 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Janna Washington D.C., Bullfinch as Mythology, The Age of Fable, by Thomas Bullfinch, Chapter 11, Cupid and Psyche. A certain king and queen had three daughters. The charms of the two elder were more than common, but the beauty of the youngest was so wonderful that the poverty of language is unable to express its due praise. The fame of her beauty was so great that strangers from neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight, and looked on her with amazement, paying her that homage which is due only to Venus herself. In fact, Venus found her altars deserted while men turned their devotion to this young virgin. As she passed along, the people sang her praises and strode her way with chaplets and flowers. This perversion of homage due only to the immortal powers to the exaltation of immortal gave great offense to the real Venus. Shaking her ambrosial locks with indignation, she exclaimed, Am I then to be eclipsed and my honors by immortal girl? In vain then did that royal shepherd, whose judgment was approved by Jove himself, give me the palm of beauty over my lustrous rivals, Pallas and Juno. But she shall not so quietly usurp my honors. I will give her cause to repent of so unlawful a beauty. Thereupon she calls her winged son Cupid, mischievous enough in his own nature, and browses and provokes him yet more by her complaints. She points out Psyche to him and says, My dear son, punish that contumacious beauty, give thy mother a revenge as sweet as her injuries are great. Infuse into the bosom of that haughty girl a passion for some low, mean, unworthy being, so that she may reap a mortification as great as her present exaltation and triumph. Cupid prepared to obey the commands of his mother. There are two fountains in Venus' garden, one of sweet waters, the other of bitter. Cupid filled two amber faces, one from each fountain, and suspended them from the top of his quiver, hastened to the chamber of Psyche, whom he found asleep. He shed a few drops from the bitter fountain over her lips, though the sight of her almost moved him to pity, then touched her side with the point of his arrow. At the touch she awoke, and opened of eyes upon Cupid, himself invisible, which so startled him that in his confusion he wounded himself with his own arrow. Heedless of his wound, his whole thought now was to repair the mischief he had done, and he poured the balmy drops of joy over all her silk and ringlets. Psyche, henceforth, frowned upon by Venus, derived no benefit from all her charms. True, all eyes were cast eagerly upon her, and every mouth spoke her praises, but neither king, royal youth nor plebeian presented himself to demand her in marriage. Her two older sisters of moderate charms had now long been married to two royal princes, but Psyche, in her lonely apartment, deplored her solitude, sick of that beauty which, while a procured abundance of flattery, had failed to awaken love. Her parents, afraid that they had unwittingly incurred the anger of the gods, consulted the Oracle of Apollo, and received this answer. The virgin is destined for the bride of no mortal lover. Her future husband awaits her on the top of the mountain. He is a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist. This dreadful decree of the Oracle filled all the people with dismay, and her parents abandoned themselves to grief. But Psyche said, Why, my dear parents, do you now lament me? You should rather have grieved when the people showered upon me undeserved honors, and with one voice called me a Venus. I now perceive that I am a victim to that name. I submit, lead me to that rock to which my unhappy fate has destined me. Accordingly, all things being prepared, the royal maid took her place in the procession, which more resembled a funeral than an upchill pomp, and with her parents, amid the lamentations of the people, ascended the mountain, on the summit of which they left her alone, and with sorrowful hearts returned home. While Psyche stood on the ridge of the mountain, panting with fear and with eyes full of tears, the gentle Zephyr raised her from the earth, and bore her with an easy motion into a flowery dale. By degrees her mind became composed, and she laid herself down on the grassy bank to sleep. When she awoke, the refreshed was sleep, she looked around and beheld nearby a pleasant grove of tall and stately trees. She entered it, and in the midst discovered a fountain, sending forth clear and crystal waters. And fast by a magnificent palace whose august front impressed the spectator that it was not the work of mortal hands, but the happy retreat of some god. Drawn by admiration and wonder, she approached the building and ventured to enter. Every object she met filled her with pleasure and amazement. Golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls were enriched with carvings and paintings representing beasts of the chase and rural scenes adapted to delight the eye of the beholder. Proceeding onward, she perceived that besides the apartments of state, there were others filled with all manner of treasures and beautiful and precious productions of nature and art. While her eyes were thus occupied, a voice addressed her, though she saw no one, uttering these words. Sovereign Lady, all that you see is yours. We whose voices you hear are your servants, and shall obey all your commands with our utmost care and diligence. Retire, therefore, to your chamber, and repose on your bed of down, and when you see fit, repair to the bath. Supper awaits you in the adjoining alcove when it pleases you to take your seat there. Psyche gave ear to the admonitions of her vocal attendance, and after repose and the refreshment of the bath, seated herself when the alcove, where a table immediately presented itself without any visible aid from waiters or servants, and covered with the greatest delicacies of food and the most nectarius wines. Her ears, too, were feasted with music from invisible performers, of whom one sang, another played on the lute, and all closed in the wonderful harmony of a full chorus. She had not yet seen her destined husband. He came only in his hours of darkness, and fled before the dawn of morning, but his accents were full of love, and inspired alike passion and herb. She often begged him to stay and let her behold him, but he would not consent. On the contrary, he charged her to make no attempt to see him, for it was his pleasure for the best of reasons to keep concealed. Why should you wish to behold me, he said? Have you any doubt of my love? Have you any wish ungratified? If you saw me, perhaps you would fear me, perhaps adore me. But all I ask of you is to love me. I would rather you would love me as an equal than adore me as a God. This reasoning somewhat quieted Psyche for a time, and while the novelty lasted, she felt quite happy. But at length, the thought of her parents left an ignorance of her fate, and of her sisters, precluded from sharing with her the light of her situation, prayed on her mind, and made her begin to feel her palace as but a splendid prison. When her husband came one night, she told him her distress, and at last drew from him an unwilling consent that her sister should be brought to see her. So, calling Zephyr, she acquainted him with her husband's command, and he promptly obedient soon brought them across the mountain down to their sister's valley. They embraced her, and she returned their caresses. Come, said Psyche, enter with me my house, and refresh yourselves with whatever your sister has to offer. Then, taking their hands, she led them into her golden palace, and committed them to the care of her numerous train of attendant voices, to refresh them in her baths, and at her table, and to show them all her treasures. The view of these celestial delights caused envy to enter their bosoms, at seeing their young sister possessed of such state and splendor, so much exceeding their own. They asked her numberless questions, among others what sort of a person her husband was. Psyche replied that he was a beautiful youth who generally spent the daytime in hunting upon the mountains. The sisters not satisfied with this reply soon made her confess that she had never seen him. Then they proceeded to fill her bosom with dark suspicions. Call to mind, they said, the Pythian oracle that declared you destined to marry a direful and tremendous monster. The inhabitants of this valley say that your husband is a terrible and monstrous serpent who nourishes you for a while with dainties that he may by and by devour you. Take our advice. Provide yourself with a lamp and a sharp knife. Put them in concealment that your husband may not discover them, and when he is sound asleep, slip out of bed, bring forth your lamp, and see for yourself whether what they say is true or not. If it is, hesitate not to cut off the monster's head and thereby recover your liberty. Psyche resisted these persuasions as well as she could, but they did not fail to have their effect on her mind, and when her sisters were gone, their words and her own curiosity were too strong for her to resist. So she prepared her lamp and a sharp knife and hid them out of sight of her husband. When he had fallen into his first sleep, she silently rose and uncovering her lamp beheld not a hideous monster, but the most beautiful and charming of the gods, with his golden ringlets wandering over his snowy neck and crimson cheek, with two dewy wings on his shoulders, wider than snow, and with shining feathers like the tender blossoms of spring. As she leaned the lamp over to have a nearer view of his face, a drop of burning oil fell on the shoulder of the god, startled with which he opened his eyes and fixed them full upon her. Then, without saying a one word, he spread his white wings and flew out of the window. Psyche, in vain endeavoring to follow him, fell from the window to the ground. Cupid, beholding her as she lay in the dust, stopped his flight for an instant and said, Oh foolish Psyche, is it thus you repay my love? After having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, will you thank me a monster and cut off my head? But go, return to your sisters whose advice you seem to think preferable to mine. I inflict no other punishment on you than to leave you forever. Love cannot dwell with suspicion. So, saying, he fled away, leaving poor Psyche prostrate on the ground, filling the place with mournful lamentations. When she had recovered some degree of composure, she looked around her, but the palace and gardens had vanished, and she found herself in the open field not far from the city where her sisters dwelt. She repaired thither, and told them the whole story of her misfortunes, at which, pretending to grieve, those spiteful creatures inwardly rejoiced. For now, said they, he will perhaps choose one of us. With this idea, without saying a word of her intentions, each of them rose early the next morning, and ascended the mountains. And having reached the top, called upon Zephyr to receive her and bear her to his lord. Then, leaping up and not being sustained by Zephyr, fell down the prefaces and was dashed to pieces. Psyche, meanwhile, wandered day and night without food or repose in search of her husband. Casting her eyes on a lofty mountain, having on its brow a magnificent temple, she sighed and said to herself, Perhaps my love, my lord, inhabits there, and directed her steps thither. She had no sooner entered, than she saw heaps of corn, some in loose ears and some in sheaves, with mingled ears of barley. Scattered about lay sickles and rakes, and all the instruments of harvest, without order, as if thrown carelessly out of the weary viper's hands in the sultry hours of the day. This unseemly confusion, the pious Psyche put an end to, by separating and sorting everything to its proper place and kind, believing that she ought to neglect none of the gods but endeavor by her piety, to engage them all in her behalf. The holy series, whose temple it was, finding her so religiously employed, thus spoke to her. Oh, Psyche, truly worthy of our pity, though I cannot shield you from the frowns of Venus, yet I can teach you how best to allay her displeasure. Go then, and voluntarily surrender yourself to your lady and sovereign, and try by modesty and submission to win her forgiveness, and perhaps her favor will restore you the husband you have lost. Psyche obeyed the commands of Ceres, and took her way to the temple of Venus, endeavoring to fortify her mind and ruminating on what she should say on how best propitiate the angry goddess, feeling that the issue was doubtful and perhaps fatal. Venus received her with angry countenance. Most undutiful and faithless of servants, said she, do you at last remember that you really have a mistress, or have you rather come to see your sick husband, yet laid up of the wound given him by his loving wife? You are so ill-favored and disagreeable that the only way you can merit your lover must be by dint of industry and diligence. I will make trial of your house wifery. Then she ordered Psyche to be led to the storehouse of her temple, where was laid up a great quantity of wheat, barley, millet, veches, beans, and lentils prepared for food for her pigeons, and said, Take and separate all these grains, putting all of the same kind in a parcel by themselves, and see that you get it done before evening. Then Venus departed and left her to her task. But Psyche, in a perfect consternation at the enormous work, said stupid and silent, without moving a finger to the inextricable heat. While she sat despairing, Cupid stirred up the little ant, a native of the fields, to take compassion on her. The leader of the ant hill, followed by whole hosts of his six-legged subjects, approached the heap, and with the utmost diligence, taking grain by grain, they separated the pile, sorting each kind to its parcel, and when it was all done, they vanished out of sight in a moment. Venus, at the approach of twilight, returned from the banquet of the gods, breathing odours and crowned with roses. Seeing the task done, she exclaimed, This is no work of yours, wicked one, but his, according to your own, and his misfortune you have enticed. So, saying, she threw her a piece of black bread for her supper, and went away. Next morning Venus ordered Psyche to be called and said to her, Behold yonder grove, which stretches along the margin of the water. There you will find sheep feeding without a shepherd, with golden shining fleeces on their backs. Go fetch me a sample of that precious wool gathered from every one of their fleeces. Psyche obediently went to the riverside, prepared to do her best to execute the command. But the river-god inspired the reeds with harmonious murmurs, which seemed to say, O maiden, severely tried, tempt not the dangerous flood, nor venture among the formidable rams on the other side, for as long as they are under the influence of the rising sun, they burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp horns of root teeth. But when the noontide sun has driven the cattle to the shade, and the serene spirit of the flood has lulled them to rest, you may then cross in safety, and you will find the woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees. Thus the compassionate river-god gave Psyche instructions how to accomplish her task, and by observing his directions, she soon returned to Venus with her arms full of the golden fleece. But she received not the approbation of her implacable mistress, who said, I know very well it is by none of your own doings that you have succeeded in this task, and I am not satisfied yet that you have any capacity to make yourself useful, but I have another task for you. Here, take this box and go your way to the infernal shades, and give this box to Persephone, and say, my mistress Venus desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for intending her sick son, she has lost some of her own. Be not too long on your errand, for I must paint myself with it to appear at the circle of the gods and goddesses this evening. Psyche was now satisfied that her destruction was at hand, being obliged to go with her own feet directly down the arabus. Therefore, to make no delay of what was not to be avoided, she goes to the top of a high tower to precipitate her self-head long, thus to descend the shortest way to the shades below. But a voice from the tower said to her, Why, poor unlucky girl, dost thou design to put an end to thy days in so dreadful a manner? And what cowardice makes thee sink under this last danger, who has been so miraculously supported on all thy former? Then the voice told her how by a certain cave, she might reach the realms of Pluto, and how to avoid all the dangers of the road, to pass by Cerberus the three-headed dog, and prevail on Charon, the fairy-man, to take her across the Black River and bring her back again. But the voice added, When Persephone has given you the box filled with her beauty, of all things this is chiefly to be observed by you, that you never once open or look into the box, nor allow your curiosity to pry into the treasures of the beauty of the goddesses. Psyche encouraged by this advice, abated in all things, and taking heed to her ways, traveled safely to the kingdom of Pluto. She was admitted to the palace of Prasarpeni, and without accepting the delicate seat or delicious banquet that was offered her, but contented with coarse bread for her food, she delivered her message from Venus. Presently the box was returned to her, shut and filled with precious commodity. Then she returned the way she came, and glad was she to come out once more into the light of day. But having got so far successfully through her dangerous task, a longing desire seized her to examine the contents of the box. What said she, shall I, the carrier of this divine beauty, not take the least bit to put on my cheeks to appear to more advantage in the eyes of my beloved husband. So she carefully opened the box, but found nothing there of any beauty at all, but an infernal and truly stygian sleep, which being thus set free from its present took possession of her, and she fell down in the midst of the road, a sleepy corpse without sense or motion. But Cupid being now recovered from his wound, and not able longer to bear the absence of his beloved Psyche, slipping through the smallest crack of the window of his chamber, which happened to be left open, flew to the spot where Psyche lay, and gathering up the sleep from her body, closed it again in the box, and waked Psyche with a light touch of one of his arrows. Again said he, hast thou almost perished by the same curiosity, but now perform exactly the task imposed on you by my mother, and I will take care of the rest. Then Cupid as swift as lightning penetrated the heights of heaven, presented himself before Jupiter with his supplication. Jupiter lent a favoring ear, and pleaded the cause of the lover so earnestly with Venus that he won her consent. And this he sent Mercury to bring Psyche up to the heavenly assembly, and when she arrived, handing her a cup of ambrosia, he said, Drink this, Psyche, and be immortal, nor shall Cupid ever break away from the knot in which he is tied, but these nuptials shall be perpetual. Thus Psyche became at last united to Cupid, and at due time they had a daughter born to them whose name was pleasure. The fable of Cupid and Psyche is usually considered allegorical. The Greek name for a butterfly is Psyche, and the same word means the soul. There is no illustration of the immortality of the soul so striking and beautiful as the butterfly, bursting on brilliant wings from the tomb in which it has lain, after a dull, groveling caterpillar existence, to flutter in the blaze of day and feed on the most fragrant and delicate productions of the spring. Psyche, then, is the human soul, which is purified by sufferings and misfortunes, and is thus prepared for the enjoyment of true and pure happiness. In works of art, Psyche is represented as a maiden with the wings of a butterfly, along with Cupid, in the different situations described in the allegory. Milton alludes to the story of Cupid and Psyche in the conclusion of his commas. Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, holds his dear Psyche sweet and trance, after her wandering labors long till free consent the gods among make her his eternal bride, and from her fair and spotted side, two blissful twins are to be born. Youth and joy, so Jove has sworn. The allegory of the story of Cupid and Psyche is well presented in the beautiful lines of T.K. Harvey. They wove bright fables in the days of old, when reason borrowed fancies painted wings, when truths clear river flowed or sands of gold, and told in song its high and mystic things, and such the sweet and solemn tale of her, the pilgrim heart to whom a dream was given, that led her through the world loves worshiper, to seek on earth for whom whose home was heaven. In the full city be the haunted font, through the dim grotto's tracery of spars, mid the pine temples on the moonlit mount, where silence sits to listen to the stars, in the deep glade where dwells the brooding dove, the painted valley and the scented air, she heard far echoes of the voice of love, and found his footsteps traces everywhere. But never more they met since doubts and fears, those phantom shapes that hound and blight the earth, had come twixt her a child of sin and tears, and that bright spirit of a mortal birth, until her pining soul and weeping eyes had learned to see come only in the skies, till wings unto the very heart were given, and she became love's angel bride in heaven. The story of Cupid and Psyche first appears in the works of Apulius, a writer of the second century of our era. It is therefore of much more recent date than most of the legends of the Age of Fable. It is this that Keith salutes to in his oath to Psyche. O latest born and loveliest vision far, of all Olympus's faded hierarchy, fairer than Phoebe's sapphire region star, or Vesper of Amherst globeworm of the sky, fairer than these though temple thou hast none, nor altar heap with flowers, nor virgin choir to make delicious moan upon the midnight hours, no voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet, from chainswung censor teeming, no shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat, of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. In more summer feet, a fancy ball is described in which one of the characters personated is Psyche. Not in dark disguise tonight hath our young hero unveiled her light, for see she walks the earth, love's own, his wedded bride by holiest vile, pledged in Olympus and made known to mortals by the type which now hains glittering on her snowy brow. That butterfly, mysterious trinket, which means the soul, the few would think it, and sparkling thus on brow so white, tells us we've Psyche here tonight. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bullfinch's Mythology The Age of Fable by Thomas Bullfinch Chapter 12 Cadmus The Mamedons Cadmus Jupiter, under the disguise of a bull, had carried away to the island of Crete, Europa, the daughter of Eginor, king of Phoenicia. Eginor commanded his son, Cadmus, to go in search of his sister and not to return without her. Cadmus went and sought long and far for his sister, but could not find her, and not daring to return unsuccessful, consulted the oracle of Apollo to know what country he should settle in. The oracle informed him that he should find a cow in the field, and should follow her wherever she might wander, and where she stopped, should build a city and call it Thebes. Cadmus had hardly left the Castellian cave from which the oracle was delivered, when he saw a young cow slowly walking before him. He followed her close, offering at the same time his prayers to Phoebus. The cow went on till she passed the shallow channel of Cephesus, and came out into the plain of Panopy. There she stood still, and raising her broad forehead to the sky, filled the air with her lowings. Cadmus gave thanks, and stooping down, kissed the foreign soil, then lifting his eyes, greeted the surrounding mountains. Wishing to offer a sacrifice to Jupiter, he sent his servants to seek pure water for a libation. Nearby there stood an ancient grove, which had never been profaned by the axe, in the midst of which was a cave, thick covered with the growth of bushes, its roof forming a low arch, from beneath which burst forth a fountain of purest water. In the cave lurked a horrid serpent, with a crested head, and scales glittering like gold. His eyes shone like fire, his body was swollen with venom, he vibrated a triple tongue, and showed a triple row of teeth. No sooner had the Tyrians dipped their pictures in the fountain, and the ingushing waters made a sound, than the glittering serpent raised his head out of the cave, and uttered a fearful hiss. The vessels fell from their hands, the blood left their cheeks, they trembled in every limb. The serpent, twisting his scaly body in a huge coil, raised his head so far as to overtop the tallest trees, and while the Tyrians from terror could neither fight nor fly, slew some with his fangs, others in his folds, and others with his poisonous breath. Cadmus, having waited for the return of his men till midday, went in search of them. His covering was a lion's hide, and besides his javelin he carried in his hand a lance, and in his breast a bold heart, a surer reliance than either. When he entered the wood, and saw the lifeless bodies of his men, and the monster, with his bloody jaws, he exclaimed, O faithful friends, I will avenge you, or share your death. So seeing, he lifted a huge stone, and threw it with all his force at the serpent. Such a block would have shaken the wall of a fortress, but it made no impression on the monster. Cadmus next through his javelin, which met with better success, for it penetrated the serpent's scales, and pierced through to his entrails. Fierce with pain, the monster turned back his head to view the wound, and attempted to draw out the weapon with his mouth, but broke it off, leaving the iron point rankling in his flesh. His neck swelled with rage, bloody foam covered his jaws, and the breath of his nostrils poisoned the air around. Now he twisted himself into a circle, then stretched himself out on the ground, like the trunk of a fallen tree. As he moved onward, Cadmus retreated before him, holding his spear opposite to the monster's open jaws. The serpent snapped at the weapon, and attempted to bite its iron point. At last, Cadmus, watching his chance, thrust the spear at a moment when the animal's head, thrown back, came against the trunk of a tree, and so succeeded in pinning him to its side. His weight bent the tree, as he struggled in the agonies of death. While Cadmus stood over his conquered foe, contemplating its vast size, a voice was heard. From whence he knew not, but he heard it distinctly, commanding him to take the dragon's teeth, and sew them in the earth. He obeyed. He made a furrow in the ground, and planted the teeth, destined to produce a crop of men. Scarce had he done so, when the clods began to move, and the points of spears to appear above the surface. Next, helmets with their nodding plumes came up, and next the shoulders and breasts and limbs of men with weapons, and in time a harvest of armed warriors. Cadmus, alarmed, prepared to encounter a new enemy, but one of them said to him, meddle not with our civil war. With that, he who had spoken, smote one of his earth-born brothers with a sword, and he himself fell, pierced with an arrow from another. The latter fell victim to a fourth, and in like manner the whole crowd dealt with each other, till all fell slain with mutual wounds, except five survivors. One of these cast away his weapons, and said, brothers, let us live in peace. These five joined with Cadmus in building his city, to which they gave the name of Thebes. Cadmus obtained in marriage Harmonia, the daughter of Venus. The gods left Olympus to honour the occasion with their presence, and Vulcan presented the bride with a necklace of surpassing brilliancy, his own workmanship, but a fatality hung over the family of Cadmus, in consequence of his killing the serpent, sacred to Mars. Semile and I know his daughters, and Actaeon and Pentheus, his grandchildren, all perished unhappily, and Cadmus and Harmonia quitted Thebes, now grown odious to them, and emigrated to the country of the Enchilians, who received them with honour, and made Cadmus their king, but the misfortunes of their children still weighed upon their minds, and one day Cadmus exclaimed, If a serpent's life is so dear to the gods, I would I were myself a serpent. No sooner had he uttered the words than he began to change his form, Harmonia beheld it, and prayed to the gods to let her share his fate. Both became serpents. They live in the woods, but mindful of their origin, they neither avoid the presence of man, nor do they ever injure any one. There is a tradition that Cadmus introduced into Greece the letters of the alphabet which were invented by the Phoenicians. This is alluded to by Byron, where addressing the modern Greeks, he says, You have the letters Cadmus gave. Think you he meant them for a slave? Milton, describing the serpent which tempted Eve, is reminded of the serpents of the classical stories, and says, Pleasing was his shape, and lovely, never since of serpent-kind lovelier, not those that in Illyria changed Hermione and Cadmus, nor the god Inepidorus. The god Inepidorus was Esculapius. Serpents were held sacred to him. The Mermidons The Mermidons were the soldiers of Achilles in the Trojan War. From them, all zealous and unscrupulous followers of a political chief are called by that name down to this day. But the origin of the Mermidons would not give one the idea of a fierce and bloody race, but rather of a laborious and peaceful one. Cephalus, king of Athens, arrived in the island of Aegina to seek assistance of his old friend and ally, Iacus the King, in his wars with Minos king of Crete. Cephalus was kindly received, and the desired assistance readily promised. I have people enough, said Iacus, to protect myself and spare you such a force as you need. I rejoice to see it, replied Cephalus, and my wonder has been raised, I confess, to find such a host of youths as I see around me, all apparently of about the same age. Yet there are many individuals whom I previously knew that I look for now in vain. What has become of them? Iacus groaned, and replied with a voice of sadness. I have been intending to tell you, and will now do so without more delay, that you may see how from the saddest beginning a happy result sometimes flows. Those whom you formerly knew are now dust and ashes, a plague sent by angry Juno devastated the land. She hated it because it bore the name of one of her husband's female favourites. While the disease appeared to spring from natural causes, we resisted it as best we might by natural remedies, but it soon appeared that the pestilence was too powerful for our efforts, and we yielded. At the beginning the sky seemed to settle down upon the earth, and thick clouds shut in the heated air. For four months together a deadly south wind prevailed. The disorder affected the wells and springs, thousands of snakes crept over the land, and shed their poison in the fountains. The force of the disease was first spent on the lower animals, dogs, cattle, sheep, and birds. The luckless ploughman wondered to see his oxen fall in the midst of their work, and lie helpless in the unfinished furrow. The wool fell from the bleeding sheep, and their bodies pined away. The horse, once foremost in the race, contested the palm no more, but groaned at his stall, and died an inglorious death. The wild boar forgot his rage, the stag, his swiftness. The bears no longer attacked the herds. Everything languished. Dead bodies lay in the roads, the fields, and the woods. The air was poisoned by them. I tell you what is hardly credible, but neither dogs nor birds would touch them, nor starving wolves. Their decay spread the infection. Next the disease attacked the country people, and then the dwellers in the city. At first the cheek was flushed, and the breath drawn with difficulty. The tongue grew rough and swelled, and the dry mouth stood open with its veins enlarged, and gasped for air. Men could not bear the heat of their clothes or their beds, but preferred to lie on the bare ground, and the ground did not cool them, but on the contrary they heated the spot where they lay, nor could the physician's help, for the disease attacked them also, and the contact of the sick gave them infection, so that the most faithful were the first victims. At last all hope of relief vanished, and men learned to look upon death as the only deliverer from disease. Then they gave way to every inclination, and cared not to ask what was expedient, for nothing was expedient. All restraint laid aside, they crowded around the wells and fountains, and drank till they died, without quenching thirst. Many had not strength to get away from the water, but died in the midst of the stream, and others would drink of it not withstanding. Such was their weariness of their sick beds, that some would creep forth, and if not strong enough to stand, would die on the ground. They seemed to hate their friends, and got away from their homes, as if not knowing the cause of their sickness, they charged it on the place of their abode. Some were seen tottering along the road, as long as they could stand, while others sank on the earth, and turned their dying eyes around to take a last look. Then closed them in death. What heart had I left me during all this, or what ought I to have had, except to hate life, and wish to be with my dead subjects? On all sides lay my people, strewn like overripened apples beneath the tree, or acorns under the storm-shaken oak. You see yonder a temple on the height. It is sacred to Jupiter. Oh, how many offered prayers there, husbands for wives, fathers for sons, and died in the very act of supplication! How often, when the priest made ready for sacrifice, the victim fell, struck down by disease without waiting for the blow. At length all reverence for sacred things was lost. Bodies were thrown out unburied. Wood was wanting for funeral piles. Men fought with one another for the possession of them. Finally there were none left to mourn. Sons and husbands, old men and youths, perished alike. Unlamented. Standing before the altar I raised my eyes to heaven. O Jupiter, I said, if thou art indeed my father, and art not ashamed of thy offspring, give me back my people, or take me also away. At these words a clap of thunder was heard. I accept the omen, I cried. O may it be a sign of a favourable disposition towards me. By chance there grew by the place where I stood, an oak with widespreading branches, sacred to Jupiter. I observed a troop of ants busy with their labour, carrying minute grains in their mouths, and following one another in a line up the trunk of the tree. Observing their numbers with admiration, I said, give me, O Father, citizens as numerous as these, and replenish my empty city. The tree shook, and gave a rustling sound with its branches, though no wind agitated them. I trembled in every limb, yet I kissed the earth and the tree. I would not confess to myself that I hoped. Yet I did hope. Night came on, and sleep took possession of my frame oppressed with cares. The tree stood before me in my dreams, with its numerous branches all covered with living moving creatures. It seemed to shake its limbs, and throw down over the ground a multitude of those industrious, grain-gathering animals, which appeared to gain in size, and grow larger, and by and by to stand erect, lay aside their superfluous legs and their black colour, and finally to assume the human form. Then I awoke, and my first impulse was to chide the gods who had robbed me of a sweet vision, and given me no reality in its place. Being still in the temple, my attention was caught by the sound of many voices without, a sound of late, unusual to my ears. While I began to think I was yet dreaming, Telemann, my son, throwing open the temple gates exclaimed, Father, approach, and behold things surpassing even your hopes. I went forth. I saw a multitude of men, such as I had seen in my dream, and they were passing in procession in the same manner. While I gazed with wonder and delight, they approached, and kneeling hailed me as their king. I paid my vows to Jove, and proceeded to allot the vacant city to the newborn race, and to pass out the fields among them. I called them Mermidons, from the Ant, Mermex, from which they sprang. You have seen these persons. Their dispositions resemble those which they had in their former shape. They are a diligent and industrious race, eager to gain, and tenacious of their gains. Among them you may recruit your forces. They will follow you to the war, young in years, and bold in heart. The description of the plague is copied by Ovid from the account which, Thucydides, the Greek historian, gives, of the plague of Athens. The historian drew from life, and all the poets and writers of fiction since his day, when they have had occasion to describe a similar scene, have borrowed their details from him. Chapter 13. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Nysus and Skilla, Echo and Narcissus, Clyte, Hero and Leander. Nysus and Skilla. Minos, king of Crete, made war upon Magara. Nysus was king of Magara, and Skilla was his daughter. The siege had now lasted six months, and the city still held out, for it was decreed by fate that it should not be taken so long as a certain purple lock, which glittered among the hair of king Nysus, remained on his head. There was a tower on the city walls, which overlooked the plain, where Minos and his army were encamped. To this tower, Skilla used to repair, and look abroad over the tents of the hostile army. The siege had lasted so long that she had learned to distinguish the persons of the leaders. Minos in particular excited her admiration. Arrayed in his helmet and bearing his shield, she admired his graceful deportment. If he threw his javelin, Skilla seemed combined with force in the discharge. If he drew his bow, Apollo himself could not have done it more gracefully. But when he laid aside his helmet, and in his purple robes bestrode his white horse with its gay comparisons, and reigned in its foaming mouth, the daughter of Nysus was hardly mistress of herself. She was almost frantic with admiration. She envied the weapon that he grasped. The reins that he held, she felt as if she could, if it were possible, go to him through the hostile ranks. She felt an impulse to cast herself down from the tower into the midst of his camp, or to open the gates to him, or to do anything else so only it might gratify Minos. As she sat in the tower, she talked thus with herself. I know not whether to rejoice or grieve at this sad war. I grieve that Minos is our enemy, but I rejoice at any cause that brings him to my sight. Perhaps he would be willing to grant us peace, and receive me as a hostage. I would fly down if I could, in a light in his camp, and tell him that we yield ourselves to his mercy. But then, to betray my father, no, rather would I never see Minos again. And yet no doubt it is sometimes the best thing for a city to be conquered, when the conqueror is clement and generous. Minos certainly has right on his side, I think we shall be conquered. And if that must be the end of it, why should not love unbar the gates to him, instead of leaving it to be done by war? Better spare delay and slaughter if we can. And oh, if anyone should wound or kill Minos, no one surely would have the heart to do it yet, ignorantly not knowing him one might. I will, I will surrender myself to him, with my country as a dowry, and so put an end to the war. But how? The gates are guarded, and my father keeps the keys. He only stands in my way. Oh, that it might please the gods to take him away. But why ask the gods to do it? Another woman, loving as I do, would remove with her own hands whatever stood in the way of her love. And can any other woman dare more than I? I would encounter fire and sword to gain my object, but here there is no need of fire and sword. I only need my father's purple lock, more precious than gold to me. That will give me all I wish. While she thus reasoned, night came on, and soon the whole palace was buried in sleep. She entered her father's bed chamber and cut off the fatal lock, then passed out of the city and entered the enemy's camp. She demanded to be led to the king and thus addressed him. I am Skilla, the daughter of Nysis. I surrender to you my country and my father's house. I ask no reward but yourself. For love of you I have done this. See here the purple lock, with this I give you my father and his kingdom. She held out her hand with the fatal spoil. Mino shrunk back and refused to touch it. The gods destroy the infamous woman, he exclaimed. Disgrace of our time may neither earth nor sea yield the arresting place. Surely my creed, where Job himself was cradled, shall not be polluted with such a monster. Thus he said and gave orders that equitable terms should be allowed to the conquered city and that the fleet should immediately sail from the island. Skilla was frantic, ungrateful man, she exclaimed. Is it thus you leave me, me who have given you victory, who have sacrificed for you, parent and country? I am guilty, I confess, and deserve to die, but not by your hand. As the ships left the shore, she leaped into the water and seizing the rudder of the one, which carried Mino she was born along an unwelcome companion of their course. A sea eagle flying aloft, it was her father who had been changed into that form, seeing her pounce down upon her and struck her with his beak and claws. In terror she let go the ship and would have fallen into the water, but some pitying deity changed her into a bird. The sea eagle still cherishes the old animosity, and whenever he espies her in his lofty flight you may see him dark down upon her with beak and claws to take vengeance for the ancient crime. Echo and Narcissus Echo was a beautiful nymph fond of the woods and hills where she devoted herself to woodland sports. She was a favorite of Diana and attended her in the chase. But Echo had one failing. She was fond of talking, and whether in chat or argument she would have the last word. One day Juno was seeking her husband who, she had reason to fear, was amusing himself among the nymphs. Echo, by her talk, contrived to detain the goddess till the nymphs made their escape. When Juno discovered it she passed sentence upon Echo in these words, you shall forfeit the use of that tongue in which you have cheated me, except for that one purpose you are so fond of, reply, you shall still have the last word, but no power to speak first. This nymph saw Narcissus a beautiful youth, as he pursued the chase upon the mountains. She loved him and followed his footsteps. Oh, how she longed to address him in the softest accents, and win him to converse. But it was not in her power. She waited with impatience for him to speak first, and had her answer ready. One day the youth, being separated from his companions, shouted aloud, Who's here? Echo replied, Here. Narcissus looked around, but seeing no one called out, Come. Echo answered, Come. As no one came, Narcissus called again, Why do you shun me? Echo asked the same question. Let us join one another, said the youth. The maid answered with all her heart in the same words, and hastened to the spot, ready to throw her arms about his neck. He started back, exclaiming, Hands off, I would rather die than you should have me. Have me, said she. But it was all in vain. He left her, and she went to hide her blushes in the recesses of the woods. From that time forth she lived in caves and among the mountain cliffs. Her form faded with grief, till at last all her flesh shrank away. Her bones were changed into rocks, and there was nothing left of her but her voice. With that she is still ready to reply to anyone who calls her, and keeps up her old habit of having the last word. Narcissus' cruelty in this case was not the only instance. He shunned all the rest of the nymphs as he had done poor Echo. One day a maiden who had in vain endeavored to attract him uttered a prayer that he might sometime or other feel what it was to love and meet no return of affection. The avenging goddess heard and granted the prayer. There was a clear fountain with water-like silver to which the shepherds never drove their flocks, nor the mountain goats restored, nor any of the beasts of the forest. Neither was it defaced with fallen leaves or branches, but the grass grew fresh around it and the rocks sheltered it from the sun. Hither came one day the youth fatigued with hunting, heated and thirsty. He stooped down to drink, and saw his own image in the water. He thought it was some beautiful water-spirit living in the fountain. He stood gazing with admiration at those bright eyes, those locks curled like the locks of Bacchus or Apollo, the rounded cheeks, the ivory neck, the parted lips, and the glow of health and exercise over all. He fell in love with himself. He brought his lips near to take a kiss. He plunged his arms in to embrace the beloved object. It fled at the touch, but returned again after a moment and renewed the fascination. He could not tear himself away. He lost all thought of food and rest while he hovered over the brink of the fountain gazing upon his own image. He talked with the supposed spirit. Why beautiful being do you shun me? Surely my face is not one to repel you. The nymphs love me, and you yourself look not indifferent upon me. When I stretch forth my arms, you do the same, and you smile upon me and answer my beckonings with the like. His tears fell into the water and disturbed the image. As he sawed depart, he exclaimed, Stay, I entreat you. Let me at least gaze upon you if I may not touch you. With this, and much more of the same kind, he cherished the flame that consumed him, so that by degrees he lost his color, his vigor, and the beauty which formerly had so charmed the nymph echo. She kept near him, however, and whenever he exclaimed, Alas, Alas, Alas. She answered him with the same words. He pined away and died, and when his shade passed the Stygian River, it leaned over the boat to catch a look of itself in the waters. The nymphs mourned for him, especially the water nymphs. And when they smote their breasts, echo smote hers also. They prepared a funeral pile, and would have burned the body, but it was nowhere to be found. But in its place of flower, purple within, and surrounded with white leaves, which bears the name and preserves the memory of Narcissus. Milton alludes to the story of Echo and Narcissus in the Lady's song in Comus. She is seeking her brothers in the forest and sings to attract their attention. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph that lifts unseen, within thy airy shell, by slow meanders margin green, and in the violet and broidered veil, where the lovelorn nightingale nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well. Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair that like as thy Narcissus are? O, if thou have hid them in some flowery cave, tell me, but where? Sweet Queen of Parley, daughter of the Sphere, so mayst thou be translated to the skies, and give resounding grace to all heaven's harmonies. Milton has imitated the story of Narcissus in the account which he makes Eve give of the first sight of herself reflected in the fountain. That day I oft remember when from sleep I first awaked and found myself reposed under a shade on flowers, much wondering where and what I was when Sither brought and how. Not distant, far from thence a murmuring sound of waters issued from a cave, and spread into a liquid plain, then stood, unmoved, pure as the expanse of heaven. I Sither went with unexperienced thought, and laid me down on the green bank to look into the clear, smooth lake that to me seemed another sky. As I bent down to look, just opposite a shape within the watery gleam appeared, bending to look on me. It started back. But pleased I soon returned, pleased it returned as soon with answering looks of sympathy and love. There had I fixed mine eyes till now and pined with bane desire. Had not a voice thus warned me, what seist, what there thou seist, fair creature, is thyself, etc. Paradise lost, book form. No one of the fables of antiquity has been often alluded to by the poets than that of Narcissus. Here are two epigrams which treated in different ways. The first is by Goldsmith, on a beautiful youth struck blind by lightning, sure twas by Providence designed, rather in pity than in hate, that he should be like Cupid Blind to save him from Narcissus fate. The other is by Cowper, on an ugly fellow. Beware, my friend, of Crystal Brook, or fountain lest that hideous hook thy nose thou chance to see. Narcissus' fate would then be thine, and self-detested thou wouldst pine, as self-enamored he. Clity. Clity was a water nymph, and in love with Apollo, who made her no return. So she pined away sitting all day long upon the cold ground with her unbound tresses streaming over her shoulders. Nine days she sat and tasted neither food nor drink, her own tears and the chilly dew, her only food. She gazed on the sun when he rose, and as he passed through his daily course to his setting, she saw no other object. Her face turned constantly on him. At last, they say, her limbs rooted in the ground. Her face became a flower which turns on its stem, so as always to face the sun throughout its daily course, for it retains to that extent the feeling of the nymph, from whom it sprang. Hood in his flowers thus alludes to Clity. I will not have the mad Clity whose head is turned by the sun, the tulip is a courtly queen, whom, therefore, I will shun. The cow slip is a country wench, the violet is a nun, but I will woo the dainty rose, the queen of every one. The sunflower is a favorite emblem of constancy, thus more uses it. The heart that has truly loved never forgets, but as truly loves on to the clothes. As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets, the same look that she turned when he rose. Hero and Leander. Leander was a youth of Abidos, a town of the Asian side of the strait which separates Asia and Europe. On the opposite shore, in the town of Cestos, lived the maiden hero, a priestess of Venus. Leander loved her, and used to swim the strait nightly to enjoy the company of his mistress, guided by a torch which he reared upon the tower for the purpose. But one night a tempest arose, and the sea was rough, his strength failed, and he was drowned. The waves bore his body to the European shore, where Hero became aware of his death, and in her despair cast herself down from the tower into the sea and perished. The following sonnet is by Keats on a picture of Leander. Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, down-looking eye, and with a chastened light hid in the fringes of your eyelids white, and meekly let your fair hands joined be. And if so gentle that he could not see untouched a victim of your beauty bright, sinking away to his young spirit's night, sinking bewildered mid the dreary sea, to his young Leander toiling to his death, nice swooning he doth pursue his weary lips, for Hero's cheek and smiles against her smile a horrid dream. See how his body dips, dead heavy, arms and shoulders gleam a while, he's gone, up bubbles all his amorous breath. The story of Leander's swimming the helispont was looked upon as fabulous and the feet considered impossible, till Lord Byron proved its possibility by performing it himself. In the Bride of Abidos, he says, these limbs that buoyant wave hath borne. The distance in the narrowest part is almost a mile, and there is a constant current setting out from the sea of Marmara into the Archipelago. Since Byron's time the feat has been achieved by others, but it yet remains a test of strength and skill in the art of swimming sufficient to give a wide and lasting celebrity to any one of our readers who may dare to make the attempt and succeed in accomplishing it. In the beginning of the second canto of the same poem, Byron thus alludes to this story, The winds are high on Hell's wave, as on the night of stormiest water when love, who sent, forgot to save the young, the beautiful, the brave, the lonely hope of Sesto's daughter. Oh, when alone, along the sky, the turret torch was blazing high, through rising gale and breaking foam, and shrieking seabirds warned him home, and clouds aloft and tides below, with signs and sounds forbade to go. He could not see, he would not hear, or sound or sight, for bearing fear. His eye but saw the light of love, the only star it hailed above, his ear but rang with hero's song. He waves, divide, not lovers long, that tale is old but love anew, may nerve young hearts to prove as true. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Bullfinch's Mythology, The Age of Fable, by Thomas Bullfinch, Chapter 14 Minerva Nayobi Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, was the daughter of Jupiter. She was said to have left forth from his brain, mature, and in complete armor. She presided over the useful and ornamental arts, both those of men, such as agriculture and navigation, and those of women, spinning, weaving, and needlework. She was also a war-like divinity, but it was defensive war only that she patronized, and she had no sympathy with Mars' savage love of violence and bloodshed. Athens was her chosen seat, her own city, awarded to her as the prize of a contest with Neptune, who also aspired to it. The tale ran that in the reign of Secrops, the first king of Athens, the two deities contended for the possession of the city. The gods decreed that it should be awarded to that one who produced the gift most useful to mortals. Neptune gave the horse, Minerva produced the olive. The gods gave judgment that the olive was more useful of the two, and awarded the city to the goddess, and it was named after her, Athens, her name in Greek being Athene. There was another contest, in which a mortal dared to come in competition with Minerva. That mortal was Arachne, a maiden who had attained such skill in the arts of weaving and embroidery that the nymphs themselves would leave their groves and fountains to come and gaze upon her work. It was not only beautiful when it was done, but beautiful also in the doing, to watch her, as she took the wool in its rude state and formed it into rolls, or separated it with her fingers and carded it till it looked as light and soft as a cloud, or twirled the spindle with skillful touch, or wove the web, or, after it was woven, adorned it with her needle, one would have said that Minerva herself had taught her. But this she denied, and could not bear to be thought a pupil even of a goddess. Let Minerva try her skill with mine, said she, if beaten I will pay the penalty. Minerva heard this, and was displeased. She assumed the form of an old woman and went and gave Arachne some friendly advice. I have had much experience, said she, and I hope you will not despise my counsel. Challenge your fellow mortals as you will, but do not compete with a goddess. On the contrary, I advise you to ask her forgiveness for what you have said, and as she is merciful, perhaps she will pardon you. Arachne stopped her spinning, and looked at the old dame with anger in her countenance. Keep your counsel, said she, for your daughters are handmaids. For my part I know what I say. And I stand to it. I am not afraid of the goddess. Let her try her skill if she dare venture. She comes, said Minerva. And dropping her disguise stood confessed. The nymphs spent low in homage, and all the bystanders paid reverence. Arachne alone was unterrified. She blushed, indeed. A sudden color dyed her cheek, and then she grew pale. But she stood to her resolve, and with a foolish conceit of her own skill rushed on her fate. Minerva forbade no longer, nor interposed any further advice. They proceed to the contest. Each takes her station and attaches the web to the beam. Then the slender shuttle is passed in and out among the threads. The reed with its fine teeth strikes up the wolf into its place, and compacts the web. Both work with speed. Their skillful hands move rapidly, and the excitement of the contest makes the labor light. Wool of Tyrion dye is contrasted with that of other colors, shaded off into one another so adroitly that the joining deceives the eye. Like the bow, whose long arch tinges the heavens, formed by sunbeams reflected from the shower, in which, where the colors meet they seem as one, but at a little distance from the point of contact, are wholly different. Minerva wrought on her web the scene of her contest with Neptune. Twelve of the heavenly powers are represented, Jupiter, with August gravity, sitting in the midst. Neptune, the ruler of the sea, holds his trident, and appears to have just smitten the earth, from which a horse has leapt forth. Minerva depicted herself with helmed head, her aegis covering her breast. Such was the central circle, and in the four corners were represented incidents illustrating the displeasure of the gods at such presumptuous mortals as had dared to contend with them. These were meant as warnings to her rival to give up the contest before it was too late. Arachne filled her web with subjects designedly chosen to exhibit the failings and errors of the gods. One scene represented later caressing the swan, under which formed Jupiter had disguised himself, and another, Diné, in the brazen tower in which her father had imprisoned her, but where the god affected his entrance in the form of a golden shower, still another depicted Europa, deceived by Jupiter under the disguise of a bull. Encouraged by the tameness of the animal, Europa ventured to mount his back, whereupon Jupiter advanced into the sea and swam with her to Crete. You would have thought it was a real bull. So natural was it wrought, and so natural the water in which it swam. She seemed to look with longing eyes back upon the shore she was leaving, and to call her companions for help. She appeared to shudder with terror at the sight of the heaving waves, and to draw back her feet from the water. Arachne filled her canvas with similar subjects, wonderfully well done, but strongly marking her presumption and impiety. Minerva could not forbear to admire, yet she felt indignant at the insult. She struck the web with her shuttle and rented in pieces. She then touched the forehead of Arachne, and made her feel her guilt and shame. She could not endure it, and went and hanged herself. Minerva pitied her as she saw her suspended by a rope. Live, she said, guilty woman, that you may preserve the memory of this lesson, continue to hang, both you and your descendants, to all future times. She sprinkled her with the juices of aconite, and immediately her hair came off, and her nose and ears likewise. Her form shrank up, and her head grew smaller yet. Her fingers cleaved to her side and served for legs, all the rest of her is body, out of which she spins her thread, often hanging suspended by it, in the same attitude as when Minerva touched her and transformed her into a spider. Spencer tells the story of Arachne in his Moipatmos, adhering closely to his master Ovid, but improving upon him in the conclusion of the story. The two stanzas which follow tell what was done after the goddess had depicted her creation of the olive tree. Amongst these leaves she made a butterfly, with excellent device and wondrous slight, fluttering among the olives wantonly, that seemed to live, so like it was in sight. The velvet nap which on his wings doth lie, the silken down with which his back is dite, his broad outstretched horns, his hairy thighs, his glorious colors, and his glistening eyes. Which when Arachne saw, as overlaid and mastered with workmanship so rare, she stood astonied long, and art gained said, and with fast fixed eyes on her did stare, and by her silence, sign of one dismayed, the victory did yield her as her share, yet did she in lay fret and thilly burn, and all her blood to poisonous rank return. And so the metamorphosis is caused by Arachne's own mortification and vexation, and not by any direct act of the goddess. The following specimen of old-fashioned gallantry is by Garrick, upon a lady's embroidery. Arachne once, as poets tell, a goddess at her art defied, and soon the daring mortal fell the hapless victim of her pride. Oh, then beware Arachne's fate, be prudent, Chloe, and submit, for you'll most surely meet her hate who rival both her art and wit. Tennyson, in his palace of art, describing the works of art with which the palace was adorned, thus alludes to Europa. Sweet Europa's mantle blew and clasped from off her shoulder, backward-born, from one hand drooped a crocus, one hand grasped the mild bull's golden horn. In his princess there is this allusion to Dene. Now lies the earth, all Dene to the stars, and all thy heart lies open unto me. Niobe. The fate of Arachne was noised abroad through all the country, and served as a warning to all the presumptuous mortals not to compare themselves with the divinities. But one, and she a matron, too, failed to learn the lesson of humility. It was Niobe, the queen of Thebes. She had indeed much to be proud of, but it was not her husband's fame, nor her own beauty, nor the great descent, nor the power of their kingdom that elated her. It was her children. And truly the happiest of mothers would Niobe have been if only she had not claimed to be so. It was on occasion of the annual celebration in honour of Latona and her offspring, Apollo and Diana. When the people of Thebes were cendled, their brows crowned with laurel, bearing frankincense to the altars and paying their vows, that Niobe appeared among the crowd. Her attire was splendid with gold and gems, and her aspect beautiful as the face of an angry woman can be. She stood and surveyed the people with haughty looks. What folly, said she, is this, to prefer beings whom you never saw to those who stand before your eyes? Why should Latona be honoured with worship, and none be paid to me? My father was tantalus, who was received as a guest at the table of the gods. My mother was a goddess. My husband built and rules the city Thebes, and Phrygia is my paternal inheritance. Wherever I turn my eyes I survey the elements of my power, nor is my form and presence unworthy of a goddess. To all this let me add I have seven sons and seven daughters, and look for sons-in-law and daughters-in-law of pretensions worthy of my alliance. Have I not cause for pride? Will you prefer to me this, Latona? The titan's daughter with her two children? I have seven times as many. Fortune it indeed I am, and fortune it I shall remain. Will any one deny this? My abundance is my security. I feel myself too strong for fortune to subdue. She may take from me much. I shall still have much left. Right to lose some of my children I should hardly be left as poor as Latona with her two only. Away with you from these solemnities. Put off the laurel from your brows. Have done with this worship. The people obeyed, and left the sacred services uncompleted. The goddess was indignant. On the Synthian mountaintop where she dwelt she thus addressed her son and daughter. My children, I who have been so proud of you both, and have been used to hold myself second to none of the goddesses except Juno alone, begin now to doubt whether I am indeed a goddess. I shall be deprived of my worship altogether, unless you protect me. She was proceeding in this strain. But Apollo interrupted her. Say no more, said he. Speech only delays punishment. So said Diana also. Darking through the air, veiled in clouds, they alighted on the towers of the city. Spread out before the gates was a broad plain where the youth of the city pursued their war like sports. The sons of Nairobi were there with the rest, some mounted on spirited horses richly comparisoned. Some driving gay chariots. His menos, the firstborn, as he guided his foaming steeds, struck with an arrow from above, cried out, Army! Drop the reins and fell lifeless. Another, hearing the sound of the bow, like a boatman who sees the storm gathering, and makes all sail for the port, gave the reins to his horses and attempted to escape. The inevitable arrow overtook him as he fled. The terror of the people and grief of the attendants soon made Nairobi acquainted with what had taken place. She could hardly think it possible. She was indignant that the gods had dared, and amazed that they had been able to do it. Her husband, Anthion, overwhelmed with the blow, destroyed himself. Alas, how different was this Nairobi from her who had so lately driven away the people from the sacred rites, and held her stately course through the city, the envy of her friends, now the pity even of her foes. She knelt over the lifeless bodies and kissed now one, now another, of her dead sons. Raising her pallid arms to heaven, cruel Latona, said she, feed full your rage with my anguish. Say she ate your hard heart while I follow to the grave my seven sons. Yet where is your triumph? Buried as I am, I am still richer than you, my conqueror. Scarce had she spoken when the bow sounded and struck terror into all hearts except Naiobes alone. She was brave from excess of grief. The sisters stood in garments of mourning over the buyers of their dead brothers. One fell, struck by an arrow, and died on the corpse she was bewailing. Another, attempting to console her mother, suddenly ceased to speak, and sank lifeless to the earth. A third tried to escape by flight, a fourth by concealment. Another stood trembling, uncertain what course to take. Six were now dead, and only one remained, whom the mother held clasped in her arms, and covered as it were with her whole body. Spare me one, and the youngest. Oh, spare me one of so many, she cried, and while she spoke, that one fell dead. Desolate she sat, among sons, daughters, husband, all dead, and seemed torpid with grief. The breeze moved not her hair, no color was on her cheek. Her eyes glared fixed and immovable. There was no sign of life about her. Her very tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth, and her veins ceased to convey the tide of life. Her neck bent not, her arms made no gesture, her foot no step. She was changed to stone, within and without. Yet tears continued to flow, and born on a whirlwind to her native mountain, she still remains, a mass of rock, from which a trickling stream flows, the tribute of her never-ending grief. The story of Nairobi has furnished Byron with a fine illustration of the fallen condition of modern Rome. The Nairobi of nations, there she stands, childless and crownless in her voiceless woe, an empty urn within her withered hands, whose holy dust was scattered long ago. Thecipios tomb contains no ashes now. The very sepulchres lie tenetless of their heroic dwellers. Thus thou float, old Tiber, through a marble wilderness, rise with thy yellow waves and mantle her distress. This affecting story has been made the subject of a celebrated statue in the Imperial Gallery of Florence. It is the principal figure of a group supposed to have been originally arranged in the pediment of a temple. The figure of the mother, clasped by the arm of her terrified child, is one of the most admired of the ancient statues. It ranks with the Leocoon and the Apollo among the masterpieces of art. The following is a translation of a Greek epigram supposed to relate to this statue. To stone the gods have changed her, but in vain the sculptor's art has made her breathe again. Tragic as is the story of Nairobi, we cannot forbear to smile at the use more has made of it in Rhymes on the Road. It was in his carriage the sublime Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme, and, if the wits don't do him wrong, Twix death and epics past his time, scribbling and killing all day long, like Phoebus in his car at ease, now warbling forth a lofty song, now murdering the young Naioges. Sir Richard Blackmore was a physician, and at the same time a very prolific and very tasteless poet, whose works are now forgotten, unless when recalled to mind by some wit like more for the sake of a joke. Recording by Graham Redmond Bullfinch's Mythology The Age of Fable by Thomas Bullfinch Chapter 15 The Gree-E or Grey Maids Pursues Medusa Atlas Andromeda The Gree-E and the Gorgons The Gree-E were three sisters who were grey-haired from their birth, fenced their name. The Gorgons were monstrous females with huge teeth like those of swine, brazen claws, and snaky hair. None of these beings make much bigger in mythology, except Medusa, the Gorgon, whose story we shall next advert to. We mentioned them chiefly to introduce an ingenious theory of some modern writers, namely that the Gorgons and Gree-E were only personifications of the terrors of the sea, the former denoting the strong billows of the wide open main, and the latter the white crested waves that dash against the rocks of the coast. Their names in Greek signify the above epithets. Pursues and Medusa Pursues was the son of Jupiter and Denei. His grandfather, Eccrisius, alarmed by an oracle which had told him that his daughter's child would be the instrument of his death, caused the mother and child to be shut up in a chest and set adrift on the sea. The chest floated towards Seraphus, where it was found by a fisherman who conveyed the mother and infant to Polydectes, the king of the country, by whom they were treated with kindness. When Pursues was grown up, Polydectes sent him to attempt the conquest of Medusa, a terrible monster who had laid waste the country. She was once a beautiful maiden whose hair was her chief glory, but as she dared to vie in beauty with Minerva, the goddess deprived her of her charms, and changed her beautiful ringlets into hissing serpents. She became a cruel monster of so frightful an aspect that no living thing could behold her without being turned into stone. All around the cabin where she dwelt might be seen the stony figures of men and animals which had chance to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified with the sight. Pursues favoured by Minerva and Mercury, the former of whom lent him her shield and the latter his winged shoes, approached Medusa while she slept, and taking care not to look directly at her but guided by her image reflected in the bright shield which he bore, he cut off her head and gave it to Minerva, who fixed it in the middle of her eages. Milton in his comas thus alludes to the eages. What was that snaky-headed Gorgonshield, that wise Minerva wore unconquered virgin, wherewith she freezed her foes to congealed stone but rigid looks of chaste austerity and noble grace that dashed brute violence with sudden adoration and blank awe. Armstrong, the poet of the Art of Preserving Health, thus describes the effect of frost upon the waters. Now blows the surly north and chills throughout the stiffening regions, while by stronger charms than surcy air or felmadier brood, each brook that won't to prattle to its banks lies all bestilled and wedged betwixt its banks, nor moves the withered reeds. The surges baited by the fierce northeast, tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads, e'en in the foam of all their madness struck to monumental ice. Such execution, so stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect of terrible medusa. When wandering through the woods, she turned to stone their savage tenants, just as the foaming lion sprang furious on his prey, her speedier power outran his haste, and fixed in that fierce attitude he stands like rage in marble. Imitations of Shakespeare Pursues and Atlas After the slaughter of medusa, Pursues, bearing with him the head of the gorgon, flew far and wide over land and sea. As night came on he reached the western limit of the earth where the sun goes down. Here he would gladly have rested till morning. It was the realm of King Atlas whose bulks surpassed that of all other men. He was rich in flocks and herds, and had no neighbour or rival to dispute his state. But his chief pride was in his gardens, whose fruit was of gold, hanging from golden branches half hid with golden leaves. Pursues said to him, I come as a guest. If you honour illustrious dissent, I claim Jupiter for my father. If mighty deeds, I plead the conquest of the gorgon. I seek rest and food. But Atlas remembered that an ancient prophecy had warned him that a son of Jove should one day rob him of his golden apples. So he answered, Begone, or neither your false claims of glory nor parentage shall protect you, and he attempted to thrust him out. Pursues finding the giant too strong for him said, Since you value my friendship so little, Dane to accept a present. And turning his face away, he held up the gorgon's head. Atlas, with all his bulk, was changed into stone. His beard and hair became forests, his arms and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks. Each part increased in bulk till he became a mountain, and such was the pleasure of the gods. Heaven, with all its stars, rests upon his shoulders. The sea monster. Pursues, continuing his flight, arrived at the country of the Ethiopians, of which Cepheus was king. Cassiopeia, his queen, proud of her beauty, had dared to compare herself to the sea-nymphs, which roused their indignation to such a degree that they sent a prodigious sea-monster to ravage the coast. To appease the deities, Cepheus was directed by the oracle to expose his daughter Andromeda to be devoured by the monster. As Pursues looked down from his aerial height, he beheld the virgin chained to a rock and waiting the approach of the serpent. She was so pale and motionless, that if it had not been for her flowing tears and her hair that moved in the breeze, he would have taken her for a marble statue. He was so startled at the sight that he almost forgot to wave his wings. As he hovered over her, he said, O virgin, undeserving of those chains, but rather of such as bind fond lovers together, tell me I beseech you, your name, and the name of your country, and why you are thus bound. At first she was silent from modesty, and, if she could, would have hid her face with her hands. But when he repeated his questions, for fear she might be thought guilty of some fault which she dared not tell, she disclosed her name and that of her country, and her mother's pride of beauty. Before she had done speaking, a sound was heard off upon the water, and the sea-monster appeared, with his head raised above the surface, cleaving the waves with his broad breast. The virgin shrieked. The father and mother, who had now arrived at the scene, wretched both, but the mother more justly so, stood by, not able to afford protection, but only to pour forth lamentations and to embrace the victim. Then spoke Perseus, There will be time enough for tears, this hour is all we have for rescue. My rank as the son of Jove and my renown as the slayer of the Gorgon might make me acceptable as a suitor, but I will try to win her by services rendered if the gods will only be propitious. If she be rescued by my valour, I demand that she be my reward. The parents consent, how could they hesitate, and promise a royal dowry with her. And now the monster was within the range of a stone thrown by a skillful slinger, when with a sudden bound the youth soared into the air. As an eagle, when from his lofty flight he sees a serpent basking in the sun, pounces upon him and seizes him by the neck to prevent him from turning his head round and using his fangs, so the youth darted down upon the back of the monster and plunged his sword into its shoulder. Irritated by the wound, the monster raised himself in the air, then plunged into the depth. Then, like a wild boar surrounded by a pack of barking dogs, turned swiftly from side to side, while the youth eluded its attacks by means of his wings. Wherever he can find a passage for his sword between the scales, he makes a wound, piercing now the side, now the flank, as it slopes towards the tail. The brute sprouts from his nostrils water mixed with blood. The wings of the hero are wet with it, and he dares no longer trust to them. A lighting on a rock which rose above the waves and holding on by a projecting fragment, as the monster floated near, he gave him a death stroke. The people who had gathered on the shore shouted so that the hills re-echoed the sound. The parents, transported with joy, embraced their future son-in-law, calling him their deliverer and the saviour of their house, and the virgin, both cause and reward of the contest, descended from the rock. Cassiopeia was an Ethiopian, and consequently, in spite of her boasted beauty, black. At least so Milton seems to have thought, who alludes to this story in his ponzeroso, where he addresses melancholy as the goddess sage and holy, who saintly visages too bright to hit the sense of human sight, and therefore to our weaker view, ear laid with black, stayed wisdom's hue. Black but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might be seen, or that starred Ethiope Queen that strove to set her beauty's praise above the sea-nymphs, and their powers offended. Cassiopeia is called the starred Ethiope Queen, because after her death she was placed among the stars, forming the constellation of that name. Though she attained this honour, yet the sea-nymphs, her old enemies, prevailed so far as to cause her to be placed in that part of the heaven near the pole, where every night she is half the time held with her head downward to give her a lesson of humility. Memnon was an Ethiopian Prince, of whom we shall tell in a future chapter. The Wedding Feast The joyful parents, with pursues and andromeda, repaired to the palace where a banquet was spread for them, and all was joy and festivity. But suddenly a noise was heard of warlike clamour, and fine use, the betrothed of the virgin, with a party of his adherents, burst in, demanding the maiden as his own. It was in vain that Cepheus remonstrated, you should have claimed her when she lay bound to the rock the monster's victim. The sentence of the gods dooming her to such a fate dissolved all engagements, as death itself would have done. Fine use made no reply, but hurled his javelin at pursues, but it missed its mark and fell harmless. Pursues would have thrown his in turn, but the cowardly assailant ran and took shelter behind the altar. But his act was a signal for an onset by his band upon the guests of Cepheus. They defended themselves, and a general conflict ensued, the old king retreating from the scene after fruitless expostulations, calling the gods to witness that he was guiltless of this outrage on the rights of hospitality. Pursues and his friends maintained for some time the unequal contest, but the numbers of the assailants were too great for them, and destruction seemed inevitable when the sudden thought struck Pursues. I will make my enemy defend me. Then with a loud voice he exclaimed, If I have any friend here, let him turn away his eyes, and held aloft the gorgon's head. Seek not to frighten us with your jugglery, said Thesulus, and raised his javelin in act to throw, and became stone in the very attitude. Ampix was about to plunge his sword into the body of a prostrate foe, but his arms stiffened, and he could neither thrust forward nor withdraw it. Another, in the midst of a vociferous challenge, stopped his mouth open, but no sound is suing. One of Pursues's friends, a contious, caught sight of the gorgon, and stiffened like the rest. Astyages struck him with his sword, but instead of wounding it recoiled with a ringing noise. Finus beheld this dreadful result of his unjust aggression, and felt confounded. He called aloud to his friends, but got no answer. He touched them, and found them stone. Falling on his knees, and stretching out his hands to Pursues, but turning his head away, he begged for mercy. Take all, said he, Give me but my life. Base coward, said Pursues, Thus much I will grant you. No weapon shall touch you. Moreover, you shall be preserved in my house as a memorial of these events. So, saying, he held the gorgon's head to the side where Finus was looking, and in the very form in which he knelt, with his hands outstretched and face averted, he became fixed immovably, a mass of stone. The following allusion to Pursues is from Milman's Sämur. As mid the fabled Libyan bridle stood Pursues in stern tranquillity of wroth, half stood, half floated on his ankle-plumes out swelling, while the bright face on his shield looked into stone the raging fray. So rose, but with no magic arms, wearing alone the appalling and control of his firm look, the Britain Sämur. At his rising awe went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute. Bullfinch's Mythology, The Age of Fable, by Thomas Bullfinch Chapter 16 Monsters, Giants, Sphinx, Pegasus and Chimera, Centaurs, Griffin, and Pygmies Monsters in the language of mythology were beings of unnatural proportions or parts, usually regarded with terror, as possessing immense strength and ferocity which they employed for the injury and annoyance of men. Some of them were supposed to combine the members of different animals, such were the Sphinx and Chimera, and to these all the terrible qualities of wild beasts were attributed together with human sagacity and faculties. Others, as the Giants, differed from men chiefly in their size, and in this particular we must recognize a wide distinction among them. The human Giants, if so they may be called, such as the Cyclopes and Tias, Orion and others, must be supposed not to be altogether disproportioned to human beings, for they mingled in love and strife with them. But the superhuman Giants, who warred with the gods, were of vastly larger dimensions. Titius, we are told, when stretched on the plain, covered nine acres, and Enceladus required the whole of Mount Etna to be laid upon him to keep him down. We have already spoken of the war which the Giants waged against the gods and of its result. While this war lasted, the Giants proved a formidable enemy. Some of them, like Priarius, had a hundred arms. Others, like Typhon, breathed out fire. At one time they put the gods to such fear that they fled into Egypt and hid themselves under various forms. Jupiter took the form of a ram, quince he was afterwards worshipped in Egypt as the god Amun, with curved horns. Apollo became a crow, back as a goat, Diana a cat, Juno a cow, Venus a fish, Mercury a bird. At another time the Giants attempted to climb up into heaven, and for that purpose took up the mountain Ossa and piled it on Pelion. Footnote, see proverbial expressions. They were at last subdued by Thunderbolts, which Minerva invented, and taught Vulcan and his Cyclopes to make for Jupiter. The Sphinx. Leus, king of Thebes, was warned by an oracle that there was a danger to his throne and life if his newborn son should be suffered to grow up. He therefore committed the child to the care of a herdsman with orders to destroy him. But the herdsman, moved with pity, yet not daring entirely to disobey, tied up the child by the feet, and left him hanging to the branch of a tree. In this condition the infant was found by a peasant who carried him to his master and mistress by whom he was adopted and called Edipus or Swoelenfoot. Many years afterwards, Leus, being on his way to Delphi, accompanied only by one attendant, met in a narrow road a young man also driving in a chariot. On his refusal to leave the way of their command the attendant killed one of his horses and the stranger, filled with rage, slew both Leus and his attendant. The young man was Edipus, who thus unknowingly became the slayer of his own father. Shortly after this event the city of Thebes was afflicted with a monster which infested the high road. It was called the Sphinx. It had the body of a lion and the upper part of a woman. It lay crouched on the top of a rock and arrested all travellers who came that way, proposing to them a riddle, with the condition that those who could solve it should pass safe, but those who failed should be killed. Not one had yet succeeded in solving it, and all had been slain. Edipus was not taunted by these alarming accounts, but boldly advanced to the trial. The Sphinx asked him, What animal is that which in the morning goes on four feet, at noon on two, and in the evening upon three? Edipus replied, Man, who in childhood creeps on hands and knees, in manhood walks erect and in old age with the aid of a staff. The Sphinx was so mortified at the solving of her riddle that she cast herself down from the rock and perished. The gratitude of the people for their deliverance was so great that they made Edipus their king, giving him in marriage their queen Jacasta. Edipus, ignorant of his parentage, had already become the slayer of his father. In marrying the queen he became the husband of his mother. These horrors remained undiscovered till at length Thebes was afflicted with famine and pestilence, and the oracle being consulted the double crime of Edipus came to light. Jacasta put an end to her own life, and Edipus, seized with madness, tore out his eyes and wandered away from Thebes, dreaded and abandoned by all except his daughters, who faithfully adhered to him, till after a tedious period of miserable wandering he found the termination of his wretched life. Pegasus and the Chimera When Pursues cut off Medusa's head, the blood sinking into the earth produced the winged horse Pegasus. Minerva caught him and tamed him and presented him to the Muses. The fountain Hippocrini on the Muses Mountain Helicon was opened by a kick from his hoof. The Chimera was a fearful monster breathing fire. The fore part of its body was a compound of the lion and the goat, and the hind part of dragons. It made great havoc in Lycia, so that the king Iobates sought for some hero to destroy it. At that time there arrived at his court a gallant young warrior whose name was Beleraphon. He brought letters from Proetus, the son-in-law of Iobates, recommending Beleraphon in the warmest terms as an unconquerable hero, but added at the close a request to his father-in-law to put him to death. The reason was that Proetus was jealous of him, suspecting that his wife Antia looked with too much admiration on the young warrior. From this instance of Beleraphon being unconsciously the bearer of his own death warrant, the expression Beleraphontic letters arose to describe any species of communication which a person is made the bearer of, containing matter prejudicial to himself. Iobates, on perusing the letters, was puzzled what to do, not willing to violate the claims of hospitality yet wishing to oblige his son-in-law. A lucky thought occurred to him, to send Beleraphon to combat with the Chimera. Beleraphon accepted the proposal, but before proceeding to the combat consulted the soothsayer Polyidus, who advised him to procure if possible the horse Pegasus for the conflict. For this purpose he directed him to pass the night in the temple of Minerva. He did so, and as he slept Minerva came to him and gave him a golden bridle. When he awoke the bridle remained in his hand. Minerva also showed him Pegasus drinking at the well of Pirini, and at sight of the bridle the winged steed came willingly and suffered himself to be taken. Beleraphon mounted him, rose with him into the air, soon found the Chimera, and gained an easy victory over the monster. After the conquest of the Chimera Beleraphon was exposed to further trials and labours by his unfriendly host, but by the aid of Pegasus he triumphed in them all, till at length Iobites seeing that the hero was a special favourite of the gods gave him his daughter in marriage and made him his successor on the throne. At last Beleraphon by his pride and presumption drew upon himself the anger of the gods. It is said he even attempted to fly up into heaven on his winged steed, but Jupiter sent a gadfly which stung Pegasus and made him throw his rider, who became lame and blind in consequence. After this Beleraphon wandered lonely through the Allian field, avoiding the paths of men, and died miserably. Milton alludes to Beleraphon in the beginning of the seventh book of Paradise Lost. Descend from heaven, Urania, by that name, if rightly thou art called, whose voice divine following above the Olympian hill I saw above the flight of Pegasian wing. Up led by thee into the heaven of heavens I have presumed an earthly guest, and drawn imperial air thy tempering. With like safety guided down, return me to my native element, lest from this flying steed unrained, as once Beleraphon, though from a lower sphere, dismounted on the Allian field I fall, erroneous there to wander, and forlorn. Young in his night thoughts, speaking of the skeptic, says, he whose blind thought futurity denies, unconscious bears Beleraphon like thee his own indictment he condemns himself. Who reads his bosom reads immortal life, or nature there imposing on her sons has written fables. Man was made a lie. Volume 2, page 12. Pegasus being the horse of the muses has always been at the service of the poets. Schiller tells a pretty story of his having been sold by a needy poet, and put to the cart and the plow. He was not fit for such service, and his clownish master could make nothing of him. But a youth stepped forth and asked leave to try him. As soon as he was seated on his back, the horse, which had appeared at first vicious and afterwards spirit broken, rose kingly, a spirit, a god, unfolded the splendour of his wings, and soared towards heaven. Our own poet Longfellow also records an adventure of this famous steed in his Pegasus in Pound. Shakespeare alludes to Pegasus in Henry IV, where Vernon describes Prince Henry. I saw young Harry with his beaver on, his quishes on his thighs gallantly armed, rise from the ground like feathered mercury, and vaulted with such ease into his seat as if an angel dropped down from the clouds to turn and wind a fiery Pegasus and witch the world with noble horsemanship. The Centaurs These monsters were represented as men from the head to the loins, while the remainder of the body was that of a horse. The ancients were too fond of a horse to consider the union of his nature with man's as forming a very degraded compound, and accordingly the centaur is the only one of the fancied monsters of antiquity to which any good trays are assigned. The centaurs were admitted to the companionship of man, and at the marriage of Pyrethoas with Hippodamia they were among the guests. At the feast Eurytion, one of the centaurs, becoming intoxicated with the wine, attempted to offer violence to the bride. The other centaurs followed his example, and a dreadful conflict arose in which several of them were slain. This is the celebrated battle of the Lapithae and Centaurs, a favorite subject with the sculptors and poets of antiquity. But not all the centaurs were like the rude guests of Pyrethoas. Chiron was instructed by Apollo and Diana, and was renowned for his skill in hunting, medicine, music, and the art of prophecy. The most distinguished heroes of Grecian's story were his pupils. Among the rest, the infant Iskulapius was entrusted to his charge by Apollo his father. When the sage returned to his home bearing the infant, his daughter, Osiroe, came forth to meet him, and at sight of the child burst forth into a prophetic strain, for she was a prophetess, for telling the glory that he was to achieve. Iskulapius, when grown up, became a renowned physician, and even in one instance succeeded in restoring the dead to life. Pluto resented this, and Jupiter, at his request, struck the bold physician with lightning and killed him, but after his death received him into the number of the gods. Chiron was the wisest and justest of all the centaurs, and at his death Jupiter placed him among the stars as the constellation Sagittarius. The pygmies. The pygmies were a nation of dwarfs, so called from a Greek word which means the cubit, or measure of about 13 inches, which was said to be the height of these people. They lived near the sources of the Nile, or according to others in India. Homer tells us that the cranes used to migrate every winter to the pygmies country, and their appearance was the signal of bloody warfare to the puny inhabitants, who had to take up arms to defend their cornfields against the rapacious strangers. The pygmies and their enemies, the cranes, formed the subject of several works of art. Later writers tell of an army of pygmies which, finding Hercules asleep, made preparations to attack him as if they were about to attack a city. But the hero, awaking, laughed at the little warriors, wrapped some of them up in his lion's skin, and carried them to Eurystheus. Milton uses the pygmies for a simile, Paradise Lost Book One. Like that pygmian race beyond the Indian mount, or fairy elves whose midnight rebels by a forest side, or fountain, some belated peasant sees, or dreams he sees, while overhead the moon sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth wheels her pale course. They, on their mirth and dance intend, with jock and music charm his ear. At once, with joy and fear, his heart rebounds. The Griffin or Griffin The Griffin is a monster with the body of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and back covered with feathers. Like birds it builds its nest, and instead of an egg lays an agate therein. It has long claws and talons of such a size that the people of that country make them into drinking cups. India was assigned as the native country of the Griffin's. They found gold in the mountains and built their nests of it, for which reason their nests were very tempting to the hunters, and they were forced to keep vigilant guard over them. Their instinct led them to know where buried treasures lay, and they did their best to keep plunderers at a distance. The Arimaspians, among whom the Griffins flourished, were a one-eyed people of Scythia. Milton borrows a simile from the Griffins, Paradise Lost Book Two. As when the Griffin, through the wilderness, with winged course, or hill, and moory dale, pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth hath from his wakeful custody perloined his guarded gold, etc. End of Chapter Sixteen Recording by