Gods and Heroes

What should he do now? Return to his grandfather’s palace? Conceal himself in the depths of the forest? While thus torn by the conflicting emotions of fear and shame, his hounds saw him. The whole pack, fifty in number, rushed upon the imaginary stag. Eager for their prey, they chased him over mountain and valley, jagged rocks and yawning abysses. Thus the despairing one, himself the hunted, fled over well-known regions where he had often hunted wild animals. Twice he would have turned and cried, “Spare me! I am Actæon.” But he was speechless. Baying furiously, the leader of the pack overtook him and seized him by the neck, while all the others rushed upon him and tore him with their sharp teeth. The victim groaned heavily; no stag ever groaned that way, and yet it was not a human groan. Like one praying he fell upon his knees, and in mute anguish turned his face towards his assailants. At this instant his companions, hearing the baying of the hounds, came up. With their usual call they incited the hounds and then shouted for their master, whom they believed was not far away. “Actæon,” rang through the forest, “where art thou? Come and behold this wonderful capture.” Thus they cried as the unfortunate victim was killed by the spears of his own friends.

After Actæon had thus wretchedly perished, his hounds began to miss their loved master. Baying and whining, they sought the lost one everywhere, until at last they came to Chiron’s cavern. Chiron made a bronze image of Actæon so much like him that it deceived them. When the hounds saw it they sprang upon it, licked the hands and feet, and acted as joyfully as if they had found their real master again.

Chapter XV
Dædalus and Icarus

Dædalus of Athens was a son of Metion, grandson of Erectheus. He was the most skilful man of his time—an architect, sculptor, and stone worker. His works were admired in various parts of the world, and his statues were said to live, move, and see; for while the statues of earlier artists had their eyes closed and the hands not separated from the body, he was the first one who gave open eyes to his statues, extended the hands, and represented the feet as walking. But skilful, zealous, and active as he was in his work, he had vices which brought him into trouble. He had a nephew, named Talos, who was his pupil, and who displayed even more skill than his uncle and master. He discovered the potter’s wheel. He also took the jaw of a snake and copied it in iron, cutting into it a row of continuous teeth, thus inventing the saw. He also invented the lathe and many useful instruments without assistance from his teacher, which made him famous.

Dædalus, fearing that the name of his scholar might become more renowned than his own, grew so jealous that he killed the boy by hurling him down from the castle at Athens. While engaged in burying him, he was surprised by the authorities and pretended he was burying a snake. At last he was brought before the Areopagus, charged with murder, and was found guilty. He managed to escape, however, and at first wandered about in Attica, but finally fled to the island of Crete. There he met King Minos, became his friend, and was highly esteemed as a renowned artist. He was chosen to make a house for the Minotaur, a monster resembling a bull from its head to its shoulders, the remainder of its body being like a man, and to construct it so that the monster would be entirely removed from human sight. The inventive genius of Dædalus produced the Labyrinth, a structure full of complicated windings, confusing both to the eyes and feet of those who entered it. When it was finished and Dædalus began to look it over, the builder himself found his way back to the opening only with the greatest difficulty. The Minotaur was kept in the very centre of this Labyrinth, its food being seven youths and seven maidens sent to it periodically from Athens.

In the meantime Dædalus began to weary of his long banishment from home. It vexed him that he must spend his life upon an island exposed to the caprices of a tyrannical and cruel king. After long consideration, he at last joyfully exclaimed: “I have found the way to escape. Minos may be master of land and water, but the sky is free to me. He has no power over that. Through the air I will escape.” No sooner said than done. He began by arranging bird feathers of different sizes in regular order. These feathers he fastened in the middle with waxed linen cords. He then bent the joined feathers in such perfect curves that they clearly resembled wings. Dædalus had a boy, named Icarus, who stood by him and eagerly meddled, childlike, with his father’s work. All of a sudden he took some of the feathers and deftly kneaded the wax, which his father had been using, with his thumb and forefinger. The father smiled at the unassisted exertions of the child. After his work was finished Dædalus fastened the wings to his body, balanced them equally, and sailed through the air as lightly as a bird. Then, descending to earth, he constructed a smaller pair for his son and instructed him how to use them. “Always fly, my dear son, in the middle course,” he said. “If you fly too low your wings may become so dampened by the sea air that they will grow heavy and you may fall into the waves, and if you mount too high and go too near the sunbeams your feathers may suddenly take fire. Fly between sea and sky and always follow in my course.” After these warnings Dædalus fastened his wings on Icarus’ shoulders, though the old man’s hands trembled as he did so, and anxious tears dropped upon them. He then embraced his son and kissed him for the last time.

The two rose in air. The father led the way, flying as natural as a bird. He moved his wings easily and skilfully and from time to time looked back to see how his son was succeeding. They soon passed the island of Samos at the left and flew by the islands of Delos and Paros. Several other localities were left behind them when suddenly Icarus, who had grown over-confident, forsook his paternal guide to reach a higher altitude. He soon encountered the danger his father predicted. The proximity of the sun weakened the wax which held his wings together and they became detached from his shoulders. The unfortunate youth tried to keep in air with his bare arms, but it was in vain and he suddenly plunged downwards with the name of his father on his lips; but before he could call for help he sank in the sea’s blue depths. It all happened so quickly that Dædalus, when he looked back for his son, could see nothing of him. “Icarus, Icarus,” he shouted in the vacant sky, “where and in what region of air shall I seek thee?” At last he cast an anxious glance downward and saw the feathers floating on the water. He descended and wandered from shore to shore seeking the body of his unfortunate child, and at last found it. The murder of Talos was avenged. The despairing father attended to the burial of his son, upon an island which in lasting memory of the tragic event is called Icaria.

After Dædalus had buried his son he went to the large island of Sicily, where King Cocalus ruled. He met with the same hospitable reception which Minos once extended to him, and his skill created universal astonishment. He constructed an artificial lake from which issued a broad river emptying into the neighboring sea. Upon a barren and almost insurmountable cliff, which had hardly room for a couple of trees, he built a strong fortress approached by a winding way which could be defended by three or four men. King Cocalus used this impregnable castle as a storehouse for his treasures. The third work of Dædalus was a deep cavern on the island of Sicily. Here he overcame the reek of internal fires so skilfully that a visit to the cavern, which was usually so damp, became as agreeable as if it were a mildly warmed room and the body experienced a gentle perspiration without being overheated. He also enlarged the temple of Aphrodite (Venus) upon Mount Eryx[21] and dedicated to the goddess a golden honeycomb so skilfully made that it was difficult to tell it from a real one.

When King Minos, whose island Dædalus forsook, learned that he had fled to Sicily he resolved to follow him with a strong force. He organized a fleet and set out from Crete to Agrigentum. There he disembarked his troops and sent messengers to King Cocalus, demanding the surrender of the fugitive. But Cocalus was enraged at this invasion by a foreign tyrant and determined to find some way of destroying him. He pretended to consent, promised to comply with his wishes in every way, and invited him to an interview. Minos came and was received by Cocalus with the greatest hospitality. A warm bath was prepared to relieve him of fatigue, but when he sat in the tub it was so soon overheated that Minos was suffocated. The king sent his body to the Cretans who came with him, informing them that Minos had slipped and fallen into the hot water in the tub. Minos was taken with great pomp by his warriors to Agrigentum and above his grave a temple of Venus was built. Dædalus remained in the continuous favor of Cocalus, educated many famous artists, and was the founder of art in Sicily. But he was never happy after the death of his son, and while he enriched the country which had given him refuge, with beautiful art works, his old age was sorrowful and full of troubles. He died upon the island and was buried there.

Chapter XVI
Philemon and Baucis

Upon a hill in the land of Phrygia stands a thousand year old oak, and close by it a linden of the same age, both surrounded by a low wall. Many a wreath has been hung upon the boughs of the neighborly pair. Not far from them extends a swampy lake into which empties a shallow stream. Where in former times people dwelt, now only herons and ducks rove about. Once Father Zeus came to this spot with his son Hermes carrying only his wand, but not his winged cap. They were seeking hospitality in human form. They knocked at a thousand doors praying shelter for the night. But the people were so disobliging that the heavenly visitants could not anywhere find lodging. At the end of the village was a hut, humble and small, covered with straw and rushes. In this poor house lived a happy couple, honest Philemon and Baucis, his wife, of the same age. They had spent their joyous youth together there, and there they had grown white-haired. They made no complaint of their poverty, but quietly bore their hard lot, united in love, and although childless, they were content in the mean little house which they alone occupied together.

As the high deities approached this humble roof and entered the low passageway with bowed heads, the honest couple met them with a hearty greeting. The old man placed seats for them, and Baucis, clad in a coarse dress, begged them to rest themselves. The little mother busied herself about the hearth, stirred up the ashes, piled up dry leaves and brushwood, and kindled a fire. Then she brought split wood and placed it under the little kettle hanging over the fire. In the meantime Philemon brought cabbage from his well-watered garden, deftly unleaved it, took down a side of smoked pork with his two-tined fork from the ceiling, and cut a huge piece from the shoulder to put into the boiling water. That the time might not seem too long to the strangers, they exerted themselves to entertain them with light conversation. They also poured water into the wooden tub so that they could enjoy a foot bath. Smiling in a friendly way, the gods accepted these proffers, and while they were stretching their feet comfortably in the water their gracious host prepared the couch-bed, which stood in the middle of the room. The cushions were stuffed with rushes and the feet and frame were made of woven willow. Philemon brought carpetings which were only kept for feast days,—how old and poor they were!—and the divine guests prepared to enjoy the meal which was now ready. The little mother, in her neat apron, placed with trembling hands the three-legged table before the couch, and as it would not stand very securely, she raised it slightly by placing something under it. Then she rubbed the plates with fresh mint and food was set before them. There were olives, cornelian cherries, preserved in clear thick sirup, also radishes, endives, fine cheese, and eggs cooked in the ashes. Baucis brought all these in earthen dishes, besides a showily colored pitcher and neat cups of beechwood, glazed on the inside with yellow wax, filled with milk, for they had no wine. Nuts, figs, and dates were brought for desert, and two dishes filled with plums and spicy apples. In the middle of the table was a whitish honeycomb. But the finest seasoning of the meal was the good friendly faces of the honest old couple, testifying to their honesty and generosity.

As all were enjoying the food and drink, Philemon observed that the pitcher contained wine instead of milk and that in spite of emptying of the cups they were continually refilled. Then he recognized with surprise and fear whom he was entertaining. In distress he flew to his old companion with upraised arms and downcast eyes and implored her to know what they should offer to their heavenly guests. Suddenly it occurred to them that they might offer their only goose. Both ran out, but the goose was faster than they. Hissing and flapping its wings, it ran here and there, outdistancing the old people. Finally it ran into the house and crouched behind the guests, as if seeking divine protection. And it did not seek in vain.

The guests restrained the ardor of the old people and said with a laugh: “We are gods who have come to earth to test the generosity of men. We found your neighbors wicked and they shall be punished. But you shall leave this house and follow us to the summit of the mountain, so that you shall not suffer with the guilty ones.” Both obeyed, and leaning upon their staffs they wearisomely climbed the mountain. They were not an arrow’s flight from the highest peak when they anxiously looked down and saw the whole place changed into a raging waste of waters, and of all the houses only their own little one remained. While they stood astonished and bewailed the fate of the others, behold the poor old hut towered above the waters as a temple. A golden roof was supported on its columns and its floors were of marble. Zeus turned to the trembling old people and said: “Tell me, honest old man and worthy wife of the honest old man, what do you most wish?” Philemon exchanged a few words with his wife and then said: “We would be your priests. Permit us to serve in that temple. And as we have so long lived together, let us die at the same hour. Then I shall never see the grave of my dear wife nor will she have to bury me.”

Their wish was granted. As long as they lived they served in the temple. And once, when weary with the weight of age and years, they were standing on the sacred steps, thinking of their wonderful fate, Baucis saw her Philemon and Philemon his Baucis disappearing and floating away to the distant height. “Farewell, dear one. Farewell, beloved one,” said each as long as they could speak. Thus ended the worthy pair. He was turned into an oak and she into a linden, and thus they remained as close together in death as they had been in life. Goodness is prized by the gods. They bestow honors upon those who prove themselves worthy.

Chapter XVII
Arachne

In Hypaipa, a little city of Lydia, dwelt a maiden of lowly birth named Arachne. Idmon, her father, was a dyer at Colophon and her mother, who died early, was born of poor parents. The name of Arachne was famous in Lydia, for she surpassed all human women in skill and industry in weaving. The nymphs of the vine-clad mountain of Tmolus and of the river Pactolus came to her poor cottage to watch her work. Never were skill and grace more closely united. Whether she was first preparing the coarse wool, or drawing the threads finer and finer, or revolving the spindle with nimble thumbs, or stitching with the needle, it always seemed as if Pallas Athene herself must have instructed her. Arachne knew nothing about it, but she often declared in an offended tone: “I did not get my skill from the goddess. Let her come and try her skill with me. If she defeats me I will bear any penalty.”

Athene was very angry when she heard this boast, assumed the form of a little old woman, covered her brow with gray hair, and leaning for support upon a staff, came to Arachne’s cottage and thus began: “The years bring experience to gray old age. Therefore despise not my advice. Seek for the glory of surpassing all mortals with your skill, but meekly submit to the gods. Implore pardon for your haughty words and all will be forgiven you.” Arachne’s countenance darkened, and she angrily replied: “Thou art foolish, old one. The burden of the years has weakened thy senses. It is not good to live long. Preach such silliness to thy daughter. I need none of thy advice and spurn thy admonitions. Why does not Pallas herself come? Why does she avoid the trial with me?” The goddess could not longer restrain herself. “She is here now,” she cried, as she threw off her disguise and stood before her in her own image.

The nymphs and the Lydian women who were present fell humbly at her feet, but Arachne did not tremble. A fleeting blush reddened her face and she resolutely adhered to her purpose. Urged on by her foolish vanity, she exposed herself to the penalty of which she had been warned. The daughter of Zeus lost no time in further attempts to dissuade her, but undertook the trial. Seating themselves, the weaving began. Purple and a thousand other colors, distracting to eyes not used to them, were skilfully woven together. Threads of gold ran through the webs, and wonderful pictures astonished the eyes of the spectators. Athene fashioned the cliffs of the Athenian mount and their contest with the sea god for possession of the land. Twelve gods with Zeus in the centre sat there, serious and dignified. Here stood Poseidon as he struck the rocks with his trident. There appeared the goddess herself, the divine artist, armed with shield and lance, her helmet on her head, the terrible ægis on her breast, teaching men for the first time the culture of the olive tree, and causing it to spring from the unfruitful earth with the point of her spear. Thus Athene wove her own victory in the web. In the four corners she worked four examples of human pride which have tragic results from the vengeance of the gods. In the first corner were the Thracian king, Harnus, and his wife Rhodope, who called themselves Zeus and Hera and were changed into mountain peaks. In another corner was the unhappy mother of the Pygmæi, who, overcome by Hera, was changed to a crane, and fought her own children. In the third corner was Antigone, the charming daughter of Laomedon, who was so proud of her beauty and her tresses that she likened herself to Hera. The goddess changed her tresses to snakes which bit and tormented her until Zeus, pitying her, turned her into a stork. In the last Pallas pictured Einyras, weeping over the fate of his daughter, who because of her pride was changed by Hera to a stone step before one of her temples. All these pictures Athene wove and surrounded them with a wreath of olive leaves.

Arachne wove in her web many pictures illustrating the disreputable actions of Zeus and surrounded them with a wreath of ivy and blossoms. When she had finished her work Athene could not find fault with the skill of the maiden, but she was enraged with the sacrilege of the weaver. She suddenly tore the web to pieces and struck the maiden three times on the forehead with the spindle which she held in her hand. The unfortunate one could not endure this. Madness seized her and she hanged herself with a rope. As she was suspended in the air, the goddess had compassion upon her and said: “Live, but hang there, thou audacious one. And so shall thy whole race to the latest generation be punished.” With these words she sprinkled Arachne with a few magic drops and went away. The hair, nose, and ears of the maiden disappeared and she shrank into a small and noxious insect. And the spider to-day still weaves its web—the old art.

Chapter XVIII
Hyacinthus

The youngest of the sons of the Laconian king, Amyclas, was Hyacinthus. Phœbus Apollo beheld the beautiful boy, who soon became his favorite. He sought at first to elevate him to Olympus that he might be ever near him; but a sad fate prevented this and cut him down in the very flower of his youth.

Apollo often forsook sacred Delphi in order to enjoy the company of his favorite at the river of Eurotas in the neighborhood of the unwalled city of Sparta. He left his lyre and bow and joined Hyacinthus in hunting among the hills of Taygetus. Once at noontime, when the sun was sending down its hottest rays, both threw aside their garments, anointed their bodies with oil, and began throwing the discus.

Apollo was the first to take the heavy weight and hurled it so powerfully that it pierced the clouds. He waited long for the discus to fall to earth again. Eager to imitate his teacher, the boy sprang forward to make his throw, but suddenly was felled to the earth by Apollo’s discus. Apollo rushed to him and sought to animate his stiffened limbs. He wiped the blood from the dreadful wounds, applied healing balms, and sought to stay the fleeing spirit of his favorite. But it was in vain. Like a broken flower in the garden, the poor boy’s head drooped, exhausted, upon Apollo’s breast. Apollo called him tender names and bedewed his face with bitter tears. Oh, that he were not a god so that he might die for him!

At last he cried out: “No, sweet child, thou shalt not wholly die. As a flower thou shalt tell of my sorrow.” As Apollo said this, lo, from the streaming blood which reddened the grass sprang a flower of dark lustre like Tyrian purple, lily formed upon a stalk rich in blossoms, and showing upon its little leaves in clear form the sigh of the god: “A I, A I”; that is, “Alas! Alas!”

Thus originated the Spring flower which bears the name of the favorite of the god and speedily dies as did he—a type of the transitoriness of all beautiful things on earth. In Laconia when the Summer came they always had a great festival in honor of Hyacinthus and his divine friends, the hyacinths, whereby they kept the boy in memory—sorrowfully, as one who perished early, but joyously, as one beloved of the gods and deified.

Footnotes

Transcriber’s Notes

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• Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.