{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/wikisource_The_Age_of_Fable_Chapter_X/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/wikisource_The_Age_of_Fable_Chapter_X","id":"wikisource_The_Age_of_Fable_Chapter_X","license":"Public Domain / CC-BY-SA (see source)","rights_basis":"wikisource_site_inclusion_policy","source":"wikisource","source_url":"https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Age_of_Fable/Chapter_X","summary":null,"tags":["Headers_applying_DefaultSort_key","Subpages"],"text":"VERTUMNUS AND POMONA\n\nThe Hamadryads were Wood-nymphs. Pomona was of this class, and no\none excelled her in love of the garden and the culture of fruit.\nShe cared not for forests and rivers, but loved the cultivated\ncountry, and trees that bear delicious apples. Her right hand bore\nfor its weapon not a javelin, but a pruning-knife. Armed with\nthis, she busied herself at one time to repress the too luxuriant\ngrowths, and curtail the branches that straggled out of place; at\nanother, to split the twig and insert therein a graft, making the\nbranch adopt a nursling not its own. She took care, too, that her\nfavorites should not suffer from drought, and led streams of water\nby them, that the thirsty roots might drink. This occupation was\nher pursuit, her passion; and she was free from that which Venus\ninspires. She was not without fear of the country people, and kept\nher orchard locked, and allowed not men to enter. The Fauns and\nSatyrs would have given all they possessed to win her, and so\nwould old Sylvanus, who looks young for his years, and Pan, who\nwears a garland of pine leaves around his head. But Vertumnus\nloved her best of all; yet he sped no better than the rest. O how\noften, in the disguise of a reaper, did he bring her corn in a\nbasket, and looked the very image of a reaper! With a hay band\ntied round him, one would think he had just come from turning over\nthe grass. Sometimes he would have an ox-goad in his hand, and you\nwould have said he had just unyoked his weary oxen. Now he bore a\npruning-hook, and personated a vine-dresser; and again, with a\nladder on his shoulder, he seemed as if he was going to gather\napples. Sometimes he trudged along as a discharged soldier, and\nagain he bore a fishing-rod, as if going to fish. In this way he\ngained admission to her again and again, and fed his passion with\nthe sight of her.\n\nOne day he came in the guise of an old woman, her gray hair\nsurmounted with a cap, and a staff in her hand. She entered the\ngarden and admired the fruit. \"It does you credit, my dear,\" she\nsaid, and kissed her, not exactly with an old woman's kiss. She\nsat down on a bank, and looked up at the branches laden with fruit\nwhich hung over her. Opposite was an elm entwined with a vine\nloaded with swelling grapes. She praised the tree and its\nassociated vine, equally. \"But,\" said she, \"if the tree stood\nalone, and had no vine clinging to it, it would have nothing to\nattract or offer us but its useless leaves. And equally the vine,\nif it were not twined round the elm, would lie prostrate on the\nground. Why will you not take a lesson from the tree and the vine,\nand consent to unite yourself with some one? I wish you would.\nHelen herself had not more numerous suitors, nor Penelope, the\nwife of shrewd Ulysses. Even while you spurn them, they court\nyou,\u2014rural deities and others of every kind that frequent these\nmountains. But if you are prudent and want to make a good\nalliance, and will let an old woman advise you,\u2014who loves you\nbetter than you have any idea of,\u2014dismiss all the rest and\naccept Vertumnus, on my recommendation. I know him as well as he\nknows himself. He is not a wandering deity, but belongs to these\nmountains. Nor is he like too many of the lovers nowadays, who\nlove any one they happen to see; he loves you, and you only. Add\nto this, he is young and handsome, and has the art of assuming any\nshape he pleases, and can make himself just what you command him.\nMoreover, he loves the same things that you do, delights in\ngardening, and handles your apples with admiration. But NOW he\ncares nothing for fruits nor flowers, nor anything else, but only\nyourself. Take pity on him, and fancy him speaking now with my\nmouth. Remember that the gods punish cruelty, and that Venus hates\na hard heart, and will visit such offences sooner or later. To\nprove this, let me tell you a story, which is well known in Cyprus\nto be a fact; and I hope it will have the effect to make you more\nmerciful.\n\n\"Iphis was a young man of humble parentage, who saw and loved\nAnaxarete, a noble lady of the ancient family of Teucer. He\nstruggled long with his passion, but when he found he could not\nsubdue it, he came a suppliant to her mansion. First he told his\npassion to her nurse, and begged her as she loved her foster-child\nto favor his suit. And then he tried to win her domestics to his\nside. Sometimes he committed his vows to written tablets, and\noften hung at her door garlands which he had moistened with his\ntears. He stretched himself on her threshold, and uttered his\ncomplaints to the cruel bolts and bars. She was deafer than the\nsurges which rise in the November gale; harder than steel from the\nGerman forges, or a rock that still clings to its native cliff.\nShe mocked and laughed at him, adding cruel words to her ungentle\ntreatment, and gave not the slightest gleam of hope.\n\n\"Iphis could not any longer endure the torments of hopeless love,\nand, standing before her doors, he spake these last words:\n'Anaxarete, you have conquered, and shall no longer have to bear\nmy importunities. Enjoy your triumph! Sing songs of joy, and bind\nyour forehead with laurel,\u2014you have conquered! I die; stony\nheart, rejoice! This at least I can do to gratify you and force\nyou to praise me; and thus shall I prove that the love of you left\nme but with life. Nor will I leave it to rumor to tell you of my\ndeath. I will come myself, and you shall see me die, and feast\nyour eyes on the spectacle. Yet, O ye gods, who look down on\nmortal woes, observe my fate! I ask but this: let me be remembered\nin coming ages, and add those years to my fame which you have reft\nfrom my life. Thus he said, and, turning his pale face and weeping\neyes towards her mansion, he fastened a rope to the gatepost, on\nwhich he had often hung garlands, and putting his head into the\nnoose, he murmured, 'This garland at least will please you, cruel\ngirl!' and falling hung suspended with his neck broken. As he fell\nhe struck against the gate, and the sound was as the sound of a\ngroan. The servants opened the door and found him dead, and with\nexclamations of pity raised him and carried him home to his\nmother, for his father was not living. She received the dead body\nof her son, and folded the cold form to her bosom, while she\npoured forth the sad words which bereaved mothers utter. The\nmournful funeral passed through the town, and the pale corpse was\nborne on a bier to the place of the funeral pile. By chance the\nhome of Anaxarete was on the street where the procession passed,\nand the lamentations of the mourners met the ears of her whom the\navenging deity had already marked for punishment.\n\n\"'Let us see this sad procession,' said she, and mounted to a\nturret, whence through an open window she looked upon the funeral.\nScarce had her eyes rested upon the form of Iphis stretched on the\nbier, when they began to stiffen, and the warm blood in her body\nto become cold. Endeavoring to step back, she found she could not\nmove her feet; trying to turn away her face, she tried in vain;\nand by degrees all her limbs became stony like her heart. That you\nmay not doubt the fact, the statue still remains, and stands in\nthe temple of Venus at Salamis, in the exact form of the lady. Now\nthink of these things, my dear, and lay aside your scorn and your\ndelays, and accept a lover. So may neither the vernal frosts\nblight your young fruits, nor furious winds scatter your\nblossoms!\"\n\nWhen Vertumnus had spoken thus, he dropped the disguise of an old\nwoman, and stood before her in his proper person, as a comely\nyouth. It appeared to her like the sun bursting through a cloud.\nHe would have renewed his entreaties, but there was no need; his\narguments and the sight of his true form prevailed, and the Nymph\nno longer resisted, but owned a mutual flame.\n\n\u00a0\n\nPomona was the especial patroness of the Apple-orchard, and as\nsuch she was invoked by Phillips, the author of a poem on Cider,\nin blank verse. Thomson in the \"Seasons\" alludes to him:\n\n\"Phillips, Pomona's bard, the second thou\n\nWho nobly durst, in rhyme-unfettered verse,\n\nWith British freedom, sing the British song.\"\n\nBut Pomona was also regarded as presiding over other fruits, and\nas such is invoked by Thomson:\n\n\"Bear me, Pomona, to thy citron groves,\n\nTo where the lemon and the piercing lime,\n\nWith the deep orange, glowing through the green,\n\nTheir lighter glories blend. Lay me reclined\n\nBeneath the spreading tamarind, that shakes,\n\nFanned by the breeze, its fever-cooling fruit.\"","title":"The Age of Fable/Chapter X","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":1572}