Perhaps she took comfort with the birds and\ngave a kindly shelter to some nest.\n\nThere, too, was Echo, once a wood-nymph who angered the goddess Juno\nwith her waste of words, and was compelled now to wait till others\nspoke, and then to say nothing but their last word, like any\nmocking-bird. One day she saw and loved the youth Narcissus, who was\nsearching the woods for his hunting companions. \"Come hither!\" he\ncalled, and Echo cried \"Hither!\" eager to speak at last. \"Here am\nI,--come!\" he repeated, looking about for the voice. \"I come,\" said\nEcho, and she stood before him. But the youth, angry at such mimicry,\nonly stared at her and hastened away. From that time she faded to a\nvoice, and to this day she lurks hidden and silent till you call.\n\nBut Narcissus himself was destined to fall in love with a shadow. For,\nleaning over the edge of a brook one day, he saw his own beautiful face\nlooking up at him like a water-nymph. He leaned nearer, and the face\nrose towards him, but when he touched the surface it was gone in a\nhundred ripples. Day after day he besought the lovely creature to have\npity and to speak; but it mocked him with his own tears and smiles, and\nhe forgot all else, until he changed into a flower that leans over to\nsee its image in the pool.\n\nThere, too, was the sunflower Clytie, once a maiden who thought nothing\nso beautiful as the sun-god Phoebus Apollo. All the day long she used\nto look after him as he journeyed across the heavens in his golden\nchariot, until she came to be a fair rooted plant that ever turns its\nhead to watch the sun.\n\nMany like were there. Daphne the laurel, Hyacinthus (once a beautiful\nyouth, slain by mischance), who lives and renews his bloom as a\nflower,--these and a hundred others. The very weeds were friendly....\n\nBut there were wise, immortal voices in certain caves and trees. Men\ncalled them Oracles; for here the gods spoke in answer to the prayers\nof folk in sorrow or bewilderment. Sometimes they built a temple around\nsuch a befriending voice, and kings would journey far to hear it speak.\n\nAs for Pan, only one grief had he, and in the end a glad thing came of\nit.\n\nOne day, when he was loitering in Arcadia, he saw the beautiful\nwood-nymph Syrinx. She was hastening to join Diana at the chase, and\nshe herself was as swift and lovely as any bright bird that one longs\nto capture. So Pan thought, and he hurried after to tell her. But\nSyrinx turned, caught one glimpse of the god's shaggy locks and bright\neyes, and the two little horns on his head (he was much like a wild\nthing, at a look), and she sprang away down the path in terror.\n\nBegging her to listen, Pan followed; and Syrinx, more and more\nfrightened by the patter of his hoofs, never heeded him, but went as\nfast as light till she came to the brink of the river. Only then she\npaused, praying her friends, the water-nymphs, for some way of escape.\nThe gentle, bewildered creatures, looking up through the water, could\nthink of but one device.\n\nJust as the god overtook Syrinx and stretched out his arms to her, she\nvanished like a mist, and he found himself grasping a cluster of tall\nreeds. Poor Pan!\n\nThe breeze that sighed whenever he did--and oftener--shook the reeds\nand made a sweet little sound,--a sudden music. Pan heard it, half\nconsoled.\n\n\"Is it your voice, Syrinx?\" he said. \"Shall we sing together?\"\n\nHe bound a number of the reeds side by side; to this day, shepherds\nknow how. He blew across the hollow pipes and they made music!\n\n\n\n\nTHE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS\n\n\nPan came at length to be such a wonderful piper with his syrinx (for so\nhe named his flute) that he challenged Apollo to make better music if\nhe could. Now the sun-god was also the greatest of divine musicians,\nand he resolved to punish the vanity of the country-god, and so\nconsented to the test. For judge they chose the mountain Tmolus, since\nno one is so old and wise as the hills. And, since Tmolus could not\nleave his home, to him went Pan and Apollo, each with his followers,\noreads and dryads, fauns, satyrs, and centaurs.\n\nAmong the worshippers of Pan was a certain Midas, who had a strange\nstory. Once a king of great wealth, he had chanced to befriend\nDionysus, god of the vine; and when he was asked to choose some good\ngift in return, he prayed that everything he touched might be turned\ninto gold. Dionysus smiled a little when he heard this foolish prayer,\nbut he granted it. Within two days, King Midas learned the secret of\nthat smile, and begged the god to take away the gift that was a curse.\nHe had touched everything that belonged to him, and little joy did he\nhave of his possessions! His palace was as yellow a home as a dandelion\nto a bee, but not half so sweet. Row upon row of stiff golden trees\nstood in his garden; they no longer knew a breeze when they heard it.\nWhen he sat down to eat, his feast turned to treasure uneatable. He\nlearned that a king may starve, and he came to see that gold cannot\nreplace the live, warm gifts of the Earth. Kindly Dionysus took back\nthe charm, but from that day King Midas so hated gold that he chose to\nlive far from luxury, among the woods and fields. Even here he was not\nto go free from misadventure.\n\nTmolus gave the word, and Pan uprose with his syrinx, and blew upon the\nreeds a melody so wild and yet so coaxing that the squirrels came, as\nif at a call, and the birds hopped down in rows. The trees swayed with\na longing to dance, and the fauns looked at one another and laughed for\njoy. To their furry little ears, it was the sweetest music that could\nbe.\n\nBut Tmolus bowed before Apollo, and the sun-god rose with his golden\nlyre in his hands. As he moved, light shook out of his radiant hair as\nraindrops are showered from the leaves. His trailing robes were purple,\nlike the clouds that temper the glory of a sunset, so that one may look\nupon it. He touched the strings of his lyre, and all things were silent\nwith joy. He made music, and the woods dreamed. The fauns and satyrs\nwere quite still; and the wild creatures crouched, blinking, under a\ncharm of light that they could not understand. To hear such a music\ncease was like bidding farewell to father and mother.\n\nWith one accord they fell at the feet of Apollo, and Tmolus proclaimed\nthe victory his. Only one voice disputed that award.\n\nMidas refused to acknowledge Apollo lord of music,--perhaps because the\nlooks of the god dazzled his eyes unpleasantly, and put him in mind of\nhis foolish wish years before. For him there was no music in a golden\nlyre!\n\nBut Apollo would not leave such dull ears unpunished. At a word from\nhim they grew long, pointed, furry, and able to turn this way and that\n(like a poplar leaf),--a plain warning to musicians. Midas had the ears\nof an ass, for every one to see!\n\nFor a long time the poor man hid this oddity with such skill that we\nmight never have heard of it. But one of his servants learned the\nsecret, and suffered so much from keeping it to himself that he had to\nunburden his mind at last. Out into the meadows he went, hollowed a\nlittle place in the turf, whispered the strange news into it quite\nsoftly, and heaped the earth over again. Alas! a bed of reeds sprang up\nthere before long, and whispered in turn to the grass-blades. Year\nafter year they grew again, ever gossipping among themselves; and to\nthis day, with every wind that sets them nodding together, they murmur,\nlaughing, \"_Midas has the ears of an ass: Oh, hush, hush!_\"\n\n\n\n\nPROMETHEUS.\n\n\nIn the early days of the universe, there was a great struggle for\nempire between Zeus and the Titans. The Titans, giant powers of heaven\nand earth, were for seizing whatever they wanted, with no more ado than\na whirlwind. Prometheus, the wisest of all their race, long tried to\npersuade them that good counsel would avail more than violence; but\nthey refused to listen. Then, seeing that such rulers would soon turn\nheaven and earth into chaos again, Prometheus left them to their own\ndevices, and went over to Zeus, whom he aided so well that the Titans\nwere utterly overthrown. Down into Tartarus they went, to live among\nthe hidden fires of the earth; and there they spent a long term of\nbondage, muttering like storm, and shaking the roots of mountains. One\nof them was Enceladus, who lay bound under Aetna; and one, Atlas, was\nmade to stand and bear up the weight of the sky on his giant shoulders.\n\nZeus was left King of gods and men. Like any young ruler, he was eager\nto work great changes with his new power. Among other plans, he\nproposed to destroy the race of men then living, and to replace it with\nsome new order of creatures. Prometheus alone heard this scheme with\nindignation. Not only did he plead for the life of man and save it, but\never after he spent his giant efforts to civilize the race, and to\nendow it with a wit near to that of gods.\n\nIn the Golden Age, men had lived free of care. They took no heed of\ndaily wants, since Zeus gave them all things needful, and the earth\nbrought forth fruitage and harvest without asking the toil of\nhusbandmen. If mortals were light of heart, however, their minds were\nempty of great enterprise. They did not know how to build or plant or\nweave; their thoughts never flew far, and they had no wish to cross the\nsea.\n\nBut Prometheus loved earthly folk, and thought that they had been\nchildren long enough. He was a mighty workman, with the whole world for\na workshop; and little by little he taught men knowledge that is\nwonderful to know, so that they grew out of their childhood, and began\nto take thought for themselves. Some people even say that he knew how\nto make men,--as we make shapes out of clay,--and set their five wits\ngoing. However that may be, he was certainly a cunning workman. He\ntaught men first to build huts out of clay, and to thatch roofs with\nstraw. He showed them how to make bricks and hew marble. He taught them\nnumbers and letters, the signs of the seasons, and the coming and going\nof the stars. He showed them how to use for their healing the simple\nherbs that once had no care save to grow and be fragrant. He taught\nthem how to till the fields; how to tame the beasts, and set them also\nto work; how to build ships that ride the water, and to put wings upon\nthem that they may go faster, like birds.\n\nWith every new gift, men desired more and more. They set out to see\nunknown lands, and their ambitions grew with their knowledge. They were\nlike a race of poor gods gifted with dreams of great glory and the\npower to fashion marvellous things; and, though they had no endless\nyouth to spend, the gods were troubled.\n\nLast of all, Prometheus went up secretly to heaven after the treasure\nof the immortals. He lighted a reed at the flame of the sun, and\nbrought down the holy fire which is dearest to the gods. For with the\naid of fire all things are possible, all arts are perfected.\n\nThis was his greatest gift to man, but it was a theft from the immortal\ngods, and Zeus would endure no more. He could not take back the secret\nof fire; but he had Prometheus chained to a lofty crag in the Caucasus,\nwhere every day a vulture came to prey upon his body, and at night the\nwound would heal, so that it was ever to suffer again. It was a bitter\npenalty for so noble-hearted a rebel, and as time went by, and Zeus\nremembered his bygone services, he would have made peace once more. He\nonly waited till Prometheus should bow his stubborn spirit, but this\nthe son of Titans would not do. Haughty as rock beneath his daily\ntorment, believing that he suffered for the good of mankind, he endured\nfor years.\n\nOne secret hardened his spirit. He was sure that the empire of Zeus\nmust fall some day, since he knew of a danger that threatened it. For\nthere was a certain beautiful sea-nymph, Thetis, whom Zeus desired for\nhis wife. (This was before his marriage to Queen Juno.) Prometheus\nalone knew that Thetis was destined to have a son who should be far\ngreater than his father. If she married some mortal, then, the prophecy\nwas not so wonderful; but if she were to marry the King of gods and\nmen, and her son should be greater than he, there could be no safety\nfor the kingdom. This knowledge Prometheus kept securely hidden; but he\never defied Zeus, and vexed him with dark sayings about a danger that\nthreatened his sovereignty. No torment could wring the secret from him.\nYear after year, lashed by the storms and scorched by the heat of the\nsun, he hung in chains and the vulture tore his vitals, while the young\nOceanides wept at his feet, and men sorrowed over the doom of their\nprotector.\n\nAt last that earlier enmity between the gods and the Titans came to an\nend. The banished rebels were set free from Tartarus, and they\nthemselves came and besought their brother, Prometheus, to hear the\nterms of Zeus. For the King of gods and men had promised to pardon his\nenemy, if he would only reveal this one troublous secret.\n\nIn all heaven and earth there was but one thing that marred the new\nharmony,--this long struggle between Zeus and Prometheus; and the Titan\nrelented. He spoke the prophecy, warned Zeus not to marry Thetis, and\nthe two were reconciled. The hero Heracles (himself an earthly son of\nZeus) slew the vulture and set Prometheus free.\n\nBut it was still needful that a life should be given to expiate that\nancient sin,--the theft of fire. It happened that Chiron, noblest of\nall the Centaurs (who are half horses and half men), was wandering the\nworld in agony from a wound that he had received by strange mischance.\nFor, at a certain wedding-feast among the Lapithae of Thessaly, one of\nthe turbulent Centaurs had attempted to steal away the bride. A fierce\nstruggle followed, and in the general confusion, Chiron, blameless as\nhe was, had been wounded by a poisoned arrow. Ever tormented with the\nhurt and never to be healed, the immortal Centaur longed for death, and\nbegged that he might be accepted as an atonement for Prometheus. The\ngods heard his prayer and took away his pain and his immortality. He\ndied like any wearied man, and Zeus set him as a shining archer among\nthe stars.\n\nSo ended a long feud. From the day of Prometheus, men spent their lives\nin ceaseless enterprise, forced to take heed for food and raiment,\nsince they knew how, and to ply their tasks of art and handicraft, They\nhad taken unresting toil upon them, but they had a wondrous servant at\ntheir beck and call,--the bright-eyed fire that is the treasure of the\ngods.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DELUGE.\n\n\nEven with the gifts of Prometheus, men could not rest content. As years\nwent by, they lost all the innocence of the early world; they grew more\nand more covetous and evil-hearted. Not satisfied with the fruits of\nthe Earth, or with the fair work of their own hands, they delved in the\nground after gold and jewels; and for the sake of treasure nations made\nwar upon each other and hate sprang up in households. Murder and theft\nbroke loose and left nothing sacred.\n\nAt last Zeus spoke. Calling the gods together, he said: \"Ye see what\nthe Earth has become through the baseness of men. Once they were\ndeserving of our protection; now they even neglect to ask it. I will\ndestroy them with my thunderbolts and make a new race.\"\n\nBut the gods withheld him from this impulse. \"For,\" they said, \"let not\nthe Earth, the mother of all, take fire and perish. But seek out some\nmeans to destroy mankind and leave her unhurt.\"\n\nSo Zeus unloosed the waters of the world and there was a great flood.\n\nThe streams that had been pent in narrow channels, like wild steeds\nbound to the ploughshare, broke away with exultation; the springs\npoured down from the mountains, and the air was blind with rain.\nValleys and uplands were covered; strange countries were joined in one\ngreat sea; and where the highest trees had towered, only a little\ngreenery pricked through the water, as weeds show in a brook.\n\nMen and women perished with the flocks and herds. Wild beasts from the\nforest floated away on the current with the poor sheep. Birds, left\nhomeless, circled and flew far and near seeking some place of rest,\nand, finding none, they fell from weariness and died with human folk,\nthat had no wings.\n\nThen for the first time the sea-creatures--nymphs and\ndolphins--ventured far from their homes, up, up through the swollen\nwaters, among places that they had never seen before,--forests whose\nlike they had not dreamed, towns and deluged farmsteads. They went in\nand out of drowned palaces, and wondered at the strange ways of men.\nAnd in and out the bright fish darted, too, without a fear. Wonderful\nman was no more. His hearth was empty; and fire, his servant, was dead\non earth.\n\nOne mountain alone stood high above this ruin. It was Parnassus, sacred\nto the gods; and here one man and woman had found refuge. Strangely\nenough, this husband and wife were of the race of the Titans,--Deucalion,\na son of Prometheus, and Pyrrha, a child of Epimetheus, his brother; and\nthese alone had lived pure and true of heart.\n\nWarned by Prometheus of the fate in store for the Earth, they had put\noff from their home in a little boat, and had made the crest of\nParnassus their safe harbor.\n\nThe gods looked down on these two lonely creatures, and, beholding all\ntheir past lives clear and just, suffered them to live on. Zeus bade\nthe rain cease and the floods withdraw.\n\nOnce more the rivers sought their wonted channels, and the sea-gods and\nthe nymphs wandered home reluctantly with the sinking seas. The sun\ncame out; and they hastened more eagerly to find cool depths. Little by\nlittle the forest trees rose from the shallows as if they were growing\nanew. At last the surface of the world lay clear to see, but sodden and\ndeserted, the fair fields covered with ooze, the houses rank with moss,\nthe temples cold and lightless.\n\nDeucalion and Pyrrha saw the bright waste of water sink and grow dim\nand the hills emerge, and the earth show green once more. But even\ntheir thankfulness of heart could not make them merry.\n\n\"Are we to live on this great earth all alone?\" they said. \"Ah! if we\nhad but the wisdom and cunning of our fathers, we might make a new race\nof men to bear us company. But now what remains to us? We have only\neach other for all our kindred.\"\n\n\"Take heart, dear wife,\" said Deucalion at length, \"and let us pray to\nthe gods in yonder temple.\"\n\nThey went thither hand in hand. It touched their hearts to see the\nsacred steps soiled with the water-weeds,--the altar without fire; but\nthey entered reverently, and besought the Oracle to help them.\n\n\"Go forth,\" answered the spirit of the place, \"with your faces veiled\nand your robes ungirt; and cast behind you, as ye go, the bones of your\nmother.\"\n\nDeucalion and Pyrrha heard with amazement. The strange word was\nterrible to them.\n\n\"We may never dare do this,\" whispered Pyrrha. \"It would be impious to\nstrew our mother's bones along the way.\"\n\nIn sadness and wonder they went out together and took thought, a little\ncomforted by the firmness of the dry earth beneath their feet. Suddenly\nDeucalion pointed to the ground.\n\n\"Behold the Earth, our mother!\" said he. \"Surely it was this that the\nOracle meant. And what should her bones be but the rocks that are a\nfoundation for the clay, and the pebbles that strew the path?\"\n\nUncertain, but with lighter hearts, they veiled their faces, ungirt\ntheir garments, and, gathering each an armful of the stones, flung them\nbehind, as the Oracle had bidden.\n\nAnd, as they walked, every stone that Deucalion flung became a man; and\nevery one that Pyrrha threw sprang up a woman. And the hearts of these\ntwo were filled with joy and welcome.\n\nDown from the holy mountain they went, all those new creatures, ready\nto make them homes and to go about human work. For they were strong to\nendure, fresh and hardy of spirit, as men and women should be who are\ntrue children of our Mother Earth.\n\n\n\n\nORPHEUS AND EURYDICE.\n\n\nWhen gods and shepherds piped and the stars sang, that was the day of\nmusicians! But the triumph of Phoebus Apollo himself was not so\nwonderful as the triumph of a mortal man who lived on earth, though\nsome say that he came of divine lineage. This was Orpheus, that best of\nharpers, who went with the Grecian heroes of the great ship Argo in\nsearch of the Golden Fleece.\n\nAfter his return from the quest, he won Eurydice for his wife, and they\nwere as happy as people can be who love each other and every one else.\nThe very wild beasts loved them, and the trees clustered about their\nhome as if they were watered with music. But even the gods themselves\nwere not always free from sorrow, and one day misfortune came upon that\nharper Orpheus whom all men loved to honor.\n\nEurydice, his lovely wife, as she was wandering with the nymphs,\nunwittingly trod upon a serpent in the grass. Surely, if Orpheus had\nbeen with her, playing upon his lyre, no creature could have harmed\nher. But Orpheus came too late. She died of the sting, and was lost to\nhim in the Underworld.\n\nFor days he wandered from his home, singing the story of his loss and\nhis despair to the helpless passers-by. His grief moved the very stones\nin the wilderness, and roused a dumb distress in the hearts of savage\nbeasts. Even the gods on Mount Olympus gave ear, but they held no power\nover the darkness of Hades.\n\nWherever Orpheus wandered with his lyre, no one had the will to forbid\nhim entrance; and at length he found unguarded that very cave that\nleads to the Underworld where Pluto rules the spirits of the dead. He\nwent down without fear. The fire in his living heart found him a way\nthrough the gloom of that place. He crossed the Styx, the black river\nthat the gods name as their most sacred oath. Charon, the harsh old\nferryman who takes the Shades across, forgot to ask of him the coin\nthat every soul must pay. For Orpheus sang. There in the Underworld the\nsong of Apollo would not have moved the poor ghosts so much. It would\nhave amazed them, like a star far off that no one understands. But here\nwas a human singer, and he sang of things that grow in every human\nheart, youth and love and death, the sweetness of the Earth, and the\nbitterness of losing aught that is dear to us.\n\nNow the dead, when they go to the Underworld, drink of the pool of\nLethe; and forgetfulness of all that has passed comes upon them like a\nsleep, and they lose their longing for the world, they lose their\nmemory of pain, and live content with that cool twilight. But not the\npool of Lethe itself could withstand the song of Orpheus; and in the\nhearts of the Shades all the old dreams awoke wondering. They\nremembered once more the life of men on Earth, the glory of the sun and\nmoon, the sweetness of new grass, the warmth of their homes, all the\nold joy and grief that they had known. And they wept.\n\nEven the Furies were moved to pity. Those, too, who were suffering\npunishment for evil deeds ceased to be tormented for themselves, and\ngrieved only for the innocent Orpheus who had lost Eurydice. Sisyphus,\nthat fraudulent king (who is doomed to roll a monstrous boulder uphill\nforever), stopped to listen. The daughters of Danaus left off their\ntask of drawing water in a sieve. Tantalus forgot hunger and thirst,\nthough before his eyes hung magical fruits that were wont to vanish out\nof his grasp, and just beyond reach bubbled the water that was a\ntorment to his ears; he did not hear it while Orpheus sang.\n\nSo, among a crowd of eager ghosts, Orpheus came, singing with all his\nheart, before the king and queen of Hades. And the queen Proserpina\nwept as she listened and grew homesick, remembering the fields of Enna\nand the growing of the wheat, and her own beautiful mother, Demeter.\nThen Pluto gave way.\n\nThey called Eurydice and she came, like a young guest unused to the\ndarkness of the Underworld. She was to return with Orpheus, but on one\ncondition. If he turned to look at her once before they reached the\nupper air, he must lose her again and go back to the world alone.\n\nRapt with joy, the happy Orpheus hastened on the way, thinking only of\nEurydice, who was following him. Past Lethe, across the Styx they went,\nhe and his lovely wife, still silent as a Shade. But the place was full\nof gloom, the silence weighed upon him, he had not seen her for so\nlong; her footsteps made no sound; and he could hardly believe the\nmiracle, for Pluto seldom relents. When the first gleam of upper\ndaylight broke through the cleft to the dismal world, he forgot all,\nsave that he must know if she still followed. He turned to see her\nface, and the promise was broken!\n\nShe smiled at him forgivingly, but it was too late. He stretched out\nhis arms to take her, but she faded from them, as the bright snow, that\nnone may keep, melts in our very hands. A murmur of farewell came to\nhis ears,--no more. She was gone.\n\nHe would have followed, but Charon, now on guard, drove him back. Seven\ndays he lingered there between the worlds of life and death, but after\nthe broken promise, Hades would not listen to his song. Back to the\nEarth he wandered, though it was sweet to him no longer. He died young,\nsinging to the last, and round about the place where his body rested,\nnightingales nested in the trees. His lyre was set among the stars; and\nhe himself went down to join Eurydice, unforbidden.\n\nThose two had no need of Lethe, for their life on earth had been wholly\nfair, and now that they are together they no longer own a sorrow.\n\n\n\n\nICARUS AND DAEDALUS.\n\n\nAmong all those mortals who grew so wise that they learned the secrets\nof the gods, none was more cunning than Daedalus.\n\nHe once built, for King Minos of Crete, a wonderful Labyrinth of\nwinding ways so cunningly tangled up and twisted around that, once\ninside, you could never find your way out again without a magic clue.\nBut the king's favor veered with the wind, and one day he had his\nmaster architect imprisoned in a tower. Daedalus managed to escape from\nhis cell; but it seemed impossible to leave the island, since every\nship that came or went was well guarded by order of the king.\n\nAt length, watching the sea-gulls in the air,--the only creatures that\nwere sure of liberty,--he thought of a plan for himself and his young\nson Icarus, who was captive with him.\n\nLittle by little, he gathered a store of feathers great and small. He\nfastened these together with thread, moulded them in with wax, and so\nfashioned two great wings like those of a bird. When they were done,\nDaedalus fitted them to his own shoulders, and after one or two\nefforts, he found that by waving his arms he could winnow the air and\ncleave it, as a swimmer does the sea. He held himself aloft, wavered\nthis way and that with the wind, and at last, like a great fledgling,\nhe learned to fly.\n\nWithout delay, he fell to work on a pair of wings for the boy Icarus,\nand taught him carefully how to use them, bidding him beware of rash\nadventures among the stars. \"Remember,\" said the father, \"never to fly\nvery low or very high, for the fogs about the earth would weigh you\ndown, but the blaze of the sun will surely melt your feathers apart if\nyou go too near.\"\n\nFor Icarus, these cautions went in at one ear and out by the other. Who\ncould remember to be careful when he was to fly for the first time? Are\nbirds careful? Not they! And not an idea remained in the boy's head but\nthe one joy of escape.\n\nThe day came, and the fair wind that was to set them free. The father\nbird put on his wings, and, while the light urged them to be gone, he\nwaited to see that all was well with Icarus, for the two could not fly\nhand in hand. Up they rose, the boy after his father. The hateful\nground of Crete sank beneath them; and the country folk, who caught a\nglimpse of them when they were high above the tree-tops, took it for a\nvision of the gods,--Apollo, perhaps, with Cupid after him.\n\nAt first there was a terror in the joy. The wide vacancy of the air\ndazed them,--a glance downward made their brains reel. But when a great\nwind filled their wings, and Icarus felt himself sustained, like a\nhalcyon-bird in the hollow of a wave, like a child uplifted by his\nmother, he forgot everything in the world but joy. He forgot Crete and\nthe other islands that he had passed over: he saw but vaguely that\nwinged thing in the distance before him that was his father Daedalus.\nHe longed for one draught of flight to quench the thirst of his\ncaptivity: he stretched out his arms to the sky and made towards the\nhighest heavens.\n\nAlas for him! Warmer and warmer grew the air. Those arms, that had\nseemed to uphold him, relaxed. His wings wavered, drooped. He fluttered\nhis young hands vainly,--he was falling,--and in that terror he\nremembered. The heat of the sun had melted the wax from his wings; the\nfeathers were falling, one by one, like snowflakes; and there was none\nto help.\n\nHe fell like a leaf tossed down the wind, down, down, with one cry that\novertook Daedalus far away. When he returned, and sought high and low\nfor the poor boy, he saw nothing but the bird-like feathers afloat on\nthe water, and he knew that Icarus was drowned.\n\nThe nearest island he named Icaria, in memory of the child; but he, in\nheavy grief, went to the temple of Apollo in Sicily, and there hung up\nhis wings as an offering. Never again did he attempt to fly.\n\n\n\n\nPHAETHON.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, the reckless whim of a lad came near to destroying\nthe Earth and robbing the spheres of their wits.\n\nThere were two playmates, said to be of heavenly parentage. One was\nEpaphus, who claimed Zeus as a father; and one was Phaethon, the\nearthly child of Phoebus Apollo (or Helios, as some name the sun-god).\nOne day they were boasting together, each of his own father, and\nEpaphus, angry at the other's fine story, dared him to go prove his\nkinship with the Sun.\n\nFull of rage and humiliation, Phaethon went to his mother, Clymene,\nwhere she sat with his young sisters, the Heliades.\n\n\"It is true, my child,\" she said, \"I swear it in the light of yonder\nSun. If you have any doubt, go to the land whence he rises at morning\nand ask of him any gift you will; he is your father, and he cannot\nrefuse you.\"\n\nAs soon as might be, Phaethon set out for the country of sunrise. He\njourneyed by day and by night far into the east, till he came to the\npalace of the Sun. It towered high as the clouds, glorious with gold\nand all manner of gems that looked like frozen fire, if that might be.\nThe mighty walls were wrought with images of earth and sea and sky.\nVulcan, the smith of the gods, had made them in his workshop (for\nMount-Aetna is one of his forges, and he has the central fires of the\nearth to help him fashion gold and iron, as men do glass). On the doors\nblazed the twelve signs of the Zodiac, in silver that shone like snow\nin the sunlight. Phaethon was dazzled with the sight, but when he\nentered the palace hall he could hardly bear the radiance.\n\nIn one glimpse through his half-shut eyes, he beheld a glorious being,\nnone other than Phoebus himself, seated upon a throne. He was clothed\nin purple raiment, and round his head there shone a blinding light,\nthat enveloped even his courtiers upon the right and upon the\nleft,--the Seasons with their emblems, Day, Month, Year, and the\nbeautiful young Hours in a row. In one glance of those all-seeing eyes,\nthe sun-god knew his child; but in order to try him he asked the boy\nhis errand.\n\n\"O my father,\" stammered Phaethon, \"if you are my father indeed,\" and\nthen he took courage; for the god came down from his throne, put off\nthe glorious halo that hurt mortal eyes, and embraced him tenderly.\n\n\"Indeed, thou art my son,\" said he. \"Ask any gift of me and it shall be\nthine; I call the Styx to witness.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" cried Phaethon rapturously. \"Let me drive thy chariot for one\nday!\"\n\nFor an instant the Sun's looks clouded. \"Choose again, my child,\" said\nhe. \"Thou art only a mortal, and this task is mine alone of all the\ngods. Not Zeus himself dare drive the chariot of the Sun. The way is\nfull of terrors, both for the horses and for all the stars along the\nroadside, and for the Earth, who has all blessings from me. Listen, and\nchoose again.\" And therewith he warned Phaethon of all the dangers that\nbeset the way,--the great steep that the steeds must climb, the numbing\ndizziness of the height, the fierce constellations that breathe out\nfire, and that descent in the west where the Sun seems to go headlong.\n\nBut these counsels only made the reckless boy more eager to win honor\nof such a high enterprise.\n\n\"I will take care; only let me go,\" he begged.\n\nNow Phoebus' had sworn by the black river Styx, an oath that none of\nthe gods dare break, and he was forced to keep his promise.\n\nAlready Aurora, goddess of dawn, had thrown open the gates of the east\nand the stars were beginning to wane. The Hours came forth to harness\nthe four horses, and Phaethon looked with exultation at the splendid\ncreatures, whose lord he was for a day. Wild, immortal steeds they\nwere, fed with ambrosia, untamed as the winds; their very pet names\nsignified flame, and all that flame can do,--Pyrois, Eo\u00fcs, Aethon,\nPhlegon.\n\nAs the lad stood by, watching, Phoebus anointed his face with a philter\nthat should make him strong to endure the terrible heat and light, then\nset the halo upon his head, with a last word of counsel.\n\n\"Follow the road,\" said he, \"and never turn aside. Go not too high or\ntoo low, for the sake of heavens and earth; else men and gods will\nsuffer. The Fates alone know whether evil is to come of this. Yet if\nyour heart fails you, as I hope, abide here and I will make the\njourney, as I am wont to do.\"\n\nBut Phaethon held to his choice and bade his father farewell. He took\nhis place in the chariot, gathered up the reins, and the horses sprang\naway, eager for the road.\n\nAs they went, they bent their splendid necks to see the meaning of the\nstrange hand upon the reins,--the slender weight in the chariot. They\nturned their wild eyes upon Phaethon, to his secret foreboding, and\nneighed one to another. This was no master-charioteer, but a mere lad,\na feather riding the wind. It was holiday for the horses of the Sun,\nand away they went.\n\nGrasping the reins that dragged him after, like an enemy, Phaethon\nlooked down from the fearful ascent and saw the Earth far beneath him,\ndim and fair. He was blind with dizziness and bewilderment. His hold\nslackened and the horses redoubled their speed, wild with new liberty.\nThey left the old tracks. Before he knew where he was, they had\nstartled the constellations and well-nigh grazed the Serpent, so that\nit woke from its torpor and hissed.\n\nThe steeds took fright. This way and that they went, terrified by the\nmonsters they had never encountered before, shaking out of their silver\nquiet the cool stars towards the north, then fleeing as far to the\nsouth among new wonders. The heavens were full of terror.\n\nUp, far above the clouds, they went, and down again, towards the\ndefenceless Earth, that could not flee from the chariot of the Sun.\nGreat rivers hid themselves in the ground, and mountains were consumed.\nHarvests perished like a moth that is singed in a candle-flame.\n\nIn vain did Phaethon call to the horses and pull upon the reins. As in\na hideous dream, he saw his own Earth, his beautiful home and the home\nof all men, his kindred, parched by the fires of this mad chariot, and\nblackening beneath him. The ground cracked open and the sea shrank.\nHeedless water-nymphs, who had lingered in the shallows, were left\ngasping like bright fishes. The dryads shrank, and tried to cover\nthemselves from the scorching heat. The poor Earth lifted her withered\nface in a last prayer to Zeus to save them if he might.\n\nThen Zeus, calling all the gods to witness that there was no other\nmeans of safety, hurled his thunderbolt; and Phaethon knew no more.\n\nHis body fell through the heavens, aflame like a shooting-star; and the\nhorses of the Sun dashed homeward with the empty chariot.\n\nPoor Clymene grieved sore over the boy's death; but the young Heliades,\ndaughters of the Sun, refused all comfort. Day and night they wept\ntogether about their brother's grave by the river, until the gods took\npity and changed them all into poplar-trees. And ever after that they\nwept sweet tears of amber, clear as sunlight.\n\n\n\n\nNIOBE.\n\n\nThere are so many tales of the vanity of kings and queens that the half\nof them cannot be told.\n\nThere was Cassiopaeia, queen of Aethiopia, who boasted that her beauty\noutshone the beauty of all the sea-nymphs, so that in anger they sent a\nhorrible sea-serpent to ravage the coast. The king prayed of an Oracle\nto know how the monster might be appeased, and learned that he must\noffer up his own daughter, Andromeda. The maiden was therefore chained\nto a rock by the sea-side, and left to her fate. But who should come to\nrescue her but a certain young hero, Perseus, who was hastening\nhomeward after a perilous adventure with the snaky-haired Gorgons.\nFilled with pity at the story of Andromeda, he waited for the dragon,\nmet and slew him, and set the maiden free. As for the boastful queen,\nthe gods forgave her, and at her death she was set among the stars.\nThat story ended well.\n\nBut there was once a queen of Thebes, Niobe, fortunate above all women,\nand yet arrogant in the face of the gods. Very beautiful she was, and\nnobly born, but above all things she boasted of her children, for she\nhad seven sons and seven daughters.\n\nNow there came the day when the people were wont to celebrate the feast\nof Latona, mother of Apollo and Diana; and Niobe, as she stood looking\nupon the worshippers on their way to the temple, was filled with\noverweening pride.\n\n\"Why do you worship Latona before me?\" she cried out. \"What does she\npossess that I have not in greater abundance? She has but two children,\nwhile I have seven sons and as many daughters. Nay, if she robbed me\nout of envy, I should still be rich. Go back to your houses; you have\nnot eyes to know the rightful goddess.\"\n\nSuch impiety was enough to frighten any one, and her subjects returned\nto their daily work, awestruck and silent.\n\nBut Apollo and Diana were filled with wrath at this insult to their\ndivine mother. Not only was she a great goddess and a power in the\nheavens, but during her life on earth she had suffered many hardships\nfor their sake. The serpent Python had been sent to torment her; and,\ndriven from land to land, under an evil spell, beset with dangers, she\nhad found no resting-place but the island of Delos, held sacred ever\nafter to her and her children. Once she had even been refused water by\nsome churlish peasants, who could not believe in a goddess if she\nappeared in humble guise and travel-worn. But these men were all\nchanged into frogs.\n\nIt needed no word from Latona herself to rouse her children to\nvengeance. Swift as a thought, the two immortal archers, brother and\nsister, stood in Thebes, upon the towers of the citadel. Near by, the\nyouth were pursuing their sports, while the feast of Latona went\nneglected. The sons of Queen Niobe were there, and against them Apollo\nbent his golden bow. An arrow crossed the air like a sunbeam, and\nwithout a word the eldest prince fell from his horse. One by one his\nbrothers died by the same hand, so swiftly that they knew not what had\nbefallen them, till all the sons of the royal house lay slain. Only the\npeople of Thebes, stricken with terror, bore the news to Queen Niobe,\nwhere she sat with her seven daughters. She would not believe in such a\nsorrow.\n\n\"Savage Latona,\" she cried, lifting her arms against the heavens,\n\"never think that you have conquered. I am still the greater.\"\n\nAt that moment one of her daughters sank beside her. Diana had sped an\narrow from her bow that is like the crescent moon. Without a cry, nay,\neven as they murmured words of comfort, the sisters died, one by one.\nIt was all as swift and soundless as snowfall.\n\nOnly the guilty mother was left, transfixed with grief. Tears flowed\nfrom her eyes, but she spoke not a word, her heart never softened; and\nat last she turned to stone, and the tears flowed down her cold face\nforever.\n\n\n\n\nADMETUS AND THE SHEPHERD.\n\n\nApollo did not live always free of care, though he was the most\nglorious of the gods. One day, in anger with the Cyclopes who work at\nthe forges of Vulcan, he sent his arrows after them, to the wrath of\nall the gods, but especially of Zeus. (For the Cyclopes always make his\nthunderbolts, and make them well.) Even the divine archer could not go\nunpunished, and as a penalty he was sent to serve some mortal for a\nyear. Some say one year and some say nine, but in those days time\npassed quickly; and as for the gods, they took no heed of it.\n\nNow there was a certain king in Thessaly, Admetus by name, and there\ncame to him one day a stranger, who asked leave to serve about the\npalace. None knew his name, but he was very comely, and moreover, when\nthey questioned him he said that he had come from a position of high\ntrust. So without further delay they made him chief shepherd of the\nroyal flocks.\n\nEvery day thereafter, he drove his sheep to the banks of the river\nAmphrysus, and there he sat to watch them browse. The country-folk that\npassed drew near to wonder at him, without daring to ask questions. He\nseemed to have a knowledge of leech-craft, and knew how to cure the\nills of any wayfarer with any weed that grew near by; and he would pipe\nfor hours in the sun. A simple-spoken man he was, yet he seemed to know\nmuch more than he would say, and he smiled with a kindly mirth when the\npeople wished him sunny weather.\n\nIndeed, as days went by, it seemed as if summer had come to stay, and,\nlike the shepherd, found the place friendly. Nowhere else were the\nflocks so white and fair to see, like clouds loitering along a bright\nsky; and sometimes, when he chose, their keeper sang to them. Then the\ngrasshoppers drew near and the swans sailed close to the river banks,\nand the country-men gathered about to hear wonderful tales of the\nslaying of the monster Python, and of a king with ass's ears, and of a\nlovely maiden, Daphne, who grew into a laurel-tree. In time the rumor\nof these things drew the king himself to listen; and Admetus, who had\nbeen to see the world in the ship Argo, knew at once that this was no\nearthly shepherd, but a god. From that day, like a true king, he\ntreated his guest with reverence and friendliness, asking no questions;\nand the god was well pleased.\n\nNow it came to pass that Admetus fell in love with a beautiful maiden,\nAlcestis, and, because of the strange condition that her father Pelias\nhad laid upon all suitors, he was heavy-hearted. Only that man who\nshould come to woo her in a chariot drawn by a wild boar and a lion\nmight ever marry Alcestis; and this task was enough to puzzle even a\nking.\n\nAs for the shepherd, when he heard of it he rose, one fine morning, and\nleft the sheep and went his way,--no one knew whither. If the sun had\ngone out, the people could not have been more dismayed. The king\nhimself went, late in the day, to walk by the river Amphrysus, and\nwonder if his gracious keeper of the flocks had deserted him in a time\nof need. But at that very moment, whom should he see returning from the\nwoods but the shepherd, glorious as sunset, and leading side by side a\nlion and a boar, as gentle as two sheep! The very next morning, with\njoy and gratitude, Admetus set out in his chariot for the kingdom of\nPelias, and there he wooed and won Alcestis, the most loving wife that\nwas ever heard of.\n\nIt was well for Admetus that he came home with such a comrade, for the\nyear was at an end, and he was to lose his shepherd. The strange man\ncame to take leave of the king and queen whom he had befriended.\n\n\"Blessed be your flocks, Admetus,\" he said, smiling. \"They shall\nprosper even though I leave them. And, because you can discern the gods\nthat come to you in the guise of wayfarers, happiness shall never go\nfar from your home, but ever return to be your guest. No man may live\non earth forever, but this one gift have I obtained for you. When your\nlast hour draws near, if any one shall be willing to meet it in your\nstead, he shall die, and you shall live on, more than the mortal length\nof days. Such kings deserve long life.\"\n\nSo ended the happy year when Apollo tended sheep.\n\n\n\n\nALCESTIS.\n\n\nFor many years the remembrance of Apollo's service kept Thessaly full\nof sunlight. Where a god could work, the people took heart to work\nalso. Flocks and herds throve, travellers were befriended, and men were\nhappy under the rule of a happy king and queen.\n\nBut one day Admetus fell ill, and he grew weaker and weaker until he\nlay at death's door. Then, when no remedy was found to help him and the\nhope of the people was failing, they remembered the promise of the\nFates to spare the king if some one else would die in his stead. This\nseemed a simple matter for one whose wishes are law, and whose life is\nneeded by all his fellow-men. But, strange to say, the substitute did\nnot come forward at once.\n\nAmong the king's most faithful friends, many were afraid to die. Men\nsaid that they would gladly give their lives in battle, but that they\ncould not die in bed at home like helpless old women. The wealthy had\ntoo much to live for; and the poor, who possessed nothing but life,\ncould not bear to give up that. Even the aged parents of Admetus shrunk\nfrom the thought of losing the few years that remained to them, and\nthought it impious that any one should name such a sacrifice.\n\nAll this time, the three Fates were waiting to cut the thread of life,\nand they could not wait longer.\n\nThen, seeing that even the old and wretched clung to their gift of\nlife, who should offer herself but the young and lovely queen,\nAlcestis? Sorrowful but resolute, she determined to be the victim, and\nmade ready to die for the sake of her husband.\n\nShe took leave of her children and commended them to the care of\nAdmetus. All his pleading could not change the decree of the Fates.\nAlcestis prepared for death as for some consecration. She bathed and\nanointed her body, and, as a mortal illness seized her, she lay down to\ndie, robed in fair raiment, and bade her kindred farewell. The\nhousehold was filled with mourning, but it was too late. She waned\nbefore the eyes of the king, like daylight that must be gone.\n\nAt this grievous moment Heracles, mightiest of all men, who was\njourneying on his way to new adventures, begged admittance to the\npalace, and inquired the cause of such grief in that hospitable place.\nHe was told of the misfortune that had befallen Admetus, and, struck\nwith pity, he resolved to try what his strength might do for this man\nwho had been a friend of gods.\n\nAlready Death had come out of Hades for Alcestis, and as Heracles stood\nat the door of her chamber he saw that awful form leading away the\nlovely spirit of the queen, for the breath had just departed from her\nbody. Then the might that he had from his divine father Zeus stood by\nthe hero. He seized Death in his giant arms and wrestled for victory.\n\nNow Death is a visitor that comes and goes. He may not tarry in the\nupper world; its air is not for him; and at length, feeling his power\ngive way, he loosed his grasp of the queen, and, weak with the\nstruggle, made escape to his native darkness of Hades.\n\nIn the chamber where the royal kindred were weeping, the body of\nAlcestis lay, fair to see, and once more the breath stirred in her\nheart, like a waking bird. Back to its home came her lovely spirit, and\nfor long years after she lived happily with her husband, King Admetus.\n\n\n\n\nAPOLLO'S SISTER.\n\n\nI. DIANA AND ACTAEON.\n\nLike the Sun-god, whom men dreaded as the divine archer and loved as\nthe divine singer, Diana, his sister, had two natures, as different as\nday from night.\n\nOn earth she delighted in the wild life of the chase, keeping holiday\namong the dryads, and hunting with all those nymphs that loved the\nboyish pastime. She and her maidens shunned the fellowship of men and\nwould not hear of marriage, for they disdained all household arts; and\nthere are countless tales of their cruelty to suitors.\n\nSyrinx and Atalanta were of their company, and Arethusa, who was\nchanged into a fountain and ever pursued by Alpheus the river-god, till\nat last the two were united. There was Daphne, too, who disdained the\nlove of Apollo himself, and would never listen to a word of his suit,\nbut fled like Syrinx, and prayed like Syrinx for escape; but Daphne was\nchanged into a fair laurel-tree, held sacred by Apollo forever after.\n\nAll these maidens were as untamed and free of heart as the wild\ncreatures they loved to hunt, and whoever molested them did so at his\nperil. None dared trespass in the home of Diana and her nymphs, not\neven the riotous fauns and satyrs who were heedless enough to go\na-swimming in the river Styx, if they had cared to venture near such a\ndismal place. But the maiden goddess laid a spell upon their unruly\nwits, even as the moon controls the tides of the sea. Her precincts\nwere holy. There was one man, however, whose ill-timed curiosity\nbrought heavy punishment upon him. This was Actaeon, a grandson of the\ngreat king Cadmus.\n\nWearied with hunting, one noon, he left his comrades and idled through\nthe forest, perhaps to spy upon those woodland deities of whom he had\nheard. Chance brought him to the very grove where Diana and her nymphs\nwere wont to bathe. He followed the bright thread of the brook, never\nturning aside, though mortal reverence should have warned him that the\nplace was for gods. The air was wondrous clear and sweet; a throng of\nfair trees drooped their branches in the way, and from a sheltered\ngrotto beyond fell a mingled sound of laughter and running waters. But\nActaeon would not turn back. Roughly pushing aside the laurel branches\nthat hid the entrance of the cave, he looked in, startling Diana and\nher maidens. In an instant a splash of water shut his eyes, and the\ngoddess, reading his churlish thought, said: \"Go now, if thou wilt, and\nboast of this intrusion.\"\n\nHe turned to go, but a stupid bewilderment had fallen upon him. He\nlooked back to speak, and could not. He put his hand to his head, and\nfelt antlers branching above his forehead. Down he fell on hands and\nfeet; these likewise changed. The poor offender! Crouching by the brook\nthat he had followed, he looked in, and saw nothing but the image of a\nstag, bending to drink, as only that morning he had seen the creature\nthey had come out to kill. With an impulse of terror he fled away,\nfaster than he had ever run before, crashing through bush and bracken,\nthe noise of his own flight ever after him like an enemy.\n\nSuddenly he heard the blast of a horn close by, then the baying of\nhounds. His comrades, who had rested and were ready for the chase, made\nafter him. This time he was their prey. He tried to call and could not.\nHis antlers caught in the branches, his breath came with pain, and the\ndogs were upon him,--his own dogs!\n\nWith all the eagerness that he had often praised in them, they fell\nupon him, knowing not their own master. And so he perished, hunter and\nhunted.\n\nOnly the goddess of the chase could have devised so terrible a revenge.\n\n\nII. DIANA AND ENDYMION.\n\nBut with the daylight, all of Diana's joy in the wild life of the woods\nseemed to fade. By night, as goddess of the moon, she watched over the\nsleep of the earth,--measured the tides of the ocean, and went across\nthe wide path of heaven, slow and fair to see. And although she bore\nher emblem of the bow, like a silver crescent, she was never terrible,\nbut beneficent and lovely.\n\nIndeed, there was once a young shepherd, Endymion, who used to lead his\nflocks high up the slopes of Mount Latmos to the purer air; and there,\nwhile the sheep browsed, he spent his days and nights dreaming on the\nsolitary uplands. He was a beautiful youth and very lonely. Looking\ndown one night from the heavens near by and as lonely as he, Diana saw\nhim, and her heart was moved to tenderness for his weariness and\nsolitude. She cast a spell of sleep upon him, with eternal youth, white\nand untroubled as moonlight. And there, night after night, she watched\nhis sheep for him, like any peasant maid who wanders slowly through the\npastures after the flocks, spinning white flax from her distaff as she\ngoes, alone and quite content.\n\nEndymion dreamed such beautiful dreams as come only to happy poets.\nEven when he woke, life held no care for him, but he seemed to walk in\na light that was for him alone. And all this time, just as the Sun-god\nwatched over the sheep of King Admetus, Diana kept the flocks of\nEndymion, but it was for love's sake.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CALYDONIAN HUNT.\n\n\nIn that day of the chase, there was one enterprise renowned above all\nothers,--the great hunt of Calydon. Thither, in search of high\nadventure, went all the heroes of Greece, just as they joined the quest\nof the Golden Fleece, and, in a later day, went to the rescue of Fair\nHelen in the Trojan War.\n\nFor Oeneus, king of Calydon, had neglected the temples of Diana, and\nshe had sent a monstrous boar to lay waste all the fields and farms in\nthe country. The people had never seen so terrible a beast, and they\nsoon wished that they had never offended the goddess who keeps the\nwoods clear of such monsters. No mortal device availed against it, and,\nafter a hundred disasters, Prince Meleager, the son of Oeneus, summoned\nthe heroes to join him in this perilous hunt.\n\nThe prince had a strange story. Soon after his birth, Althea, the\nqueen, had seen in a vision the three Fates spinning the thread of life\nand crooning over their work. For Clotho spins the thread, Lachesis\ndraws it out, and Atropos waits to cut it off with her glittering\nshears. So the queen beheld them, and heard them foretell that her baby\nshould live no longer than a brand that was then burning on the hearth.\nHorror inspired the mother. Quick as a thought she seized the brand,\nput out the flame, and laid it by in some safe and secret place where\nno harm could touch it. So the child gathered strength and grew up to\nmanhood.\n\nHe was a mighty hunter, and the other heroes came gladly to bear him\ncompany. Many of the Argonauts were there,--Jason, Theseus, Nestor,\neven Atalanta, that valorous maiden who had joined the rowers of the\nArgo, a beloved charge of Diana. Boyish in her boldness for wild\nsports, she was fleet of foot and very lovely to behold, altogether a\nbride for a princely hunter. So Meleager thought, the moment that he\nsaw her face.\n\nTogether they all set out for the lair of the boar, the heroes and the\nmen of Calydon,--Meleager and his two uncles. Phlexippus and Toxeus,\nbrothers of Queen Althea.\n\nAll was ready. Nets were stretched from tree to tree, and the dogs were\nlet loose. The heroes lay in wait. Suddenly the monster, startled by\nthe shouts of the company, rose hideous and unwieldy from his\nhiding-place and rushed upon them. What were hounds to such as he, or\nnets spread for a snare? Jason's spear missed and fell. Nestor only\nsaved his life by climbing the nearest tree. Several of the heroes were\ngored by the tusks of the boar before they could make their escape. In\nthe midst of this horrible tumult, Atalanta sped an arrow at the\ncreature and wounded him. Meleager saw it with joy, and called upon the\nothers to follow. One by one they tried without success, but he, after\none false thrust, drove his spear into the side of the monster and laid\nhim dead.\n\nThe heroes crowded to do him honor, but he turned to Atalanta, who had\nfirst wounded the boar, and awarded her the shaggy hide that was her\nfair-won trophy. This was too much for the warriors, who had been\noutdone by a girl. Phlexippus and Toxeus were so enraged that they\nsnatched the prize from the maiden, churlishly, and denied her victory.\nMaddened at this, Meleager forgot everything but the insult offered to\nAtalanta, and he fell upon the two men and stabbed them. Only when they\nlay dead before him did he remember that they were his own kinsmen.\n\nIn the mean time news had flown to the city that the pest was slain,\nand Queen Althea was on her way to the temple to give thanks for their\ndeliverance. At the very gates she came upon a multitude of men\nsurrounding a litter, and drawing near she saw the bodies of her two\nbrothers. Swift upon this horror came a greater shock,--the name of the\nmurderer, her own son Meleager. All pity left the mother's heart when\nshe heard it; she thought only of revenge. In a lightning-flash she\nremembered that brand which she had plucked from the fire when her son\nwas but a new-born babe,--the brand that was to last with his life.\n\nShe ordered a pyre to be built and lighted, and straightway she went to\nthat hiding-place where she had kept the precious thing all these,\nyears, and brought it back and stood before the flames. At the last\nmoment her soul was torn between love for her son and grief for her\nmurdered brothers. She stretched forth the brand, and plucked it again\nfrom the tongues of fire. She cried out in despair that the honor of\nher house should require such an expiation. But, covering her eyes, she\nflung the brand into the flames.\n\nAt the same time, far away with his companions, and unwitting of these\nthings, Meleager was struck through with a sudden pang. Wondering and\nhelpless, the heroes gathered about, to behold him dying of some\nunknown agony, while he strove to conquer his pain. Even as the brand\nburned in the fire before the wretched queen, Meleager was consumed by\na mysterious death, blessing with his last breath friends and kindred,\nhis dear Atalanta, and the mother who had brought him to this doom,\nthough he knew it not. At last the brand fell into ashes, and in the\nforest the hero lay dead.\n\nThe king and queen fell into such grief when all was known, that Diana\ntook pity upon them and changed them into birds.\n\n\n\n\nATALANTA'S RACE.\n\n\nEven if Prince Meleager had lived, it is doubtful if he could ever have\nwon Atalanta to be his wife. The maiden was resolved to live unwed, and\nat last she devised a plan to be rid of all her suitors. She was known\nfar and wide as the swiftest runner of her time; and so she said that\nshe would only marry that man who could outstrip her in the race, but\nthat all who dared to try and failed must be put to death.\n\nThis threat did not dishearten all of the suitors, however, and to her\ngrief, for she was not cruel, they held her to her promise. On a\ncertain day the few bold men who were to try their fortune made ready,\nand chose young Hippomenes as judge. He sat watching them before the\nword was given, and sadly wondered that any brave man should risk his\nlife merely to win a bride. But when Atalanta stood ready for the\ncontest, he was amazed by her beauty. She looked like Hebe, goddess of\nyoung health, who is a glad serving-maiden to the gods when they sit at\nfeast.\n\nThe signal was given, and, as she and the suitors darted away, flight\nmade her more enchanting than ever. Just as a wind brings sparkles to\nthe water and laughter to the trees, haste fanned her loveliness to a\nglow.\n\nAlas for the suitors! She ran as if Hermes had lent her his winged\nsandals. The young men, skilled as they were, grew heavy with weariness\nand despair. For all their efforts, they seemed to lag like ships in a\ncalm, while Atalanta flew before them in some favoring breeze--and\nreached the goal!\n\nTo the sorrow of all on-lookers, the suitors were led away; but the\njudge himself, Hippomenes, rose and begged leave to try his fortune. As\nAtalanta listened, and looked at him, her heart was filled with pity,\nand she would willingly have let him win the race to save him from\ndefeat and death; for he was comely and younger than the others. But\nher friends urged her to rest and make ready, and she consented, with\nan unwilling heart.\n\nMeanwhile Hippomenes prayed within himself to Venus: \"Goddess of Love,\ngive ear, and send me good speed. Let me be swift to win as I have been\nswift to love her.\"\n\nNow Venus, who was not far off,--for she had already moved the heart of\nHippomenes to love,--came to his side invisibly, slipped into his hand\nthree wondrous golden apples, and whispered a word of counsel in his\near.\n\nThe signal was given; youth and maiden started over the course. They\nwent so like the wind that they left not a footprint. The people\ncheered on Hippomenes, eager that such valor should win. But the course\nwas long, and soon fatigue seemed to clutch at his throat, the light\nshook before his eyes, and, even as he pressed on, the maiden passed\nhim by.\n\nAt that instant Hippomenes tossed ahead one of the golden apples. The\nrolling bright thing caught Atalanta's eye, and full of wonder she\nstooped to pick it up. Hippomenes ran on. As he heard the flutter of\nher tunic close behind him, he flung aside another golden apple, and\nanother moment was lost to the girl. Who could pass by such a marvel?\nThe goal was near and Hippomenes was ahead, but once again Atalanta\ncaught up with him, and they sped side by side like two dragon-flies.\nFor an instant his heart failed him; then, with a last prayer to Venus,\nhe flung down the last apple. The maiden glanced at it, wavered, and\nwould have left it where it had fallen, had not Venus turned her head\nfor a second and given her a sudden wish to possess it. Against her\nwill she turned to pick up the golden apple, and Hippomenes touched the\ngoal.\n\nSo he won that perilous maiden; and as for Atalanta, she was glad to\nmarry such a valorous man. By this time she understood so well what it\nwas like to be pursued, that she had lost a little of her pleasure in\nhunting.\n\n\n\n\nARACHNE.\n\n\nNot among mortals alone were there contests of skill, nor yet among the\ngods, like Pan and Apollo. Many sorrows befell men because they grew\narrogant in their own devices and coveted divine honors. There was once\na great hunter, Orion, who outvied the gods themselves, till they took\nhim away from his hunting-grounds and set him in the heavens, with his\nsword and belt, and his hound at his heels. But at length jealousy\ninvaded even the peaceful arts, and disaster came of spinning!\n\nThere was a certain maiden of Lydia, Arachne by name, renowned\nthroughout the country for her skill as a weaver. She was as nimble\nwith her fingers as Calypso, that nymph who kept Odysseus for seven\nyears in her enchanted island. She was as untiring as Penelope, the\nhero's wife, who wove day after day while she watched for his return.\nDay in and day out, Arachne wove too. The very nymphs would gather\nabout her loom, naiads from the water and dryads from the trees.\n\n\"Maiden,\" they would say, shaking the leaves or the foam from their\nhair, in wonder, \"Pallas Athena must have taught you!\"\n\nBut this did not please Arachne. She would not acknowledge herself a\ndebtor, even to that goddess who protected all household arts, and by\nwhose grace alone one had any skill in them.\n\n\"I learned not of Athena,\" said she, \"If she can weave better, let her\ncome and try.\"\n\nThe nymphs shivered at this, and an aged woman, who was looking on,\nturned to Arachne.\n\n\"Be more heedful of your words, my daughter,\" said she. \"The goddess\nmay pardon you if you ask forgiveness, but do not strive for honors\nwith the immortals.\"\n\nArachne broke her thread, and the shuttle stopped humming.\n\n\"Keep your counsel,\" she said. \"I fear not Athena; no, nor any one\nelse.\"\n\nAs she frowned at the old woman, she was amazed to see her change\nsuddenly into one tall, majestic, beautiful,--a maiden of gray eyes and\ngolden hair, crowned with a golden helmet. It was Athena herself.\n\nThe bystanders shrank in fear and reverence; only Arachne was unawed\nand held to her foolish boast.\n\nIn silence the two began to weave, and the nymphs stole nearer, coaxed\nby the sound of the shuttles, that seemed to be humming with delight\nover the two webs,--back and forth like bees.\n\nThey gazed upon the loom where the goddess stood plying her task, and\nthey saw shapes and images come to bloom out of the wondrous colors, as\nsunset clouds grow to be living creatures when we watch them. And they\nsaw that the goddess, still merciful, was spinning, as a warning for\nArachne, the pictures of her own triumph over reckless gods and\nmortals.\n\nIn one corner of the web she made a story of her conquest over the\nsea-god Poseidon. For the first king of Athens had promised to dedicate\nthe city to that god who should bestow upon it the most useful gift.\nPoseidon gave the horse. But Athena gave the olive,--means of\nlivelihood,--symbol of peace and prosperity, and the city was called\nafter her name. Again she pictured a vain woman of Troy, who had been\nturned into a crane for disputing the palm of beauty with a goddess.\nOther corners of the web held similar images, and the whole shone like\na rainbow.\n\nMeanwhile Arachne, whose head was quite turned with vanity, embroidered\nher web with stories against the gods, making light of Zeus himself and\nof Apollo, and portraying them as birds and beasts. But she wove with\nmarvellous skill; the creatures seemed to breathe and speak, yet it was\nall as fine as the gossamer that you find on the grass before rain.\n\nAthena herself was amazed. Not even her wrath at the girl's insolence\ncould wholly overcome her wonder. For an instant she stood entranced;\nthen she tore the web across, and three times she touched Arachne's\nforehead with her spindle.\n\n\"Live on, Arachne,\" she said. \"And since it is your glory to weave, you\nand yours must weave forever.\" So saying, she sprinkled upon the maiden\na certain magical potion.\n\nAway went Arachne's beauty; then her very human form shrank to that of\na spider, and so remained. As a spider she spent all her days weaving\nand weaving; and you may see something like her handiwork any day among\nthe rafters.\n\n\n\n\nPYRAMUS AND THISBE.\n\n\nVenus did not always befriend true lovers, as she had befriended\nHippomenes, with her three golden apples. Sometimes, in the enchanted\nisland of Cyprus, she forgot her worshippers far away, and they called\non her in vain.\n\nSo it was in the sad story of Hero and Leander, who lived on opposite\nborders of the Hellespont. Hero dwelt at Sestos, where she served as a\npriestess, in the very temple of Venus; and Leander's home was in\nAbydos, a town on the opposite shore. But every night this lover would\nswim across the water to see Hero, guided by the light which she was\nwont to set in her tower. Even such loyalty could not conquer fate.\nThere came a great storm, one night, that put out the beacon, and\nwashed Leander's body up with the waves to Hero, and she sprang into\nthe water to rejoin him, and so perished.\n\nNot wholly unlike this was the fate of Halcyone, a queen of Thessaly,\nwho dreamed that her husband Ceyx had been drowned, and on waking\nhastened to the shore to look for him. There she saw her dream come\ntrue,--his lifeless body floating towards her on the tide; and as she\nflung herself after him, mad with grief, the air upheld her and she\nseemed to fly. Husband and wife were changed into birds; and there on\nthe very water, at certain seasons, they build a nest that floats\nunhurt,--a portent of calm for many days and safe voyage for the ships.\nSo it is that seamen love these birds and look for halcyon weather.\n\nBut there once lived in Babylonia two lovers named Pyramus and Thisbe,\nwho were parted by a strange mischance. For they lived in adjoining\nhouses; and although their parents had forbidden them to marry, these\ntwo had found a means of talking together through a crevice in the\nwall.\n\nHere, again and again, Pyramus on his side of the wall and Thisbe on\nhers, they would meet to tell each other all that had happened during\nthe day, and to complain of their cruel parents. At length they decided\nthat they would endure it no longer, but that they would leave their\nhomes and be married, come what might. They planned to meet, on a\ncertain evening, by a mulberry-tree near the tomb of King Ninus,\noutside the city gates. Once safely met, they were resolved to brave\nfortune together.\n\nSo far all went well. At the appointed time, Thisbe, heavily veiled,\nmanaged to escape from home unnoticed, and after a stealthy journey\nthrough the streets of Babylon, she came to the grove of mulberries\nnear the tomb of Ninus. The place was deserted, and once there she put\noff the veil from her face to see if Pyramus waited anywhere among the\nshadows. She heard the sound of a footfall and turned to behold--not\nPyramus, but a creature unwelcome to any tryst--none other than a\nlioness crouching to drink from the pool hard by.\n\nWithout a cry, Thisbe fled, dropping her veil as she ran. She found a\nhiding-place among the rocks at some distance, and there she waited,\nnot knowing what else to do.\n\nThe lioness, having quenched her thirst (after some ferocious meal),\nturned from the spring and, coming upon the veil, sniffed at it\ncuriously, tore and tossed it with her reddened jaws,--as she would\nhave done with Thisbe herself,--then dropped the plaything and crept\naway to the forest once more.\n\nIt was but a little after this that Pyramus came hurrying to the\nmeeting-place, breathless with eagerness to find Thisbe and tell her\nwhat had delayed him. He found no Thisbe there. For a moment he was\nconfounded. Then he looked about for some sign of her, some footprint\nby the pool. There was the trail of a wild beast in the grass, and near\nby a woman's veil, torn and stained with blood; he caught it up and\nknew it for Thisbe's.\n\nSo she had come at the appointed hour, true to her word; she had waited\nthere for him alone and defenceless, and she had fallen a prey to some\nbeast from the jungle! As these thoughts rushed upon the young man's\nmind, he could endure no more.\n\n\"Was it to meet me, Thisbe, that you came to such a death!\" cried he.\n\"And I followed all too late. But I will atone. Even now I come\nlagging, but by no will of mine!\"\n\nSo saying, the poor youth drew his sword and fell upon it, there at the\nfoot of that mulberry-tree which he had named as the trysting-place,\nand his life-blood ran about the roots.\n\nDuring these very moments, Thisbe, hearing no sound and a little\nreassured, had stolen from her hiding-place and was come to the edge of\nthe grove. She saw that the lioness had left the spring, and, eager to\nshow her lover that she had dared all things to keep faith, she came\nslowly, little by little, back to the mulberry-tree.\n\nShe found Pyramus there, according to his promise. His own sword was in\nhis heart, the empty scabbard by his side, and in his hand he held her\nveil still clasped. Thisbe saw these things as in a dream, and suddenly\nthe truth awoke her. She saw the piteous mischance of all; and when the\ndying Pyramus opened his eyes and fixed them upon her, her heart broke.\nWith the same sword she stabbed herself, and the lovers died together.\n\nThere the parents found them, after a weary search, and they were\nburied together in the same tomb. But the berries of the mulberry-tree\nturned red that day, and red they have remained ever since.\n\n\n\n\nPYGMALION AND GALATEA.\n\n\nThe island of Cyprus was dear to the heart of Venus. There her temples\nwere kept with honor, and there, some say, she watched with the Loves\nand Graces over the long enchanted sleep of Adonis. This youth, a\nhunter whom she had dearly loved, had died of a wound from the tusk of\na wild boar; but the bitter grief of Venus had won over even the powers\nof Hades. For six months of every year, Adonis had to live as a Shade\nin the world of the dead; but for the rest of time he was free to\nbreathe the upper air. Here in Cyprus the people came to worship him as\na god, for the sake of Venus who loved him; and here, if any called\nupon her, she was like to listen.\n\nNow there once lived in Cyprus a young sculptor, Pygmalion by name, who\nthought nothing on earth so beautiful as the white marble folk that\nlive without faults and never grow old. Indeed, he said that he would\nnever marry a mortal woman, and people began to think that his daily\nlife among marble creatures was hardening his heart altogether.\n\nBut it chanced that Pygmalion fell to work upon an ivory statue of a\nmaiden, so lovely that it must have moved to envy every breathing\ncreature that came to look upon it. With a happy heart the sculptor\nwrought day by day, giving it all the beauty of his dreams, until, when\nthe work was completed, he felt powerless to leave it. He was bound to\nit by the tie of his highest aspiration, his most perfect ideal, his\nmost patient work.\n\nDay after day the ivory maiden looked down at him silently, and he\nlooked back at her until he felt that he loved her more than anything\nelse in the world. He thought of her no longer as a statue, but as the\ndear companion of his life; and the whim grew upon him like an\nenchantment. He named her Galatea, and arrayed her like a princess; he\nhung jewels about her neck, and made all his home beautiful and fit for\nsuch a presence.\n\nNow the festival of Venus was at hand, and Pygmalion, like all who\nloved Beauty, joined the worshippers. In the temple victims were\noffered, solemn rites were held, and votaries from many lands came to\npray the favor of the goddess. At length Pygmalion himself approached\nthe altar and made his prayer.\n\n\"Goddess,\" he said, \"who hast vouchsafed to me this gift of beauty,\ngive me a perfect love, likewise, and let me have for bride, one like\nmy ivory maiden.\" And Venus heard.\n\nHome to his house of dreams went the sculptor, loath to be parted for a\nday from his statue, Galatea. There she stood, looking down upon him\nsilently, and he looked back at her. Surely the sunset had shed a flush\nof life upon her whiteness.\n\nHe drew near in wonder and delight, and felt, instead of the chill air\nthat was wont to wake him out of his spell, a gentle warmth around her,\nlike the breath of a plant. He touched her hand, and it yielded like\nthe hand of one living! Doubting his senses, yet fearing to reassure\nhimself, Pygmalion kissed the statue.\n\nIn an instant the maiden's face bloomed like a waking rose, her hair\nshone golden as returning sunlight; she lifted her ivory eyelids and\nsmiled at him. The statue herself had awakened, and she stepped down\nfrom the pedestal, into the arms of her creator, alive!\n\nThere was a dream that came true.\n\n\n\n\nOEDIPUS.\n\n\nBehind the power of the gods and beyond all the efforts of men, the\nthree Fates sat at their spinning.\n\nNo one could tell whence these sisters were, but by some strange\nnecessity they spun the web of human life and made destinies without\nknowing why. It was not for Clotho to decree whether the thread of a\nlife should be stout or fragile, nor for Lachesis to choose the fashion\nof the web; and Atropos herself must sometimes have wept to cut a life\nshort with her shears, and let it fall unfinished. But they were like\nspinners for some Power that said of life, as of a garment, _Thus it\nmust be_. That Power neither gods nor men could withstand.\n\nThere was once a king named Laius (a grandson of Cadmus himself), who\nruled over Thebes, with Jocasta his wife. To them an Oracle had\nforetold that if a son of theirs lived to grow up, he would one day\nkill his father and marry his own mother. The king and queen resolved\nto escape such a doom, even at terrible cost. Accordingly Laius gave\nhis son, who was only a baby, to a certain herdsman, with instructions\nto put him to death.\n\nThis was not to be. The herdsman carried the child to a lonely\nmountain-side, but once there, his heart failed him. Hardly daring to\ndisobey the king's command, yet shrinking from murder, he hung the\nlittle creature by his feet to the branches of a tree, and left him\nthere to die.\n\nBut there chanced to come that way with his flocks, a man who served\nKing Polybus of Corinth. He found the baby perishing in the tree, and,\ntouched with pity, took him home to his master. The king and queen of\nCorinth were childless, and some power moved them to take this\nmysterious child as a gift. They called him Oedipus (Swollen-Foot)\nbecause of the wounds they had found upon him, and, knowing naught of\nhis parentage, they reared him as their own son. So the years went by.\n\nNow, when Oedipus had come to manhood, he went to consult the Oracle at\nDelphi, as all great people were wont, to learn what fortune had in\nstore for him. But for him the Oracle had only a sentence of doom.\nAccording to the Fates, he would live to kill his own father and wed\nhis mother.\n\nFilled with dismay, and resolved in his turn to conquer fate, Oedipus\nfled from Corinth; for he had never dreamed that his parents were other\nthan Polybus and Merope the queen. Thinking to escape crime, he took\nthe road towards Thebes, so hastening into the very arms of his evil\ndestiny.\n\nIt happened that King Laius, with one attendant, was on his way to\nDelphi from the city Thebes. In a narrow road he met this strange young\nman, also driving in a chariot, and ordered him to quit the way.\nOedipus, who had been reared to princely honors, refused to obey; and\nthe king's charioteer, in great anger, killed one of the young man's\nhorses. At this insult Oedipus fell upon master and servant; mad with\nrage, he slew them both, and went on his way, not knowing the half of\nwhat he had done. The first saying of the Oracle was fulfilled.\n\nBut the prince was to have his day of triumph before the doom. There\nwas a certain wonderful creature called the Sphinx, which had been a\nterror to Thebes for many days. In form half woman and half lion, she\ncrouched always by a precipice near the highway, and put the same\nmysterious question to every passer-by. None had ever been able to\nanswer, and none had ever lived to warn men of the riddle; for the\nSphinx fell upon every one as he failed, and hurled him down the abyss,\nto be dashed in pieces.\n\nThis way came Oedipus towards the city Thebes, and the Sphinx crouched,\nface to face with him, and spoke the riddle that none had been able to\nguess.\n\n\"_What animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon\non two, and in the evening upon three?_\"\n\nOedipus, hiding his dread of the terrible creature, took thought, and\nanswered \"Man. In childhood he creeps on hands and knees, in manhood he\nwalks erect, but in old age he has need of a staff.\"\n\nAt this reply the Sphinx uttered a cry, sprang headlong from the rock\ninto the valley below, and perished. Oedipus had guessed the answer.\nWhen he came to the city and told the Thebans that their torment was\ngone, they hailed him as a deliverer. Not long after, they married him\nwith great honor to their widowed queen, Jocasta, his own mother. The\ndestiny was fulfilled.\n\nFor years Oedipus lived in peace, unwitting; but at length upon that\nunhappy city there fell a great pestilence and famine. In his distress\nthe king sent to the Oracle at Delphi, to know what he or the Thebans\nhad done, that they should be so sorely punished. Then for the third\ntime the Oracle spoke his own fateful sentence; and he learned all.\n\nJocasta died, and Oedipus took the doom upon himself, and left Thebes.\nBlinded by his own hand, he wandered away into the wilderness. Never\nagain did he rule over men; and he had one only comrade, his faithful\ndaughter Antigone. She was the truest happiness in his life of sorrow,\nand she never left him till he died.\n\n\n\n\nCUPID AND PSYCHE.\n\n\nOnce upon a time, through that Destiny that overrules the gods, Love\nhimself gave up his immortal heart to a mortal maiden. And thus it came\nto pass.\n\nThere was a certain king who had three beautiful daughters. The two\nelder married princes of great renown; but Psyche, the youngest, was so\nradiantly fair that no suitor seemed worthy of her. People thronged to\nsee her pass through the city, and sang hymns in her praise, while\nstrangers took her for the very goddess of beauty herself.\n\nThis angered Venus, and she resolved to cast down her earthly rival.\nOne day, therefore, she called hither her son Love (Cupid, some name\nhim), and bade him sharpen his weapons. He is an archer more to be\ndreaded than Apollo, for Apollo's arrows take life, but Love's bring\njoy or sorrow for a whole life long.\n\n\"Come, Love,\" said Venus. \"There is a mortal maid who robs me of my\nhonors in yonder city. Avenge your mother. Wound this precious Psyche,\nand let her fall in love with some churlish creature mean in the eyes\nof all men.\"\n\nCupid made ready his weapons, and flew down to earth invisibly. At that\nmoment Psyche was asleep in her chamber; but he touched her heart with\nhis golden arrow of love, and she opened her eyes so suddenly that he\nstarted (forgetting that he was invisible), and wounded himself with\nhis own shaft.\n\nHeedless of the hurt, moved only by the loveliness of the maiden, he\nhastened to pour over her locks the healing joy that he ever kept by\nhim, undoing all his work. Back to her dream the princess went,\nunshadowed by any thought of love. But Cupid, not so light of heart,\nreturned to the heavens, saying not a word of what had passed.\n\nVenus waited long; then, seeing that Psyche's heart had somehow escaped\nlove, she sent a spell upon the maiden. From that time, lovely as she\nwas, not a suitor came to woo; and her parents, who desired to see her\na queen at least, made a journey to the Oracle, and asked counsel.\n\nSaid the voice: \"The princess Psyche shall never wed a mortal. She\nshall be given to one who waits for her on yonder mountain; he\novercomes gods and men.\"\n\nAt this terrible sentence the poor parents were half distraught, and\nthe people gave themselves up to grief at the fate in store for their\nbeloved princess. Psyche alone bowed to her destiny. \"We have angered\nVenus unwittingly,\" she said, \"and all for sake of me, heedless maiden\nthat I am! Give me up, therefore, dear father and mother. If I atone,\nit may be that the city will prosper once more.\"\n\nSo she besought them, until, after many unavailing denials, the parents\nconsented; and with a great company of people they led Psyche up the\nmountain,--as an offering to the monster of whom the Oracle had\nspoken,--and left her there alone.\n\nFull of courage, yet in a secret agony of grief, she watched her\nkindred and her people wind down the mountain-path, too sad to look\nback, until they were lost to sight. Then, indeed, she wept, but a\nsudden breeze drew near, dried her tears, and caressed her hair,\nseeming to murmur comfort. In truth, it was Zephyr, the kindly West\nWind, come to befriend her; and as she took heart, feeling some\nbenignant presence, he lifted her in his arms, and carried her on wings\nas even as a sea-gull's, over the crest of the fateful mountain and\ninto a valley below. There he left her, resting on a bank of hospitable\ngrass, and there the princess fell asleep.\n\nWhen she awoke, it was near sunset. She looked about her for some sign\nof the monster's approach; she wondered, then, if her grievous trial\nhad been but a dream. Near by she saw a sheltering forest, whose young\ntrees seemed to beckon as one maid beckons to another; and eager for\nthe protection of the dryads, she went thither.\n\nThe call of running waters drew her farther and farther, till she came\nout upon an open place, where there was a wide pool. A fountain\nfluttered gladly in the midst of it, and beyond there stretched a white\npalace wonderful to see. Coaxed by the bright promise of the place, she\ndrew near, and, seeing no one, entered softly. It was all kinglier than\nher father's home, and as she stood in wonder and awe, soft airs\nstirred about her. Little by little the silence grew murmurous like the\nwoods, and one voice, sweeter than the rest, took words. \"All that you\nsee is yours, gentle high princess,\" it said. \"Fear nothing; only\ncommand us, for we are here to serve you.\"\n\nFull of amazement and delight, Psyche followed the voice from hall to\nhall, and through the lordly rooms, beautiful with everything that\ncould delight a young princess. No pleasant thing was lacking. There\nwas even a pool, brightly tiled and fed with running waters, where she\nbathed her weary limbs; and after she had put on the new and beautiful\nraiment that lay ready for her, she sat down to break her fast, waited\nupon and sung to by the unseen spirits.\n\nSurely he whom the Oracle had called her husband was no monster, but\nsome beneficent power, invisible like all the rest. When daylight waned\nhe came, and his voice, the beautiful voice of a god, inspired her to\ntrust her strange destiny and to look and long for his return. Often\nshe begged him to stay with her through the day, that she might see his\nface; but this he would not grant.\n\n\"Never doubt me, dearest Psyche,\" said he. \"Perhaps you would fear if\nyou saw me, and love is all I ask. There is a necessity that keeps me\nhidden now. Only believe.\"\n\nSo for many days Psyche was content; but when she grew used to\nhappiness, she thought once more of her parents mourning her as lost,\nand of her sisters who shared the lot of mortals while she lived as a\ngoddess. One night she told her husband of these regrets, and begged\nthat her sisters at least might come to see her. He sighed, but did not\nrefuse.\n\n\"Zephyr shall bring them hither,\" said he. And on the following\nmorning, swift as a bird, the West Wind came over the crest of the high\nmountain and down into the enchanted valley, bearing her two sisters.\n\nThey greeted Psyche with joy and amazement, hardly knowing how they had\ncome hither. But when this fairest of the sisters led them through her\npalace and showed them all the treasures that were hers, envy grew in\ntheir hearts and choked their old love. Even while they sat at feast\nwith her, they grew more and more bitter; and hoping to find some\nlittle flaw in her good fortune, they asked a thousand questions.\n\n\"Where is your husband?\" said they. \"And why is he not here with you?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" stammered Psyche. \"All the day long--he is gone, hunting upon\nthe mountains.\"\n\n\"But what does he look like?\" they asked; and Psyche could find no\nanswer.\n\nWhen they learned that she had never seen him, they laughed her faith\nto scorn.\n\n\"Poor Psyche,\" they said. \"You are walking in a dream. Wake, before it\nis too late. Have you forgotten what the Oracle decreed,--that you were\ndestined for a dreadful creature, the fear of gods and men? And are you\ndeceived by this show of kindliness? We have come to warn you. The\npeople told us, as we came over the mountain, that your husband is a\ndragon, who feeds you well for the present, that he may feast the\nbetter, some day soon. What is it that you trust? Good words! But only\ntake a dagger some night, and when the monster is asleep go, light a\nlamp, and look at him. You can put him to death easily, and all his\nriches will be yours--and ours.\"\n\nPsyche heard this wicked plan with horror. Nevertheless, after her\nsisters were gone, she brooded over what they had said, not seeing\ntheir evil intent; and she came to find some wisdom in their words.\nLittle by little, suspicion ate, like a moth, into her lovely mind; and\nat nightfall, in shame and fear, she hid a lamp and a dagger in her\nchamber. Towards midnight, when her husband was fast asleep, up she\nrose, hardly daring to breathe; and coming softly to his side, she\nuncovered the lamp to see some horror.\n\nBut there the youngest of the gods lay sleeping,--most beautiful, most\nirresistible of all immortals. His hair shone golden as the sun, his\nface was radiant as dear Springtime, and from his shoulders sprang two\nrainbow wings.\n\nPoor Psyche was overcome with self-reproach. As she leaned towards him,\nfilled with worship, her trembling hands held the lamp ill, and some\nburning oil fell upon Love's shoulder and awakened him.\n\nHe opened his eyes, to see at once his bride and the dark suspicion in\nher heart.\n\n\"O doubting Psyche!\" he exclaimed with sudden grief,--and then he flew\naway, out of the window.\n\nWild with sorrow, Psyche tried to follow, but she fell to the ground\ninstead. When she recovered her senses, she stared about her. She was\nalone, and the place was beautiful no longer. Garden and palace had\nvanished with Love.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TRIAL OF PSYCHE.\n\n\nOver mountains and valleys Psyche journeyed alone until she came to the\ncity where her two envious sisters lived with the princes whom they had\nmarried. She stayed with them only long enough to tell the story of her\nunbelief and its penalty. Then she set out again to search for Love.\n\nAs she wandered one day, travel-worn but not hopeless, she saw a lofty\npalace on a hill near by, and she turned her steps thither. The place\nseemed deserted. Within the hall she saw no human being,--only heaps of\ngrain, loose ears of corn half torn from the husk, wheat and barley,\nalike scattered in confusion on the floor. Without delay, she set to\nwork binding the sheaves together and gathering the scattered ears of\ncorn in seemly wise, as a princess would wish to see them. While she\nwas in the midst of her task, a voice startled her, and she looked up\nto behold Demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest, smiling upon her\nwith good will.\n\n\"Dear Psyche,\" said Demeter, \"you are worthy of happiness, and you may\nfind it yet. But since you have displeased Venus, go to her and ask her\nfavor. Perhaps your patience will win her pardon.\"\n\nThese motherly words gave Psyche heart, and she reverently took leave\nof the goddess and set out for the temple of Venus. Most humbly she\noffered up her prayer, but Venus could not look at her earthly beauty\nwithout anger.\n\n\"Vain girl,\" said she, \"perhaps you have come to make amends for the\nwound you dealt your husband; you shall do so. Such clever people can\nalways find work!\"\n\nThen she led Psyche into a great chamber heaped high with mingled\ngrain, beans, and lintels (the food of her doves), and bade her\nseparate them all and have them ready in seemly fashion by night.\nHeracles would have been helpless before such a vexatious task; and\npoor Psyche, left alone in this desert of grain, had not courage to\nbegin. But even as she sat there, a moving thread of black crawled\nacross the floor from a crevice in the wall; and bending nearer, she\nsaw that a great army of ants in columns had come to her aid. The\nzealous little creatures worked in swarms, with such industry over the\nwork they like best, that, when Venus came at night, she found the task\ncompleted.\n\n\"Deceitful girl,\" she cried, shaking the roses out of her hair with\nimpatience, \"this is my son's work, not yours. But he will soon forget\nyou. Eat this black bread if you are hungry, and refresh your dull mind\nwith sleep. To-morrow you will need more wit.\"\n\nPsyche wondered what new misfortune could be in store for her. But when\nmorning came, Venus led her to the brink of a river, and, pointing to\nthe wood across the water, said, \"Go now to yonder grove where the\nsheep with the golden fleece are wont to browse. Bring me a golden lock\nfrom every one of them, or you must go your ways and never come back\nagain.\"\n\nThis seemed not difficult, and Psyche obediently bade the goddess\nfarewell, and stepped into the water, ready to wade across. But as\nVenus disappeared, the reeds sang louder and the nymphs of the river,\nlooking up sweetly, blew bubbles to the surface and murmured: \"Nay,\nnay, have a care, Psyche. This flock has not the gentle ways of sheep.\nWhile the sun burns aloft, they are themselves as fierce as flame; but\nwhen the shadows are long, they go to rest and sleep, under the trees;\nand you may cross the river without fear and pick the golden fleece off\nthe briers in the pasture.\"\n\nThanking the water-creatures, Psyche sat down to rest near them, and\nwhen the time came, she crossed in safety and followed their counsel.\nBy twilight she returned to Venus with her arms full of shining fleece.\n\n\"No mortal wit did this,\" said Venus angrily. \"But if you care to prove\nyour readiness, go now, with this little box, down to Proserpina and\nask her to enclose in it some of her beauty, for I have grown pale in\ncaring for my wounded son.\"\n\nIt needed not the last taunt to sadden Psyche. She knew that it was not\nfor mortals to go into Hades and return alive; and feeling that Love\nhad forsaken her, she was minded to accept her doom as soon as might\nbe.\n\nBut even as she hastened towards the descent, another friendly voice\ndetained her. \"Stay, Psyche, I know your grief. Only give ear and you\nshall learn a safe way through all these trials.\" And the voice went on\nto tell her how one might avoid all the dangers of Hades and come out\nunscathed. (But such a secret could not pass from mouth to mouth, with\nthe rest of the story.)\n\n\"And be sure,\" added the voice, \"when Proserpina has returned the box,\nnot to open it, however much you may long to do so.\"\n\nPsyche gave heed, and by this device, whatever it was, she found her\nway into Hades safely, and made her errand known to Proserpina, and was\nsoon in the upper world again, wearied but hopeful.\n\n\"Surely Love has not forgotten me,\" she said. \"But humbled as I am and\nworn with toil, how shall I ever please him? Venus can never need all\nthe beauty in this casket; and since I use it for Love's sake, it must\nbe right to take some.\" So saying, she opened the box, heedless as\nPandora! The spells and potions of Hades are not for mortal maids, and\nno sooner had she inhaled the strange aroma than she fell down like one\ndead, quite overcome.\n\nBut it happened that Love himself was recovered from his wound, and he\nhad secretly fled from his chamber to seek out and rescue Psyche. He\nfound her lying by the wayside; he gathered into the casket what\nremained of the philter, and awoke his beloved.\n\n\"Take comfort,\" he said, smiling. \"Return to our mother and do her\nbidding till I come again.\"\n\nAway he flew; and while Psyche went cheerily homeward, he hastened up\nto Olympus, where all the gods sat feasting, and begged them to\nintercede for him with his angry mother.\n\nThey heard his story and their hearts were touched. Zeus himself coaxed\nVenus with kind words till at last she relented, and remembered that\nanger hurt her beauty, and smiled once more. All the younger gods were\nfor welcoming Psyche at once, and Hermes was sent to bring her hither.\nThe maiden came, a shy newcomer among those bright creatures. She took\nthe cup that Hebe held out to her, drank the divine ambrosia, and\nbecame immortal.\n\nLight came to her face like moonrise, two radiant wings sprang from her\nshoulders; and even as a butterfly bursts from its dull cocoon, so the\nhuman Psyche blossomed into immortality.\n\nLove took her by the hand, and they were never parted any more.\n\n\n\n\nSTORIES OF THE TROJAN WAR.\n\n\nI. THE APPLE OF DISCORD.\n\nThere was once a war so great that the sound of it has come ringing\ndown the centuries from singer to singer, and will never die.\n\nThe rivalries of men and gods brought about many calamities, but none\nso heavy as this; and it would never have come to pass, they say, if it\nhad not been for jealousy among the immortals,--all because of a golden\napple! But Destiny has nurtured ominous plants from little seeds; and\nthis is how one evil grew great enough to overshadow heaven and earth.\n\nThe sea-nymph Thetis (whom Zeus himself had once desired for his wife)\nwas given in marriage to a mortal, Peleus, and there was a great\nwedding-feast in heaven. Thither all the immortals were bidden, save\none, Eris, the goddess of Discord, ever an unwelcome guest. But she\ncame unbidden. While the wedding-guests sat at feast, she broke in upon\ntheir mirth, flung among them a golden apple, and departed with looks\nthat boded ill. Some one picked up the strange missile and read its\ninscription: _For the Fairest_; and at once discussion arose among the\ngoddesses. They were all eager to claim the prize, but only three\npersisted.\n\nVenus, the very goddess of beauty, said that it was hers by right; but\nJuno could not endure to own herself less fair than another, and even\nAthena coveted the palm of beauty as well as of wisdom, and would not\ngive it up! Discord had indeed come to the wedding-feast. Not one of\nthe gods dared to decide so dangerous a question,--not Zeus\nhimself,--and the three rivals were forced to choose a judge among\nmortals.\n\nNow there lived on Mount Ida, near the city of Troy, a certain young\nshepherd by the name of Paris. He was as comely as Ganymede\nhimself,--that Trojan youth whom Zeus, in the shape of an eagle, seized\nand bore away to Olympus, to be a cup-bearer to the gods. Paris, too,\nwas a Trojan of royal birth, but like Oedipus he had been left on the\nmountain in his infancy, because the Oracle had foretold that he would\nbe the death of his kindred and the ruin of his country. Destiny saved\nand nurtured him to fulfil that prophecy. He grew up as a shepherd and\ntended his flocks on the mountain, but his beauty held the favor of all\nthe wood-folk there and won the heart of the nymph Oenone.\n\nTo him, at last, the three goddesses entrusted the judgment and the\ngolden apple. Juno first stood before him in all her glory as Queen of\ngods and men, and attended by her favorite peacocks as gorgeous to see\nas royal fan-bearers.\n\n\"Use but the judgment of a prince, Paris,\" she said, \"and I will give\nthee wealth and kingly power.\"\n\nSuch majesty and such promises would have moved the heart of any man;\nbut the eager Paris had at least to hear the claims of the other\nrivals. Athena rose before him, a vision welcome as daylight, with her\nsea-gray eyes and golden hair beneath a golden helmet.\n\n\"Be wise in honoring me, Paris,\" she said, \"and I will give thee wisdom\nthat shall last forever, great glory among men, and renown in war.\"\n\nLast of all, Venus shone upon him, beautiful as none can ever hope to\nbe. If she had come, unnamed, as any country maid, her loveliness would\nhave dazzled him like sea-foam in the sun; but she was girt with her\nmagical Cestus, a spell of beauty that no one can resist.\n\nWithout a bribe she might have conquered, and she smiled upon his dumb\namazement, saying, \"Paris, thou shalt yet have for wife the fairest\nwoman in the world.\"\n\nAt these words, the happy shepherd fell on his knees and offered her\nthe golden apple. He took no heed of the slighted goddesses, who\nvanished in a cloud that boded storm.\n\nFrom that hour he sought only the counsel of Venus, and only cared to\nfind the highway to his new fortunes. From her he learned that he was\nthe son of King Priam of Troy, and with her assistance he deserted the\nnymph Oenone, whom he had married, and went in search of his royal\nkindred.\n\nFor it chanced at that time that Priam proclaimed a contest of strength\nbetween his sons and certain other princes, and promised as prize the\nmost splendid bull that could be found among the herds of Mount Ida.\nThither came the herdsmen to choose, and when they led away the pride\nof Paris's heart, he followed to Troy, thinking that he would try his\nfortune and perhaps win back his own.\n\nThe games took place before Priam and Hecuba and all their children,\nincluding those noble princes Hector and Helenus, and the young\nCassandra, their sister. This poor maiden had a sad story, in spite of\nher royalty; for, because she had once disdained Apollo, she was fated\nto foresee all things, and ever to have her prophecies disbelieved. On\nthis fateful day, she alone was oppressed with strange forebodings.\n\nBut if he who was to be the ruin of his country had returned, he had\ncome victoriously. Paris won the contest. At the very moment of his\nhonor, poor Cassandra saw him with her prophetic eyes; and seeing as\nwell all the guilt and misery that he was to bring upon them, she broke\ninto bitter lamentations, and would have warned her kindred against the\nevil to come. But the Trojans gave little heed; they were wont to look\nupon her visions as spells of madness. Paris had come back to them a\nglorious youth and a victor; and when he made known the secret of his\nbirth, they cast the words of the Oracle to the winds, and received the\nshepherd as a long-lost prince.\n\nThus far all went happily. But Venus, whose promise had not yet been\nfulfilled, bade Paris procure a ship and go in search of his destined\nbride. The prince said nothing of this quest, but urged his kindred to\nlet him go; and giving out a rumor that he was to find his father's\nlost sister Hesione, he set sail for Greece, and finally landed at\nSparta.\n\nThere he was kindly received by Menelaus, the king, and his wife, Fair\nHelen.\n\nThis queen had been reared as the daughter of Tyndarus and Queen Leda,\nbut some say that she was the child of an enchanted swan, and there was\nindeed a strange spell about her. All the greatest heroes of Greece had\nwooed her before she left her father's palace to be the wife of King\nMenelaus; and Tyndarus, fearing for her peace, had bound her many\nsuitors by an oath. According to this pledge, they were to respect her\nchoice, and to go to the aid of her husband if ever she should be\nstolen away from him. For in all Greece there was nothing so beautiful\nas the beauty of Helen. She was the fairest woman in the world.\n\nNow thus did Venus fulfil her promise and the shepherd win his reward\nwith dishonor. Paris dwelt at the court of Menelaus for a long time,\ntreated with a royal courtesy which he ill repaid. For at length while\nthe king was absent on a journey to Crete, his guest won the heart of\nFair Helen, and persuaded her to forsake her husband and sail away to\nTroy.\n\nKing Menelaus returned to find the nest empty of the swan. Paris and\nthe fairest woman in the world were well across the sea.\n\n\nII. THE ROUSING OF THE HEROES.\n\nWhen this treachery came to light, all Greece took fire with\nindignation. The heroes remembered their pledge, and wrath came upon\nthem at the wrong done to Menelaus. But they were less angered with\nFair Helen than with Paris, for they felt assured that the queen had\nbeen lured from her country and out of her own senses by some spell of\nenchantment. So they took counsel how they might bring back Fair Helen\nto her home and husband.\n\nYears had come and gone since that wedding-feast when Eris had flung\nthe apple of discord, like a firebrand, among the guests. But the spark\nof dissension that had smouldered so long burst into flame now, and,\nfanned by the enmities of men and the rivalries of the gods, it seemed\nlike to fire heaven and earth.\n\nA few of the heroes answered the call to arms unwillingly. Time had\nreconciled them to the loss of Fair Helen, and they were loath to leave\nhome and happiness for war, even in her cause.\n\nOne of these was Odysseus, king of Ithaca, who had married Penelope,\nand was quite content with his kingdom and his little son Telemachus.\nIndeed, he was so unwilling to leave them that he feigned madness in\norder to escape service, appeared to forget his own kindred, and went\nploughing the seashore and sowing salt in the furrows. But a messenger,\nPalamedes, who came with the summons to war, suspected that this sudden\nmadness might be a stratagem, for the king was far famed as a man of\nmany devices. He therefore stood by, one day (while Odysseus,\npretending to take no heed of him, went ploughing the sand), and he\nlaid the baby Telemachus directly in the way of the ploughshare. For\nonce the wise man's craft deserted him. Odysseus turned the plough\nsharply, caught up the little prince, and there his fatherly wits were\nmanifest! After this he could no longer play madman. He had to take\nleave of his beloved wife Penelope and set out to join the heroes,\nlittle dreaming that he was not to return for twenty years. Once\nembarked, however, he set himself to work in the common cause of the\nheroes, and was soon as ingenious as Palamedes in rousing laggard\nwarriors.\n\nThere remained one who was destined to be the greatest warrior of all.\nThis was Achilles, the son of Thetis,--foretold in the day of\nPrometheus as a man who should far outstrip his own father in glory and\ngreatness. Years had passed since the marriage of Thetis to King\nPeleus, and their son Achilles was now grown to manhood, a wonder of\nstrength indeed, and, moreover, invulnerable. For his mother,\nforewarned of his death in the Trojan War, had dipped him in the sacred\nriver Styx when he was a baby, so that he could take no hurt from any\nweapon. From head to foot she had plunged him in, only forgetting the\nlittle heel that she held him by, and this alone could be wounded by\nany chance. But even with such precautions Thetis was not content.\nFearful at the rumors of war to be, she had her son brought up, in\nwoman's dress, among the daughters of King Lycomedes of Scyros, that he\nmight escape the notice of men and cheat his destiny.\n\nTo this very palace, however, came Odysseus in the guise of a merchant,\nand he spread his wares before the royal household,--jewels and ivory,\nfine fabrics, and curiously wrought weapons. The king's daughters chose\ngirdles and veils and such things as women delight in; but Achilles,\nheedless of the like, sought out the weapons, and handled them with\nsuch manly pleasure that his nature stood revealed. So he, too, yielded\nto his destiny and set out to join the heroes.\n\nEverywhere men were banded together, building the ships and gathering\nsupplies. The allied forces of Greece (the Achaeans, as they called\nthemselves) chose Agamemnon for their commander-in-chief. He was a\nmighty man, king of Mycenae and Argos, and the brother of the wronged\nMenelaus. Second to Achilles in strength was the giant Ajax; after him\nDiomedes, then wise Odysseus, and Nestor, held in great reverence\nbecause of his experienced age and fame. These were the chief heroes.\nAfter two years of busy preparation, they reached the port of Aulis,\nwhence they were to sail for Troy.\n\nBut here delay held them. Agamemnon had chanced to kill a stag which\nwas sacred to Diana, and the army was visited by pestilence, while a\ngreat calm kept the ships imprisoned. At length the Oracle made known\nthe reason of this misfortune and demanded for atonement the maiden\nIphigenia, Agamemnon's own daughter. In helpless grief the king\nconsented to offer her up as a victim, and the maiden was brought ready\nfor sacrifice. But at the last moment Diana caught her away in a cloud,\nleaving a white hind in her place, and carried her to Tauris in\nScythia, there to serve as a priestess in the temple. In the mean time,\nher kinsfolk, who were at a loss to understand how she had disappeared,\nmourned her as dead. But Diana had accepted their child as an offering,\nand healing came to the army, and the winds blew again. So the ships\nset sail.\n\nMeanwhile, in Troy across the sea, the aged Priam and Hecuba gave\nshelter to their son Paris and his stolen bride. They were not without\nmisgivings as to these guests, but they made ready to defend their\nkindred and the citadel.\n\nThere were many heroes among the Trojans and their allies, brave and\nupright men, who little deserved that such reproach should be brought\nupon them by the guilt of Prince Paris. There were Aeneas and\nDeiphobus, Glaucus and Sarpedon, and Priam's most noble son Hector,\nchief of all the forces, and the very bulwark of Troy. These and many\nmore were bitterly to regret the day that had brought Paris back to his\nhome. But he had taken refuge with his own people, and the Trojans had\nto take up his cause against the hostile fleet that was coming across\nthe sea.\n\nEven the gods took sides. Juno and Athena, who had never forgiven the\njudgment of Paris, condemned all Troy with, him and favored the Greeks,\nas did also Poseidon, god of the sea. But Venus, true to her favorite,\nfurthered the interests of the Trojans with all her power, and\npersuaded the warlike Mars to do likewise. Zeus and Apollo strove to be\nimpartial, but they were yet to aid now one side, now another,\naccording to the fortunes of the heroes whom they loved.\n\nOver the sea came the great embassy of ships, sped hither safely by the\ngod Poseidon; and the heroes made their camp on the plain before Troy.\nFirst of all Odysseus and King Menelaus himself went into the city and\ndemanded that Fair Helen should be given back to her rightful husband.\nThis the Trojans refused; and so began the siege of Troy.\n\n\nIII. THE WOODEN HORSE.\n\nNine years the Greeks laid siege to Troy, and Troy held out against\nevery device. On both sides the lives of many heroes were spent, and\nthey were forced to acknowledge each other enemies of great valor.\n\nSometimes the chief warriors fought in single combat, while the armies\nlooked on, and the old men of Troy, with the women, came out to watch\nfar off from the city walls. King Priam and Queen Hecuba would come,\nand Cassandra, sad with foreknowledge of their doom, and Andromache,\nthe lovely young wife of Hector, with her little son whom the people\ncalled _The City King_. Sometimes Fair Helen came to look across the\nplain to the fellow-countrymen whom she had forsaken; and although she\nwas the cause of all this war, the Trojans half forgave her when she\npassed by, because her beauty was like a spell, and warmed hard hearts\nas the sunshine mellows apples. So for nine years the Greeks plundered\nthe neighboring towns, but the city Troy stood fast, and the Grecian\nships waited with folded wings.\n\nThe half of that story cannot be told here, but in the tenth year of\nthe war many things came to pass, and the end drew near. Of this tenth\nyear alone, there are a score of tales. For the Greeks fell to\nquarrelling among themselves over the spoils of war, and the great\nAchilles left the camp in anger and refused to fight. Nothing would\ninduce him to return, till his friend Patroclus was slain by Prince\nHector. At that news, indeed, Achilles rose in great might and returned\nto the Greeks; and he went forth clad in armor that had been wrought\nfor him by Vulcan, at the prayer of Thetis. By the river Scamander,\nnear to Troy, he met and slew Hector, and afterwards dragged the hero's\nbody after his chariot across the plain. How the aged Priam went alone\nby night to the tent of Achilles to ransom his son's body, and how\nAchilles relented, and moreover granted a truce for the funeral honors\nof his enemy,--all these things have been so nobly sung that they can\nnever be fitly spoken.\n\nHector, the bulwark of Troy, had fallen, and the ruin of the city was\nat hand. Achilles himself did not long survive his triumph, and,\nruthless as he was, he ill-deserved the manner of his death. He was\ntreacherously slain by that Paris who would never have dared to meet\nhim in the open field. Paris, though he had brought all this disaster\nupon Troy, had left the danger to his countrymen. But he lay in wait\nfor Achilles in a temple sacred to Apollo, and from his hiding-place he\nsped a poisoned arrow at the hero. It pierced his ankle where the water\nof the Styx had not charmed him against wounds, and of that venom the\ngreat Achilles died. Paris himself died soon after by another poisoned\narrow, but that was no long grief to anybody!\n\nStill Troy held out, and the Greeks, who could not take it by force,\npondered how they might take it by craft. At length, with the aid of\nOdysseus, they devised a plan.\n\nA portion of the Grecian host broke up camp and set sail as if they\nwere homeward bound; but, once out of sight, they anchored their ships\nbehind a neighboring island. The rest of the army then fell to work\nupon a great image of a horse. They built it of wood, fitted and\ncarved, and with a door so cunningly concealed that none might notice\nit. When it was finished, the horse looked like a prodigious idol; but\nit was hollow, skilfully pierced here and there, and so spacious that a\nband of men could lie hidden within and take no harm. Into this\nhiding-place went Odysseus, Menelaus, and the other chiefs, fully\narmed, and when the door was shut upon them, the rest of the Grecian\narmy broke camp and went away.\n\nMeanwhile, in Troy, the people had seen the departure of the ships, and\nthe news had spread like wildfire. The great enemy had lost\nheart,--after ten years of war! Part of the army had gone,--the rest\nwere going. Already the last of the ships had set sail, and the camp\nwas deserted. The tents that had whitened the plain were gone like a\nfrost before the sun. The war was over!\n\nThe whole city went wild with joy. Like one who has been a prisoner for\nmany years, it flung off all restraint, and the people rose as a single\nman to test the truth of new liberty. The gates were thrown wide, and\nthe Trojans--men, women, and children--thronged over the plain and\ninto the empty camp of the enemy. There stood the Wooden Horse.\n\nNo one knew what it could be. Fearful at first, they gathered around\nit, as children gather around a live horse; they marvelled at its\nwondrous height and girth, and were for moving it into the city as a\ntrophy of war.\n\nAt this, one man interposed,--Laoco\u00f6n, a priest of Poseidon. \"Take\nheed, citizens,\" said he. \"Beware of all that comes from the Greeks.\nHave you fought them for ten years without learning their devices? This\nis some piece of treachery.\"\n\nBut there was another outcry in the crowd, and at that moment certain\nof the Trojans dragged forward a wretched man who wore the garments of\na Greek. He seemed the sole remnant of the Grecian army, and as such\nthey consented to spare his life, if he would tell them the truth.\n\nSinon, for this was the spy's name, said that he had been left behind\nby the malice of Odysseus, and he told them that the Greeks had built\nthe Wooden Horse as an offering to Athena, and that they had made it so\nhuge in order to keep it from being moved out of the camp, since it was\ndestined to bring triumph to its possessors.\n\nAt this, the joy of the Trojans was redoubled, and they set their wits\nto find out how they might soonest drag the great horse across the\nplain and into the city to ensure victory. While they stood talking,\ntwo immense serpents rose out of the sea and made towards the camp.\nSome of the people took flight, others were transfixed with terror; but\nall, near and far, watched this new omen. Rearing their crests, the\nsea-serpents crossed the shore, swift, shining, terrible as a risen\nwater-flood that descends upon a helpless little town. Straight through\nthe crowd they swept, and seized the priest Laoco\u00f6n where he stood,\nwith his two sons, and wrapped them all round and round in fearful\ncoils. There was no chance of escape. Father and sons perished\ntogether; and when the monsters had devoured the three men, into the\nsea they slipped again, leaving no trace of the horror.\n\nThe terrified Trojans saw an omen in this. To their minds, punishment\nhad come upon Laoco\u00f6n for his words against the Wooden Horse. Surely,\nit was sacred to the gods; he had spoken blasphemy, and had perished\nbefore their eyes. They flung his warning to the winds. They wreathed\nthe horse with garlands, amid great acclaim; and then, all lending a\nhand, they dragged it, little by little, out of the camp and into the\ncity of Troy. With the close of that victorious day, they gave up every\nmemory of danger and made merry after ten years of privation.\n\nThat very night Sinon the spy opened the hidden door of the Wooden\nHorse, and in the darkness, Odysseus, Menelaus, and the other chiefs\nwho had lain hidden there crept out and gave the signal to the Grecian\narmy. For, under cover of night, those ships that had been moored\nbehind the island had sailed back again, and the Greeks were come upon\nTroy.\n\nNot a Trojan was on guard. The whole city was at feast when the enemy\nrose in its midst, and the warning of Laoco\u00f6n was fulfilled.\n\nPriam and his warriors fell by the sword, and their kingdom was\nplundered of all its fair possessions, women and children and treasure.\nLast of all, the city itself was burned to its very foundations.\n\nHomeward sailed the Greeks, taking as royal captives poor Cassandra and\nAndromache and many another Trojan. And home at last went Fair Helen,\nthe cause of all this sorrow, eager to be forgiven by her husband, King\nMenelaus. For she had awakened from the enchantment of Venus, and even\nbefore the death of Paris she had secretly longed for her home and\nkindred. Home to Sparta she came with the king after a long and stormy\nvoyage, and there she lived and died the fairest of women.\n\nBut the kingdom of Troy was fallen. Nothing remained of all its glory\nbut the glory of its dead heroes and fair women, and the ruins of its\ncitadel by the river Scamander. There even now, beneath the foundations\nof later homes that were built and burned, built and burned, in the\nwars of a thousand years after, the ruins of ancient Troy lie hidden,\nlike mouldered leaves deep under the new grass. And there, to this very\nday, men who love the story are delving after the dead city as you\nmight search for a buried treasure.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HOUSE OF AGAMEMNON.\n\n\nThe Greeks had won back Fair Helen, and had burned the city of Troy\nbehind them, but theirs was no triumphant voyage home. Many were driven\nfar and wide before they saw their land again, and one who escaped such\nhardships came home to find a bitter welcome. This was the chief of all\nthe hosts, Agamemnon, king of Mycenae and Argos. He it was who had\noffered his own daughter Iphigenia to appease the wrath of Diana before\nthe ships could sail for Troy. An ominous leave-taking was his, and\ncalamity was there to greet him home again.\n\nHe had entrusted the cares of the state to his cousin Aegisthus,\ncommending also to his protection Queen Clytemnestra with her two\nremaining children, Electra and Orestes.\n\nNow Clytemnestra was a sister of Helen of Troy, and a beautiful woman\nto see; but her heart was as evil as her face was fair. No sooner had\nher husband gone to the wars than she set up Aegisthus in his place, as\nif there were no other king of Argos. For years this faithless pair\nlived arrogantly in the face of the people, and controlled the affairs\nof the kingdom. But as time went by and the child Orestes grew to be a\nyouth, Aegisthus feared lest the Argives should stand by their own\nprince, and drive him away as an usurper. He therefore planned the\ndeath of Orestes, and even won the consent of the queen, who was no\ngentle mother! But the princess Electra, suspecting their plot,\nsecretly hurried her brother away to the court of King Strophius in\nPhocis, and so saved his life. She was not, however, to save a second\nvictim.\n\nThe ten years of war went by, and the chief, Agamemnon, came home in\ntriumph, heralded by all the Argives, who were as exultant over the\nreturn of their lawful king as over the fall of Troy. Into the city\ncame the remnant of his own men, bearing the spoils of war, and, in the\nmidst of a jubilant multitude, King Agamemnon sharing his chariot with\nthe captive princess, Cassandra.\n\nQueen Clytemnestra went out to greet him with every show of joy and\ntriumph. She had a cloth of purple spread before the palace, that her\nhusband might come with state into his home once more; and before all\nbeholders she protested that the ten years of his absence had bereaved\nher of all happiness.\n\nThe unsuspicious king left his chariot and entered the palace; but the\nprincess Cassandra hesitated and stood by in fear. Poor Cassandra! Her\nkindred were slain and the doom of her city was fulfilled, but the\ncurse of prophecy still followed her. She felt the shadow of coming\nevil, and there before the door she recoiled, and cried out that there\nwas blood in the air. At length, despairing of her fate, she too went\nin. Even while the Argives stood about the gates, pitying her madness,\nthe prophecy came true.\n\nClytemnestra, like any anxious wife, had led the travel-worn king to a\nbath; and there, when he had laid by his arms, she and Aegisthus threw\na net over him, as they would have snared any beast of prey, and slew\nhim, defenceless. In the same hour Cassandra, too, fell into their\nhands, and they put an end to her warnings. So died the chief of the\ngreat army and his royal captive.\n\nThe murderers proclaimed themselves king and queen before all the\npeople, and none dared rebel openly against such terrible authority.\nBut Aegisthus was still uneasy at the thought that the Prince Orestes\nmight return some day to avenge his father. Indeed, Electra had sent\nfrom time to time secret messages to Phocis, entreating her brother to\ncome and take his rightful place, and save her from her cruel mother\nand Aegisthus. But there came to Argos one day a rumor that Orestes\nhimself had died in Phocis, and the poor princess gave up all hope of\npeace; while Clytemnestra and Aegisthus made no secret of their relief,\nbut even offered impious thanks in the temple, as if the gods were of\ntheir mind! They were soon undeceived.\n\nTwo young Phocians came to the palace with news of the last days of\nOrestes, so they said; and they were admitted to the presence of the\nking and queen. They were, in truth, Orestes himself and his friend\nPylades (son of King Strophius), who had ventured safety and all to\navenge Agamemnon. Then and there Orestes killed Aegisthus and\nClytemnestra, and appeared before the Argives as their rightful prince.\n\nBut not even so did he find peace. In slaying Clytemnestra, wicked as\nshe was, he had murdered his own mother, a deed hateful to gods and\nmen. Day and night he was haunted by the Furies.\n\nThese dread sisters never leave Hades save to pursue and torture some\nguilty conscience. They wear black raiment, like the wings of a bat;\ntheir hair writhes with serpents fierce as remorse, and in their hands\nthey carry flaming torches that make all shapes look greater and more\nfearful than they are. No sleep can soothe the mind of him they follow.\nThey come between his eyes and the daylight; at night their torches\ndrive away all comfortable darkness. Poor Orestes, though he had\npunished two murderers, felt that he was no less a murderer himself.\n\nFrom land to land he wandered in despair that grew to madness, with one\nonly comrade, the faithful Pylades, who was his very shadow. At length\nhe took refuge in Athens, under the protection of Athena, and gave\nhimself up to be tried by the court of the Areopagus. There he was\nacquitted; but not all the Furies left him, and at last he besought the\nOracle of Apollo to befriend him.\n\n\"Go to Tauris, in Scythia,\" said the voice, \"and bring from thence the\nimage of Diana which fell from the heavens.\" So he set out with his\nPylades and sailed to the shore of Scythia.\n\nNow the Taurians were a savage people, who strove to honor Diana, to\ntheir rude minds, by sacrificing all the strangers that fell into their\nhands. There was a temple not far from the seaside, and its priestess\nwas a Grecian maiden, one Iphigenia, who had miraculously appeared\nthere years before, and was held in especial awe by Thoas, the king of\nthe country round about. Sorely against her will, she had to hallow the\nvictims offered at this shrine; and into her presence Orestes and\nPylades were brought by the men who had seized them.\n\nOn learning that they were Grecians and Argives (for they withheld\ntheir names), the priestess was moved to the heart. She asked them many\nquestions concerning the fate of Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and the\nwarriors against Troy, which they answered as best they could. At\nlength she said that she would help one of them to escape, if he would\nswear to take a message from her to one in Argos.\n\n\"My friend shall bear it home,\" said Orestes. \"As for me, I stay and\nendure my fate.\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said Pylades; \"how can I swear? for I might lose this letter by\nshipwreck or some other mischance.\"\n\n\"Hear the message, then,\" said the high-priestess. \"And thou wilt keep\nit by thee with thy life. To Orestes, son of Agamemnon, say Iphigenia,\nhis sister, is dead indeed unto her parents, but not to him. Say that\nDiana has had charge over her these many years since she was snatched\naway at Aulis, and that she waits until her brother shall come to\nrescue her from this duty of bloodshed and take her home.\"\n\nAt these words their amazement knew no bounds. Orestes embraced his\nlost sister and told her all his story, and the three, breathless with\neagerness, planned a way of escape.\n\nThe king of Tauris had already come to witness the sacrifice. But\nIphigenia took in her hands the sacred image of Diana, and went out to\ntell him that the rites must be delayed. One of the strangers, said\nshe, was guilty of the murder of his mother, the other sharing his\ncrime; and these unworthy victims must be cleansed with pure sea-water\nbefore they could be offered to Diana. The sacred image had been\ndesecrated by their touch, and that, too, must be solemnly purged by no\nother hands than hers.\n\nTo this the king consented. He remained to burn lustral fires in the\ntemple; the people withdrew to their houses to escape pollution, and\nthe priestess with her victims reached the seaside in safety.\n\nOnce there, with the sacred image which was to bring them good fortune,\nthey hastened to the Grecian galley and put off from that desolate\nshore. So, with his new-found sister and his new hope, Orestes went\nover the seas to Argos, to rebuild the honor of the royal house.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ADVENTURES OF ODYSSEUS.\n\n\nI. THE CURSE OF POLYPHEMUS.\n\nOf all the heroes that wandered far and wide before they came to their\nhomes again after the fall of Troy, none suffered so many hardships as\nOdysseus.\n\nThere was, indeed, one other man whose adventures have been likened to\nhis, and this was Aeneas, a Trojan hero. He escaped from the burning\ncity with a band of fugitives, his countrymen; and after years of peril\nand wandering he came to found a famous race in Italy. On the way, he\nfound one hospitable resting-place in Carthage, where Queen Dido\nreceived him with great kindliness; and when he left her she took her\nown life, out of very grief.\n\nBut there were no other hardships such as beset Odysseus, between the\nburning of Troy and his return to Ithaca, west of the land of Greece.\nTen years did he fight against Troy, but it was ten years more before\nhe came to his home and his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus.\n\nNow all these latter years of wandering fell to his lot because of\nPoseidon's anger against him. For Poseidon had favored the Grecian\ncause, and might well have sped home this man who had done so much to\nwin the Grecian victory. But as evil destiny would have it, Odysseus\nmortally angered the god of the sea by blinding his son, the Cyclops\nPolyphemus. And thus it came to pass.\n\nOdysseus set out from Troy with twelve good ships. He touched first at\nIsmarus, where his first misfortune took place, and in a skirmish with\nthe natives he lost a number of men from each ship's crew. A storm then\ndrove them to the land of the Lotus-Eaters, a wondrous people, kindly\nand content, who spend their lives in a day-dream and care for nothing\nelse under the sun. No sooner had the sailors eaten of this magical\nlotus than they lost all their wish to go home, or to see their wives\nand children again. By main force, Odysseus drove them back to the\nships and saved them from the spell.\n\nThence they came one day to a beautiful strange island, a verdant place\nto see, deep with soft grass and well watered with springs. Here they\nran the ships ashore, and took their rest and feasted for a day. But\nOdysseus looked across to the mainland, where he saw flocks and herds,\nand smoke going up softly from the homes of men; and he resolved to go\nacross and find out what manner of people lived there. Accordingly,\nnext morning, he took his own ship's company and they rowed across to\nthe mainland.\n\nNow, fair as the place was, there dwelt in it a race of giants, the\nCyclopes, great rude creatures, having each but one eye, and that in\nthe middle of his forehead. One of them was Polyphemus, the son of\nPoseidon. He lived by himself as a shepherd, and it was to his cave\nthat Odysseus came, by some evil chance. It was an enormous grotto, big\nenough to house the giant and all his flocks, and it had a great\ncourtyard without. But Odysseus, knowing nought of all this, chose out\ntwelve men, and with a wallet of corn and a goatskin full of wine they\nleft the ship and made a way to the cave, which they had seen from the\nwater.\n\nMuch they wondered who might be the master of this strange house.\nPolyphemus was away with his sheep, but many lambs and kids were penned\nthere, and the cavern was well stored with goodly cheeses and cream and\nwhey.\n\nWithout delay, the wearied men kindled a fire and sat down to eat such\nthings as they found, till a great shadow came dark against the\ndoorway, and they saw the Cyclops near at hand, returning with his\nflocks. In an instant they fled into the darkest corner of the cavern.\n\nPolyphemus drove his flocks into the place and cast off from his\nshoulders a load of young trees for firewood. Then he lifted and set in\nthe entrance of the cave a gigantic boulder of a door-stone. Not until\nhe had milked the goats and ewes and stirred up the fire did his\nterrible one eye light upon the strangers.\n\n\"What are ye?\" he roared then, \"robbers or rovers?\" And Odysseus alone\nhad heart to answer.\n\n\"We are Achaeans of the army of Agamemnon,\" said he. \"And by the will\nof Zeus we have lost our course, and are come to you as strangers.\nForget not that Zeus has a care for such as we, strangers and\nsuppliants.\"\n\nLoud laughed the Cyclops at this. \"You are a witless churl to bid me\nheed the gods!\" said he. \"I spare or kill to please myself and none\nother. But where is your cockle-shell that brought you hither?\"\n\nThen Odysseus answered craftily: \"Alas, my ship is gone! Only I and my\nmen escaped alive from the sea.\"\n\nBut Polyphemus, who had been looking them over with his one eye, seized\ntwo of the mariners and dashed them against the wall and made his\nevening meal of them, while their comrades stood by helpless. This\ndone, he stretched himself through the cavern and slept all night long,\ntaking no more heed of them than if they had been flies. No sleep came\nto the wretched seamen, for, even had they been able to slay him, they\nwere powerless to move away the boulder from the door. So all night\nlong Odysseus took thought how they might possibly escape.\n\nAt dawn the Cyclops woke, and his awakening was like a thunderstorm.\nAgain he kindled the fire, again he milked the goats and ewes, and\nagain he seized two of the king's comrades and served them up for his\nterrible repast. Then the savage shepherd drove his flocks out of the\ncave, only turning back to set the boulder in the doorway and pen up\nOdysseus and his men in their dismal lodging.\n\nBut the wise king had pondered well. In the sheepfold he had seen a\nmighty club of olive-wood, in size like the mast of a ship. As soon as\nthe Cyclops was gone, Odysseus bade his men cut off a length of this\nclub and sharpen it down to a point. This done, they hid it away under\nthe earth that heaped the floor; and they waited in fear and torment\nfor their chance of escape.\n\nAt sundown, home came the Cyclops. Just as he had done before, he drove\nin his flocks, barred the entrance, milked the goats and ewes, and made\nhis meal of two more hapless men, while their fellows looked on with\nburning eyes. Then Odysseus stood forth, holding a bowl of the wine\nthat he had brought with him; and, curbing his horror of Polyphemus, he\nspoke in friendly fashion: \"Drink, Cyclops, and prove our wine, such as\nit was, for all was lost with our ship save this. And no other man will\never bring you more, since you are such an ungentle host.\"\n\nThe Cyclops tasted the wine and laughed with delight so that the cave\nshook. \"Ho, this is a rare drink!\" said he. \"I never tasted milk so\ngood, nor whey, nor grape-juice either. Give me the rest, and tell me\nyour name, that I may thank you for it.\"\n\nTwice and thrice Odysseus poured the wine and the Cyclops drank it off;\nthen he answered: \"Since you ask it, Cyclops, my name is Noman.\"\n\n\"And I will give you this for your wine, Noman,\" said the Cyclops; \"you\nshall be eaten last of all!\"\n\nAs he spoke his head drooped, for his wits were clouded with drink, and\nhe sank heavily out of his seat and lay prone, stretched along the\nfloor of the cavern. His great eye shut and he fell asleep.\n\nOdysseus thrust the stake under the ashes till it was glowing hot; and\nhis fellows stood by him, ready to venture all. Then together they\nlifted the club and drove it straight into the eye of Polyphemus and\nturned it around and about.\n\nThe Cyclops gave a horrible cry, and, thrusting away the brand, he\ncalled on all his fellow-giants near and far. Odysseus and his men hid\nin the uttermost corners of the cave, but they heard the resounding\nsteps of the Cyclopes who were roused, and their shouts as they called,\n\"What ails thee, Polyphemus? Art thou slain? Who has done thee any\nhurt?\"\n\n\"Noman!\" roared the blinded Cyclops; \"Noman is here to slay me by\ntreachery.\"\n\n\"Then if no man hath hurt thee,\" they called again, \"let us sleep.\" And\naway they went to their homes once more.\n\nBut Polyphemus lifted away the boulder from the door and sat there in\nthe entrance, groaning with pain and stretching forth his hands to feel\nif any one were near. Then, while he sat in double darkness, with the\nlight of his eye gone out, Odysseus bound together the rams of the\nflock, three by three, in such wise that every three should save one of\nhis comrades. For underneath the mid ram of each group a man clung,\ngrasping his shaggy fleece; and the rams on each side guarded him from\ndiscovery. Odysseus himself chose out the greatest ram and laid hold of\nhis fleece and clung beneath his shaggy body, face upward.\n\nNow, when dawn came, the rams hastened out to pasture, and Polyphemus\nfelt of their backs as they huddled along together; but he knew not\nthat every three held a man bound securely. Last of all came the kingly\nram that was dearest to his rude heart, and he bore the King of Ithaca.\nOnce free of the cave, Odysseus and his fellows loosed their hold and\ntook flight, driving the rams in haste to the ship, where, without\ndelay, they greeted their comrades and went aboard.\n\nBut as they pushed from shore, Odysseus could not refrain from hailing\nthe Cyclops with taunts, and at the sound of that voice Polyphemus came\nforth from his cave and hurled a great rock after the ship. It missed\nand upheaved the water like an earthquake. Again Odysseus called,\nsaying: \"Cyclops, if any shall ask who blinded thine eye, say that it\nwas Odysseus, son of Laertes of Ithaca.\"\n\nThen Polyphemus groaned and cried: \"An Oracle foretold it, but I waited\nfor some man of might who should overcome me by his valor,--not a\nweakling! And now\"--he lifted his hands and prayed,--\"Father Poseidon,\nmy father, look upon Odysseus, the son of Laertes of Ithaca, and grant\nme this revenge,--let him never see Ithaca again! Yet, if he must, may\nhe come late, without a friend, after long wandering, to find evil\nabiding by his hearth!\"\n\nSo he spoke and hurled another rock after them, but the ship\noutstripped it, and sped by to the island where the other good ships\nwaited for Odysseus. Together they put out from land and hastened on\ntheir homeward voyage.\n\nBut Poseidon, who is lord of the sea, had heard the prayer of his son,\nand that homeward voyage was to wear through ten years more, with storm\nand irksome calms and misadventure.\n\n\nII. THE WANDERING OF ODYSSEUS.\n\nNow Odysseus and his men sailed on and on till they came to Aeolia,\nwhere dwells the king of the winds, and here they came nigh to good\nfortune.\n\nAeolus received them kindly, and at their going he secretly gave to\nOdysseus a leathern bag in which all contrary winds were tied up\nsecurely, that only the favoring west wind might speed them to Ithaca.\nNine days the ships went gladly before the wind, and on the tenth day\nthey had sight of Ithaca, lying like a low cloud in the west. Then, so\nnear his haven, the happy Odysseus gave up to his weariness and fell\nasleep, for he had never left the helm. But while he slept his men saw\nthe leathern bag that he kept by him, and, in the belief that it was\nfull of treasure, they opened it. Out rushed the ill-winds!\n\nIn an instant the sea was covered with white caps; the waves rose\nmountain high; the poor ships struggled against the tyranny of the gale\nand gave way. Back they were driven,--back, farther and farther; and\nwhen Odysseus woke, Ithaca was gone from sight, as if it had indeed\nbeen only a low cloud in the west!\n\nStraight to the island of Aeolus they were driven once more. But when\nthe king learned what greed and treachery had wasted his good gift, he\nwould give them nothing more. \"Surely thou must be a man hated of the\ngods, Odysseus,\" he said, \"for misfortune bears thee company. Depart\nnow; I may not help thee.\"\n\nSo, with a heavy heart, Odysseus and his men departed. For many days\nthey rowed against a dead calm, until at length they came to the land\nof the Laestrygonians. And, to cut a piteous tale short, these giants\ndestroyed all their fleet save one ship,--that of Odysseus himself,\nand in this he made escape to the island of Circe. What befell there,\nhow the greedy seamen were turned into swine and turned back into men,\nand how the sorceress came to befriend Odysseus,--all this has been\nrelated.\n\nThere in Aeaea the voyagers stayed a year before Circe would let them\ngo. But at length she bade Odysseus seek the region of Hades, and ask\nof the sage Tiresias how he might ever return to Ithaca. How Odysseus\nfollowed this counsel, none may know; but by some mysterious journey,\nand with the aid of a spell, he came to the borders of Hades. There he\nsaw and spoke with many renowned Shades, old and young, even his own\nfriends who had fallen on the plain of Troy. Achilles he saw, Patroclus\nand Ajax and Agamemnon, still grieving over the treachery of his wife.\nHe saw, too, the phantom of Heracles, who lives with honor among the\ngods, and has for his wife Hebe, the daughter of Zeus and Juno. But\nthough he would have talked with the heroes for a year and more, he\nsought out Tiresias.\n\n\"The anger of Poseidon follows thee,\" said the sage. \"Wherefore,\nOdysseus, thy return is yet far off. But take heed when thou art come\nto Thrinacia, where the sacred kine of the Sun have their pastures. Do\nthem no hurt, and thou shalt yet come home. _But if they be harmed in\nany wise_, ruin shall come upon thy men; and even if thou escape, thou\nshalt come home to find strange men devouring thy substance and wooing\nthy wife.\"\n\nWith this word in his mind, Odysseus departed and came once more to\nAeaea. There he tarried but a little time, till Circe had told him all\nthe dangers that beset his way. Many a good counsel and crafty warning\ndid she give him against the Sirens that charm with their singing, and\nagainst the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis, and the\nClashing Rocks, and the cattle of the Sun. So the king and his men set\nout from the island of Aeaea.\n\nNow very soon they came to the Sirens who sing so sweetly that they\nlure to death every man who listens. For straightway he is mad to be\nwith them where they sing; and alas for the man that would fly without\nwings!\n\nBut when the ship drew near the Sirens' island, Odysseus did as Circe\nhad taught him. He bade all his shipmates stop up their ears with\nmoulded wax, so that they could not hear. He alone kept his hearing:\nbut he had himself lashed to the mast so that he could in no wise move,\nand he forbade them to loose him, however he might plead, under the\nspell of the Sirens.\n\nAs they sailed near, his soul gave way. He heard a wild sweetness\ncoaxing the air, as a minstrel coaxes the harp; and there, close by,\nwere the Sirens sitting in a blooming meadow that hid the bones of men.\nBeautiful, winning maidens they looked; and they sang, entreating\nOdysseus by name to listen and abide and rest. Their voices were\ngolden-sweet above the sound of wind and wave, like drops of amber\nfloating on the tide; and for all his wisdom, Odysseus strained at his\nbonds and begged his men to let him go free. But they, deaf alike to\nthe song and the sorcery, rowed harder than ever. At length, song and\nisland faded in the distance. Odysseus came to his wits once more, and\nhis men loosed his bonds and set him free.\n\nBut they were close upon new dangers. No sooner had they avoided the\nClashing Rocks (by a device of Circe's) than they came to a perilous\nstrait. On one hand they saw the whirlpool where, beneath a hollow\nfig-tree, Charybdis sucks down the sea horribly. And, while they sought\nto escape her, on the other hand monstrous Scylla upreared from the\ncave, snatched six of their company with her six long necks, and\ndevoured them even while they called upon Odysseus to save them.\n\nSo, with bitter peril, the ship passed by and came to the island of\nThrinacia; and here are goodly pastures for the flocks and herds of the\nSun. Odysseus, who feared lest his men might forget the warning of\nTiresias, was very loath to land. But the sailors were weary and worn\nto the verge of mutiny, and they swore, moreover, that they would never\nlay hands on the sacred kine. So they landed, thinking to depart next\nday. But with the next day came a tempest that blew for a month without\nceasing, so that they were forced to beach the ship and live on the\nisland with their store of corn and wine. When that was gone they had\nto hunt and fish, and it happened that, while Odysseus was absent in\nthe woods one day, his shipmates broke their oath. \"For,\" said they,\n\"when we are once more in Ithaca we will make amends to Helios with\nsacrifice. But let us rather drown than waste to death with hunger.\" So\nthey drove off the best of the cattle of the Sun and slew them. When\nthe king returned, he found them at their fateful banquet; but it was\ntoo late to save them from the wrath of the gods.\n\nAs soon as they were fairly embarked once more, the Sun ceased to\nshine. The sea rose high, the thunderbolt of Zeus struck that ship, and\nall its company was scattered abroad upon the waters. Not one was left\nsave Odysseus. He clung to a fragment of his last ship, and so he\ndrifted, borne here and there, and lashed by wind and wave, until he\nwas washed up on the strand of the island Ogygia, the home of the nymph\nCalypso. He was not to leave this haven for seven years.\n\nHere, after ten years of war and two of wandering, he found a kindly\nwelcome. The enchanted island was full of wonders, and the nymph\nCalypso was more than mortal fair, and would have been glad to marry\nthe hero; yet he pined for Ithaca. Nothing could win his heart away\nfrom his own country and his own wife Penelope, nothing but Lethe\nitself, and that no man may drink till he dies.\n\nSo for seven years Calypso strove to make him forget his longing with\nease and pleasant living and soft raiment. Day by day she sang to him\nwhile she broidered her web with gold; and her voice was like a golden\nstrand that twines in and out of silence, making it beautiful. She even\npromised that she would make him immortal, if he would stay and be\ncontent; but he was heartsick for home.\n\nAt last his sorrow touched even the heart of Athena in heaven, for she\nloved his wisdom and his many devices. So she besought Zeus and all the\nother gods until they consented to shield Odysseus from the anger of\nPoseidon. Hermes himself bound on his winged sandals and flew down to\nOgygia, where he found Calypso at her spinning. After many words, the\nnymph consented to give up her captive, for she was kind of heart, and\nall her graces had not availed to make him forget his home. With her\nhelp, Odysseus built a raft and set out upon his lonely voyage,--the\nonly man remaining out of twelve good ships that had left Troy nigh\nunto ten years before.\n\nThe sea roughened against him, but (to shorten a tale of great peril)\nafter many days, sore spent and tempest-tossed, he came to the land of\nthe Phaeacians, a land dear to the immortal gods, abounding in gifts of\nharvest and vintage, in godlike men and lovely women.\n\nHere the shipwrecked king met the princess Nausicaa by the seaside, as\nshe played ball with her maidens; and she, when she had heard of his\nplight, gave him food and raiment, and bade him follow her home. So he\nfollowed her to the palace of King Alcinous and Queen Arete, and abode\nwith them, kindly refreshed, and honored with feasting and games and\nsong. But it came to pass, as the minstrel sang before them of the\nTrojan War and the Wooden Horse, that Odysseus wept over the story, it\nwas written so deep in his own heart. Then for the first time he told\nthem his true name and all his trials.\n\nThey would gladly have kept so great a man with them forever, but they\nhad no heart to keep him longer from his home; so they bade him\nfarewell and set him upon one of their magical ships, with many gifts\nof gold and silver, and sent him on his way.\n\nWonderful seamen are the Phaeacians. The ocean is to them as air to the\nbird,--the best path for a swift journey! Odysseus was glad enough to\ntrust the way to them, and no sooner had they set out than a sweet\nsleep fell upon his eyelids. But the good ship sped like any bee that\nknows the way home. In a marvellous short time they came even to the\nshore of the kingdom of Ithaca.\n\nWhile Odysseus was still sleeping, unconscious of his good fortune, the\nPhaeacians lifted him from the ship with kindly joy and laid him upon\nhis own shore; and beside him they set the gifts of gold and silver and\nfair work of the loom. So they departed; and thus it was that Odysseus\ncame to Ithaca after twenty years.\n\n\nIII. THE HOME-COMING.\n\nNow all these twenty years, in the island of Ithaca, Penelope had\nwatched for her husband's return. At first with high hopes and then in\ndoubt and sorrow (when news of the great war came by some traveller),\nshe had waited, eager and constant as a young bride. But now the war\nwas long past; her young son Telemachus had come to manhood; and as for\nOdysseus, she knew not whether he was alive or dead.\n\nFor years there had been trouble in Ithaca. It was left a kingdom\nwithout a king, and Penelope was fair and wise. So suitors came from\nall the islands round about to beg her hand in marriage, since many\nloved the queen and as many more loved her possessions, and desired to\nrule over them. Moreover, every one thought or said that King Odysseus\nmust be dead. Neither Penelope nor her aged father-in-law Laertes could\nrid the place of these troublesome suitors. Some were nobles and some\nwere adventurers, but they all thronged the palace like a pest of\ncrickets, and devoured the wealth of the kingdom with feasts in honor\nof Penelope and themselves and everybody else; and they besought the\nqueen to choose a husband from their number.\n\nFor a long time she would hear none of this; but they grew so clamorous\nin their suit that she had to put them off with craft. For she saw that\nthere would be danger to her country, and her son, and herself, unless\nOdysseus came home some day and turned the suitors out of doors. She\ntherefore spoke them fair, and gave them some hope of her marriage, to\nmake peace.\n\n\"Ye princely wooers,\" she said, \"now I believe that the king Odysseus,\nmy husband, must long since have perished in a strange land; and I have\nbethought me once more of marriage. Have patience, therefore, till I\nshall have finished the web that I am weaving. For it is a royal shroud\nthat I must make against the day that Laertes may die (the father of my\nlord and husband). This is the way of my people,\" said she; \"and when\nthe web is done, I will choose another king for Ithaca.\"\n\nShe had set up in the hall a great loom, and day by day she wrought\nthere at the web, for she was a marvellous spinner, patient as Arachne,\nbut dear to Athena. All day long she would weave, but every night in\nsecret she would unravel what she had wrought in the daytime, so that\nthe web might never be done. For although she believed her dear husband\nto be dead, yet her hope would put forth buds again and again, just as\nspring, that seems to die each year, will come again. So she ever\nlooked to see Odysseus coming.\n\nThree years and more she held off the suitors with this wile, and they\nnever perceived it. For, being men, they knew nothing of women's\nhandicraft. It was all alike a marvel to them, both the beauty of the\nweb and this endless toil in the making! As for Penelope, all day long\nshe wove; but at night she would unravel her work and weep bitterly,\nbecause she had another web to weave and another day to watch, all for\nnothing, since Odysseus never came. In the fourth year, though, a\nfaithless servant betrayed this secret to the wooers, and there came an\nend to peace and the web, too!\n\nMatters grew worse and worse. Telemachus set out to find his father,\nand the poor queen was left without husband or son. But the suitors\ncontinued to live about the palace like so many princes, and to make\nmerry on the wealth of Odysseus, while he was being driven from land to\nland and wreck to wreck. So it came true, that prophecy that, if the\nherds of the Sun were harmed, Odysseus should reach his home alone in\nevil plight to find Sorrow in his own household. But in the end he was\nto drive her forth.\n\nNow, when Odysseus woke, he did not know his own country. Gone were the\nPhaeacians and their ship; only the gifts beside him told him that he\nhad not dreamed. While he looked about, bewildered, Athena, in the\nguise of a young countryman, came to his aid, and told him where he\nwas. Then, smiling upon his amazement and joy, she shone forth in her\nown form, and warned him not to hasten home, since the palace was\nfilled with the insolent suitors of Penelope, whose heart waited empty\nfor him as the nest for the bird.\n\nMoreover, Athena changed his shape into that of an aged pilgrim, and\nled him to the hut of a certain swineherd, Eumaeus, his old and\nfaithful servant. This man received the king kindly, taking him for a\ntravel-worn wayfarer, and told him all the news of the palace, and the\nsuitors and the poor queen, who was ever ready to hear the idle tales\nof any traveller if he had aught to tell of King Odysseus.\n\nNow who should come to the hut at this time but the prince Telemachus,\nwhom Athena had hastened safely home from his quest! Eumaeus received\nhis young master with great joy, but the heart of Odysseus was nigh to\nbursting, for he had never seen his son since he left him, an infant,\nfor the Trojan War. When Eumaeus left them together, he made himself\nknown; and for that moment Athena gave him back his kingly looks, so\nthat Telemachus saw him with exultation, and they two wept over each\nother for joy.\n\nBy this time news of her son's return had come to Penelope, and she was\nalmost happy, not knowing that the suitors were plotting to kill\nTelemachus. Home he came, and he hastened to assure his mother that he\nhad heard good news of Odysseus; though, for the safety of all, he did\nnot tell her that Odysseus was in Ithaca.\n\nMeanwhile Eumaeus and his aged pilgrim came to the city and the palace\ngates. They were talking to a goatherd there, when an old hound that\nlay in the dust-heap near by pricked up his ears and stirred his tail\nfeebly as at a well-known voice. He was the faithful Argus, named after\na monster of many eyes that once served Juno as a watchman. Indeed,\nwhen the creature was slain, Juno had his eyes set in the feathers of\nher pet peacocks, and there they glisten to this day. But the end of\nthis Argus was very different. Once the pride of the king's heart, he\nwas now so old and infirm that he could barely move; but though his\nmaster had come home in the guise of a strange beggar, he knew the\nvoice, and he alone, after twenty years. Odysseus, seeing him, could\nbarely restrain his tears; but the poor old hound, as if he had lived\nbut to welcome his master home, died that very same day.\n\nInto the palace hall went the swineherd and the pilgrim, among the\nsuitors who were feasting there. Now how Odysseus begged a portion of\nmeat and was shamefully insulted by these men, how he saw his own wife\nand hid his joy and sorrow, but told her news of himself as any beggar\nmight,--all these things are better sung than spoken. It is a long\nstory.\n\nBut the end was near. The suitors had demanded the queen's choice, and\nonce more the constant Penelope tried to put it off. She took from her\nsafe treasure-chamber the great bow of Odysseus, and she promised that\nshe would marry that one of the suitors who should send his arrow\nthrough twelve rings ranged in a line. All other weapons were taken\naway by the care of Telemachus; there was nothing but the great bow and\nquiver. And when all was ready, Penelope went away to her chamber to\nweep.\n\nBut, first of all, no one could string the bow. Suitor after suitor\ntried and failed. The sturdy wood stood unbent against the strongest.\nLast of all, Odysseus begged leave to try, and was laughed to scorn.\nTelemachus, however, as if for courtesy's sake, gave him the bow; and\nthe strange beggar bent it easily, adjusted the cord, and before any\ncould stay his hand he sped the arrow from the string. Singing with\ntriumph, it flew straight through the twelve rings and quivered in the\nmark!\n\n\"Now for another mark!\" cried Odysseus in the king's own voice. He\nturned upon the most evil-hearted suitor. Another arrow hissed and\nstruck, and the man fell pierced.\n\nTelemachus sprang to his father's side, Eumaeus stood by him, and the\nfighting was short and bitter. One by one they slew those insolent\nsuitors; for the right was theirs, and Athena stood by them, and the\ntime was come. Every one of the false-hearted wooers they laid low, and\nevery corrupt servant in that house; then they made the place clean and\nfair again.\n\nBut the old nurse Eurycleia hastened up to Queen Penelope, where she\nsat in fear and wonder, crying, \"Odysseus is returned! Come and see\nwith thine own eyes!\"\n\nAfter twenty years of false tales, the poor queen could not believe her\nears. She came down into the hall bewildered, and looked at the\nstranger as one walking in a dream. Even when Athena had given him back\nhis youth and kingly looks, she stood in doubt, so that her own son\nreproached her and Odysseus was grieved in spirit.\n\nBut when he drew near and called her by her name, entreating her by all\nthe tokens that she alone knew, her heart woke up and sang like a brook\nset free in spring! She knew him then for her husband Odysseus, come\nhome at last.\n\nSurely that was happiness enough to last them ever after.","title":"Old Greek Folk Stories Told Anew","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":29134}