



Produced by Dianne Bean





TANGLEWOOD TALES

By Nathaniel Hawthorne




THE WAYSIDE. INTRODUCTORY.

A short time ago, I was favored with a flying visit from my young friend
Eustace Bright, whom I had not before met with since quitting the breezy
mountains of Berkshire. It being the winter vacation at his college,
Eustace was allowing himself a little relaxation, in the hope, he told
me, of repairing the inroads which severe application to study had
made upon his health; and I was happy to conclude, from the excellent
physical condition in which I saw him, that the remedy had already been
attended with very desirable success. He had now run up from Boston by
the noon train, partly impelled by the friendly regard with which he
is pleased to honor me, and partly, as I soon found, on a matter of
literary business.

It delighted me to receive Mr. Bright, for the first time, under a roof,
though a very humble one, which I could really call my own. Nor did I
fail (as is the custom of landed proprietors all about the world) to
parade the poor fellow up and down over my half a dozen acres; secretly
rejoicing, nevertheless, that the disarray of the inclement season, and
particularly the six inches of snow then upon the ground, prevented him
from observing the ragged neglect of soil and shrubbery into which the
place had lapsed. It was idle, however, to imagine that an airy guest
from Monument Mountain, Bald Summit, and old Graylock, shaggy with
primeval forests, could see anything to admire in my poor little
hillside, with its growth of frail and insect-eaten locust trees.
Eustace very frankly called the view from my hill top tame; and so,
no doubt, it was, after rough, broken, rugged, headlong Berkshire, and
especially the northern parts of the county, with which his college
residence had made him familiar. But to me there is a peculiar, quiet
charm in these broad meadows and gentle eminences. They are better than
mountains, because they do not stamp and stereotype themselves into the
brain, and thus grow wearisome with the same strong impression, repeated
day after day. A few summer weeks among mountains, a lifetime among
green meadows and placid <DW72>s, with outlines forever new, because
continually fading out of the memory--such would be my sober choice.

I doubt whether Eustace did not internally pronounce the whole thing a
bore, until I led him to my predecessor's little ruined, rustic summer
house, midway on the hillside. It is a mere skeleton of slender,
decaying tree trunks, with neither walls nor a roof; nothing but a
tracery of branches and twigs, which the next wintry blast will be very
likely to scatter in fragments along the terrace. It looks, and is, as
evanescent as a dream; and yet, in its rustic network of boughs, it
has somehow enclosed a hint of spiritual beauty, and has become a true
emblem of the subtile and ethereal mind that planned it. I made Eustace
Bright sit down on a snow bank, which had heaped itself over the mossy
seat, and gazing through the arched windows opposite, he acknowledged
that the scene at once grew picturesque.

"Simple as it looks," said he, "this little edifice seems to be the work
of magic. It is full of suggestiveness, and, in its way, is as good as a
cathedral. Ah, it would be just the spot for one to sit in, of a summer
afternoon, and tell the children some more of those wild stories from
the classic myths!"

"It would, indeed," answered I. "The summer house itself, so airy and
so broken, is like one of those old tales, imperfectly remembered; and
these living branches of the Baldwin apple tree, thrusting so rudely
in, are like your unwarrantable interpolations. But, by the by, have
you added any more legends to the series, since the publication of the
'Wonder-Book'?"

"Many more," said Eustace; "Primrose, Periwinkle, and the rest of them,
allow me no comfort of my life unless I tell them a story every day or
two. I have run away from home partly to escape the importunity of these
little wretches! But I have written out six of the new stories, and have
brought them for you to look over."

"Are they as good as the first?" I inquired.

"Better chosen, and better handled," replied Eustace Bright. "You will
say so when you read them."

"Possibly not," I remarked. "I know from my own experience, that an
author's last work is always his best one, in his own estimate, until it
quite loses the red heat of composition. After that, it falls into its
true place, quietly enough. But let us adjourn to my study, and examine
these new stories. It would hardly be doing yourself justice, were you
to bring me acquainted with them, sitting here on this snow bank!"

So we descended the hill to my small, old cottage, and shut ourselves
up in the south-eastern room, where the sunshine comes in, warmly and
brightly, through the better half of a winter's day. Eustace put his
bundle of manuscript into my hands; and I skimmed through it pretty
rapidly, trying to find out its merits and demerits by the touch of my
fingers, as a veteran story-teller ought to know how to do.

It will be remembered that Mr. Bright condescended to avail himself of
my literary experience by constituting me editor of the "Wonder-Book."
As he had no reason to complain of the reception of that erudite work by
the public, he was now disposed to retain me in a similar position with
respect to the present volume, which he entitled TANGLEWOOD TALES. Not,
as Eustace hinted, that there was any real necessity for my services as
introducer, inasmuch as his own name had become established in some good
degree of favor with the literary world. But the connection with myself,
he was kind enough to say, had been highly agreeable; nor was he by any
means desirous, as most people are, of kicking away the ladder that had
perhaps helped him to reach his present elevation. My young friend was
willing, in short, that the fresh verdure of his growing reputation
should spread over my straggling and half-naked boughs; even as I have
sometimes thought of training a vine, with its broad leafiness, and
purple fruitage, over the worm-eaten posts and rafters of the rustic
summer house. I was not insensible to the advantages of his proposal,
and gladly assured him of my acceptance.

Merely from the title of the stories I saw at once that the subjects
were not less rich than those of the former volume; nor did I at all
doubt that Mr. Bright's audacity (so far as that endowment might avail)
had enabled him to take full advantage of whatever capabilities they
offered. Yet, in spite of my experience of his free way of handling
them, I did not quite see, I confess, how he could have obviated all the
difficulties in the way of rendering them presentable to children. These
old legends, so brimming over with everything that is most abhorrent
to our Christianized moral sense some of them so hideous, others so
melancholy and miserable, amid which the Greek tragedians sought their
themes, and moulded them into the sternest forms of grief that ever the
world saw; was such material the stuff that children's playthings should
be made of! How were they to be purified? How was the blessed sunshine
to be thrown into them?

But Eustace told me that these myths were the most singular things in
the world, and that he was invariably astonished, whenever he began
to relate one, by the readiness with which it adapted itself to the
childish purity of his auditors. The objectionable characteristics seem
to be a parasitical growth, having no essential connection with the
original fable. They fall away, and are thought of no more, the instant
he puts his imagination in sympathy with the innocent little circle,
whose wide-open eyes are fixed so eagerly upon him. Thus the stories
(not by any strained effort of the narrator's, but in harmony with their
inherent germ) transform themselves, and re-assume the shapes which they
might be supposed to possess in the pure childhood of the world. When
the first poet or romancer told these marvellous legends (such is
Eustace Bright's opinion), it was still the Golden Age. Evil had never
yet existed; and sorrow, misfortune, crime, were mere shadows which
the mind fancifully created for itself, as a shelter against too sunny
realities; or, at most, but prophetic dreams to which the dreamer
himself did not yield a waking credence. Children are now the only
representatives of the men and women of that happy era; and therefore it
is that we must raise the intellect and fancy to the level of childhood,
in order to re-create the original myths.

I let the youthful author talk as much and as extravagantly as he
pleased, and was glad to see him commencing life with such confidence in
himself and his performances. A few years will do all that is necessary
towards showing him the truth in both respects. Meanwhile, it is
but right to say, he does really appear to have overcome the moral
objections against these fables, although at the expense of such
liberties with their structure as must be left to plead their own
excuse, without any help from me. Indeed, except that there was a
necessity for it--and that the inner life of the legends cannot be come
at save by making them entirely one's own property--there is no defense
to be made.

Eustace informed me that he had told his stories to the children in
various situations--in the woods, on the shore of the lake, in the
dell of Shadow Brook, in the playroom, at Tanglewood fireside, and in a
magnificent palace of snow, with ice windows, which he helped his
little friends to build. His auditors were even more delighted with
the contents of the present volume than with the specimens which have
already been given to the world. The classically learned Mr. Pringle,
too, had listened to two or three of the tales, and censured them even
more bitterly than he did THE THREE GOLDEN APPLES; so that, what with
praise, and what with criticism, Eustace Bright thinks that there is
good hope of at least as much success with the public as in the case of
the "WonderBook."

I made all sorts of inquiries about the children, not doubting that
there would be great eagerness to hear of their welfare, among some good
little folks who have written to me, to ask for another volume of myths.
They are all, I am happy to say (unless we except Clover), in excellent
health and spirits. Primrose is now almost a young lady, and, Eustace
tells me, is just as saucy as ever. She pretends to consider herself
quite beyond the age to be interested by such idle stories as these;
but, for all that, whenever a story is to be told, Primrose never
fails to be one of the listeners, and to make fun of it when finished.
Periwinkle is very much grown, and is expected to shut up her baby house
and throw away her doll in a month or two more. Sweet Fern has learned
to read and write, and has put on a jacket and pair of pantaloons--all
of which improvements I am sorry for. Squash Blossom, Blue Eye,
Plantain, and Buttercup have had the scarlet fever, but came easily
through it. Huckleberry, Milkweed, and Dandelion were attacked with the
whooping cough, but bore it bravely, and kept out of doors whenever the
sun shone. Cowslip, during the autumn, had either the measles, or some
eruption that looked very much like it, but was hardly sick a day. Poor
Clover has been a good deal troubled with her second teeth, which have
made her meagre in aspect and rather fractious in temper; nor, even when
she smiles, is the matter much mended, since it discloses a gap just
within her lips, almost as wide as the barn door. But all this will pass
over, and it is predicted that she will turn out a very pretty girl.

As for Mr. Bright himself, he is now in his senior year at Williams
College, and has a prospect of graduating with some degree of honorable
distinction at the next Commencement. In his oration for the bachelor's
degree, he gives me to understand, he will treat of the classical myths,
viewed in the aspect of baby stories, and has a great mind to discuss
the expediency of using up the whole of ancient history, for the same
purpose. I do not know what he means to do with himself after leaving
college, but trust that, by dabbling so early with the dangerous and
seductive business of authorship, he will not be tempted to become an
author by profession. If so I shall be very sorry for the little that I
have had to do with the matter, in encouraging these first beginnings.

I wish there were any likelihood of my soon seeing Primrose, Periwinkle,
Dandelion, Sweet Fern, Clover Plantain, Huckleberry, Milkweed, Cowslip,
Buttercup, Blue Eye, and Squash Blossom again. But as I do not know when
I shall re-visit Tanglewood, and as Eustace Bright probably will not
ask me to edit a third "WonderBook," the public of little folks must not
expect to hear any more about those dear children from me. Heaven bless
them, and everybody else, whether grown people or children!




THE MINOTAUR.

In the old city of Troezene, at the foot of a lofty mountain,
there lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named Theseus. His
grandfather, King Pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was
reckoned a very wise man; so that Theseus, being brought up in the royal
palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of profiting
by the old king's instructions. His mother's name was Aethra. As for his
father, the boy had never seen him. But, from his earliest remembrance,
Aethra used to go with little Theseus into a wood, and sit down upon a
moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth. Here she
often talked with her son about his father, and said that he was called
Aegeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over Attica, and dwelt
at Athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world. Theseus was
very fond of hearing about King Aegeus, and often asked his good mother
Aethra why he did not come and live with them at Troezene.

"Ah, my dear son," answered Aethra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his
people to take care of. The men and women over whom he rules are in the
place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own
children as other parents do. Your father will never be able to leave
his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy."

"Well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot I go to this famous
city of Athens, and tell King Aegeus that I am his son?"

"That may happen by and by," said Aethra. "Be patient, and we shall see.
You are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand."

"And how soon shall I be strong enough?" Theseus persisted in inquiring.

"You are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother. "See if you can
lift this rock on which we are sitting?"

The little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength. So, grasping
the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and got
himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy stone.
It seemed to be rooted into the ground. No wonder he could not move it;
for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift it
out of its earthy bed.

His mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and
in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy.
She could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient
to begin his adventures in the world.

"You see how it is, my dear Theseus," said she. "You must possess far
more strength than now before I can trust you to go to Athens, and tell
King Aegeus that you are his son. But when you can lift this rock,
and show me what is hidden beneath it, I promise you my permission to
depart."

Often and often, after this, did Theseus ask his mother whether it was
yet time for him to go to Athens; and still his mother pointed to the
rock, and told him that, for years to come, he could not be strong
enough to move it. And again and again the rosy-checked and curly-headed
boy would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone, striving, child as
he was, to do what a giant could hardly have done without taking both
of his great hands to the task. Meanwhile the rock seemed to be sinking
farther and farther into the ground. The moss grew over it thicker and
thicker, until at last it looked almost like a soft green seat, with
only a few gray knobs of granite peeping out. The overhanging trees,
also, shed their brown leaves upon it, as often as the autumn came; and
at its base grew ferns and wild flowers, some of which crept quite over
its surface. To all appearance, the rock was as firmly fastened as any
other portion of the earth's substance.

But, difficult as the matter looked, Theseus was now growing up to be
such a vigorous youth, that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly
come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of
stone.

"Mother, I do believe it has started!" cried he, after one of his
attempts. "The earth around it is certainly a little cracked!"

"No, no, child!" his mother hastily answered. "It is not possible you
can have moved it, such a boy as you still are!"

Nor would she be convinced, although Theseus showed her the place where
he fancied that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the
movement of the rock. But Aethra sighed, and looked disquieted; for, no
doubt, she began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and
that, in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils
and troubles of the world.

It was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on
the moss-covered stone. Aethra had once more told him the oft-repeated
story of his father, and how gladly he would receive Theseus at his
stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the
people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions. The eyes
of Theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to hear
his mother speak.

"Dear mother Aethra," he exclaimed, "I never felt half so strong as now!
I am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth! I feel myself a
man! It is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone."

"Ah, my dearest Theseus," replied his mother "not yet! not yet!"

"Yes, mother," said he, resolutely, "the time has come!"

Then Theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained
every sinew, with manly strength and resolution. He put his whole brave
heart into the effort. He wrestled with the big and sluggish stone, as
if it had been a living enemy. He heaved, he lifted, he resolved now
to succeed, or else to perish there, and let the rock be his monument
forever! Aethra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with
a mother's pride, and partly with a mother's sorrow. The great rock
stirred! Yes, it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth,
uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its
side. Theseus had conquered!

While taking breath, he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled
upon him through her tears.

"Yes, Theseus," she said, "the time has come, and you must stay no
longer at my side! See what King Aegeus, your royal father, left for you
beneath the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms, and laid it on
the spot whence you have now removed it."

Theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab
of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled a
roughly-made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as the
lid. Within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair of
sandals.

"That was your father's sword," said Aethra, "and those were his
sandals. When he went to be king of Athens, he bade me treat you as a
child until you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy stone.
That task being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in order to
follow in your father's footsteps, and to gird on his sword, so that you
may fight giants and dragons, as King Aegeus did in his youth."

"I will set out for Athens this very day!" cried Theseus.

But his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got
ready some necessary articles for his journey. When his grandfather, the
wise King Pittheus, heard that Theseus intended to present himself
at his father's palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of a
vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen miles
of Athens, without either fatigue or danger.

"The roads are very bad by land," quoth the venerable king; "and they
are terribly infested with robbers and monsters. A mere lad, like
Theseus, is not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey, all by
himself. No, no; let him go by sea."

But when Theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his ears,
and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they were to
be met with. On the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful farewell
to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness; and, after
affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth with a good many of
her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must be told,
that had gushed out of his own eyes. But he let the sun and wind dry
them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of his sword,
and taking very manly strides in his father's sandals.

I cannot stop to tell you hardly any of the adventures that befell
Theseus on the road to Athens. It is enough to say, that he quite
cleared that part of the country of the robbers about whom King Pittheus
had been so much alarmed. One of these bad people was named Procrustes;
and he was indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun
of the poor travelers who happened to fall into his clutches. In his
cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretense of hospitality, he
invited his guests to lie down; but, if they happened to be shorter than
the bed, this wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if
they were too tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at
what he had done, as an excellent joke. Thus, however weary a man might
be, he never liked to lie in the bed of Procrustes. Another of these
robbers, named Scinis, must likewise have been a very great scoundrel.
He was in the habit of flinging his victims off a high cliff into the
sea; and, in order to give him exactly his deserts, Theseus tossed him
off the very same place. But if you will believe me, the sea would not
pollute itself by receiving such a bad person into its bosom; neither
would the earth, having once got rid of him, consent to take him back;
so that, between the cliff and the sea, Scinis stuck fast in the air,
which was forced to bear the burden of his naughtiness.

After these memorable deeds, Theseus heard of an enormous sow, which ran
wild, and was the terror of all the farmers round about; and, as he did
not consider himself above doing any good thing that came in his way, he
killed this monstrous creature, and gave the carcass to the poor people
for bacon. The great sow had been an awful beast, while ramping about
the woods and fields, but was a pleasant object enough when cut up into
joints, and smoking on I know not how many dinner tables.

Thus, by the time he reached his journey's end, Theseus had done many
valiant feats with his father's golden-hilted sword, and had gained
the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day. His fame
traveled faster than he did, and reached Athens before him. As he
entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street
corners, and saying that Hercules was brave, and Jason too, and Castor
and Pollux likewise, but that Theseus, the son of their own king,
would turn out as great a hero as the best of them. Theseus took longer
strides on hearing this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent
reception at his father's court, since he came thither with Fame to blow
her trumpet before him, and cry to King Aegeus, "Behold your son!"

He little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here, in this very
Athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him than any
which he had encountered on the road. Yet this was the truth. You must
understand that the father of Theseus, though not very old in years, was
almost worn out with the cares of government, and had thus grown aged
before his time. His nephews, not expecting him to live a very great
while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom into their own
hands. But when they heard that Theseus had arrived in Athens, and
learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that he would not be
at all the kind of a person to let them steal away his father's crown
and scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance. Thus
these bad-hearted nephews of King Aegeus, who were the own cousins of
Theseus, at once became his enemies. A still more dangerous enemy was
Medea, the wicked enchantress; for she was now the king's wife, and
wanted to give the kingdom to her son Medus, instead of letting it be
given to the son of Aethra, whom she hated.

It so happened that the king's nephews met Theseus, and found out who he
was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace. With all
their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin's
best friends, and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance.
They proposed to him that he should come into the king's presence as
a stranger, in order to try whether Aegeus would discover in the young
man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother Aethra, and
thus recognize him for a son. Theseus consented; for he fancied that his
father would know him in a moment, by the love that was in his heart.
But, while he waited at the door, the nephews ran and told King Aegeus
that a young man had arrived in Athens, who, to their certain knowledge,
intended to put him to death, and get possession of his royal crown.

"And he is now waiting for admission to your majesty's presence," added
they.

"Aha!" cried the old king, on hearing this. "Why, he must be a very
wicked young fellow indeed! Pray, what would you advise me to do with
him?"

In reply to this question, the wicked Medea put in her word. As I
have already told you, she was a famous enchantress. According to some
stories, she was in the habit of boiling old people in a large caldron,
under pretense of making them young again; but King Aegeus, I suppose,
did not fancy such an uncomfortable way of growing young, or perhaps
was contented to be old, and therefore would never let himself be
popped into the caldron. If there were time to spare from more important
matters, I should be glad to tell you of Medea's fiery chariot, drawn
by winged dragons, in which the enchantress used often to take an airing
among the clouds. This chariot, in fact, was the vehicle that first
brought her to Athens, where she had done nothing but mischief ever
since her arrival. But these and many other wonders must be left untold;
and it is enough to say, that Medea, amongst a thousand other bad
things, knew how to prepare a poison, that was instantly fatal to
whomsoever might so much as touch it with his lips.

So, when the king asked what he should do with Theseus, this naughty
woman had an answer ready at her tongue's end.

"Leave that to me, please your majesty," she replied. "Only admit this
evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and invite
him to drink a goblet of wine. Your majesty is well aware that I
sometimes amuse myself by distilling very powerful medicines. Here is
one of them in this small phial. As to what it is made of, that is one
of my secrets of state. Do but let me put a single drop into the goblet,
and let the young man taste it; and I will answer for it, he shall quite
lay aside the bad designs with which he comes hither."

As she said this, Medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she
meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent Theseus, before
his father's eyes. And King Aegeus, like most other kings, thought any
punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against
his life. He therefore made little or no objection to Medea's scheme,
and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young
stranger should be admitted into his presence.

The goblet was set on a table beside the king's throne; and a fly,
meaning just to sip a little from the brim, immediately tumbled into
it, dead. Observing this, Medea looked round at the nephews, and smiled
again.

When Theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object that
he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king. There he sat on his
magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter in
his hand. His aspect was stately and majestic, although his years and
infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump of
lead, and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled up
together, and laid upon his weary shoulders. The tears both of joy and
sorrow sprang into the young man's eyes; for he thought how sad it was
to see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to support
him with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with the
alacrity of his loving spirit. When a son takes a father into his warm
heart it renews the old man's youth in a better way than by the heat
of Medea's magic caldron. And this was what Theseus resolved to do. He
could scarcely wait to see whether King Aegeus would recognize him, so
eager was he to throw himself into his arms.

Advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little
speech, which he had been thinking about, as he came up the stairs. But
he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed out of
his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find
utterance together. And therefore, unless he could have laid his full,
over-brimming heart into the king's hand, poor Theseus knew not what
to do or say. The cunning Medea observed what was passing in the young
man's mind. She was more wicked at that moment than ever she had been
before; for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did her
worst to turn all this unspeakable love with which Theseus was agitated
to his own ruin and destruction.

"Does your majesty see his confusion?" she whispered in the king's ear.
"He is so conscious of guilt, that he trembles and cannot speak. The
wretch lives too long! Quick! offer him the wine!"

Now King Aegeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he
drew near the throne. There was something, he knew not what, either
in his white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his
beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had
seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee
when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he
himself grew old. But Medea guessed how the king felt, and would not
suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities; although they were
the voice of his deepest heart, telling him as plainly as it could
speak, that here was our dear son, and Aethra's son, coming to claim
him for a father. The enchantress again whispered in the king's ear,
and compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false
aspect.

He made up his mind, therefore, to let Theseus drink off the poisoned
wine.

"Young man," said he, "you are welcome! I am proud to show hospitality
to so heroic a youth. Do me the favor to drink the contents of this
goblet. It is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as I
bestow only on those who are worthy of it! None is more worthy to quaff
it than yourself!"

So saying, King Aegeus took the golden goblet from the table, and was
about to offer it to Theseus. But, partly through his infirmities, and
partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man's
life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his
heart was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought of
what he was going to do--for all these reasons, the king's hand
trembled so much that a great deal of the wine slopped over. In order
to strengthen his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious
poison should be wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him:

"Has your Majesty any doubt of this stranger's guilt? This is the
very sword with which he meant to slay you. How sharp, and bright, and
terrible it is! Quick!--let him taste the wine; or perhaps he may do the
deed even yet."

At these words, Aegeus drove every thought and feeling out of his
breast, except the one idea of how justly the young man deserved to be
put to death. He sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet of
wine with a steady hand, and bent on Theseus a frown of kingly severity;
for, after all, he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous
enemy with a deceitful smile upon his face.

"Drink!" said he, in the stern tone with which he was wont to condemn
a criminal to be beheaded. "You have well deserved of me such wine as
this!"

Theseus held out his hand to take the wine. But, before he touched it,
King Aegeus trembled again. His eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword
that hung at the young man's side. He drew back the goblet.

"That sword!" he exclaimed: "how came you by it?"

"It was my father's sword," replied Theseus, with a tremulous voice.
"These were his sandals. My dear mother (her name is Aethra) told me
his story while I was yet a little child. But it is only a month since
I grew strong enough to lift the heavy stone, and take the sword and
sandals from beneath it, and come to Athens to seek my father."

"My son! my son!" cried King Aegeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and
tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of Theseus. "Yes,
these are Aethra's eyes. It is my son."

I have quite forgotten what became of the king's nephews. But when the
wicked Medea saw this new turn of affairs, she hurried out of the
room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time to setting her
enchantments to work. In a few moments, she heard a great noise of
hissing snakes outside of the chamber window; and behold! there was her
fiery chariot, and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and twisting in
the air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the palace, and
all ready to set off on an aerial journey. Medea staid only long enough
to take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels, together with
the king's best robes, and whatever other valuable things she could lay
hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up the snakes, and
ascended high over the city.

The king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he
could to the window, and bawled out to the abominable enchantress never
to come back. The whole people of Athens, too, who had run out of doors
to see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at the prospect
of getting rid of her. Medea, almost bursting with rage, uttered
precisely such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times more
venomous and spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of the
chariot, she shook her hands over the multitude below, as if she were
scattering a million of curses among them. In so doing, however, she
unintentionally let fall about five hundred diamonds of the first
water, together with a thousand great pearls, and two thousand emeralds,
rubies, sapphires, opals, and topazes, to which she had helped herself
out of the king's strong box. All these came pelting down, like a shower
of many- hailstones, upon the heads of grown people and children,
who forthwith gathered them up, and carried them back to the palace. But
King Aegeus told them that they were welcome to the whole, and to twice
as many more, if he had them, for the sake of his delight at finding
his son, and losing the wicked Medea. And, indeed, if you had seen how
hateful was her last look, as the flaming chariot flew upward, you would
not have wondered that both king and people should think her departure a
good riddance.

And now Prince Theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father.
The old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his throne
(which was quite wide enough for two), and of hearing him tell about his
dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts to lift the
ponderous stone. Theseus, however, was much too brave and active a young
man to be willing to spend all his time in relating things which had
already happened. His ambition was to perform other and more heroic
deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose and verse. Nor had
he been long in Athens before he caught and chained a terrible mad bull,
and made a public show of him, greatly to the wonder and admiration
of good King Aegeus and his subjects. But pretty soon, he undertook an
affair that made all his foregone adventures seem like mere boy's play.
The occasion of it was as follows:

One morning, when Prince Theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have had
a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind, even
now that his eyes were opened. For it appeared as if the air was full of
a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively, he could hear
sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with deep, quiet sighs,
which came from the king's palace, and from the streets, and from the
temples, and from every habitation in the city. And all these mournful
noises, issuing out of thousands of separate hearts, united themselves
into one great sound of affliction, which had startled Theseus from
slumber. He put on his clothes as quickly as he could (not forgetting
his sandals and gold-hilted sword), and, hastening to the king, inquired
what it all meant.

"Alas! my son," quoth King Aegeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very
lamentable matter in hand! This is the wofulest anniversary in the
whole year. It is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of
the youths and maids of Athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible
Minotaur!"

"The Minotaur!" exclaimed Prince Theseus; and like a brave young prince
as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword. "What kind of a
monster may that be? Is it not possible, at the risk of one's life, to
slay him?"

But King Aegeus shook his venerable head, and to convince Theseus that
it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole
affair. It seems that in the island of Crete there lived a certain
dreadful monster, called a Minotaur, which was shaped partly like a
man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of
a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him. If he were
suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island,
or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be
tormented by his abominable aspect. But King Minos, who reigned over
Crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for the
Minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely for
mischief's sake. A few years before this time, there had been a war
between the city of Athens and the island of Crete, in which the
Athenians were beaten, and compelled to beg for peace. No peace could
they obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven
young men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet
monster of the cruel King Minos. For three years past, this grievous
calamity had been borne. And the sobs, and groans, and shrieks, with
which the city was now filled, were caused by the people's woe, because
the fatal day had come again, when the fourteen victims were to be
chosen by lot; and the old people feared lest their sons or daughters
might be taken, and the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves
might be destined to glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute.

But when Theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so that
he seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face it was indignant,
despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look.

"Let the people of Athens this year draw lots for only six young men,
instead of seven," said he, "I will myself be the seventh; and let the
Minotaur devour me if he can!"

"O my dear son," cried King Aegeus, "why should you expose yourself to
this horrible fate? You are a royal prince, and have a right to hold
yourself above the destinies of common men."

"It is because I am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir of your
kingdom, that I freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects,"
answered Theseus, "And you, my father, being king over these people, and
answerable to Heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what
is dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest
citizen should come to any harm."

The old king shed tears, and besought Theseus not to leave him desolate
in his old age, more especially as he had but just begun to know the
happiness of possessing a good and valiant son. Theseus, however,
felt that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his
resolution. But he assured his father that he did not intend to be eaten
up, unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the Minotaur devoured him,
it should not be without a battle for his dinner. And finally, since he
could not help it, King Aegeus consented to let him go. So a vessel
was got ready, and rigged with black sails; and Theseus, with six other
young men, and seven tender and beautiful damsels, came down to the
harbor to embark. A sorrowful multitude accompanied them to the shore.
There was the poor old king, too, leaning on his son's arm, and looking
as if his single heart held all the grief of Athens.

Just as Prince Theseus was going on board, his father bethought himself
of one last word to say.

"My beloved son," said he, grasping the Prince's hand, "you observe that
the sails of this vessel are black; as indeed they ought to be, since it
goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair. Now, being weighed down with
infirmities, I know not whether I can survive till the vessel shall
return. But, as long as I do live, I shall creep daily to the top of
yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea. And, dearest
Theseus, if by some happy chance, you should escape the jaws of the
Minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist others that shall
be bright as the sunshine. Beholding them on the horizon, myself and
all the people will know that you are coming back victorious, and will
welcome you with such a festal uproar as Athens never heard before."

Theseus promised that he would do so. Then going on board, the mariners
trimmed the vessel's black sails to the wind, which blew faintly off
the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that everybody kept
pouring forth on this melancholy occasion. But by and by, when they had
got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the north-west,
and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they
had been going on the most delightful errand imaginable. And though
it was a sad business enough, I rather question whether fourteen young
people, without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue
to spend the whole time of the voyage in being miserable. There had been
some few dances upon the undulating deck, I suspect, and some hearty
bursts of laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among
the victims, before the high blue mountains of Crete began to show
themselves among the far-off clouds. That sight, to be sure, made them
all very grave again.

Theseus stood among the sailors, gazing eagerly towards the land;
although, as yet, it seemed hardly more substantial than the clouds,
amidst which the mountains were looming up. Once or twice, he fancied
that he saw a glare of some bright object, a long way off, flinging a
gleam across the waves.

"Did you see that flash of light?" he inquired of the master of the
vessel.

"No, prince; but I have seen it before," answered the master. "It came
from Talus, I suppose."

As the breeze came fresher just then, the master was busy with trimming
his sails, and had no more time to answer questions. But while the
vessel flew faster and faster towards Crete, Theseus was astonished to
behold a human figure, gigantic in size, which appeared to be striding,
with a measured movement, along the margin of the island. It stepped
from cliff to cliff, and sometimes from one headland to another, while
the sea foamed and thundered on the shore beneath, and dashed its jets
of spray over the giant's feet. What was still more remarkable, whenever
the sun shone on this huge figure, it flickered and glimmered; its vast
countenance, too, had a metallic lustre, and threw great flashes of
splendor through the air. The folds of its garments, moreover, instead
of waving in the wind, fell heavily over its limbs, as if woven of some
kind of metal.

The nigher the vessel came, the more Theseus wondered what this immense
giant could be, and whether it actually had life or no. For, though it
walked, and made other lifelike motions, there yet was a kind of jerk
in its gait, which, together with its brazen aspect, caused the young
prince to suspect that it was no true giant, but only a wonderful piece
of machinery. The figure looked all the more terrible because it carried
an enormous brass club on its shoulder.

"What is this wonder?" Theseus asked of the master of the vessel, who
was now at leisure to answer him.

"It is Talus, the Man of Brass," said the master.

"And is he a live giant, or a brazen image?" asked Theseus.

"That, truly," replied the master, "is the point which has always
perplexed me. Some say, indeed, that this Talus was hammered out for
King Minos by Vulcan himself, the skilfullest of all workers in metal.
But who ever saw a brazen image that had sense enough to walk round an
island three times a day, as this giant walks round the island of Crete,
challenging every vessel that comes nigh the shore? And, on the other
hand, what living thing, unless his sinews were made of brass, would not
be weary of marching eighteen hundred miles in the twenty-four hours, as
Talus does, without ever sitting down to rest? He is a puzzler, take him
how you will."

Still the vessel went bounding onward; and now Theseus could hear the
brazen clangor of the giant's footsteps, as he trod heavily upon the
sea-beaten rocks, some of which were seen to crack and crumble into the
foaming waves beneath his weight. As they approached the entrance of the
port, the giant straddled clear across it, with a foot firmly planted on
each headland, and uplifting his club to such a height that its butt-end
was hidden in the cloud, he stood in that formidable posture, with the
sun gleaming all over his metallic surface. There seemed nothing else
to be expected but that, the next moment, he would fetch his great club
down, slam bang, and smash the vessel into a thousand pieces, without
heeding how many innocent people he might destroy; for there is seldom
any mercy in a giant, you know, and quite as little in a piece of brass
clockwork. But just when Theseus and his companions thought the blow was
coming, the brazen lips unclosed themselves, and the figure spoke.

"Whence come you, strangers?"

And when the ringing voice ceased, there was just such a reverberation
as you may have heard within a great church bell, for a moment or two
after the stroke of the hammer.

"From Athens!" shouted the master in reply.

"On what errand?" thundered the Man of Brass.

And he whirled his club aloft more threateningly than ever, as if he
were about to smite them with a thunderstroke right amidships, because
Athens, so little while ago, had been at war with Crete.

"We bring the seven youths and the seven maidens," answered the master,
"to be devoured by the Minotaur!"

"Pass!" cried the brazen giant.

That one loud word rolled all about the sky, while again there was a
booming reverberation within the figure's breast. The vessel glided
between the headlands of the port, and the giant resumed his march. In
a few moments, this wondrous sentinel was far away, flashing in the
distant sunshine, and revolving with immense strides round the island of
Crete, as it was his never-ceasing task to do.

No sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of King
Minos came down to the water side, and took charge of the fourteen young
men and damsels. Surrounded by these armed warriors, Prince Theseus
and his companions were led to the king's palace, and ushered into his
presence. Now, Minos was a stern and pitiless king. If the figure that
guarded Crete was made of brass, then the monarch, who ruled over it,
might be thought to have a still harder metal in his breast, and might
have been called a man of iron. He bent his shaggy brows upon the poor
Athenian victims. Any other mortal, beholding their fresh and tender
beauty, and their innocent looks, would have felt himself sitting on
thorns until he had made every soul of them happy by bidding them
go free as the summer wind. But this immitigable Minos cared only
to examine whether they were plump enough to satisfy the Minotaur's
appetite. For my part, I wish he himself had been the only victim; and
the monster would have found him a pretty tough one.

One after another, King Minos called these pale, frightened youths and
sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs
with his sceptre (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and
dismissed them with a nod to his guards. But when his eyes rested on
Theseus, the king looked at him more attentively, because his face was
calm and brave.

"Young man," asked he, with his stern voice, "are you not appalled at
the certainty of being devoured by this terrible Minotaur?"

"I have offered my life in a good cause," answered Theseus, "and
therefore I give it freely and gladly. But thou, King Minos, art thou
not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this
dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to
be devoured by a monster? Dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn
thine eyes inward on thine own heart? Sitting there on thy golden
throne, and in thy robes of majesty, I tell thee to thy face, King
Minos, thou art a more hideous monster than the Minotaur himself!"

"Aha! do you think me so?" cried the king, laughing in his cruel way.
"To-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of judging
which is the greater monster, the Minotaur or the king! Take them away,
guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the Minotaur's first morsel."

Near the king's throne (though I had no time to tell you so before)
stood his daughter Ariadne. She was a beautiful and tender-hearted
maiden, and looked at these poor doomed captives with very different
feelings from those of the iron-breasted King Minos. She really wept
indeed, at the idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly
thrown away, by giving so many young people, in the first bloom and
rose blossom of their lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt,
would have preferred a fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of
them. And when she beheld the brave, spirited figure of Prince Theseus
bearing himself so calmly in his terrible peril, she grew a hundred
times more pitiful than before. As the guards were taking him away,
she flung herself at the king's feet, and besought him to set all the
captives free, and especially this one young man.

"Peace, foolish girl!" answered King Minos.

"What hast thou to do with an affair like this? It is a matter of state
policy, and therefore quite beyond thy weak comprehension. Go water thy
flowers, and think no more of these Athenian caitiffs, whom the Minotaur
shall as certainly eat up for breakfast as I will eat a partridge for my
supper."

So saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour Theseus and all the
rest of the captives himself, had there been no Minotaur to save him the
trouble. As he would hear not another word in their favor, the prisoners
were now led away, and clapped into a dungeon, where the jailer advised
them to go to sleep as soon as possible, because the Minotaur was in the
habit of calling for breakfast early. The seven maidens and six of the
young men soon sobbed themselves to slumber. But Theseus was not like
them. He felt conscious that he was wiser, and braver, and stronger
than his companions, and that therefore he had the responsibility of all
their lives upon him, and must consider whether there was no way to save
them, even in this last extremity. So he kept himself awake, and paced
to and fro across the gloomy dungeon in which they were shut up.

Just before midnight, the door was softly unbarred, and the gentle
Ariadne showed herself, with a torch in her hand.

"Are you awake, Prince Theseus?" she whispered.

"Yes," answered Theseus. "With so little time to live, I do not choose
to waste any of it in sleep."

"Then follow me," said Ariadne, "and tread softly."

What had become of the jailer and the guards, Theseus never knew. But,
however that might be, Ariadne opened all the doors, and led him forth
from the darksome prison into the pleasant moonlight.

"Theseus," said the maiden, "you can now get on board your vessel, and
sail away for Athens."

"No," answered the young man; "I will never leave Crete unless I can
first slay the Minotaur, and save my poor companions, and deliver Athens
from this cruel tribute."

"I knew that this would be your resolution," said Ariadne. "Come,
then, with me, brave Theseus. Here is your own sword, which the guards
deprived you of. You will need it; and pray Heaven you may use it well."

Then she led Theseus along by the hand until they came to a dark,
shadowy grove, where the moonlight wasted itself on the tops of the
trees, without shedding hardly so much as a glimmering beam upon their
pathway. After going a good way through this obscurity, they reached a
high marble wall, which was overgrown with creeping plants, that made
it shaggy with their verdure. The wall seemed to have no door, nor
any windows, but rose up, lofty, and massive, and mysterious, and was
neither to be clambered over, nor, as far as Theseus could perceive, to
be passed through. Nevertheless, Ariadne did but press one of her soft
little fingers against a particular block of marble and, though it
looked as solid as any other part of the wall, it yielded to her
touch, disclosing an entrance just wide enough to admit them They crept
through, and the marble stone swung back into its place.

"We are now," said Ariadne, "in the famous labyrinth which Daedalus
built before he made himself a pair of wings, and flew away from our
island like a bird. That Daedalus was a very cunning workman; but of all
his artful contrivances, this labyrinth is the most wondrous. Were we
to take but a few steps from the doorway, we might wander about all
our lifetime, and never find it again. Yet in the very center of this
labyrinth is the Minotaur; and, Theseus, you must go thither to seek
him."

"But how shall I ever find him," asked Theseus, "if the labyrinth so
bewilders me as you say it will?"

Just as he spoke, they heard a rough and very disagreeable roar, which
greatly resembled the lowing of a fierce bull, but yet had some sort of
sound like the human voice. Theseus even fancied a rude articulation in
it, as if the creature that uttered it were trying to shape his hoarse
breath into words. It was at some distance, however, and he really could
not tell whether it sounded most like a bull's roar or a man's harsh
voice.

"That is the Minotaur's noise," whispered Ariadne, closely grasping the
hand of Theseus, and pressing one of her own hands to her heart, which
was all in a tremble. "You must follow that sound through the windings
of the labyrinth, and, by and by, you will find him. Stay! take the end
of this silken string; I will hold the other end; and then, if you
win the victory, it will lead you again to this spot. Farewell, brave
Theseus."

So the young man took the end of the silken string in his left hand, and
his gold-hilted sword, ready drawn from its scabbard, in the other, and
trod boldly into the inscrutable labyrinth. How this labyrinth was built
is more than I can tell you. But so cunningly contrived a mizmaze was
never seen in the world, before nor since. There can be nothing else so
intricate, unless it were the brain of a man like Daedalus, who planned
it, or the heart of any ordinary man; which last, to be sure, is ten
times as great a mystery as the labyrinth of Crete. Theseus had not
taken five steps before he lost sight of Ariadne; and in five more his
head was growing dizzy. But still he went on, now creeping through a low
arch, now ascending a flight of steps, now in one crooked passage and
now in another, with here a door opening before him, and there one
banging behind, until it really seemed as if the walls spun round, and
whirled him round along with them. And all the while, through these
hollow avenues, now nearer, now farther off again, resounded the cry of
the Minotaur; and the sound was so fierce, so cruel, so ugly, so like a
bull's roar, and withal so like a human voice, and yet like neither of
them, that the brave heart of Theseus grew sterner and angrier at
every step; for he felt it an insult to the moon and sky, and to our
affectionate and simple Mother Earth, that such a monster should have
the audacity to exist.

As he passed onward, the clouds gathered over the moon, and the
labyrinth grew so dusky that Theseus could no longer discern the
bewilderment through which he was passing. He would have left quite
lost, and utterly hopeless of ever again walking in a straight path, if,
every little while, he had not been conscious of a gentle twitch at
the silken cord. Then he knew that the tender-hearted Ariadne was still
holding the other end, and that she was fearing for him, and hoping for
him, and giving him just as much of her sympathy as if she were close
by his side. O, indeed, I can assure you, there was a vast deal of
human sympathy running along that slender thread of silk. But still he
followed the dreadful roar of the Minotaur, which now grew louder and
louder, and finally so very loud that Theseus fully expected to come
close upon him, at every new zizgag and wriggle of the path. And at
last, in an open space, at the very center of the labyrinth, he did
discern the hideous creature.

Sure enough, what an ugly monster it was! Only his horned head belonged
to a bull; and yet, somehow or other, he looked like a bull all over,
preposterously waddling on his hind legs; or, if you happened to view
him in another way, he seemed wholly a man, and all the more monstrous
for being so. And there he was, the wretched thing, with no society, no
companion, no kind of a mate, living only to do mischief, and incapable
of knowing what affection means. Theseus hated him, and shuddered at
him, and yet could not but be sensible of some sort of pity; and all
the more, the uglier and more detestable the creature was. For he kept
striding to and fro, in a solitary frenzy of rage, continually emitting
a hoarse roar, which was oddly mixed up with half-shaped words; and,
after listening a while, Theseus understood that the Minotaur was
saying to himself how miserable he was, and how hungry, and how he hated
everybody, and how he longed to eat up the human race alive.

Ah! the bull-headed villain! And O, my good little people, you will
perhaps see, one of these days, as I do now, that every human being who
suffers any thing evil to get into his nature, or to remain there, is a
kind of Minotaur, an enemy of his fellow-creatures, and separated from
all good companionship, as this poor monster was.

Was Theseus afraid? By no means, my dear auditors. What! a hero like
Theseus afraid! Not had the Minotaur had twenty bull-heads instead of
one. Bold as he was, however, I rather fancy that it strengthened his
valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the
silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand. It was as
if Ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and much as he
already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice
as much. And to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for
now the Minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of Theseus, and
instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does
when he means to rush against an enemy. At the same time, he belched
forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words
of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing
through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute.

Theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that
rather by his gestures than his words; for the Minotaur's horns were
sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his
tongue. But probably this was the sense of what he uttered:

"Ah, wretch of a human being! I'll stick my horns through you, and toss
you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down."

"Come on, then, and try it!" was all that Theseus deigned to reply; for
he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language.

Without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight
between Theseus and the Minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or
moon. I really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster, in
his first headlong rush against Theseus, had not missed him, by a hair's
breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone wall.
On this mishap, he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the labyrinth
tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of Crete mistook the noise for
an uncommonly heavy thunder storm. Smarting with the pain, he galloped
around the open space in so ridiculous a way that Theseus laughed at it,
long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment. After this, the
two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and fought, sword
to horn, for a long while. At last, the Minotaur made a run at Theseus,
grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down; and thinking
that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper in the air,
opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to snap his head
off. But Theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught the monster off
his guard. Fetching a sword stroke at him with all his force, he hit him
fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six yards from his human
body, which fell down flat upon the ground.

So now the battle was ended. Immediately the moon shone out as brightly
as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the
ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever. And
Theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch
of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter, he had held
it fast in his left hand. Eager to let Ariadne know of his success,
he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the
entrance of the labyrinth.

"Thou hast slain the monster," cried Ariadne, clasping her hands.

"Thanks to thee, dear Ariadne," answered Theseus, "I return victorious."

"Then," said Ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them
and thyself on board the vessel before dawn. If morning finds thee here,
my father will avenge the Minotaur."

To make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and, hardly
knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what Theseus had
done, and that they must set sail for Athens before daybreak. Hastening
down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except Prince Theseus,
who lingered behind them on the strand, holding Ariadne's hand clasped
in his own.

"Dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us. Thou art too
gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as King Minos.
He cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little
flower that grows in one of its crevices. But my father, King Aegeus,
and my dear mother, Aethra, and all the fathers and mothers in Athens,
and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their
benefactress. Come with us, then; for King Minos will be very angry when
he knows what thou hast done."

Now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of Theseus
and Ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden
did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger
whose life she had preserved. They say, too, that Prince Theseus (who
would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world)
ungratefully deserted Ariadne, on a solitary island, where the vessel
touched on its voyage to Athens. But, had the noble Theseus heard these
falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served
the Minotaur! Here is what Ariadne answered, when the brave prince of
Athens besought her to accompany him:

"No, Theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand, and then drawing back
a step or two, "I cannot go with you. My father is old, and has nobody
but myself to love him. Hard as you think his heart is, it would break
to lose me. At first, King Minos will be angry; but he will soon forgive
his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, I know, that no more
youths and maidens must come from Athens to be devoured by the Minotaur.
I have saved you, Theseus, as much for my father's sake as for your own.
Farewell! Heaven bless you!"

All this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet a
dignity, that Theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer.
Nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid Ariadne an affectionate
farewell, and to go on board the vessel, and set sail.

In a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as
Prince Theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with
a whistling breeze behind them. Talus, the brazen giant, on his
never-ceasing sentinel's march, happened to be approaching that part of
the coast; and they saw him, by the glimmering of the moonbeams on his
polished surface, while he was yet a great way off. As the figure moved
like clockwork, however, and could neither hasten his enormous strides
nor <DW44> them, he arrived at the port when they were just beyond the
reach of his club. Nevertheless, straddling from headland to headland,
as his custom was, Talus attempted to strike a blow at the vessel,
and, overreaching himself, tumbled at full length into the sea, which
splashed high over his gigantic shape, as when an iceberg turns a
somerset. There he lies yet; and whoever desires to enrich himself by
means of brass had better go thither with a diving bell, and fish up
Talus.

On the homeward voyage, the fourteen youths and damsels were in
excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose. They spent most of their
time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck <DW72>
too much. In due season, they came within sight of the coast of Attica,
which was their native country. But here, I am grieved to tell you,
happened a sad misfortune.

You will remember (what Theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father,
King Aegeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead
of black ones, in case he should overcome the Minotaur, and return
victorious. In the joy of their success, however, and amidst the sports,
dancing, and other merriment, with which these young folks wore away the
time, they never once thought whether their sails were black, white, or
rainbow , and, indeed, left it entirely to the mariners whether
they had any sails at all. Thus the vessel returned, like a raven, with
the same sable wings that had wafted her away. But poor King Aegeus, day
after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the summit of a cliff that
overhung the sea, and there sat watching for Prince Theseus, homeward
bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal blackness of the sails,
than he concluded that his dear son, whom he loved so much, and felt so
proud of, had been eaten by the Minotaur. He could not bear the thought
of living any longer; so, first flinging his crown and sceptre into
the sea (useless baubles that they were to him now), King Aegeus merely
stooped forward, and fell headlong over the cliff, and was drowned, poor
soul, in the waves that foamed at its base!

This was melancholy news for Prince Theseus, who, when he stepped
ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no;
and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very
much out of spirits. However, he sent for his dear mother to Athens,
and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent
monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people.



THE PYGMIES.

A great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived an
earth-born Giant, named Antaeus, and a million or more of curious little
earth-born people, who were called Pygmies. This Giant and these
Pygmies being children of the same mother (that is to say, our good
old Grandmother Earth), were all brethren, and dwelt together in a very
friendly and affectionate manner, far, far off, in the middle of hot
Africa. The Pygmies were so small, and there were so many sandy deserts
and such high mountains between them and the rest of mankind, that
nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years. As
for the Giant, being of a very lofty stature, it was easy enough to see
him, but safest to keep out of his sight.

Among the Pygmies, I suppose, if one of them grew to the height of six
or eight inches, he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man. It must have
been very pretty to behold their little cities, with streets two or
three feet wide, paved with the smallest pebbles, and bordered by
habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage. The king's palace
attained to the stupendous magnitude of Periwinkle's baby house, and
stood in the center of a spacious square, which could hardly have been
covered by our hearth-rug. Their principal temple, or cathedral, was as
lofty as yonder bureau, and was looked upon as a wonderfully sublime and
magnificent edifice. All these structures were built neither of stone
nor wood. They were neatly plastered together by the Pygmy workmen,
pretty much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers, egg shells, and
other small bits of stuff, with stiff clay instead of mortar; and when
the hot sun had dried them, they were just as snug and comfortable as a
Pygmy could desire.

The country round about was conveniently laid out in fields, the largest
of which was nearly of the same extent as one of Sweet Fern's flower
beds. Here the Pygmies used to plant wheat and other kinds of grain,
which, when it grew up and ripened, overshadowed these tiny people as
the pines, and the oaks, and the walnut and chestnut trees overshadow
you and me, when we walk in our own tracts of woodland. At harvest time,
they were forced to go with their little axes and cut down the grain,
exactly as a woodcutter makes a clearing in the forest; and when a stalk
of wheat, with its overburdened top, chanced to come crashing down upon
an unfortunate Pygmy, it was apt to be a very sad affair. If it did not
smash him all to pieces, at least, I am sure, it must have made the poor
little fellow's head ache. And O, my stars! if the fathers and mothers
were so small, what must the children and babies have been? A whole
family of them might have been put to bed in a shoe, or have crept into
an old glove, and played at hide-and-seek in its thumb and fingers. You
might have hidden a year-old baby under a thimble.

Now these funny Pygmies, as I told you before, had a Giant for their
neighbor and brother, who was bigger, if possible, than they were
little. He was so very tall that he carried a pine tree, which was eight
feet through the butt, for a walking stick. It took a far-sighted Pygmy,
I can assure you, to discern his summit without the help of a telescope;
and sometimes, in misty weather, they could not see his upper half, but
only his long legs, which seemed to be striding about by themselves. But
at noonday in a clear atmosphere, when the sun shone brightly over him,
the Giant Antaeus presented a very grand spectacle. There he used to
stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling
down upon his little brothers, and his one vast eye (which was as big as
a cart wheel, and placed right in the center of his forehead) giving a
friendly wink to the whole nation at once.

The Pygmies loved to talk with Antaeus; and fifty times a day, one or
another of them would turn up his head, and shout through the hollow of
his fists, "Halloo, brother Antaeus! How are you, my good fellow?" And
when the small distant squeak of their voices reached his ear, the
Giant would make answer, "Pretty well, brother Pygmy, I thank you," in a
thunderous roar that would have shaken down the walls of their strongest
temple, only that it came from so far aloft.

It was a happy circumstance that Antaeus was the Pygmy people's friend;
for there was more strength in his little finger than in ten million of
such bodies as this. If he had been as ill-natured to them as he was
to everybody else, he might have beaten down their biggest city at one
kick, and hardly have known that he did it. With the tornado of his
breath, he could have stripped the roofs from a hundred dwellings and
sent thousands of the inhabitants whirling through the air. He might
have set his immense foot upon a multitude; and when he took it up
again, there would have been a pitiful sight, to be sure. But, being
the son of Mother Earth, as they likewise were, the Giant gave them his
brotherly kindness, and loved them with as big a love as it was possible
to feel for creatures so very small. And, on their parts, the Pygmies
loved Antaeus with as much affection as their tiny hearts could hold. He
was always ready to do them any good offices that lay in his power;
as for example, when they wanted a breeze to turn their windmills, the
Giant would set all the sails a-going with the mere natural respiration
of his lungs. When the sun was too hot, he often sat himself down, and
let his shadow fall over the kingdom, from one frontier to the other;
and as for matters in general, he was wise enough to let them alone,
and leave the Pygmies to manage their own affairs--which, after all, is
about the best thing that great people can do for little ones.

In short, as I said before, Antaeus loved the Pygmies, and the Pygmies
loved Antaeus. The Giant's life being as long as his body was large,
while the lifetime of a Pygmy was but a span, this friendly intercourse
had been going on for innumerable generations and ages. It was written
about in the Pygmy histories, and talked about in their ancient
traditions. The most venerable and white-bearded Pygmy had never heard
of a time, even in his greatest of grandfathers' days, when the Giant
was not their enormous friend. Once, to be sure (as was recorded on
an obelisk, three feet high, erected on the place of the catastrophe),
Antaeus sat down upon about five thousand Pygmies, who were assembled at
a military review. But this was one of those unlucky accidents for which
nobody is to blame; so that the small folks never took it to heart, and
only requested the Giant to be careful forever afterwards to examine the
acre of ground where he intended to squat himself.

It is a very pleasant picture to imagine Antaeus standing among the
Pygmies, like the spire of the tallest cathedral that ever was built,
while they ran about like pismires at his feet; and to think that, in
spite of their difference in size, there were affection and sympathy
between them and him! Indeed, it has always seemed to me that the Giant
needed the little people more than the Pygmies needed the Giant. For,
unless they had been his neighbors and well wishers, and, as we may
say, his playfellows, Antaeus would not have had a single friend in the
world. No other being like himself had ever been created. No creature of
his own size had ever talked with him, in thunder-like accents, face to
face. When he stood with his head among the clouds, he was quite alone,
and had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so forever. Even if
he had met another Giant, Antaeus would have fancied the world not big
enough for two such vast personages, and, instead of being friends with
him, would have fought him till one of the two was killed. But with the
Pygmies he was the most sportive and humorous, and merry-hearted, and
sweet-tempered old Giant that ever washed his face in a wet cloud.

His little friends, like all other small people, had a great opinion of
their own importance, and used to assume quite a patronizing air towards
the Giant.

"Poor creature!" they said one to another. "He has a very dull time of
it, all by himself; and we ought not to grudge wasting a little of our
precious time to amuse him. He is not half so bright as we are, to be
sure; and, for that reason, he needs us to look after his comfort and
happiness. Let us be kind to the old fellow. Why, if Mother Earth had
not been very kind to ourselves, we might all have been Giants too."

On all their holidays, the Pygmies had excellent sport with Antaeus.
He often stretched himself out at full length on the ground, where he
looked like the long ridge of a hill; and it was a good hour's walk,
no doubt, for a short-legged Pygmy to journey from head to foot of the
Giant. He would lay down his great hand flat on the grass, and challenge
the tallest of them to clamber upon it, and straddle from finger to
finger. So fearless were they, that they made nothing of creeping in
among the folds of his garments. When his head lay sidewise on the
earth, they would march boldly up, and peep into the great cavern of his
mouth, and take it all as a joke (as indeed it was meant) when Antaeus
gave a sudden snap of his jaws, as if he were going to swallow fifty of
them at once. You would have laughed to see the children dodging in and
out among his hair, or swinging from his beard. It is impossible to tell
half of the funny tricks that they played with their huge comrade; but
I do not know that anything was more curious than when a party of boys
were seen running races on his forehead, to try which of them could get
first round the circle of his one great eye. It was another favorite
feat with them to march along the bridge of his nose, and jump down upon
his upper lip.

If the truth must be told, they were sometimes as troublesome to
the Giant as a swarm of ants or mosquitoes, especially as they had a
fondness for mischief, and liked to prick his skin with their little
swords and lances, to see how thick and tough it was. But Antaeus took
it all kindly enough; although, once in a while, when he happened to be
sleepy, he would grumble out a peevish word or two, like the muttering
of a tempest, and ask them to have done with their nonsense. A great
deal oftener, however, he watched their merriment and gambols until his
huge, heavy, clumsy wits were completely stirred up by them; and then
would he roar out such a tremendous volume of immeasurable laughter,
that the whole nation of Pygmies had to put their hands to their ears,
else it would certainly have deafened them.

"Ho! ho! ho!" quoth the Giant, shaking his mountainous sides. "What a
funny thing it is to be little! If I were not Antaeus, I should like to
be a Pygmy, just for the joke's sake."

The Pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world. They were
constantly at war with the cranes, and had always been so, ever since
the long-lived Giant could remember. From time to time, very terrible
battles had been fought in which sometimes the little men won the
victory, and sometimes the cranes. According to some historians, the
Pygmies used to go to the battle, mounted on the backs of goats and
rams; but such animals as these must have been far too big for Pygmies
to ride upon; so that, I rather suppose, they rode on squirrel-back, or
rabbit-back, or rat-back, or perhaps got upon hedgehogs, whose prickly
quills would be very terrible to the enemy. However this might be, and
whatever creatures the Pygmies rode upon, I do not doubt that they made
a formidable appearance, armed with sword and spear, and bow and arrow,
blowing their tiny trumpet, and shouting their little war cry. They
never failed to exhort one another to fight bravely, and recollect that
the world had its eyes upon them; although, in simple truth, the only
spectator was the Giant Antaeus, with his one, great, stupid eye in the
middle of his forehead.

When the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward,
flapping their wings and stretching out their necks, and would perhaps
snatch up some of the Pygmies crosswise in their beaks. Whenever this
happened, it was truly an awful spectacle to see those little men of
might kicking and sprawling in the air, and at last disappearing down
the crane's long, crooked throat, swallowed up alive. A hero, you know,
must hold himself in readiness for any kind of fate; and doubtless
the glory of the thing was a consolation to him, even in the crane's
gizzard. If Antaeus observed that the battle was going hard against his
little allies, he generally stopped laughing, and ran with mile-long
strides to their assistance, flourishing his club aloft and shouting
at the cranes, who quacked and croaked, and retreated as fast as they
could. Then the Pygmy army would march homeward in triumph, attributing
the victory entirely to their own valor, and to the warlike skill and
strategy of whomsoever happened to be captain general; and for a tedious
while afterwards, nothing would be heard of but grand processions, and
public banquets, and brilliant illuminations, and shows of wax-work,
with likenesses of the distinguished officers, as small as life.

In the above-described warfare, if a Pygmy chanced to pluck out a
crane's tail feather, it proved a very great feather in his cap. Once or
twice, if you will believe me, a little man was made chief ruler of
the nation for no other merit in the world than bringing home such a
feather.

But I have now said enough to let you see what a gallant little people
these were, and how happily they and their forefathers, for nobody knows
how many generations, had lived with the immeasurable Giant Antaeus.
In the remaining part of the story, I shall tell you of a far more
astonishing battle than any that was fought between the Pygmies and the
cranes.

One day the mighty Antaeus was lolling at full length among his little
friends. His pine-tree walking stick lay on the ground, close by his
side. His head was in one part of the kingdom, and his feet extended
across the boundaries of another part; and he was taking whatever
comfort he could get, while the Pygmies scrambled over him, and peeped
into his cavernous mouth, and played among his hair. Sometimes, for a
minute or two, the Giant dropped asleep, and snored like the rush of a
whirlwind. During one of these little bits of slumber, a Pygmy chanced
to climb upon his shoulder, and took a view around the horizon, as from
the summit of a hill; and he beheld something, a long way off, which
made him rub the bright specks of his eyes, and look sharper than
before. At first he mistook it for a mountain, and wondered how it had
grown up so suddenly out of the earth. But soon he saw the mountain
move. As it came nearer and nearer, what should it turn out to be but a
human shape, not so big as Antaeus, it is true, although a very enormous
figure, in comparison with Pygmies, and a vast deal bigger than the men
we see nowadays.

When the Pygmy was quite satisfied that his eyes had not deceived him,
he scampered, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the Giant's ear,
and stooping over its cavity, shouted lustily into it:

"Halloo, brother Antaeus! Get up this minute, and take your pine-tree
walking stick in your hand. Here comes another Giant to have a tussle
with you."

"Poh, poh!" grumbled Antaeus, only half awake. "None of your nonsense,
my little fellow! Don't you see I'm sleepy? There is not a Giant on
earth for whom I would take the trouble to get up."

But the Pygmy looked again, and now perceived that the stranger was
coming directly towards the prostrate form of Antaeus. With every step,
he looked less like a blue mountain, and more like an immensely large
man. He was soon so nigh, that there could be no possible mistake about
the matter. There he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet, and
flashing from his polished breastplate; he had a sword by his side,
and a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a
club, which looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick
of Antaeus.

By this time, the whole nation of the Pygmies had seen the new wonder,
and a million of them set up a shout all together; so that it really
made quite an audible squeak.

"Get up, Antaeus! Bestir yourself, you lazy old Giant! Here comes
another Giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you."

"Nonsense, nonsense!" growled the sleepy Giant. "I'll have my nap out,
come who may."

Still the stranger drew nearer; and now the Pygmies could plainly
discern that, if his stature were less lofty than the Giant's, yet his
shoulders were even broader. And, in truth, what a pair of shoulders
they must have been! As I told you, a long while ago, they once upheld
the sky. The Pygmies, being ten times as vivacious as their great
numskull of a brother, could not abide the Giant's slow movements, and
were determined to have him on his feet. So they kept shouting to him,
and even went so far as to prick him with their swords.

"Get up, get up, get up," they cried. "Up with you, lazy bones! The
strange Giant's club is bigger than your own, his shoulders are the
broadest, and we think him the stronger of the two."

Antaeus could not endure to have it said that any mortal was half so
mighty as himself. This latter remark of the Pygmies pricked him deeper
than their swords; and, sitting up, in rather a sulky humor, he gave
a gape of several yards wide, rubbed his eyes, and finally turned his
stupid head in the direction whither his little friends were eagerly
pointing.

No sooner did he set eyes on the stranger, than, leaping on his feet,
and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him; all
the while brandishing the sturdy pine tree, so that it whistled through
the air.

"Who are you?" thundered the Giant. "And what do you want in my
dominions?"

There was one strange thing about Antaeus, of which I have not yet
told you, lest, hearing of so many wonders all in a lump, you might
not believe much more than half of them. You are to know, then, that
whenever this redoubtable Giant touched the ground, either with his
hand, his foot, or any other part of his body, he grew stronger than
ever he had been before. The Earth, you remember, was his mother, and
was very fond of him, as being almost the biggest of her children;
and so she took this method of keeping him always in full vigor. Some
persons affirm that he grew ten times stronger at every touch; others
say that it was only twice as strong. But only think of it! Whenever
Antaeus took a walk, supposing it were but ten miles, and that he
stepped a hundred yards at a stride, you may try to cipher out how much
mightier he was, on sitting down again, than when he first started. And
whenever he flung himself on the earth to take a little repose, even if
he got up the very next instant, he would be as strong as exactly ten
just such giants as his former self. It was well for the world that
Antaeus happened to be of a sluggish disposition and liked ease better
than exercise; for, if he had frisked about like the Pygmies, and
touched the earth as often as they did, he would long ago have been
strong enough to pull down the sky about people's ears. But these great
lubberly fellows resemble mountains, not only in bulk, but in their
disinclination to move.

Any other mortal man, except the very one whom Antaeus had now
encountered, would have been half frightened to death by the Giant's
ferocious aspect and terrible voice. But the stranger did not seem at
all disturbed. He carelessly lifted his club, and balanced it in his
hand, measuring Antaeus with his eye, from head to foot, not as if
wonder-smitten at his stature, but as if he had seen a great many Giants
before, and this was by no means the biggest of them. In fact, if the
Giant had been no bigger than the Pygmies (who stood pricking up their
ears, and looking and listening to what was going forward), the stranger
could not have been less afraid of him.

"Who are you, I say?" roared Antaeus again. "What's your name? Why do
you come hither? Speak, you vagabond, or I'll try the thickness of your
skull with my walking-stick!"

"You are a very discourteous Giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and
I shall probably have to teach you a little civility, before we part. As
for my name, it is Hercules. I have come hither because this is my most
convenient road to the garden of the Hesperides, whither I am going to
get three of the golden apples for King Eurystheus."

"Caitiff, you shall go no farther!" bellowed Antaeus, putting on a
grimmer look than before; for he had heard of the mighty Hercules, and
hated him because he was said to be so strong. "Neither shall you go
back whence you came!"

"How will you prevent me," asked Hercules, "from going whither I
please?"

"By hitting you a rap with this pine tree here," shouted Antaeus,
scowling so that he made himself the ugliest monster in Africa. "I am
fifty times stronger than you; and now that I stamp my foot upon the
ground, I am five hundred times stronger! I am ashamed to kill such a
puny little dwarf as you seem to be. I will make a slave of you, and you
shall likewise be the slave of my brethren here, the Pygmies. So throw
down your club and your other weapons; and as for that lion's skin, I
intend to have a pair of gloves made of it."

"Come and take it off my shoulders, then," answered Hercules, lifting
his club.

Then the Giant, grinning with rage, strode tower-like towards the
stranger (ten times strengthened at every step), and fetched a monstrous
blow at him with his pine tree, which Hercules caught upon his club; and
being more skilful than Antaeus, he paid him back such a rap upon the
sconce, that down tumbled the great lumbering man-mountain, flat upon
the ground. The poor little Pygmies (who really never dreamed that
anybody in the world was half so strong as their brother Antaeus) were a
good deal dismayed at this. But no sooner was the Giant down, than up
he bounced again, with tenfold might, and such a furious visage as was
horrible to behold. He aimed another blow at Hercules, but struck awry,
being blinded with wrath, and only hit his poor innocent Mother Earth,
who groaned and trembled at the stroke. His pine tree went so deep into
the ground, and stuck there so fast, that, before Antaeus could get it
out, Hercules brought down his club across his shoulders with a mighty
thwack, which made the Giant roar as if all sorts of intolerable noises
had come screeching and rumbling out of his immeasurable lungs in that
one cry. Away it went, over mountains and valleys, and, for aught I
know, was heard on the other side of the African deserts.

As for the Pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the
concussion and vibration of the air; and, though there was uproar enough
without their help, they all set up a shriek out of three millions of
little throats, fancying, no doubt, that they swelled the Giant's bellow
by at least ten times as much. Meanwhile, Antaeus had scrambled upon his
feet again, and pulled his pine tree out of the earth; and, all aflame
with fury, and more outrageously strong than ever, he ran at Hercules,
and brought down another blow.

"This time, rascal," shouted he, "you shall not escape me."

But once more Hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the
Giant's pine tree was shattered into a thousand splinters, most of which
flew among the Pygmies, and did them more mischief than I like to think
about. Before Antaeus could get out of the way, Hercules let drive
again, and gave him another knock-down blow, which sent him heels over
head, but served only to increase his already enormous and insufferable
strength. As for his rage, there is no telling what a fiery furnace it
had now got to be. His one eye was nothing but a circle of red flame.
Having now no weapons but his fists, he doubled them up (each bigger
than a hogshead), smote one against the other, and danced up and down
with absolute frenzy, flourishing his immense arms about, as if he meant
not merely to kill Hercules, but to smash the whole world to pieces.

"Come on!" roared this thundering Giant. "Let me hit you but one box on
the ear, and you'll never have the headache again."

Now Hercules (though strong enough, as you already know, to hold the
sky up) began to be sensible that he should never win the victory, if he
kept on knocking Antaeus down; for, by and by, if he hit him such hard
blows, the Giant would inevitably, by the help of his Mother Earth,
become stronger than the mighty Hercules himself. So, throwing down his
club, with which he had fought so many dreadful battles, the hero stood
ready to receive his antagonist with naked arms.

"Step forward," cried he. "Since I've broken your pine tree, we'll try
which is the better man at a wrestling match."

"Aha! then I'll soon satisfy you," shouted the Giant; for, if there was
one thing on which he prided himself more than another, it was his skill
in wrestling. "Villain, I'll fling you where you can never pick yourself
up again."

On came Antaeus, hopping and capering with the scorching heat of his
rage, and getting new vigor wherewith to wreak his passion, every time
he hopped.

But Hercules, you must understand, was wiser than this numskull of a
Giant, and had thought of a way to fight him--huge, earth-born monster
that he was--and to conquer him too, in spite of all that his Mother
Earth could do for him. Watching his opportunity, as the mad Giant made
a rush at him, Hercules caught him round the middle with both hands,
lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft overhead.

Just imagine it, my dear little friends. What a spectacle it must have
been, to see this monstrous fellow sprawling in the air, face downwards,
kicking out his long legs and wriggling his whole vast body, like a baby
when its father holds it at arm's length towards the ceiling.

But the most wonderful thing was, that, as soon as Antaeus was fairly
off the earth, he began to lose the vigor which he had gained by
touching it. Hercules very soon perceived that his troublesome enemy was
growing weaker, both because he struggled and kicked with less violence,
and because the thunder of his big voice subsided into a grumble. The
truth was that unless the Giant touched Mother Earth as often as once
in five minutes, not only his overgrown strength, but the very breath of
his life, would depart from him. Hercules had guessed this secret; and
it may be well for us all to remember it, in case we should ever have
to fight a battle with a fellow like Antaeus. For these earth-born
creatures are only difficult to conquer on their own ground, but may
easily be managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and
purer region. So it proved with the poor Giant, whom I am really a
little sorry for, notwithstanding his uncivil way of treating strangers
who came to visit him.

When his strength and breath were quite gone, Hercules gave his huge
body a toss, and flung it about a mile off, where it fell heavily,
and lay with no more motion than a sand hill. It was too late for the
Giant's Mother Earth to help him now; and I should not wonder if his
ponderous bones were lying on the same spot to this very day, and were
mistaken for those of an uncommonly large elephant.

But, alas me! What a wailing did the poor little Pygmies set up when
they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible manner! If
Hercules heard their shrieks, however, he took no notice, and perhaps
fancied them only the shrill, plaintive twittering of small birds that
had been frightened from their nests by the uproar of the battle between
himself and Antaeus. Indeed, his thoughts had been so much taken up with
the Giant, that he had never once looked at the Pygmies, nor even knew
that there was such a funny little nation in the world. And now, as he
had traveled a good way, and was also rather weary with his exertions in
the fight, he spread out his lion's skin on the ground, and, reclining
himself upon it, fell fast asleep.

As soon as the Pygmies saw Hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded
their little heads at one another, and winked with their little eyes.
And when his deep, regular breathing gave them notice that he was
asleep, they assembled together in an immense crowd, spreading over
a space of about twenty-seven feet square. One of their most eloquent
orators (and a valiant warrior enough, besides, though hardly so good
at any other weapon as he was with his tongue) climbed upon a toadstool,
and, from that elevated position, addressed the multitude. His
sentiments were pretty much as follows; or, at all events, something
like this was probably the upshot of his speech:

"Tall Pygmies and mighty little men! You and all of us have seen what
a public calamity has been brought to pass, and what an insult has here
been offered to the majesty of our nation. Yonder lies Antaeus, our
great friend and brother, slain, within our territory, by a miscreant
who took him at disadvantage, and fought him (if fighting it can be
called) in a way that neither man, nor Giant, nor Pygmy ever dreamed of
fighting, until this hour. And, adding a grievous contumely to the wrong
already done us, the miscreant has now fallen asleep as quietly as
if nothing were to be dreaded from our wrath! It behooves you,
fellow-countrymen, to consider in what aspect we shall stand before
the world, and what will be the verdict of impartial history, should we
suffer these accumulated outrages to go unavenged.

"Antaeus was our brother, born of that same beloved parent to whom we
owe the thews and sinews, as well as the courageous hearts, which
made him proud of our relationship. He was our faithful ally, and fell
fighting as much for our national rights and immunities as for his own
personal ones. We and our forefathers have dwelt in friendship with
him, and held affectionate intercourse as man to man, through immemorial
generations. You remember how often our entire people have reposed in
his great shadow, and how our little ones have played at hide-and-seek
in the tangles of his hair, and how his mighty footsteps have familiarly
gone to and fro among us, and never trodden upon any of our toes. And
there lies this dear brother--this sweet and amiable friend--this brave
and faithful ally---this virtuous Giant--this blameless and excellent
Antaeus--dead! Dead! Silent! Powerless! A mere mountain of clay! Forgive
my tears! Nay, I behold your own. Were we to drown the world with them,
could the world blame us?

"But to resume: Shall we, my countrymen, suffer this wicked stranger to
depart unharmed, and triumph in his treacherous victory, among distant
communities of the earth? Shall we not rather compel him to leave his
bones here on our soil, by the side of our slain brother's bones? So
that, while one skeleton shall remain as the everlasting monument of our
sorrow, the other shall endure as long, exhibiting to the whole human
race a terrible example of Pygmy vengeance! Such is the question. I put
it to you in full confidence of a response that shall be worthy of our
national character, and calculated to increase, rather than diminish,
the glory which our ancestors have transmitted to us, and which we
ourselves have proudly vindicated in our warfare with the cranes."

The orator was here interrupted by a burst of irrepressible enthusiasm;
every individual Pygmy crying out that the national honor must be
preserved at all hazards. He bowed, and, making a gesture for silence,
wound up his harangue in the following admirable manner:

"It only remains for us, then, to decide whether we shall carry on
the war in our national capacity--one united people against a common
enemy--or whether some champion, famous in former fights, shall be
selected to defy the slayer of our brother Antaeus to single combat.
In the latter case, though not unconscious that there may be taller men
among you, I hereby offer myself for that enviable duty. And believe me,
dear countrymen, whether I live or die, the honor of this great country,
and the fame bequeathed us by our heroic progenitors, shall suffer no
diminution in my hands. Never, while I can wield this sword, of which
I now fling away the scabbard--never, never, never, even if the crimson
hand that slew the great Antaeus shall lay me prostrate, like him, on
the soil which I give my life to defend."

So saying, this valiant Pygmy drew out his weapon (which was terrible to
behold, being as long as the blade of a penknife), and sent the scabbard
whirling over the heads of the multitude. His speech was followed by an
uproar of applause, as its patriotism and self-devotion unquestionably
deserved; and the shouts and clapping of hands would have been greatly
prolonged, had they not been rendered quite inaudible by a deep
respiration, vulgarly called a snore, from the sleeping Hercules.

It was finally decided that the whole nation of Pygmies should set to
work to destroy Hercules; not, be it understood, from any doubt that
a single champion would be capable of putting him to the sword, but
because he was a public enemy, and all were desirous of sharing in the
glory of his defeat. There was a debate whether the national honor did
not demand that a herald should be sent with a trumpet, to stand over
the ear of Hercules, and after blowing a blast right into it, to defy
him to the combat by formal proclamation. But two or three venerable
and sagacious Pygmies, well versed in state affairs, gave it as their
opinion that war already existed, and that it was their rightful
privilege to take the enemy by surprise. Moreover, if awakened, and
allowed to get upon his feet, Hercules might happen to do them a
mischief before he could be beaten down again. For, as these sage
counselors remarked, the stranger's club was really very big, and had
rattled like a thunderbolt against the skull of Antaeus. So the
Pygmies resolved to set aside all foolish punctilios, and assail their
antagonist at once.

Accordingly, all the fighting men of the nation took their weapons, and
went boldly up to Hercules, who still lay fast asleep, little dreaming
of the harm which the Pygmies meant to do him. A body of twenty thousand
archers marched in front, with their little bows all ready, and the
arrows on the string. The same number were ordered to clamber upon
Hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles
of hay, and all manner of rubbish with which they intended to plug up
his mouth and nostrils, so that he might perish for lack of breath.
These last, however, could by no means perform their appointed duty;
inasmuch as the enemy's breath rushed out of his nose in an obstreperous
hurricane and whirlwind, which blew the Pygmies away as fast as they
came nigh. It was found necessary, therefore, to hit upon some other
method of carrying on the war.

After holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect
sticks, straws, dry weeds, and whatever combustible stuff they could
find, and make a pile of it, heaping it high around the head of
Hercules. As a great many thousand Pygmies were employed in this task,
they soon brought together several bushels of inflammatory matter, and
raised so tall a heap, that, mounting on its summit, they were quite
upon a level with the sleeper's face. The archers, meanwhile, were
stationed within bow shot, with orders to let fly at Hercules the
instant that he stirred. Everything being in readiness, a torch was
applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames, and soon waxed
hot enough to roast the enemy, had he but chosen to lie still. A Pygmy,
you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire, just as
easily as a Giant could; so that this was certainly the very best way
of dealing with their foe, provided they could have kept him quiet while
the conflagration was going forward.

But no sooner did Hercules begin to be scorched, than up he started,
with his hair in a red blaze.

"What's all this?" he cried, bewildered with sleep, and staring about
him as if he expected to see another Giant.

At that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bowstrings, and
the arrows came whizzing, like so many winged mosquitoes, right into
the face of Hercules. But I doubt whether more than half a dozen of them
punctured the skin, which was remarkably tough, as you know the skin of
a hero has good need to be.

"Villain!" shouted all the Pygmies at once. "You have killed the Giant
Antaeus, our great brother, and the ally of our nation. We declare
bloody war against you, and will slay you on the spot."

Surprised at the shrill piping of so many little voices, Hercules, after
putting out the conflagration of his hair, gazed all round about, but
could see nothing. At last, however, looking narrowly on the ground,
he espied the innumerable assemblage of Pygmies at his feet. He stooped
down, and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set
him on the palm of his left hand, and held him at a proper distance for
examination. It chanced to be the very identical Pygmy who had spoken
from the top of the toadstool, and had offered himself as a champion to
meet Hercules in single combat.

"What in the world, my little fellow," ejaculated Hercules, "may you
be?"

"I am your enemy," answered the valiant Pygmy, in his mightiest squeak.
"You have slain the enormous Antaeus, our brother by the mother's
side, and for ages the faithful ally of our illustrious nation. We are
determined to put you to death; and for my own part, I challenge you to
instant battle, on equal ground."

Hercules was so tickled with the Pygmy's big words and warlike gestures,
that he burst into a great explosion of laughter, and almost dropped
the poor little mite of a creature off the palm of his hand, through the
ecstasy and convulsion of his merriment.

"Upon my word," cried he, "I thought I had seen wonders before
to-day--hydras with nine heads, stags with golden horns, six-legged men,
three-headed dogs, giants with furnaces in their stomachs, and nobody
knows what besides. But here, on the palm of my hand, stands a wonder
that outdoes them all! Your body, my little friend, is about the size of
an ordinary man's finger. Pray, how big may your soul be?"

"As big as your own!" said the Pygmy.

Hercules was touched with the little man's dauntless courage, and could
not help acknowledging such a brotherhood with him as one hero feels for
another.

"My good little people," said he, making a low obeisance to the grand
nation, "not for all the world would I do an intentional injury to such
brave fellows as you! Your hearts seem to me so exceedingly great, that,
upon my honor, I marvel how your small bodies can contain them. I sue
for peace, and, as a condition of it, will take five strides, and be out
of your kingdom at the sixth. Good-bye. I shall pick my steps carefully,
for fear of treading upon some fifty of you, without knowing it. Ha, ha,
ha! Ho, ho, ho! For once, Hercules acknowledges himself vanquished."

Some writers say, that Hercules gathered up the whole race of Pygmies
in his lion's skin, and carried them home to Greece, for the children of
King Eurystheus to play with. But this is a mistake. He left them, one
and all, within their own territory, where, for aught I can tell, their
descendants are alive to the present day, building their little houses,
cultivating their little fields, spanking their little children, waging
their little warfare with the cranes, doing their little business,
whatever it may be, and reading their little histories of ancient times.
In those histories, perhaps, it stands recorded, that, a great many
centuries ago, the valiant Pygmies avenged the death of the Giant
Antaeus by scaring away the mighty Hercules.



THE DRAGON'S TEETH.

Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, the three sons of King Agenor, and their
little sister Europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play
together near the seashore in their father's kingdom of Phoenicia. They
had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents dwelt,
and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the sea, all
sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently against the
beach. The three boys were very happy, gathering flowers, and twining
them into garlands, with which they adorned the little Europa. Seated
on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an abundance of buds and
blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out, and, as Cadmus said,
was the prettiest of all the flowers.

Just then, there came a splendid butterfly, fluttering along the meadow;
and Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out
that it was a flower with wings. Europa, who was a little wearied with
playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but
sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes. For a while,
she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice
saying "Hush!" and bidding her go to sleep. But the pretty child, if she
slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard
something trample on the grass, not far from her, and, peeping out from
the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull.

And whence could this bull have come? Europa and her brothers had been
a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other
living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills.

"Brother Cadmus!" cried Europa, starting up out of the midst of the
roses and lilies. "Phoenix! Cilix! Where are you all? Help! Help! Come
and drive away this bull!"

But her brothers were too far off to hear; especially as the fright took
away Europa's voice, and hindered her from calling very loudly. So there
she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies
that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands.

Nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the
bull, rather than anything frightful in his appearance, that caused
Europa so much alarm. On looking at him more attentively, she began
to see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly
amiable expression in his face. As for his breath--the breath of cattle,
you know, is always sweet--it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing
on no other food than rosebuds, or at least, the most delicate of clover
blossoms. Never before did a bull have such bright and tender eyes, and
such smooth horns of ivory, as this one. And the bull ran little races,
and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite forgot how
big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and playfulness of his
actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a creature as a pet lamb.

Thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen
Europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and
taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory
horns. Then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of
her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends
with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched. Well,
my stars! was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable
creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl?

When the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is
really wonderful to think of), when he saw that Europa was no longer
afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself
for delight. He frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making
sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping
from twig to twig. Indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying
through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the
grassy soil over which he trod. With his spotless hue, he resembled a
snow drift, wafted along by the wind. Once he galloped so far away that
Europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her
childish voice, called him back.

"Come back, pretty creature!" she cried. "Here is a nice clover
blossom."

And then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable
bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered
higher than ever. He came running, and bowed his head before Europa, as
if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognized the important
truth that a little girl is everybody's queen. And not only did the
bull bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and made such
intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that Europa understood
what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many words.

"Come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride
on my back."

At the first thought of such a thing, Europa drew back. But then she
considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible
harm in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly
animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired
it. And how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across the
green meadow! And what merry times they might have, either taking turns
for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four children
together, and careering round the field with shouts of laughter that
would be heard as far off as King Agenor's palace!

"I think I will do it," said the child to herself.

And, indeed, why not? She cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse of
Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, who were still in pursuit of the butterfly,
almost at the other end of the meadow. It would be the quickest way
of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back. She came a step
nearer to him therefore; and--sociable creature that he was--he showed
so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the child could not
find in her heart to hesitate any longer. Making one bound (for this
little princess was as active as a squirrel), there sat Europa on the
beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each hand, lest she should fall
off.

"Softly, pretty bull, softly!" she said, rather frightened at what she
had done. "Do not gallop too fast."

Having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air,
and came down so like a feather that Europa did not know when his hoofs
touched the ground. He then began a race to that part of the flowery
plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just caught
their splendid butterfly. Europa screamed with delight; and Phoenix,
Cilix, and Cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their sister mounted
on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened or to wish the
same good luck for themselves. The gentle and innocent creature (for who
could possibly doubt that he was so?) pranced round among the children
as sportively as a kitten. Europa all the while looked down upon her
brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a sort of stateliness in
her rosy little face. As the bull wheeled about to take another gallop
across the meadow, the child waved her hand, and said, "Good-bye,"
playfully pretending that she was now bound on a distant journey, and
might not see her brothers again for nobody could tell how long.

"Good-bye," shouted Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, all in one breath.

But, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a little
remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at the three
boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear sister were
really leaving them forever. And what do you think the snowy bull
did next? Why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight down to the
seashore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap, and plunged
right in among the foaming billows. The white spray rose in a shower
over him and little Europa, and fell spattering down upon the water.

Then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth! The three
brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as
their legs would carry them, with Cadmus at their head. But it was too
late. When they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal
was already far away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and
tail emerging, and poor little Europa between them, stretching out one
hand towards her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory horn
with the other. And there stood Cadmus, Phoenix, and Cilix, gazing at
this sad spectacle, through their tears, until they could no longer
distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows that
seemed to boil up out of the sea's depths around him. Nothing more was
ever seen of the white bull--nothing more of the beautiful child.

This was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys to
carry home to their parents. King Agenor, their father, was the ruler of
the whole country; but he loved his little daughter Europa better than
his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than anything else in
the world. Therefore, when Cadmus and his two brothers came crying home,
and told him how that a white bull had carried off their sister, and
swam with her over the sea, the king was quite beside himself with grief
and rage. Although it was now twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade
them set out instantly in search of her.

"Never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me back
my little Europa, to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty ways.
Begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her by the
hand."

As King Agenor said this, his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very
passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys
did not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of the
palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither they
should go first. While they were standing there, all in dismay, their
mother, Queen Telephassa (who happened not to be by when they told the
story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that she too
would go in quest of her daughter.

"O, no, mother!" cried the boys. "The night is dark, and there is no
knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with."

"Alas! my dear children," answered poor Queen Telephassa; weeping
bitterly, "that is only another reason why I should go with you. If I
should lose you, too, as well as my little Europa, what would become of
me!"

"And let me go likewise!" said their playfellow Thasus, who came running
to join them.

Thasus was the son of a seafaring person in the neighborhood; he had
been brought up with the young princes, and was their intimate friend,
and loved Europa very much; so they consented that he should accompany
them. The whole party, therefore, set forth together. Cadmus, Phoenix,
Cilix, and Thasus clustered round Queen Telephassa, grasping her skirts,
and begging her to lean upon their shoulders whenever she felt weary. In
this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey, which
turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of. The last that
they saw of King Agenor, he came to the door, with a servant holding a
torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering darkness:

"Remember! Never ascend these steps again without the child!"

"Never!" sobbed Queen Telephassa; and the three brothers and Thasus
answered, "Never! Never! Never! Never!"

And they kept their word. Year after year, King Agenor sat in the
solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their returning
footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen, and the
cheerful talk of his sons and their playfellow Thasus, entering the door
together, and the sweet, childish accents of little Europa in the midst
of them. But so long a time went by, that, at last, if they had
really come, the king would not have known that this was the voice of
Telephassa, and these the younger voices that used to make such joyful
echoes, when the children were playing about the palace. We must now
leave King Agenor to sit on his throne, and must go along with Queen
Telephassa, and her four youthful companions.

They went on and on, and traveled a long way, and passed over mountains
and rivers, and sailed over seas. Here, and there, and everywhere, they
made continual inquiry if any person could tell them what had become of
Europa. The rustic people, of whom they asked this question, paused
a little while from their labors in the field, and looked very much
surprised. They thought it strange to behold a woman in the garb of a
queen (for Telephassa in her haste had forgotten to take off her crown
and her royal robes), roaming about the country, with four lads around
her, on such an errand as this seemed to be. But nobody could give them
any tidings of Europa; nobody had seen a little girl dressed like a
princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull, which galloped as swiftly as
the wind.

I cannot tell you how long Queen Telephassa, and Cadmus, Phoenix, and
Cilix, her three sons, and Thasus, their playfellow, went wandering
along the highways and bypaths, or through the pathless wildernesses of
the earth, in this manner. But certain it is, that, before they reached
any place of rest, their splendid garments were quite worn out. They
all looked very much travel-stained, and would have had the dust of many
countries on their shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had
not washed it all away. When they had been gone a year, Telephassa threw
away her crown, because it chafed her forehead.

"It has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot
cure my heartache."

As fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged
them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore. By and by, they come
to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner have
taken them for a gypsy family than a queen and three princes, and
a young nobleman, who had once a palace for a home, and a train of
servants to do their bidding. The four boys grew up to be tall young
men, with sunburnt faces. Each of them girded on a sword, to defend
themselves against the perils of the way. When the husbandmen, at whose
farmhouses they sought hospitality, needed their assistance in the
harvest field, they gave it willingly; and Queen Telephassa (who had
done no work in her palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones)
came behind them to bind the sheaves. If payment was offered, they shook
their heads, and only asked for tidings of Europa.

"There are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply;
"but I never heard of one like this you tell me of. A snow-white bull
with a little princess on his back! Ho! ho! I ask your pardon, good
folks; but there never such a sight seen hereabouts."

At last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, Phoenix grew
weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose. So one day, when
they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of
country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss.

"I can go no farther," said Phoenix. "It is a mere foolish waste of
life, to spend it as we do, always wandering up and down, and never
coming to any home at nightfall. Our sister is lost, and never will be
found. She probably perished in the sea; or, to whatever shore the white
bull may have carried her, it is now so many years ago, that there would
be neither love nor acquaintance between us, should we meet again. My
father has forbidden us to return to his palace, so I shall build me a
hut of branches, and dwell here."

"Well, son Phoenix," said Telephassa, sorrowfully, "you have grown to be
a man, and must do as you judge best. But, for my part, I will still go
in quest of my poor child."

"And we three will go along with you!" cried Cadmus and Cilix, and their
faithful friend Thasus.

But, before setting out, they all helped Phoenix to build a habitation.
When completed, it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead with an arch
of living boughs. Inside there were two pleasant rooms, one of which
had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was furnished with
a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the crooked roots of
trees. So comfortable and home-like did it seem, that Telephassa and her
three companions could not help sighing, to think that they must still
roam about the world, instead of spending the remainder of their lives
in some such cheerful abode as they had here built for Phoenix. But,
when they bade him farewell, Phoenix shed tears, and probably regretted
that he was no longer to keep them company.

However, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in. And by and by
there came other people, who chanced to have no homes; and, seeing how
pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the neighborhood
of Phoenix's habitation. Thus, before many years went by, a city had
grown up there, in the center of which was seen a stately palace of
marble, wherein dwelt Phoenix, clothed in a purple robe, and wearing a
golden crown upon his head. For the inhabitants of the new city, finding
that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to be their king.
The very first decree of state which King Phoenix issued was, that, if a
maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom, mounted on a snow-white bull,
and calling herself Europa, his subjects should treat her with the
greatest kindness and respect, and immediately bring her to the palace.
You may see, by this, that Phoenix's conscience never quite ceased to
trouble him, for giving up the quest of his dear sister, and sitting
himself down to be comfortable, while his mother and her companions went
onward.

But often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did
Telephassa and Cadmus, Cilix, and Thasus, remember the pleasant spot
in which they had left Phoenix. It was a sorrowful prospect for these
wanderers, that on the morrow they must again set forth, and that, after
many nightfalls, they would perhaps be no nearer the close of their
toilsome pilgrimage than now. These thoughts made them all melancholy at
times, but appeared to torment Cilix more than the rest of the party. At
length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in hand to set
out, he thus addressed them:

"My dear mother, and you, good brother Cadmus, and my friend Thasus,
methinks we are like people in a dream. There is no substance in the
life which we are leading. It is such a dreary length of time since the
white bull carried off my sister Europa, that I have quite forgotten
how she looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt
whether such a little girl ever lived in the world. And whether she
once lived or no, I am convinced that she no longer survives, and that
therefore it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness
in seeking her. Were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and
would look upon us all as strangers. So, to tell you the truth, I have
resolved to take up my abode here; and I entreat you, mother, brother,
and friend, to follow my example."

"Not I, for one," said Telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as
she spoke, was so travel-worn that she could hardly put her foot to the
ground. "Not I, for one! In the depths of my heart, little Europa is
still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago.
She has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me. At noon, at night,
journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always
in my ears, calling, 'Mother! mother!' Stop here who may, there is no
repose for me."

"Nor for me," said Cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go onward."

And the faithful Thasus, too, was resolved to bear them company. They
remained with Cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build a
rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for
Phoenix.

When they were bidding him farewell Cilix burst into tears, and told
his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there, in
solitude, as to go onward. If she really believed that they would ever
find Europa, he was willing to continue the search with them, even now.
But Telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart
would let him. So the pilgrims took their leave of him, and departed,
and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came
along that way, and saw Cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted
with the appearance of the place. There being abundance of unoccupied
ground in the neighborhood, these strangers built huts for themselves,
and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly formed
a city. In the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of 
marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared Cilix, in
a long purple robe, and with a jeweled crown upon his head; for
the inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had
considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself.

One of the first acts of King Cilix's government was to send out an
expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador, and an escort of bold
and hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of
the earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those
regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull. It is, therefore, plain to
my mind, that Cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search for
Europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other.

As for Telephassa, and Cadmus, and the good Thasus, it grieves me to
think of them, still keeping up that weary pilgrimage. The two young men
did their best for the poor queen, helping her over the rough places,
often carrying her across rivulets in their faithful arms and seeking to
shelter her at nightfall, even when they themselves lay on the ground.
Sad, sad it was to hear them asking of every passer-by if he had seen
Europa, so long after the white bull had carried her away. But, though
the gray years thrust themselves between, and made the child's figure
dim in their remembrance, neither of these true-hearted three ever
dreamed of giving up the search.

One morning, however, poor Thasus found that he had sprained his ankle,
and could not possibly go a step farther.

"After a few days, to be sure," said he, mournfully, "I might make shift
to hobble along with a stick. But that would only delay you, and perhaps
hinder you from finding dear little Europa, after all your pains and
trouble. Do you go forward, therefore, my beloved companions, and leave
me to follow as I may."

"Thou hast been a true friend, dear Thasus," said Queen Telephassa,
kissing his forehead. "Being neither my son, nor the brother of our lost
Europa, thou hast shown thyself truer to me and her than Phoenix and
Cilix did, whom we have left behind us. Without thy loving help, and
that of my son Cadmus, my limbs could not have borne me half so far as
this. Now, take thy rest, and be at peace. For--and it is the first time
I have owned it to myself--I begin to question whether we shall ever
find my beloved daughter in this world."

Saying this, the poor queen shed tears, because it was a grievous trial
to the mother's heart to confess that her hopes were growing faint. From
that day forward, Cadmus noticed that she never traveled with the same
alacrity of spirit that had heretofore supported her. Her weight was
heavier upon his arm.

Before setting out, Cadmus helped Thasus build a bower; while
Telephassa, being too infirm to give any great assistance, advised them
how to fit it up and furnish it, so that it might be as comfortable as
a hut of branches could. Thasus, however, did not spend all his days in
this green bower. For it happened to him, as to Phoenix and Cilix,
that other homeless people visited the spot, and liked it, and built
themselves habitations in the neighborhood. So here, in the course of a
few years, was another thriving city, with a red freestone palace in
the center of it, where Thasus sat upon a throne, doing justice to the
people, with a purple robe over his shoulders, a sceptre in his hand,
and a crown upon his head. The inhabitants had made him king, not for
the sake of any royal blood (for none was in his veins), but because
Thasus was an upright, true-hearted, and courageous man, and therefore
fit to rule.

But when the affairs of his kingdom were all settled, King Thasus laid
aside his purple robe and crown, and sceptre, and bade his worthiest
subjects distribute justice to the people in his stead. Then, grasping
the pilgrim's staff that had supported him so long, he set forth again,
hoping still to discover some hoof-mark of the snow-white bull, some
trace of the vanished child. He returned after a lengthened absence, and
sat down wearily upon his throne. To his latest hour, nevertheless, King
Thasus showed his true-hearted remembrance of Europa, by ordering that
a fire should always be kept burning in his palace, and a bath steaming
hot, and food ready to be served up, and a bed with snow-white sheets,
in case the maiden should arrive, and require immediate refreshment.
And, though Europa never came, the good Thasus had the blessings of many
a poor traveler, who profited by the food and lodging which were meant
for the little playmate of the king's boyhood.

Telephassa and Cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no
companion but each other. The queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm,
and could walk only a few miles a day. But for all her weakness and
weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search. It
was enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the
melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he
could not tell her any news of the lost child.

"Have you seen a little girl--no, no, I mean a young maiden of full
growth--passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which gallops
as swiftly as the wind?"

"We have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and very
often, taking Cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "Is this stately and
sad-looking woman your mother? Surely she is not in her right mind; and
you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable, and do your best
to get this dream out of her fancy."

"It is no dream," said Cadmus. "Everything else is a dream, save that."

But, one day, Telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost
her whole weight on the arm of Cadmus, and walked more slowly than ever
before. At last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her son
that she must needs lie down, and take a good long rest.

"A good long rest!" she repeated, looking Cadmus tenderly in the face.
"A good long rest, thou dearest one!"

"As long as you please, dear mother," answered Cadmus.

Telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took
his hand.

"My son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this
rest that I speak of will be very long indeed! You must not wait till
it is finished. Dear Cadmus, you do not comprehend me. You must make a
grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it. My pilgrimage is
over."

Cadmus burst into tears, and, for a long time, refused to believe that
his dear mother was now to be taken from him. But Telephassa reasoned
with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was
better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, and
grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since
the child was lost. He therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to
her last words.

"Dearest Cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever
mother had, and faithful to the very last. Who else would have borne
with my infirmities as thou hast! It is owing to thy care, thou
tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some
valley, or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us. It is enough.
Thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search. But, when thou hast
laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to Delphi, and inquire of
the oracle what thou shalt do next."

"O mother, mother," cried Cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my sister
before this hour!"

"It matters little now," answered Telephassa, and there was a smile upon
her face. "I go now to the better world, and, sooner or later, shall
find my daughter there."

I will not sadden you, my little hearers, with telling how Telephassa
died and was buried, but will only say, that her dying smile grew
brighter, instead of vanishing from her dead face; so that Cadmus left
convinced that, at her very first step into the better world, she had
caught Europa in her arms. He planted some flowers on his mother's
grave, and left them to grow there, and make the place beautiful, when
he should be far away.

After performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and took
the road towards the famous oracle of Delphi, as Telephassa had advised
him. On his way thither, he still inquired of most people whom he met
whether they had seen Europa; for, to say the truth, Cadmus had grown so
accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as readily as a
remark about the weather. He received various answers. Some told him one
thing, and some another. Among the rest, a mariner affirmed, that, many
years before, in a distant country, he had heard a rumor about a white
bull, which came swimming across the sea with a child on his back,
dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea water. He did not
know what had become of the child or the bull; and Cadmus suspected,
indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes, that he was putting a
joke upon him, and had never really heard anything about the matter.

Poor Cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all
his dear mother's weight, while she had kept him company. His heart, you
will understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible, sometimes,
to carry it any farther. But his limbs were strong and active, and well
accustomed to exercise. He walked swiftly along, thinking of King Agenor
and Queen Telephassa, and his brothers, and the friendly Thasus, all of
whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or another,
and never expected to see them any more. Full of these remembrances, he
came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the people thereabouts told
him was called Parnassus. On the <DW72> of Mount Parnassus was the famous
Delphi, whither Cadmus was going.

This Delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole world.
The place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the mountain side, over
which, when Cadmus came thither, he found a rude bower of branches.
It reminded him of those which he had helped to build for Phoenix and
Cilix, and afterwards for Thasus. In later times, when multitudes of
people came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a
spacious temple of marble was erected over the spot. But in the days of
Cadmus, as I have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its
abundance of green foliage, and a tuft of shrubbery, that ran wild over
the mysterious hole in the hillside.

When Cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made
his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden
cavity. But soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with
so much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheek. Pulling away the
shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward, and spoke in
a distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen personage
inside of the mountain.

"Sacred oracle of Delphi," said he, "whither shall I go next in quest of
my dear sister Europa?"

There was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a noise
like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth. This
cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of truth,
which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the most
part, these words were such a riddle that they might just as well have
staid at the bottom of the hole. But Cadmus was more fortunate than many
others who went to Delphi in search of truth. By and by, the rushing
noise began to sound like articulate language. It repeated, over and
over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so like the
vague whistle of a blast of air, that Cadmus really did not quite know
whether it meant anything or not:

"Seek her no more! Seek her no more! Seek her no more!"

"What, then, shall I do?" asked Cadmus.

For, ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great
object of his life to find his sister. From the very hour that he left
following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he had
done his best to follow Europa, over land and sea. And now, if he must
give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the world.

But again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse
voice.

"Follow the cow!" it said. "Follow the cow! Follow the cow!"

And when these words had been repeated until Cadmus was tired of hearing
them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or why he was
to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another sentence.

"Where the stray cow lies down, there is your home."

These words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into
a whisper before Cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the
meaning. He put other questions, but received no answer; only the gust
of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered
leaves rustling along the ground before it.

"Did there really come any words out of the hole?" thought Cadmus; "or
have I been dreaming all this while?"

He turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when
he came thither. Caring little what might happen to him, he took the
first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace;
for, having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than
another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste. Whenever he
met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end.

"Have you seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and
mounted on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?"

But, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the
words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion,
people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his
wits.

I know not how far Cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told you,
when at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow. She was
lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor did she take
any notice of the young man until he had approached pretty nigh. Then,
getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head a gentle toss, she
began to move along at a moderate pace, often pausing just long enough
to crop a mouthful of grass. Cadmus loitered behind, whistling idly to
himself, and scarcely noticing the cow; until the thought occurred to
him, whether this could possibly be the animal which, according to
the oracle's response, was to serve him for a guide. But he smiled at
himself for fancying such a thing. He could not seriously think that
this was the cow, because she went along so quietly, behaving just like
any other cow. Evidently she neither knew nor cared so much as a wisp of
hay about Cadmus, and was only thinking how to get her living along the
wayside, where the herbage was green and fresh. Perhaps she was going
home to be milked.

"Cow, cow, cow!" cried Cadmus. "Hey, Brindle, hey! Stop, my good cow!"

He wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if she
would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities to
distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is to
fill the milk-pail, and sometimes kick it over. But still the brindled
cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and taking as
little notice of Cadmus as she well could. If he walked slowly, so did
the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze. If he quickened his pace,
the cow went just so much the faster; and once, when Cadmus tried to
catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck her tail straight
on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly as cows generally
do, while putting themselves to their speed.

When Cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked on
moderately, as before. The cow, too, went leisurely on, without looking
behind. Wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a mouthful
or two. Where a brook glistened brightly across the path, there the cow
drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again, and trudged
onward at the pace that best suited herself and Cadmus.

"I do believe," thought Cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was
foretold me. If it be the one, I suppose she will lie down somewhere
hereabouts."

Whether it were the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem
reasonable that she should travel a great way farther. So, whenever
they reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in a
sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or along
the bank of a clear stream, Cadmus looked eagerly around to see if the
situation would suit him for a home. But still, whether he liked the
place or no, the brindled cow never offered to lie down. On she went
at the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barn yard; and, every
moment, Cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a pail, or a
herdsman running to head the stray animal, and turn her back towards the
pasture. But no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back; and Cadmus
followed the stray Brindle till he was almost ready to drop down with
fatigue.

"O brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean to
stop?"

He had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging behind,
however long the way, and whatever might be his fatigue. Indeed, it
seemed as if there were something about the animal that bewitched
people. Several persons who happened to see the brindled cow, and Cadmus
following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely as he did. Cadmus
was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore talked very freely
to these good people. He told them all his adventures, and how he had
left King Agenor in his palace, and Phoenix at one place, and Cilix at
another, and Thasus at a third, and his dear mother, Queen Telephassa,
under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both friendless
and homeless. He mentioned, likewise, that the oracle had bidden him
be guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether they supposed
that this brindled animal could be the one.

"Why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new companions.
"I am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and I never knew
a cow, of her own accord, to go so far without stopping. If my legs will
let me, I'll never leave following the beast till she lies down."

"Nor I!" said a second.

"Nor I!" cried a third. "If she goes a hundred miles farther, I am
determined to see the end of it."

The secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted cow,
and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of her
enchantment over everybody that took so much as half a dozen steps
behind her. They could not possibly help following her, though all the
time they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord. The cow was
by no means very nice in choosing her path; so that sometimes they
had to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and all in a
terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry, into
the bargain. What a weary business it was!

But still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they went.
The strangers grew very fond of Cadmus, and resolved never to leave him,
but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie down. In the
center of it there should be a noble palace, in which Cadmus might
dwell, and be their king, with a throne, a crown, a sceptre, a purple
robe, and everything else that a king ought to have; for in him there
was the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the head that knew how to
rule.

While they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the tediousness
of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one of the company
happened to look at the cow.

"Joy! joy!" cried he, clapping his hands. "Brindle is going to lie
down."

They all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped, and was staring
leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down.
And slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first
bending her forelegs, and then crouching her hind ones. When Cadmus and
his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking her
ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if this
was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all a
matter of course.

"This, then," said Cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home."

It was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their
sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough
weather. At no great distance, they beheld a river gleaming in the
sunshine. A home feeling stole into the heart of poor Cadmus. He was
very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning without the
necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and farther.
The days and the years would pass over him, and find him still in this
pleasant spot. If he could have had his brothers with him, and his
friend Thasus, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his
own, he might here have been happy after all their disappointments. Some
day or other, too, his sister Europa might have come quietly to the
door of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces. But, indeed,
since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or ever
seeing his dear sister again, Cadmus resolved to make himself happy with
these new companions, who had grown so fond of him while following the
cow.

"Yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home. Here we
will build our habitations. The brindled cow, which has led us hither,
will supply us with milk. We will cultivate the neighboring soil and
lead an innocent and happy life."

His companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first place,
being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the means
of providing a comfortable meal. Not far off they saw a tuft of trees,
which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath them. They
went thither to fetch some, leaving Cadmus stretched on the ground along
with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place of rest, it
seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever since he left
King Agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once. But his new friends
had not long been gone, when he was suddenly startled by cries, shouts,
and screams, and the noise of a terrible struggle, and in the midst of
it all, a most awful hissing, which went right through his ears like a
rough saw.

Running towards the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes of
an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a dragon
had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth. Before Cadmus could
reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions,
and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of each man.

It appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the dragon
had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench his thirst
there. As the neighboring inhabitants carefully avoided the spot, it was
now a long time (not less than a hundred years or thereabouts) since the
monster had broken his fast; and, as was natural enough, his appetite
had grown to be enormous, and was not half satisfied by the poor people
whom he had just eaten up. When he caught sight of Cadmus, therefore, he
set up another abominable hiss, and flung back his immense jaws, until
his mouth looked like a great red cavern, at the farther end of which
were seen the legs of his last victim, whom he had hardly had time to
swallow.

But Cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends that he
cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds
of sharp teeth. Drawing his sword, he rushed at the monster, and flung
himself right into his cavernous mouth. This bold method of attacking
him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, Cadmus had leaped so far
down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not close
upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world. Thus, though the
struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the tuft
of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as Cadmus
was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it was not
long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping away. He had
not gone his length, however, when the brave Cadmus gave him a sword
thrust that finished the battle; and creeping out of the gateway of
the creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling his vast bulk,
although there was no longer life enough in him to harm a little child.

But do not you suppose that it made Cadmus sorrowful to think of the
melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who had
followed the cow along with him? It seemed as if he were doomed to lose
everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or another.
And here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a solitary place,
with not a single human being to help him build a hut.

"What shall I do?" cried he aloud. "It were better for me to have been
devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were."

"Cadmus," said a voice but whether it came from above or below him,
or whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not
tell--"Cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the
earth."

This was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, I should imagine,
to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's jaws. But
Cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous head almost
to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many teeth as
might have filled a bushel or two. The next thing was to plant them.
This, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as Cadmus was
already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his head to
pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that I know of, unless
it were his sword blade. Finally, however, a sufficiently large tract of
ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed; although half
of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some other day.

Cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and wondering
what was to happen next. He had waited but a few moments, when he began
to see a sight, which was as great a marvel as the most marvelous thing
I ever told you about.

The sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the moist,
dark soil just like any other newly-planted piece of ground. All at
once, Cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly, first at
one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a thousand spots
together. Soon he perceived them to be the steel heads of spears,
sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and continually
growing taller and taller. Next appeared a vast number of bright sword
blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way. A moment afterwards,
the whole surface of the ground was broken by a multitude of polished
brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans. So rapidly did
they grow, that Cadmus now discerned the fierce countenance of a
man beneath every one. In short, before he had time to think what a
wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest of what looked
like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates, shields, swords,
and spears; and before they were well out of the earth, they brandished
their weapons, and clashed them one against another, seeming to think,
little while as they had yet lived, that they had wasted too much of
life without a battle. Every tooth of the dragon had produced one of
these sons of deadly mischief.

Up sprouted also a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath that
they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and sounded a
tremendous and ear-shattering blast, so that the whole space, just now
so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and clang of arms,
the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men. So enraged did
they all look, that Cadmus fully expected them to put the whole world to
the sword. How fortunate would it be for a great conqueror, if he could
get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow!

"Cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a stone
into the midst of the armed men."

So Cadmus seized a large stone, and flinging it into the middle of
the earth army, saw it strike the breastplate of a gigantic and
fierce-looking warrior. Immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to
take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his
weapon, he smote his next neighbor a blow that cleft his helmet asunder,
and stretched him on the ground. In an instant, those nearest the fallen
warrior began to strike at one another with their swords, and stab with
their spears. The confusion spread wider and wider. Each man smote down
his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had time to exult in
his victory. The trumpeters, all the while, blew their blasts shriller
and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle cry, and often fell with it
on his lips. It was the strangest spectacle of causeless wrath, and of
mischief for no good end, that had ever been witnessed; but, after all,
it was neither more foolish nor more wicked than a thousand battles that
have since been fought, in which men have slain their brothers with just
as little reason as these children of the dragon's teeth. It ought to
be considered, too, that the dragon people were made for nothing else;
whereas other mortals were born to love and help one another.

Well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was
strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off. Of all the thousands
that began the fight, there were only five left standing. These now
rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle of
it, clashed their swords, and struck at each other's hearts as fiercely
as ever.

"Cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors sheathe their
swords. They will help you to build the city."

Without hesitating an instant, Cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect
of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them,
spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice.

"Sheathe your weapons!" said he.

And forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five remaining
sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with their swords,
returned them to the scabbards, and stood before Cadmus in a rank,
eyeing him as soldiers eye their captain, while awaiting the word of
command.

These five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's
teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army. They were
almost giants indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never could
have lived through so terrible a fight. They still had a very furious
look, and, if Cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at one
another, with fire flashing out of their eyes. It was strange, too,
to observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was
incrusted, here and there, on their bright breastplates, and even,
begrimed their faces; just as you may have seen it clinging to beets
and carrots, when pulled out of their native soil. Cadmus hardly
knew whether to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable;
although, on the whole, he concluded that there was human nature in
them, because they were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready to
shed blood.

They looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order,
and evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one
battlefield to another, all over the wide world. But Cadmus was wiser
than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them,
and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood.

"Come!" said he. "You are sturdy fellows. Make yourselves useful! Quarry
some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to build a
city."

The five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their
business to overthrow cities, not to build them up. But Cadmus looked at
them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in a tone of authority, so that
they knew him for their master, and never again thought of disobeying
his commands. They set to work in good earnest, and toiled so
diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its
appearance. At first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome
disposition. Like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one
another a mischief, if Cadmus had not kept watch over them, and quelled
the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts, when he saw it
gleaming out of their wild eyes. But, in course of time, they got
accustomed to honest labor, and had sense enough to feel that there
was more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's
neighbor, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword. It may not be
too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as wise
and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors, who sprang from the
dragon's teeth.

And now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the
workmen. But the palace of Cadmus was not yet erected, because they had
left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new improvements
of architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as stately and
beautiful. After finishing the rest of their labors, they all went to
bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning, and get at
least the foundation of the edifice laid before nightfall. But, when
Cadmus arose, and took his way towards the site where the palace was
to be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen marching all in a row,
what do you think he saw?

What should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been
seen in the world. It was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of
stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico
along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted
the habitation of a mighty king. It had grown up out of the earth in
almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from the
dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of this
stately edifice ever had been planted.

When the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine making
it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout.

"Long live King Cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace."

And the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels,
shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had a
soldier-like sort of behavior, as their nature was), ascended the palace
steps. Halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista of
lofty pillars, that were ranged from end to end of a great hall. At the
farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly towards him, Cadmus
beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with a royal
robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and the richest
necklace that ever a queen wore. His heart thrilled with delight. He
fancied it his long-lost sister Europa, now grown to womanhood, coming
to make him happy, and to repay him with her sweet sisterly affection,
for all those weary wonderings in quest of her since he left King
Agenor's palace--for the tears that he had shed, on parting with
Phoenix, and Cilix, and Thasus--for the heart-breakings that had made
the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave.

But, as Cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that
her features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it
required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy betwixt
himself and her.

"No, Cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field of
the armed men, "this is not that dear sister Europa whom you have sought
so faithfully all over the wide world. This is Harmonia, a daughter of
the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers, and friend,
and mother. You will find all those dear ones in her alone."

So King Cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend Harmonia,
and found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would
doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by
the wayside. Before many years went by, there was a group of rosy little
children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery to me)
sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and
running joyfully to meet King Cadmus when affairs of state left him at
leisure to play with them. They called him father, and Queen Harmonia
mother. The five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth grew very fond
of these small urchins, and were never weary of showing them how to
shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march in military order,
blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable rub-a-dub upon a
little drum.

But King Cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth in
his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly duties
to teach them their A B C--which he invented for their benefit, and for
which many little people, I am afraid, are not half so grateful to him
as they ought to be.




CIRCE'S PALACE.

Some of you have heard, no doubt, of the wise King Ulysses, and how he
went to the siege of Troy, and how, after that famous city was taken and
burned, he spent ten long years in trying to get back again to his
own little kingdom of Ithaca. At one time in the course of this weary
voyage, he arrived at an island that looked very green and pleasant, but
the name of which was unknown to him. For, only a little while before
he came thither, he had met with a terrible hurricane, or rather a great
many hurricanes at once, which drove his fleet of vessels into a strange
part of the sea, where neither himself nor any of his mariners had ever
sailed. This misfortune was entirely owing to the foolish curiosity of
his shipmates, who, while Ulysses lay asleep, had untied some very
bulky leathern bags, in which they supposed a valuable treasure to be
concealed. But in each of these stout bags, King Aeolus, the ruler of
the winds, had tied up a tempest, and had given it to Ulysses to keep in
order that he might be sure of a favorable passage homeward to Ithaca;
and when the strings were loosened, forth rushed the whistling blasts,
like air out of a blown bladder, whitening the sea with foam, and
scattering the vessels nobody could tell whither.

Immediately after escaping from this peril, a still greater one had
befallen him. Scudding before the hurricane, he reached a place, which,
as he afterwards found, was called Laestrygonia, where some monstrous
giants had eaten up many of his companions, and had sunk every one of
his vessels, except that in which he himself sailed, by flinging great
masses of rock at them, from the cliffs along the shore. After going
through such troubles as these, you cannot wonder that King Ulysses
was glad to moor his tempest-beaten bark in a quiet cove of the green
island, which I began with telling you about. But he had encountered so
many dangers from giants, and one-eyed Cyclops, and monsters of the sea
and land, that he could not help dreading some mischief, even in this
pleasant and seemingly solitary spot. For two days, therefore, the poor
weather-worn voyagers kept quiet, and either staid on board of their
vessel, or merely crept along under the cliffs that bordered the shore;
and to keep themselves alive, they dug shellfish out of the sand, and
sought for any little rill of fresh water that might be running towards
the sea.

Before the two days were spent, they grew very weary of this kind of
life; for the followers of King Ulysses, as you will find it important
to remember, were terrible gormandizers, and pretty sure to grumble
if they missed their regulars meals, and their irregular ones besides.
Their stock of provisions was quite exhausted, and even the shellfish
began to get scarce, so that they had now to choose between starving to
death or venturing into the interior of the island, where perhaps some
huge three-headed dragon, or other horrible monster, had his den. Such
misshapen creatures were very numerous in those days; and nobody ever
expected to make a voyage, or take a journey, without running more or
less risk of being devoured by them.

But King Ulysses was a bold man as well as a prudent one; and on the
third morning he determined to discover what sort of a place the island
was, and whether it were possible to obtain a supply of food for the
hungry mouths of his companions. So, taking a spear in his hand, he
clambered to the summit of a cliff, and gazed round about him. At a
distance, towards the center of the island, he beheld the stately towers
of what seemed to be a palace, built of snow-white marble, and rising in
the midst of a grove of lofty trees. The thick branches of these trees
stretched across the front of the edifice, and more than half concealed
it, although, from the portion which he saw, Ulysses judged it to be
spacious and exceedingly beautiful, and probably the residence of some
great nobleman or prince. A blue smoke went curling up from the chimney,
and was almost the pleasantest part of the spectacle to Ulysses. For,
from the abundance of this smoke, it was reasonable to conclude that
there was a good fire in the kitchen, and that, at dinner-time, a
plentiful banquet would be served up to the inhabitants of the palace,
and to whatever guests might happen to drop in.

With so agreeable a prospect before him, Ulysses fancied that he could
not do better than go straight to the palace gate, and tell the master
of it that there was a crew of poor shipwrecked mariners, not far off,
who had eaten nothing for a day or two, save a few clams and oysters,
and would therefore be thankful for a little food. And the prince or
nobleman must be a very stingy curmudgeon, to be sure, if, at least,
when his own dinner was over, he would not bid them welcome to the
broken victuals from the table.

Pleasing himself with this idea, King Ulysses had made a few steps
in the direction of the palace, when there was a great twittering and
chirping from the branch of a neighboring tree. A moment afterwards, a
bird came flying towards him, and hovered in the air, so as almost to
brush his face with its wings. It was a very pretty little bird, with
purple wings and body, and yellow legs, and a circle of golden feathers
round its neck, and on its head a golden tuft, which looked like a
king's crown in miniature. Ulysses tried to catch the bird. But it
fluttered nimbly out of his reach, still chirping in a piteous tone, as
if it could have told a lamentable story, had it only been gifted with
human language. And when he attempted to drive it away, the bird flew no
farther than the bough of the next tree, and again came fluttering about
his head, with its doleful chirp, as soon as he showed a purpose of
going forward.

"Have you anything to tell me, little bird?" asked Ulysses.

And he was ready to listen attentively to whatever the bird might
communicate; for, at the siege of Troy, and elsewhere, he had known such
odd things to happen, that he would not have considered it much out of
the common run had this little feathered creature talked as plainly as
himself.

"Peep!" said the bird, "peep, peep, pe--weep!" And nothing else would it
say, but only, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" in a melancholy cadence, and over
and over and over again. As often as Ulysses moved forward, however, the
bird showed the greatest alarm, and did its best to drive him back, with
the anxious flutter of its purple wings. Its unaccountable behavior made
him conclude, at last, that the bird knew of some danger that awaited
him, and which must needs be very terrible, beyond all question, since
it moved even a little fowl to feel compassion for a human being. So
he resolved, for the present, to return to the vessel, and tell his
companions what he had seen.

This appeared to satisfy the bird. As soon as Ulysses turned back, it
ran up the trunk of a tree, and began to pick insects out of the bark
with its long, sharp bill; for it was a kind of woodpecker, you must
know, and had to get its living in the same manner as other birds of
that species. But every little while, as it pecked at the bark of
the tree, the purple bird bethought itself of some secret sorrow, and
repeated its plaintive note of "Peep, peep, pe--weep!"

On his way to the shore, Ulysses had the good luck to kill a large stag
by thrusting his spear into his back. Taking it on his shoulders (for he
was a remarkably strong man), he lugged it along with him, and flung
it down before his hungry companions. I have already hinted to you what
gormandizers some of the comrades of King Ulysses were. From what is
related of them, I reckon that their favorite diet was pork, and that
they had lived upon it until a good part of their physical substance was
swine's flesh, and their tempers and dispositions were very much akin to
the hog. A dish of venison, however, was no unacceptable meal to them,
especially after feeding so long on oysters and clams. So, beholding the
dead stag, they felt of its ribs, in a knowing way, and lost no time in
kindling a fire of driftwood, to cook it. The rest of the day was spent
in feasting; and if these enormous eaters got up from table at sunset,
it was only because they could not scrape another morsel off the poor
animal's bones.

The next morning, their appetites were as sharp as ever. They looked at
Ulysses, as if they expected him to clamber up the cliff again, and come
back with another fat deer upon his shoulders. Instead of setting out,
however, he summoned the whole crew together, and told them it was in
vain to hope that he could kill a stag every day for their dinner, and
therefore it was advisable to think of some other mode of satisfying
their hunger.

"Now," said he, "when I was on the cliff, yesterday, I discovered that
this island is inhabited. At a considerable distance from the shore
stood a marble palace, which appeared to be very spacious, and had a
great deal of smoke curling out of one of its chimneys."

"Aha!" muttered some of his companions, smacking their lips. "That smoke
must have come from the kitchen fire. There was a good dinner on the
spit; and no doubt there will be as good a one to-day."

"But," continued the wise Ulysses, "you must remember, my good friends,
our misadventure in the cavern of one-eyed Polyphemus, the Cyclops!
Instead of his ordinary milk diet, did he not eat up two of our comrades
for his supper, and a couple more for breakfast, and two at his supper
again? Methinks I see him yet, the hideous monster, scanning us with
that great red eye, in the middle of his forehead, to single out the
fattest. And then, again, only a few days ago, did we not fall into the
hands of the king of the Laestrygons, and those other horrible giants,
his subjects, who devoured a great many more of us than are now left? To
tell you the truth, if we go to yonder palace, there can be no question
that we shall make our appearance at the dinner table; but whether
seated as guests, or served up as food, is a point to be seriously
considered."

"Either way," murmured some of the hungriest of the crew; "it will be
better than starvation; particularly if one could be sure of being well
fattened beforehand, and daintily cooked afterwards."

"That is a matter of taste," said King Ulysses, "and, for my own part,
neither the most careful fattening nor the daintiest of cookery would
reconcile me to being dished at last. My proposal is, therefore, that we
divide ourselves into two equal parties, and ascertain, by drawing
lots, which of the two shall go to the palace, and beg for food and
assistance. If these can be obtained, all is well. If not, and if the
inhabitants prove as inhospitable as Polyphemus, or the Laestrygons,
then there will but half of us perish, and the remainder may set sail
and escape."

As nobody objected to this scheme, Ulysses proceeded to count the whole
band, and found that there were forty-six men, including himself. He
then numbered off twenty-two of them, and put Eurylochus (who was one
of his chief officers, and second only to himself in sagacity) at their
head. Ulysses took command of the remaining twenty-two men, in person.
Then, taking off his helmet, he put two shells into it, on one of which
was written, "Go," and on the other "Stay." Another person now held the
helmet, while Ulysses and Eurylochus drew out each a shell; and the
word "Go" was found written on that which Eurylochus had drawn. In
this manner, it was decided that Ulysses and his twenty-two men were to
remain at the seaside until the other party should have found out what
sort of treatment they might expect at the mysterious palace. As there
was no help for it, Eurylochus immediately set forth at the head of his
twenty-two followers, who went off in a very melancholy state of mind,
leaving their friends in hardly better spirits than themselves.

No sooner had they clambered up the cliff, than they discerned the tall
marble towers of the palace, ascending, as white as snow, out of the
lovely green shadow of the trees which surrounded it. A gush of smoke
came from a chimney in the rear of the edifice. This vapor rose high
in the air, and, meeting with a breeze, was wafted seaward, and made to
pass over the heads of the hungry mariners. When people's appetites are
keen, they have a very quick scent for anything savory in the wind.

"That smoke comes from the kitchen!" cried one of them, turning up his
nose as high as he could, and snuffing eagerly. "And, as sure as I'm a
half-starved vagabond, I smell roast meat in it."

"Pig, roast pig!" said another. "Ah, the dainty little porker. My mouth
waters for him."

"Let us make haste," cried the others, "or we shall be too late for the
good cheer!"

But scarcely had they made half a dozen steps from the edge of the
cliff, when a bird came fluttering to meet them. It was the same pretty
little bird, with the purple wings and body, the yellow legs, the golden
collar round its neck, and the crown-like tuft upon its head, whose
behavior had so much surprised Ulysses. It hovered about Eurylochus, and
almost brushed his face with its wings.

"Peep, peep, pe--weep!" chirped the bird.

So plaintively intelligent was the sound, that it seemed as if the
little creature were going to break its heart with some mighty secret
that it had to tell, and only this one poor note to tell it with.

"My pretty bird," said Eurylochus--for he was a wary person, and let no
token of harm escape his notice--"my pretty bird, who sent you hither?
And what is the message which you bring?"

"Peep, peep, pe--weep!" replied the bird, very sorrowfully.

Then it flew towards the edge of the cliff, and looked around at them,
as if exceedingly anxious that they should return whence they came.
Eurylochus and a few of the others were inclined to turn back. They
could not help suspecting that the purple bird must be aware of
something mischievous that would befall them at the palace, and the
knowledge of which affected its airy spirit with a human sympathy and
sorrow. But the rest of the voyagers, snuffing up the smoke from the
palace kitchen, ridiculed the idea of returning to the vessel. One of
them (more brutal than his fellows, and the most notorious gormandizer
in the crew) said such a cruel and wicked thing, that I wonder the mere
thought did not turn him into a wild beast, in shape, as he already was
in his nature.

"This troublesome and impertinent little fowl," said he, "would make
a delicate titbit to begin dinner with. Just one plump morsel, melting
away between the teeth. If he comes within my reach, I'll catch him, and
give him to the palace cook to be roasted on a skewer."

The words were hardly out of his mouth, before the purple bird flew
away, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep," more dolorously than ever.

"That bird," remarked Eurylochus, "knows more than we do about what
awaits us at the palace."

"Come on, then," cried his comrades, "and we'll soon know as much as he
does."

The party, accordingly, went onward through the green and pleasant wood.
Every little while they caught new glimpses of the marble palace, which
looked more and more beautiful the nearer they approached it. They soon
entered a broad pathway, which seemed to be very neatly kept, and which
went winding along, with streaks of sunshine falling across it and
specks of light quivering among the deepest shadows that fell from the
lofty trees. It was bordered, too, with a great many sweet-smelling
flowers, such as the mariners had never seen before. So rich and
beautiful they were, that, if the shrubs grew wild here, and were native
in the soil, then this island was surely the flower garden of the whole
earth; or, if transplanted from some other clime, it must have been from
the Happy Islands that lay towards the golden sunset.

"There has been a great deal of pains foolishly wasted on these
flowers," observed one of the company; and I tell you what he said, that
you may keep in mind what gormandizers they were. "For my part, if I
were the owner of the palace, I would bid my gardener cultivate nothing
but savory pot herbs to make a stuffing for roast meat, or to flavor a
stew with."

"Well said!" cried the others. "But I'll warrant you there's a kitchen
garden in the rear of the palace."

At one place they came to a crystal spring, and paused to drink at it
for want of liquor which they liked better. Looking into its bosom, they
beheld their own faces dimly reflected, but so extravagantly distorted
by the gush and motion of the water, that each one of them appeared to
be laughing at himself and all his companions. So ridiculous were these
images of themselves, indeed, that they did really laugh aloud, and
could hardly be grave again as soon as they wished. And after they had
drank, they grew still merrier than before.

"It has a twang of the wine cask in it," said one, smacking his lips.

"Make haste!" cried his fellows: "we'll find the wine cask itself at the
palace, and that will be better than a hundred crystal fountains."

Then they quickened their pace, and capered for joy at the thought of
the savory banquet at which they hoped to be guests. But Eurylochus told
them that he felt as if he were walking in a dream.

"If I am really awake," continued he, "then, in my opinion, we are on
the point of meeting with some stranger adventure than any that
befell us in the cave of Polyphemus, or among the gigantic man-eating
Laestrygons, or in the windy palace of King Aeolus, which stands on a
brazen-walled island. This kind of dreamy feeling always comes over me
before any wonderful occurrence. If you take my advice, you will turn
back."

"No, no," answered his comrades, snuffing the air, in which the scent
from the palace kitchen was now very perceptible. "We would not turn
back, though we were certain that the king of the Laestrygons, as big as
a mountain, would sit at the head of the table, and huge Polyphemus, the
one-eyed Cyclops, at its foot."

At length they came within full sight of the palace, which proved to
be very large and lofty, with a great number of airy pinnacles upon its
roof. Though it was midday, and the sun shone brightly over the marble
front, yet its snowy whiteness, and its fantastic style of architecture,
made it look unreal, like the frost work on a window pane, or like the
shapes of castles which one sees among the clouds by moonlight. But,
just then, a puff of wind brought down the smoke of the kitchen chimney
among them, and caused each man to smell the odor of the dish that
he liked best; and, after scenting it, they thought everything else
moonshine, and nothing real save this palace, and save the banquet that
was evidently ready to be served up in it.

So they hastened their steps towards the portal, but had not got half
way across the wide lawn, when a pack of lions, tigers, and wolves came
bounding to meet them. The terrified mariners started back, expecting
no better fate than to be torn to pieces and devoured. To their surprise
and joy, however, these wild beasts merely capered around them, wagging
their tails, offering their heads to be stroked and patted, and behaving
just like so many well-bred house dogs, when they wish to express their
delight at meeting their master, or their master's friends. The biggest
lion licked the feet of Eurylochus; and every other lion, and every wolf
and tiger, singled out one of his two and twenty followers, whom the
beast fondled as if he loved him better than a beef bone.

But, for all that, Eurylochus imagined that he saw something fierce and
savage in their eyes; nor would he have been surprised, at any moment,
to feel the big lion's terrible claws, or to see each of the tigers make
a deadly spring, or each wolf leap at the throat of the man whom he
had fondled. Their mildness seemed unreal, and a mere freak; but their
savage nature was as true as their teeth and claws.

Nevertheless, the men went safely across the lawn with the wild beasts
frisking about them, and doing no manner of harm; although, as they
mounted the steps of the palace, you might possibly have heard a low
growl, particularly from the wolves; as if they thought it a pity, after
all, to let the strangers pass without so much as tasting what they were
made of.

Eurylochus and his followers now passed under a lofty portal, and looked
through the open doorway into the interior of the palace. The first
thing that they saw was a spacious hall, and a fountain in the middle
of it, gushing up towards the ceiling out of a marble basin, and falling
back into it with a continual plash. The water of this fountain, as it
spouted upward, was constantly taking new shapes, not very distinctly,
but plainly enough for a nimble fancy to recognize what they were. Now
it was the shape of a man in a long robe, the fleecy whiteness of which
was made out of the fountain's spray; now it was a lion, or a tiger, or
a wolf, or an ass, or, as often as anything else, a hog, wallowing in
the marble basin as if it were his sty. It was either magic or some very
curious machinery that caused the gushing waterspout to assume all
these forms. But, before the strangers had time to look closely at
this wonderful sight, their attention was drawn off by a very sweet and
agreeable sound. A woman's voice was singing melodiously in another room
of the palace, and with her voice was mingled the noise of a loom, at
which she was probably seated, weaving a rich texture of cloth, and
intertwining the high and low sweetness of her voice into a rich tissue
of harmony.

By and by, the song came to an end; and then, all at once, there were
several feminine voices, talking airily and cheerfully, with now and
then a merry burst of laughter, such as you may always hear when three
or four young women sit at work together.

"What a sweet song that was!" exclaimed one of the voyagers.

"Too sweet, indeed," answered Eurylochus, shaking his head. "Yet it
was not so sweet as the song of the Sirens, those bird-like damsels who
wanted to tempt us on the rocks, so that our vessel might be wrecked,
and our bones left whitening along the shore."

"But just listen to the pleasant voices of those maidens, and that buzz
of the loom, as the shuttle passes to and fro," said another comrade.
"What a domestic, household, home-like sound it is! Ah, before that
weary siege of Troy, I used to hear the buzzing loom and the women's
voices under my own roof. Shall I never hear them again? nor taste those
nice little savory dishes which my dearest wife knew how to serve up?"

"Tush! we shall fare better here," said another. "But how innocently
those women are babbling together, without guessing that we overhear
them! And mark that richest voice of all, so pleasant and so familiar,
but which yet seems to have the authority of a mistress among them. Let
us show ourselves at once. What harm can the lady of the palace and her
maidens do to mariners and warriors like us?"

"Remember," said Eurylochus, "that it was a young maiden who beguiled
three of our friends into the palace of the king of the Laestrygons, who
ate up one of them in the twinkling of an eye."

No warning or persuasion, however, had any effect on his companions.
They went up to a pair of folding doors at the farther end of the hall,
and throwing them wide open, passed into the next room. Eurylochus,
meanwhile, had stepped behind a pillar. In the short moment while the
folding doors opened and closed again, he caught a glimpse of a very
beautiful woman rising from the loom, and coming to meet the poor
weather-beaten wanderers, with a hospitable smile, and her hand
stretched out in welcome. There were four other young women, who joined
their hands and danced merrily forward, making gestures of obeisance to
the strangers. They were only less beautiful than the lady who seemed to
be their mistress. Yet Eurylochus fancied that one of them had sea-green
hair, and that the close-fitting bodice of a second looked like the bark
of a tree, and that both the others had something odd in their aspect,
although he could not quite determine what it was, in the little while
that he had to examine them.

The folding doors swung quickly back, and left him standing behind the
pillar, in the solitude of the outer hall. There Eurylochus waited until
he was quite weary, and listened eagerly to every sound, but without
hearing anything that could help him to guess what had become of his
friends. Footsteps, it is true, seemed to be passing and repassing, in
other parts of the palace. Then there was a clatter of silver dishes,
or golden ones, which made him imagine a rich feast in a splendid
banqueting hall. But by and by he heard a tremendous grunting and
squealing, and then a sudden scampering, like that of small, hard hoofs
over a marble floor, while the voices of the mistress and her four
handmaidens were screaming all together, in tones of anger and derision.
Eurylochus could not conceive what had happened, unless a drove of
swine had broken into the palace, attracted by the smell of the feast.
Chancing to cast his eyes at the fountain, he saw that it did not shift
its shape, as formerly, nor looked either like a long-robed man, or
a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or an ass. It looked like nothing but a hog,
which lay wallowing in the marble basin, and filled it from brim to
brim.

But we must leave the prudent Eurylochus waiting in the outer hall, and
follow his friends into the inner secrecy of the palace. As soon as the
beautiful woman saw them, she arose from the loom, as I have told you,
and came forward, smiling, and stretching out her hand. She took the
hand of the foremost among them, and bade him and the whole party
welcome.

"You have been long expected, my good friends," said she. "I and my
maidens are well acquainted with you, although you do not appear to
recognize us. Look at this piece of tapestry, and judge if your faces
must not have been familiar to us."

So the voyagers examined the web of cloth which the beautiful woman
had been weaving in her loom; and, to their vast astonishment, they saw
their own figures perfectly represented in different  threads. It
was a life-like picture of their recent adventures, showing them in the
cave of Polyphemus, and how they had put out his one great moony eye;
while in another part of the tapestry they were untying the leathern
bags, puffed out with contrary winds; and farther on, they beheld
themselves scampering away from the gigantic king of the Laestrygons,
who had caught one of them by the leg. Lastly, there they were, sitting
on the desolate shore of this very island, hungry and downcast, and
looking ruefully at the bare bones of the stag which they devoured
yesterday. This was as far as the work had yet proceeded; but when the
beautiful woman should again sit down at her loom, she would probably
make a picture of what had since happened to the strangers, and of what
was now going to happen.

"You see," she said, "that I know all about your troubles; and you
cannot doubt that I desire to make you happy for as long a time as you
may remain with me. For this purpose, my honored guests, I have ordered
a banquet to be prepared. Fish, fowl, and flesh, roasted, and in
luscious stews, and seasoned, I trust, to all your tastes, are ready to
be served up. If your appetites tell you it is dinner time, then come
with me to the festal saloon."

At this kind invitation, the hungry mariners were quite overjoyed;
and one of them, taking upon himself to be spokesman, assured their
hospitable hostess that any hour of the day was dinner time with them,
whenever they could get flesh to put in the pot, and fire to boil it
with. So the beautiful woman led the way; and the four maidens (one of
them had sea-green hair, another a bodice of oak bark, a third sprinkled
a shower of water drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth had some
other oddity, which I have forgotten), all these followed behind, and
hurried the guests along, until they entered a magnificent saloon. It
was built in a perfect oval, and lighted from a crystal dome above.
Around the walls were ranged two and twenty thrones, overhung by
canopies of crimson and gold, and provided with the softest of cushions,
which were tasselled and fringed with gold cord. Each of the
strangers was invited to sit down; and there they were, two and twenty
storm-beaten mariners, in worn and tattered garb, sitting on two and
twenty cushioned and canopied thrones, so rich and gorgeous that the
proudest monarch had nothing more splendid in his stateliest hall.

Then you might have seen the guests nodding, winking with one eye, and
leaning from one throne to another, to communicate their satisfaction in
hoarse whispers.

"Our good hostess has made kings of us all," said one. "Ha! do you
smell the feast? I'll engage it will be fit to set before two and twenty
kings."

"I hope," said another, "it will be, mainly, good substantial joints,
sirloins, spareribs, and hinder quarters, without too many kickshaws. If
I thought the good lady would not take it amiss, I should call for a fat
slice of fried bacon to begin with."

Ah, the gluttons and gormandizers! You see how it was with them. In the
loftiest seats of dignity, on royal thrones, they could think of nothing
but their greedy appetite, which was the portion of their nature that
they shared with wolves and swine; so that they resembled those vilest
of animals far more than they did kings--if, indeed, kings were what
they ought to be.

But the beautiful woman now clapped her hands; and immediately there
entered a train of two and twenty serving men, bringing dishes of the
richest food, all hot from the kitchen fire, and sending up such a steam
that it hung like a cloud below the crystal dome of the saloon. An equal
number of attendants brought great flagons of wine, of various kinds,
some of which sparkled as it was poured out, and went bubbling down the
throat; while, of other sorts, the purple liquor was so clear that you
could see the wrought figures at the bottom of the goblet. While the
servants supplied the two and twenty guests with food and drink, the
hostess and her four maidens went from one throne to another, exhorting
them to eat their fill, and to quaff wine abundantly, and thus to
recompense themselves, at this one banquet, for the many days when they
had gone without a dinner. But whenever the mariners were not looking at
them (which was pretty often, as they looked chiefly into the basins
and platters), the beautiful woman and her damsels turned aside, and
laughed. Even the servants, as they knelt down to present the dishes,
might be seen to grin and sneer, while the guests were helping
themselves to the offered dainties.

And, once in a while, the strangers seemed to taste something that they
did not like.

"Here is an odd kind of spice in this dish," said one. "I can't say it
quite suits my palate. Down it goes, however."

"Send a good draught of wine down your throat," said his comrade on
the next throne. "That is the stuff to make this sort of cookery relish
well. Though I must needs say, the wine has a queer taste too. But the
more I drink of it, the better I like the flavor."

Whatever little fault they might find with the dishes, they sat at
dinner a prodigiously long while; and it would really have made you
ashamed to see how they swilled down the liquor and gobbled up the food.
They sat on golden thrones, to be sure; but they behaved like pigs in a
sty; and, if they had had their wits about them, they might have guessed
that this was the opinion of their beautiful hostess and her maidens. It
brings a blush into my face to reckon up, in my own mind, what mountains
of meat and pudding, and what gallons of wine, these two and twenty
guzzlers and gormandizers ate and drank. They forgot all about their
homes, and their wives and children, and all about Ulysses, and
everything else, except this banquet, at which they wanted to keep
feasting forever. But at length they began to give over, from mere
incapacity to hold any more.

"That last bit of fat is too much for me," said one.

"And I have not room for another morsel," said his next neighbor,
heaving a sigh. "What a pity! My appetite is as sharp as ever."

In short, they all left off eating, and leaned back on their thrones,
with such a stupid and helpless aspect as made them ridiculous to
behold. When their hostess saw this, she laughed aloud; so did her four
damsels; so did the two and twenty serving men that bore the dishes, and
their two and twenty fellows that poured out the wine. And the louder
they all laughed, the more stupid and helpless did the two and twenty
gormandizers look. Then the beautiful woman took her stand in the middle
of the saloon, and stretching out a slender rod (it had been all the
while in her hand, although they never noticed it till this moment), she
turned it from one guest to another, until each had felt it pointed at
himself. Beautiful as her face was, and though there was a smile on it,
it looked just as wicked and mischievous as the ugliest serpent that
ever was seen; and fat-witted as the voyagers had made themselves, they
began to suspect that they had fallen into the power of an evil-minded
enchantress.

"Wretches," cried she, "you have abused a lady's hospitality; and in
this princely saloon your behavior has been suited to a hog-pen. You are
already swine in everything but the human form, which you disgrace, and
which I myself should be ashamed to keep a moment longer, were you to
share it with me. But it will require only the slightest exercise of
magic to make the exterior conform to the hoggish disposition. Assume
your proper shapes, gormandizers, and begone to the sty!"

Uttering these last words, she waved her wand; and stamping her foot
imperiously, each of the guests was struck aghast at beholding, instead
of his comrades in human shape, one and twenty hogs sitting on the same
number of golden thrones. Each man (as he still supposed himself to be)
essayed to give a cry of surprise, but found that he could merely grunt,
and that, in a word, he was just such another beast as his companions.
It looked so intolerably absurd to see hogs on cushioned thrones, that
they made haste to wallow down upon all fours, like other swine. They
tried to groan and beg for mercy, but forthwith emitted the most awful
grunting and squealing that ever came out of swinish throats. They would
have wrung their hands in despair, but, attempting to do so, grew all
the more desperate for seeing themselves squatted on their hams, and
pawing the air with their fore trotters. Dear me! what pendulous ears
they had! what little red eyes, half buried in fat! and what long
snouts, instead of Grecian noses!

But brutes as they certainly were, they yet had enough of human nature
in them to be shocked at their own hideousness; and still intending to
groan, they uttered a viler grunt and squeal than before. So harsh and
ear-piercing it was, that you would have fancied a butcher was sticking
his knife into each of their throats, or, at the very least, that
somebody was pulling every hog by his funny little twist of a tail.

"Begone to your sty!" cried the enchantress, giving them some smart
strokes with her wand; and then she turned to the serving men--"Drive
out these swine, and throw down some acorns for them to eat."

The door of the saloon being flung open, the drove of hogs ran in
all directions save the right one, in accordance with their hoggish
perversity, but were finally driven into the back yard of the palace. It
was a sight to bring tears into one's eyes (and I hope none of you will
be cruel enough to laugh at it), to see the poor creatures go snuffing
along, picking up here a cabbage leaf and there a turnip top, and
rooting their noses in the earth for whatever they could find. In their
sty, moreover, they behaved more piggishly than the pigs that had been
born so; for they bit and snorted at one another, put their feet in the
trough, and gobbled up their victuals in a ridiculous hurry; and, when
there was nothing more to be had, they made a great pile of themselves
among some unclean straw, and fell fast asleep. If they had any human
reason left, it was just enough to keep them wondering when they should
be slaughtered, and what quality of bacon they should make.

Meantime, as I told you before, Eurylochus had waited, and waited,
and waited, in the entrance hall of the palace, without being able to
comprehend what had befallen his friends. At last, when the swinish
uproar resounded through the palace, and when he saw the image of a hog
in the marble basin, he thought it best to hasten back to the vessel,
and inform the wise Ulysses of these marvelous occurrences. So he ran as
fast as he could down the steps, and never stopped to draw breath till
he reached the shore.

"Why do you come alone?" asked King Ulysses, as soon as he saw him.
"Where are your two and twenty comrades?"

At these questions, Eurylochus burst into tears.

"Alas!" he cried, "I greatly fear that we shall never see one of their
faces again."

Then he told Ulysses all that had happened, as far as he knew it, and
added that he suspected the beautiful woman to be a vile enchantress,
and the marble palace, magnificent as it looked, to be only a dismal
cavern in reality. As for his companions, he could not imagine what had
become of them, unless they had been given to the swine to be devoured
alive. At this intelligence, all the voyagers were greatly affrighted.
But Ulysses lost no time in girding on his sword, and hanging his bow
and quiver over his shoulders, and taking a spear in his right hand.
When his followers saw their wise leader making these preparations, they
inquired whither he was going, and earnestly besought him not to leave
them.

"You are our king," cried they; "and what is more, you are the wisest
man in the whole world, and nothing but your wisdom and courage can get
us out of this danger. If you desert us, and go to the enchanted palace,
you will suffer the same fate as our poor companions, and not a soul of
us will ever see our dear Ithaca again."

"As I am your king," answered Ulysses, "and wiser than any of you, it
is therefore the more my duty to see what has befallen our comrades, and
whether anything can yet be done to rescue them. Wait for me here until
tomorrow. If I do not then return, you must hoist sail, and endeavor to
find your way to our native land. For my part, I am answerable for the
fate of these poor mariners, who have stood by my side in battle,
and been so often drenched to the skin, along with me, by the same
tempestuous surges. I will either bring them back with me, or perish."

Had his followers dared, they would have detained him by force. But King
Ulysses frowned sternly on them, and shook his spear, and bade them stop
him at their peril. Seeing him so determined, they let him go, and sat
down on the sand, as disconsolate a set of people as could be, waiting
and praying for his return.

It happened to Ulysses, just as before, that, when he had gone a few
steps from the edge of the cliff, the purple bird came fluttering
towards him, crying, "Peep, peep, pe--weep!" and using all the art it
could to persuade him to go no farther.

"What mean you, little bird?" cried Ulysses. "You are arrayed like a
king in purple and gold, and wear a golden crown upon your head. Is it
because I too am a king, that you desire so earnestly to speak with me?
If you can talk in human language, say what you would have me do."

"Peep!" answered the purple bird, very dolorously. "Peep, peep,
pe--we--e!"

Certainly there lay some heavy anguish at the little bird's heart; and
it was a sorrowful predicament that he could not, at least, have the
consolation of telling what it was. But Ulysses had no time to waste in
trying to get at the mystery. He therefore quickened his pace, and had
gone a good way along the pleasant wood path, when there met him a young
man of very brisk and intelligent aspect, and clad in a rather singular
garb. He wore a short cloak and a sort of cap that seemed to be
furnished with a pair of wings; and from the lightness of his step, you
would have supposed that there might likewise be wings on his feet. To
enable him to walk still better (for he was always on one journey or
another) he carried a winged staff, around which two serpents were
wriggling and twisting. In short, I have said enough to make you guess
that it was Quicksilver; and Ulysses (who knew him of old, and had
learned a great deal of his wisdom from him) recognized him in a moment.

"Whither are you going in such a hurry, wise Ulysses?" asked
Quicksilver. "Do you not know that this island is enchanted? The wicked
enchantress (whose name is Circe, the sister of King Aetes) dwells in
the marble palace which you see yonder among the trees. By her magic
arts she changes every human being into the brute, beast, or fowl whom
he happens most to resemble."

"That little bird, which met me at the edge of the cliff," exclaimed
Ulysses; "was he a human being once?"

"Yes," answered Quicksilver. "He was once a king, named Picus, and a
pretty good sort of a king, too, only rather too proud of his purple
robe, and his crown, and the golden chain about his neck; so he was
forced to take the shape of a gaudy-feathered bird. The lions, and
wolves, and tigers, who will come running to meet you, in front of
the palace, were formerly fierce and cruel men, resembling in their
disposition the wild beasts whose forms they now rightfully wear."

"And my poor companions," said Ulysses. "Have they undergone a similar
change, through the arts of this wicked Circe?"

"You well know what gormandizers they were," replied Quicksilver; and
rogue that he was, he could not help laughing at the joke. "So you will
not be surprised to hear that they have all taken the shapes of swine!
If Circe had never done anything worse, I really should not think her so
very much to blame."

"But can I do nothing to help them?" inquired Ulysses.

"It will require all your wisdom," said Quicksilver, "and a little of my
own into the bargain, to keep your royal and sagacious self from being
transformed into a fox. But do as I bid you; and the matter may end
better than it has begun."

While he was speaking, Quicksilver seemed to be in search of something;
he went stooping along the ground, and soon laid his hand on a little
plant with a snow-white flower, which he plucked and smelt of. Ulysses
had been looking at that very spot only just before; and it appeared
to him that the plant had burst into full flower the instant when
Quicksilver touched it with his fingers.

"Take this flower, King Ulysses," said he. "Guard it as you do your
eyesight; for I can assure you it is exceedingly rare and precious, and
you might seek the whole earth over without ever finding another like
it. Keep it in your hand, and smell of it frequently after you enter the
palace, and while you are talking with the enchantress. Especially when
she offers you food, or a draught of wine out of her goblet, be
careful to fill your nostrils with the flower's fragrance. Follow these
directions, and you may defy her magic arts to change you into a fox."

Quicksilver then gave him some further advice how to behave, and bidding
him be bold and prudent, again assured him that, powerful as Circe was,
he would have a fair prospect of coming safely out of her enchanted
palace. After listening attentively, Ulysses thanked his good
friend, and resumed his way. But he had taken only a few steps, when,
recollecting some other questions which he wished to ask, he turned
round again, and beheld nobody on the spot where Quicksilver had stood;
for that winged cap of his, and those winged shoes, with the help of the
winged staff, had carried him quickly out of sight.

When Ulysses reached the lawn, in front of the palace, the lions and
other savage animals came bounding to meet him, and would have fawned
upon him and licked his feet. But the wise king struck at them with his
long spear, and sternly bade them begone out of his path; for he knew
that they had once been bloodthirsty men, and would now tear him limb
from limb, instead of fawning upon him, could they do the mischief that
was in their hearts. The wild beasts yelped and glared at him, and stood
at a distance, while he ascended the palace steps.

On entering the hall, Ulysses saw the magic fountain in the center of
it. The up-gushing water had now again taken the shape of a man in a
long, white, fleecy robe, who appeared to be making gestures of welcome.
The king likewise heard the noise of the shuttle in the loom and the
sweet melody of the beautiful woman's song, and then the pleasant voices
of herself and the four maidens talking together, with peals of merry
laughter intermixed. But Ulysses did not waste much time in listening to
the laughter or the song. He leaned his spear against one of the pillars
of the hall, and then, after loosening his sword in the scabbard,
stepped boldly forward, and threw the folding doors wide open. The
moment she beheld his stately figure standing in the doorway, the
beautiful woman rose from the loom, and ran to meet him with a glad
smile throwing its sunshine over her face, and both her hands extended.

"Welcome, brave stranger!" cried she. "We were expecting you."

And the nymph with the sea-green hair made a courtesy down to the
ground, and likewise bade him welcome; so did her sister with the bodice
of oaken bark, and she that sprinkled dew-drops from her fingers' ends,
and the fourth one with some oddity which I cannot remember. And Circe,
as the beautiful enchantress was called (who had deluded so many persons
that she did not doubt of being able to delude Ulysses, not imagining
how wise he was), again addressed him:

"Your companions," said she, "have already been received into my palace,
and have enjoyed the hospitable treatment to which the propriety of
their behavior so well entitles them. If such be your pleasure, you
shall first take some refreshment, and then join them in the elegant
apartment which they now occupy. See, I and my maidens have been weaving
their figures into this piece of tapestry."

She pointed to the web of beautifully-woven cloth in the loom. Circe and
the four nymphs must have been very diligently at work since the
arrival of the mariners; for a great many yards of tapestry had now
been wrought, in addition to what I before described. In this new
part, Ulysses saw his two and twenty friends represented as sitting on
cushions and canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties, and quaffing
deep draughts of wine. The work had not yet gone any further. O, no,
indeed. The enchantress was far too cunning to let Ulysses see the
mischief which her magic arts had since brought upon the gormandizers.

"As for yourself, valiant sir," said Circe, "judging by the dignity of
your aspect, I take you to be nothing less than a king. Deign to follow
me, and you shall be treated as befits your rank."

So Ulysses followed her into the oval saloon, where his two and twenty
comrades had devoured the banquet, which ended so disastrously for
themselves. But, all this while, he had held the snow-white flower in
his hand, and had constantly smelt of it while Circe was speaking; and
as he crossed the threshold of the saloon, he took good care to inhale
several long and deep snuffs of its fragrance. Instead of two and twenty
thrones, which had before been ranged around the wall, there was now
only a single throne, in the center of the apartment. But this was
surely the most magnificent seat that ever a king or an emperor reposed
himself upon, all made of chased gold, studded with precious stones,
with a cushion that looked like a soft heap of living roses, and
overhung by a canopy of sunlight which Circe knew how to weave into
drapery. The enchantress took Ulysses by the hand, and made him sit down
upon this dazzling throne. Then, clapping her hands, she summoned the
chief butler.

"Bring hither," said she, "the goblet that is set apart for kings to
drink out of. And fill it with the same delicious wine which my royal
brother, King Aetes, praised so highly, when he last visited me with my
fair daughter Medea. That good and amiable child! Were she now here, it
would delight her to see me offering this wine to my honored guest."

But Ulysses, while the butler was gone for the wine, held the snow-white
flower to his nose.

"Is it a wholesome wine?" he asked.

At this the four maidens tittered; whereupon the enchantress looked
round at them, with an aspect of severity.

"It is the wholesomest juice that ever was squeezed out of the grape,"
said she; "for, instead of disguising a man, as other liquor is apt to
do, it brings him to his true self, and shows him as he ought to be."

The chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into
swine, or making any kind of a beast of themselves; so he made haste
to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and
which kept sparkling upward, and throwing a sunny spray over the brim.
But, delightfully as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most
potent enchantments that Circe knew how to concoct. For every drop of
the pure grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the
danger of the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better.
The mere smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough
to turn a man's beard into pig's bristles, or make a lion's claws grow
out of his fingers, or a fox's brush behind him.

"Drink, my noble guest," said Circe, smiling, as she presented him
with the goblet. "You will find in this draught a solace for all your
troubles."

King Ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he
held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath
that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance.
Then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the
face.

"Wretch," cried Circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, "how
dare you keep your human shape a moment longer! Take the form of the
brute whom you most resemble. If a hog, go join your fellow-swine in
the sty; if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the
lawn; if a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry. Thou hast
quaffed off my wine, and canst be man no longer."

But, such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing
down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form,
Ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before. He gave the
magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor to
the farthest end of the saloon. Then, drawing his sword, he seized the
enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant
to strike off her head at one blow.

"Wicked Circe," cried he, in a terrible voice, "this sword shall put an
end to thy enchantments. Thou shalt die, vile wretch, and do no more
mischief in the world, by tempting human beings into the vices which
make beasts of them."

The tone and countenance of Ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed
so brightly, and seemed to have so intolerably keen an edge, that Circe
was almost killed by the mere fright, without waiting for a blow. The
chief butler scrambled out of the saloon, picking up the golden goblet
as he went; and the enchantress and the four maidens fell on their
knees, wringing their hands, and screaming for mercy.

"Spare me!" cried Circe. "Spare me, royal and wise Ulysses. For now
I know that thou art he of whom Quicksilver forewarned me, the most
prudent of mortals, against whom no enchantments can prevail. Thou only
couldst have conquered Circe. Spare me, wisest of men. I will show
thee true hospitality, and even give myself to be thy slave, and this
magnificent palace to be henceforth thy home."

The four nymphs, meanwhile, were making a most piteous ado; and
especially the ocean nymph, with the sea-green hair, wept a great deal
of salt water, and the fountain nymph, besides scattering dewdrops from
her fingers' ends, nearly melted away into tears. But Ulysses would
not be pacified until Circe had taken a solemn oath to change back his
companions, and as many others as he should direct, from their present
forms of beast or bird into their former shapes of men.

"On these conditions," said he, "I consent to spare your life. Otherwise
you must die upon the spot."

With a drawn sword hanging over her, the enchantress would readily have
consented to do as much good as she had hitherto done mischief, however
little she might like such employment. She therefore led Ulysses out of
the back entrance of the palace, and showed him the swine in their sty.
There were about fifty of these unclean beasts in the whole herd; and
though the greater part were hogs by birth and education, there was
wonderfully little difference to be seen betwixt them and their new
brethren, who had so recently worn the human shape. To speak critically,
indeed, the latter rather carried the thing to excess, and seemed to
make it a point to wallow in the miriest part of the sty, and otherwise
to outdo the original swine in their own natural vocation. When men
once turn to brutes, the trifle of man's wit that remains in them adds
tenfold to their brutality.

The comrades of Ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of
having formerly stood erect. When he approached the sty, two and twenty
enormous swine separated themselves from the herd, and scampered towards
him, with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both
hands to his ears. And yet they did not seem to know what they wanted,
nor whether they were merely hungry, or miserable from some other
cause. It was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them
thrusting their noses into the mire, in quest of something to eat. The
nymph with the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak)
threw a handful of acorns among them; and the two and twenty hogs
scrambled and fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as
a noggin of sour milk for a twelvemonth.

"These must certainly be my comrades," said Ulysses. "I recognize their
dispositions. They are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into
the human form again. Nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their
bad example should corrupt the other hogs. Let them take their original
shapes, therefore, Dame Circe, if your skill is equal to the task. It
will require greater magic, I trow, than it did to make swine of them."

So Circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the
sound of which the two and twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears.
It was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and
their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not
gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another
began to stand upon his hind legs, and scratch his nose with his fore
trotters. At first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs
or men, but by and by came to the conclusion that they rather resembled
the latter. Finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of Ulysses,
looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel.

You must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely
gone out of them. When once it fastens itself into a person's character,
it is very difficult getting rid of it. This was proved by the
hamadryad, who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another
handful of acorns before the twenty-two newly-restored people; whereupon
down they wallowed in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful
way. Then, recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and
looked more than commonly foolish.

"Thanks, noble Ulysses!" they cried. "From brute beasts you have
restored us to the condition of men again."

"Do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me," said the wise
king. "I fear I have done but little for you."

To say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their
voices, and, for a long time afterwards, they spoke gruffly, and were
apt to set up a squeal.

"It must depend on your own future behavior," added Ulysses, "whether
you do not find your way back to the sty."

At this moment, the note of a bird sounded from the branch of a
neighboring tree.

"Peep, peep, pe--wee--e!"

It was the purple bird, who, all this while, had been sitting over their
heads, watching what was going forward, and hoping that Ulysses would
remember how he had done his utmost to keep him and his followers out of
harm's way. Ulysses ordered Circe instantly to make a king of this good
little fowl, and leave him exactly as she found him. Hardly were the
words spoken, and before the bird had time to utter another "pe--weep,"
King Picus leaped down from the bough of a tree, as majestic a sovereign
as any in the world, dressed in a long purple robe and gorgeous yellow
stockings, with a splendidly wrought collar about his neck, and a golden
crown upon his head. He and King Ulysses exchanged with one another
the courtesies which belong to their elevated rank. But from that time
forth, King Picus was no longer proud of his crown and his trappings of
royalty, nor of the fact of his being a king; he felt himself merely the
upper servant of his people, and that it must be his life-long labor to
make them better and happier.

As for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though Circe would have restored
them to their former shapes at his slightest word), Ulysses thought
it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give
warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the
guise of men, and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts
had the blood-thirstiness of wild beasts. So he let them howl as much as
they liked, but never troubled his head about them. And, when everything
was settled according to his pleasure, he sent to summon the remainder
of his comrades, whom he had left at the sea-shore. These being arrived,
with the prudent Eurylochus at their head, they all made themselves
comfortable in Circe's enchanted palace, until quite rested and
refreshed from the toils and hardships of their voyage.




THE POMEGRANATE SEEDS.

Mother Ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter Proserpina, and seldom
let her go alone into the fields. But, just at the time when my story
begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had the care of the
wheat, and the Indian corn, and the rye and barley and, in short, of the
crops of every kind, all over the earth; and as the season had thus far
been uncommonly backward, it was necessary to make the harvest ripen
more speedily than usual. So she put on her turban, made of poppies (a
kind of flower which she was always noted for wearing), and got into her
car drawn by a pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.

"Dear mother," said Proserpina, "I shall be very lonely while you are
away. May I not run down to the shore, and ask some of the sea nymphs to
come up out of the waves and play with me?"

"Yes, child," answered Mother Ceres. "The sea nymphs are good creatures,
and will never lead you into any harm. But you must take care not to
stray away from them, nor go wandering about the fields by yourself.
Young girls, without their mothers to take care of them, are very apt to
get into mischief."

The child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up woman;
and, by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out of sight,
she was already on the shore, calling to the sea nymphs to come and play
with her. They knew Proserpina's voice, and were not long in showing
their glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water, at the bottom
of which was their home. They brought along with them a great many
beautiful shells; and sitting down on the moist sand, where the surf
wave broke over them, they busied themselves in making a necklace, which
they hung round Proserpina's neck. By way of showing her gratitude, the
child besought them to go with her a little way into the fields, so that
they might gather abundance of flowers, with which she would make each
of her kind playmates a wreath.

"O no, dear Proserpina," cried the sea nymphs; "we dare not go with you
upon the dry land. We are apt to grow faint, unless at every breath we
can snuff up the salt breeze of the ocean. And don't you see how careful
we are to let the surf wave break over us every moment or two, so as
to keep ourselves comfortably moist? If it were not for that, we should
look like bunches of uprooted seaweed dried in the sun.

"It is a great pity," said Proserpina. "But do you wait for me here, and
I will run and gather my apron full of flowers, and be back again before
the surf wave has broken ten times over you. I long to make you some
wreaths that shall be as lovely as this necklace of many 
shells."

"We will wait, then," answered the sea nymphs. "But while you are gone,
we may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge under the water. The
air to-day is a little too dry for our comfort. But we will pop up our
heads every few minutes to see if you are coming."

The young Proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day before,
she had seen a great many flowers. These, however, were now a little
past their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the freshest and
loveliest blossoms, she strayed farther into the fields, and found some
that made her scream with delight. Never had she met with such exquisite
flowers before--violets so large and fragrant--roses with so rich and
delicate a blush--such superb hyacinths and such aromatic pinks--and
many others, some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colors. Two or
three times, moreover, she could not help thinking that a tuft of most
splendid flowers had suddenly sprouted out of the earth before her very
eyes, as if on purpose to tempt her a few steps farther. Proserpina's
apron was soon filled, and brimming over with delightful blossoms. She
was on the point of turning back in order to rejoin the sea nymphs, and
sit with them on the moist sands, all twining wreaths together. But,
a little farther on, what should she behold? It was a large shrub,
completely covered with the most magnificent flowers in the world.

"The darlings!" cried Proserpina; and then she thought to herself, "I
was looking at that spot only a moment ago. How strange it is that I did
not see the flowers!"

The nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it looked,
until she came quite close to it; and then, although its beauty was
richer than words can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not.
It bore above a hundred flowers of the most brilliant hues, and each
different from the others, but all having a kind of resemblance among
themselves, which showed them to be sister blossoms. But there was a
deep, glossy luster on the leaves of the shrub, and on the petals of the
flowers, that made Proserpina doubt whether they might not be poisonous.
To tell you the truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half inclined to
turn round and run away.

"What a silly child I am!" thought she, taking courage. "It is really
the most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth. I will
pull it up by the roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's
garden."

Holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, Proserpina
seized the large shrub with the other, and pulled, and pulled, but was
hardly able to loosen the soil about its roots. What a deep-rooted plant
it was! Again the girl pulled with all her might, and observed that the
earth began to stir and crack to some distance around the stem. She gave
another pull, but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a rumbling
sound right beneath her feet. Did the roots extend down into some
enchanted cavern? Then laughing at herself for so childish a notion, she
made another effort: up came the shrub, and Proserpina staggered back,
holding the stem triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole
which its roots had left in the soil.

Much to her astonishment, this hole kept spreading wider and wider, and
growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom; and
all the while, there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder and
louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like the tramp of horses'
hoofs and the rattling of wheels. Too much frightened to run away, she
stood straining her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team
of four sable horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing
their way out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at
their heels. They leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all;
and there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black
tails, and curvetting with every one of their hoofs off the ground at
once, close by the spot where Proserpina stood. In the chariot sat the
figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming
with diamonds. He was of a noble aspect, and rather handsome, but looked
sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them
with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very
fond of its light.

As soon as this personage saw the affrighted Proserpina, he beckoned her
to come a little nearer.

"Do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how
to put on. "Come! Will you not like to ride a little way with me, in my
beautiful chariot?"

But Proserpina was so alarmed, that she wished for nothing but to get
out of his reach. And no wonder. The stranger did not look remarkably
good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones
were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the rumbling of an
earthquake underground than anything else. As is always the case with
children in trouble, Proserpina's first thought was to call for her
mother.

"Mother, Mother Ceres!" cried she, all in a tremble. "Come quickly and
save me."

But her voice was too faint for her mother to hear. Indeed, it is most
probable that Ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn
grow in some far distant country. Nor could it have availed her poor
daughter, even had she been within hearing; for no sooner did Proserpina
begin to cry out, than the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the
child in his arms, and again mounted the chariot, shook the reins, and
shouted to the four black horses to set off. They immediately broke into
so swift a gallop, that it seemed rather like flying through the air
than running along the earth. In a moment, Proserpina lost sight of the
pleasant vale of Enna, in which she had always dwelt. Another instant,
and even the summit of Mount Aetna had become so blue in the distance,
that she could scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of
its crater. But still the poor child screamed, and scattered her apron
full of flowers along the way, and left a long cry trailing behind the
chariot; and many mothers, to whose ears it came, ran quickly to see if
any mischief had befallen their children. But Mother Ceres was a great
way off, and could not hear the cry.

As they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her.

"Why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?" said he, trying to
soften his rough voice. "I promise not to do you any harm. What! you
have been gathering flowers? Wait till we come to my palace, and I
will give you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all made of
pearls, and diamonds, and rubies. Can you guess who I am? They call my
name Pluto; and I am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones.
Every atom of the gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to
me, to say nothing of the copper and iron, and of the coal mines, which
supply me with abundance of fuel. Do you see this splendid crown upon my
head? You may have it for a plaything. O, we shall be very good friends,
and you will find me more agreeable than you expect, when once we get
out of this troublesome sunshine."

"Let me go home!" cried Proserpina. "Let me go home!"

"My home is better than your mother's," answered King Pluto. "It is a
palace, all made of gold, with crystal windows; and because there is
little or no sunshine thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with
diamond lamps. You never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne.
If you like, you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and I will
sit on the footstool."

"I don't care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed Proserpina. "Oh,
my mother, my mother! Carry me back to my mother!"

But King Pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds to go
faster.

"Pray do not be foolish, Proserpina," said he, in rather a sullen tone.
"I offer you my palace and my crown, and all the riches that are under
the earth; and you treat me as if I were doing you an injury. The one
thing which my palace needs is a merry little maid, to run upstairs and
down, and cheer up the rooms with her smile. And this is what you must
do for King Pluto."

"Never!" answered Proserpina, looking as miserable as she could. "I
shall never smile again till you set me down at my mother's door."

But she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled
past them, for Pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than ever.
Proserpina continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so loudly that
her poor little voice was almost screamed away; and when it was nothing
but a whisper, she happened to cast her eyes over a great broad field
of waving grain--and whom do you think she saw? Who, but Mother Ceres,
making the corn grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it
went rattling along. The child mustered all her strength, and gave one
more scream, but was out of sight before Ceres had time to turn her
head.

King Pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively gloomy.
It was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices, between which
the rumbling of the chariot wheels was reverberated with a noise like
rolling thunder. The trees and bushes that grew in the crevices of the
rocks had very dismal foliage; and by and by, although it was hardly
noon, the air became obscured with a gray twilight. The black horses had
rushed along so swiftly, that they were already beyond the limits of the
sunshine. But the duskier it grew, the more did Pluto's visage assume
an air of satisfaction. After all, he was not an ill-looking person,
especially when he left off twisting his features into a smile that did
not belong to them. Proserpina peeped at his face through the gathering
dusk, and hoped that he might not be so very wicked as she at first
thought him.

"Ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said King Pluto, "after being
so tormented with that ugly and impertinent glare of the sun. How
much more agreeable is lamplight or torchlight, more particularly when
reflected from diamonds! It will be a magnificent sight, when we get to
my palace."

"Is it much farther?" asked Proserpina. "And will you carry me back when
I have seen it?"

"We will talk of that by and by," answered Pluto. "We are just entering
my dominions. Do you see that tall gateway before us? When we pass
those gates, we are at home. And there lies my faithful mastiff at the
threshold. Cerberus! Cerberus! Come hither, my good dog!"

So saying, Pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot right
between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway. The mastiff of which
he had spoken got up from the threshold, and stood on his hinder legs,
so as to put his fore paws on the chariot wheel. But, my stars, what a
strange dog it was! Why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with
three separate heads, and each of them fiercer than the two others; but
fierce as they were, King Pluto patted them all. He seemed as fond of
his three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel, with
silken ears and curly hair. Cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently
rejoiced to see his master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs
do, by wagging his tail at a great rate. Proserpina's eyes being drawn
to it by its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor
less than a live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very
poisonous aspect. And while the three-headed Cerberus was fawning so
lovingly on King Pluto, there was the dragon tail wagging against its
will, and looking as cross and ill-natured as you can imagine, on its
own separate account.

"Will the dog bite me?" asked Proserpina, shrinking closer to Pluto.
"What an ugly creature he is!"

"O, never fear," answered her companion. "He never harms people, unless
they try to enter my dominions without being sent for, or to get
away when I wish to keep them here. Down, Cerberus! Now, my pretty
Proserpina, we will drive on."

On went the chariot, and King Pluto seemed greatly pleased to find
himself once more in his own kingdom. He drew Proserpina's attention to
the rich veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed
to several places where one stroke of a pickaxe would loosen a bushel of
diamonds. All along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which
would have been of inestimable value above ground, but which here were
reckoned of the meaner sort and hardly worth a beggar's stooping for.

Not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to be
built of iron. Pluto stopped the chariot, and bade Proserpina look at
the stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it. Never in her life had
she beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a stream; its waters
reflected no images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as
sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and
had rather stagnate than flow either one way or the other.

"This is the River Lethe," observed King Pluto. "Is it not a very
pleasant stream?"

"I think it a very dismal one," answered Proserpina.

"It suits my taste, however," answered Pluto, who was apt to be sullen
when anybody disagreed with him. "At all events, its water has one
excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every
care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them. Only sip a little of
it, my dear Proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your
mother, and will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being
perfectly happy in my palace. I will send for some, in a golden goblet,
the moment we arrive."

"O, no, no, no!" cried Proserpina, weeping afresh. "I had a thousand
times rather be miserable with remembering my mother, than be happy in
forgetting her. That dear, dear mother! I never, never will forget her."

"We shall see," said King Pluto. "You do not know what fine times we
will have in my palace. Here we are just at the portal. These pillars
are solid gold, I assure you."

He alighted from the chariot, and taking Proserpina in his arms, carried
her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace. It
was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones, of
various hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps, and glowed with a
hundred-fold radiance all through the vast apartment. And yet there was
a kind of gloom in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a
single object in the hall that was really agreeable to behold, except
the little Proserpina herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower
which she had not let fall from her hand. It is my opinion that even
King Pluto had never been happy in his palace, and that this was the
true reason why he had stolen away Proserpina, in order that he might
have something to love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with
this tiresome magnificence. And, though he pretended to dislike the
sunshine of the upper world, yet the effect of the child's presence,
bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint and watery sunbeam
had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted hall.

Pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in
preparing a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to fail of
setting a golden beaker of the water of Lethe by Proserpina's plate.

"I will neither drink that nor anything else," said Proserpina. "Nor
will I taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your
palace."

"I should be sorry for that," replied King Pluto, patting her cheek;
for he really wished to be kind, if he had only known how. "You are a
spoiled child, I perceive, my little Proserpina; but when you see the
nice things which my cook will make for you, your appetite will quickly
come again."

Then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict orders that all sorts
of delicacies, such as young people are usually fond of, should be
set before Proserpina. He had a secret motive in this; for, you are to
understand, it is a fixed law, that when persons are carried off to the
land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get
back to their friends. Now, if King Pluto had been cunning enough to
offer Proserpina some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple
fare to which the child had always been accustomed), it is very probable
that she would soon have been tempted to eat it. But he left the matter
entirely to his cook, who, like all other cooks, considered nothing fit
to eat unless it were rich pastry, or highly-seasoned meat, or spiced
sweet cakes--things which Proserpina's mother had never given her, and
the smell of which quite took away her appetite, instead of sharpening
it.

But my story must now clamber out of King Pluto's dominions, and see
what Mother Ceres had been about, since she was bereft of her daughter.
We had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving
grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the
chariot, in which her beloved Proserpina was so unwillingly borne away.
You recollect, too, the loud scream which Proserpina gave, just when the
chariot was out of sight.

Of all the child's outcries, this last shriek was the only one that
reached the ears of Mother Ceres. She had mistaken the rumbling of the
chariot wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was
coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow. But, at
the sound of Proserpina's shriek, she started, and looked about in every
direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain that
it was her daughter's voice. It seemed so unaccountable, however, that
the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she
herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons),
that the good Ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some
other parent, and not her own darling Proserpina, who had uttered this
lamentable cry. Nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender
fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother's heart,
when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without
leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful
guardian. So she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy;
and, as her work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it
needed both sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear, and had
something the matter with its roots.

The pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than
an hour, Mother Ceres had alighted at the door of her home, and found
it empty. Knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the
sea-shore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld
the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over a wave. All this
while, the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and
once, every half minute or so, had popped up their four heads above
water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back. When they saw
Mother Ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it
toss them ashore at her feet.

"Where is Proserpina?" cried Ceres. "Where is my child? Tell me, you
naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?"

"O, no, good Mother Ceres," said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back
their green ringlets, and looking her in the face. "We never should
dream of such a thing. Proserpina has been at play with us, it is true;
but she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon
the dry land, and gather some flowers for a wreath. This was early in
the day, and we have seen nothing of her since."

Ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she
hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood. But nobody
told her anything that would enable the poor mother to guess what had
become of Proserpina. A fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little
footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a
basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers;
several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels, or the
rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain
and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish
nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up. The stupid
people! It took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they
knew, that it was dark night before Mother Ceres found out that she
must seek her daughter elsewhere. So she lighted a torch, and set forth,
resolving never to come back until Proserpina was discovered.

In her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the
winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the
search more thoroughly on foot. At all events, this was the way in
which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and
looking carefully at every object along the path. And as it happened,
she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers
which grew on the shrub that Proserpina had pulled up.

"Ha!" thought Mother Ceres, examining it by torchlight. "Here is
mischief in this flower! The earth did not produce it by any help of
mine, nor of its own accord. It is the work of enchantment, and is
therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."

But she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she
might ever find any other memorial of Proserpina.

All night long, at the door of every cottage and farm-house, Ceres
knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen
her child; and they stood, gaping and half-asleep, at the threshold,
and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest. At the
portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials
hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king
or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to
repose in. And when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch
in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke
rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her. But nobody
had seen Proserpina, nor could give Mother Ceres the least hint which
way to seek her. Thus passed the night; and still she continued her
search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even
remembering to put out the torch although first the rosy dawn, and then
the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and
pale. But I wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it
burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and
never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the weary days and
nights while Ceres was seeking for Proserpina.

It was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her
daughter. In the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another
nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary
places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their
language and customs, as Mother Ceres did. Sometimes, for instance, she
tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and
immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a
beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside
of it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves
sported with the breeze. But not one of these leafy damsels had seen
Proserpina. Then, going a little farther, Ceres would, perhaps, come
to a fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would
dabble with her hand in the water. Behold, up through its sandy and
pebbly bed, along with the fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping
hair would arise, and stand gazing at Mother Ceres, half out of the
water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion. But
when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to
drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these
water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody's grief), would answer
"No!" in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the
stream.

Often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country
people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their
foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gamboled merrily
about the woods and fields. They were a frolicsome kind of creature
but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow, when Ceres
inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell. But
sometimes she same suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces
like monkeys, and horses' tails behind them, and who were generally
dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter. When
she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make
new merriment out of the lone woman's distress. How unkind of those ugly
satyrs! And once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a
personage named Pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music
on a shepherd's flute. He, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goats'
feet; but, being acquainted with Mother Ceres, he answered her question
as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey
out of a wooden bowl. But neither could Pan tell her what had become of
Proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people.

And thus Mother Ceres went wandering about for nine long days and
nights, finding no trace of Proserpina, unless it were now and then a
withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because
she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand. All
day she traveled onward through the hot sun; and, at night again, the
flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she
continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.

On the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern within which
(though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only
a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning there. It
flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up
the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer. Ceres was resolved to
leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the
cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her own torch before
her. In so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman,
sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which
had been swept into the cave by the wind. This woman (if woman it were)
was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head, they tell
me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of ornament, she wore
a wreath of snakes around it. But Mother Ceres, the moment she saw her,
knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put all her enjoyment
in being miserable, and never would have a word to say to other people,
unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to
be.

"I am wretched enough now," thought poor Ceres, "to talk with this
melancholy Hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet." So
she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the
dog-headed woman's side. In all the world, since her daughter's loss,
she had found no other companion.

"O Hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know
what sorrow is. Tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child
Proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"

"No," answered Hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every
word or two; "no, Mother Ceres, I have seen nothing of your daughter.
But my ears, you must know, are made in such a way, that all cries of
distress and affright all over the world are pretty sure to find their
way to them; and nine days ago, as I sat in my cave, making myself very
miserable, I heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great
distress. Something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest
assured. As well as I could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel
monster, was carrying her away."

"You kill me by saying so," cried Ceres, almost ready to faint. "Where
was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"

"It passed very swiftly along," said Hecate, "and, at the same time,
there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward. I can tell
you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see
your daughter again. The best advice I can give you is, to take up your
abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in
the world."

"Not yet, dark Hecate," replied Ceres. "But do you first come with your
torch, and help me to seek for my lost child. And when there shall be no
more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then,
if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered
leaves or on the naked rock, I will show what it is to be miserable.
But, until I know that she has perished from the face of the earth, I
will not allow myself space even to grieve."

The dismal Hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the
sunny world. But then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate
Ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the
sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad
spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave. So she finally
consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches,
although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine. The torchlight seemed
to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met, along the road, could
not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught
a glimpse of Hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they
generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second
glance.

As the pair traveled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck
Ceres.

"There is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child,
and can doubtless tell what has become of her. Why did not I think of
him before? It is Phoebus."

"What," said Hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine? O,
pray do not think of going near him. He is a gay, light, frivolous young
fellow, and will only smile in your face. And besides, there is such a
glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which
I have almost wept away already."

"You have promised to be my companion," answered Ceres. "Come, let us
make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and Phoebus along with it."

Accordingly, they went along in quest of Phoebus, both of them sighing
grievously, and Hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse
lamentation than Ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in
being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it. By and by, after
a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole
world. There they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling
ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments
were like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so
exceedingly vivid, that Hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering
that he ought to wear a black veil. Phoebus (for this was the very
person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making
its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most
exquisite song, which he had recently composed. For, beside a great many
other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable
poetry.

As Ceres and her dismal companion approached him, Phoebus smiled on them
so cheerfully that Hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and
Hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave. But as for Ceres, she
was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether Phoebus
smiled or frowned.

"Phoebus!" exclaimed she, "I am in great trouble, and have come to
you for assistance. Can you tell me what has become of my dear child
Proserpina?"

"Proserpina! Proserpina, did you call her name?" answered Phoebus,
endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of
pleasant ideas in his mind, that he was apt to forget what had happened
no longer ago than yesterday. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. A very
lovely child, indeed. I am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that I
did see the little Proserpina not many days ago. You may make yourself
perfectly easy about her. She is safe, and in excellent hands."

"O, where is my dear child?" cried Ceres, clasping her hands, and
flinging herself at his feet.

"Why," said Phoebus--and as he spoke he kept touching his lyre so as to
make a thread of music run in and out among his words--"as the little
damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste
for flowers), she was suddenly snatched up by King Pluto, and carried
off to his dominions. I have never been in that part of the universe;
but the royal palace, I am told, is built in a very noble style of
architecture, and of the most splendid and costly materials. Gold,
diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones will be your
daughter's ordinary playthings. I recommend to you, my dear lady, to
give yourself no uneasiness. Proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly
gratified, and even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a
very enviable life."

"Hush! Say not such a word!" answered Ceres, indignantly. "What is there
to gratify her heart? What are all the splendors you speak of without
affection? I must have her back again. Will you go with me you go with
me, Phoebus, to demand my daughter of this wicked Pluto?"

"Pray excuse me," replied Phoebus, with an elegant obeisance. "I
certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so
immediately pressing that I cannot have the pleasure of attending you.
Besides, I am not upon the best of terms with King Pluto. To tell you
the truth, his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway;
for I should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and
those, you know, are forbidden things in Pluto's kingdom."

"Ah, Phoebus," said Ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a
harp instead of a heart. Farewell."

"Will not you stay a moment," asked Phoebus, "and hear me turn the
pretty and touching story of Proserpina into extemporary verses?"

But Ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with Hecate. Phoebus
(who, as I have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make
an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of his
sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with
a very tender heart. But when a poet gets into the habit of using his
heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as
much as he will, without any great pain to himself. Accordingly, though
Phoebus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the
sunbeams amid which he dwelt.

Poor Mother Ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but
was not a whit happier than before. Her case, on the contrary, looked
more desperate than ever. As long as Proserpina was above ground, there
might have been hopes of regaining her. But now that the poor child was
shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold
of which lay the three-headed Cerberus, there seemed no possibility of
her ever making her escape. The dismal Hecate, who loved to take the
darkest view of things, told Ceres that she had better come with her
to the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable. Ceres
answered, that Hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that,
for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance
to King Pluto's dominions. And Hecate took her at her word, and hurried
back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with
a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.

Poor Mother Ceres! It is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her
toilsome way, all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the
flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned
together in her heart.

So much did she suffer, that, though her aspect had been quite youthful
when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person in a
very brief time. She cared not how she was dressed, nor had she ever
thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies, which she put
on the very morning of Proserpina's disappearance. She roamed about in
so wild a way, and with her hair so disheveled, that people took her for
some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was Mother Ceres,
who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted.
Nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about seed time nor
harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs, and the
crops to fade or flourish, as the case might be. There was nothing, now,
in which Ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw children
at play, or gathering flowers along the wayside. Then, indeed, she
would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes. The children, too,
appeared to have a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves
in a little group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face;
and Ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to their
homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.

"For if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that
the iron-hearted King Pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and
snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."

One day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to Pluto's
kingdom, she came to the palace of King Cereus, who reigned at Eleusis.
Ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found the
royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby. The infant,
it seems, was sickly (being troubled with its teeth, I suppose),
and would take no food, and was all the time moaning with pain. The
queen--her name was Metanira--was desirous of funding a nurse; and when
she beheld a woman of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she
thought, in her own mind, that here was the very person whom she needed.
So Queen Metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her
arms, and besought Ceres to take charge of it, or, at least, to tell her
what would do it good.

"Will you trust the child entirely to me?" asked Ceres.

"Yes, and gladly, too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your
time to him. For I can see that you have been a mother."

"You are right," said Ceres. "I once had a child of my own. Well; I will
be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy. But beware, I warn you, that you
do not interfere with any kind of treatment which I may judge proper for
him. If you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his mother's folly."

Then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good; for he smiled
and nestled closely into her bosom.

So Mother Ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning all the
while), and took up her abode in the palace of King Cereus, as nurse
to the little Prince Demophoon. She treated him as if he were her own
child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether he
should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or how
often he should take the air, or when he should be put to bed. You would
hardly believe me, if I were to tell how quickly the baby prince got rid
of his ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two
rows of ivory teeth in less time than any other little fellow, before
or since. Instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the
world (as his own mother confessed him to be, when Ceres first took him
in charge), he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up
his heels, and rolling from one end of the room to the other. All the
good women of the neighborhood crowded to the palace, and held up their
hands, in unutterable amazement, at the beauty and wholesomeness of
this darling little prince. Their wonder was the greater, because he was
never seen to taste any food; not even so much as a cup of milk.

"Pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how is it that you make the child
thrive so?"

"I was a mother once," Ceres always replied; "and having nursed my own
child, I know what other children need."

But Queen Metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to know
precisely what the nurse did to her child. One night, therefore, she hid
herself in the chamber where Ceres and the little prince were accustomed
to sleep. There was a fire in the chimney, and it had now crumbled into
great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze
flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the
walls. Ceres sat before the hearth with the child in her lap, and
the firelight making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead. She
undressed the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant
liquid out of a vase. The next thing she did was to rake back the red
embers, and make a hollow place among them, just where the backlog had
been. At last, while the baby was crowing, and clapping its fat little
hands, and laughing in the nurse's face (just as you may have seen your
little brother or sister do before going into its warm bath), Ceres
suddenly laid him, all naked as he was, in the hollow among the red-hot
embers. She then raked the ashes over him, and turned quietly away.

You may imagine, if you can, how Queen Metanira shrieked, thinking
nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder. She
burst forth from her hiding-place, and running to the hearth, raked open
the fire, and snatched up poor little Prince Demophoon out of his bed
of live coals, one of which he was gripping in each of his fists. He
immediately set up a grievous cry, as babies are apt to do, when rudely
startled out of a sound sleep. To the queen's astonishment and joy, she
could perceive no token of the child's being injured by the hot fire
in which he had lain. She now turned to Mother Ceres, and asked her to
explain the mystery.

"Foolish woman," answered Ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this
poor infant entirely to me? You little know the mischief you have done
him. Had you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child of
celestial birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence, and
would have lived forever. Do you imagine that earthly children are to
become immortal without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the
fire? But you have ruined your own son. For though he will be a strong
man and a hero in his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow
old, and finally die, like the sons of other women. The weak tenderness
of his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality. Farewell."

Saying these words, she kissed the little Prince Demophoon, and sighed
to think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding Queen
Metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the
hot embers as often as she pleased. Poor baby! He never slept so warmly
again.

While she dwelt in the king's palace, Mother Ceres had been so
continually occupied with taking care of the young prince, that her
heart was a little lightened of its grief for Proserpina. But now,
having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched
as before. At length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful
resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a
potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man
or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were
restored. She even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart
should be cheered by their beauty.

Now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself
out of the ground, without the especial permission of Ceres, you may
conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth. The
husbandmen plowed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black
furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand. The pastures looked as brown
in the sweet month of June as ever they did in chill November. The rich
man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden patch were equally
blighted. Every little girl's flower bed showed nothing but dry stalks.
The old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had
grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the
warm smile of summer on its face. It was really piteous to see the poor,
starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind Ceres, lowing and
bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and
everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy
on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow. But
Mother Ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now
inexorable.

"Never," said she. "If the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it
must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming
back to me."

Finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend
Quicksilver was sent post-haste to King Pluto, in hopes that he might be
persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right
again, by giving up Proserpina. Quicksilver accordingly made the best
of his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over the
three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an
inconceivably short time. The servants knew him both by his face and
garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky
staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by. He requested to
be shown immediately into the king's presence; and Pluto, who heard his
voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with
Quicksilver's merry talk, called out to him to come up. And while they
settle their business together, we must inquire what Proserpina had been
doing ever since we saw her last.

The child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not taste
a mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in King
Pluto's palace. How she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at the
same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy, is more than I can
explain; but some young ladies, I am given to understand, possess the
faculty of living on air, and Proserpina seems to have possessed it too.
At any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside of the
earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify,
had yet passed between her teeth. This was the more creditable to
Proserpina, inasmuch as King Pluto had caused her to be tempted day by
day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly-preserved fruits, and
delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most fond
of. But her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of these
things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no other, she would
have resolutely refused to taste them.

All this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little
damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed. The immense
palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful
objects. There was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which half hid
itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she
wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of
her footsteps. Neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which
flamed with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor
could the most brilliant of the many- gems, which Proserpina had
for playthings, vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to
gather. But still, whenever the girl went among those gilded halls and
chambers, it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with
her, and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her
left. After Proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of
stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been. The
inhabitants all felt this, and King Pluto more than any of them.

"My own little Proserpina," he used to say. "I wish you could like me a
little better. We gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm
hearts, at bottom, as those of a more cheerful character. If you would
only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the
possession of a hundred such palaces as this."

"Ah," said Proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you before
carrying me off. And the best thing you can now do is, to let me go
again. Then I might remember you sometimes, and think that you were as
kind as you knew how to be. Perhaps, too, one day or other, I might come
back, and pay you a visit."

"No, no," answered Pluto, with his gloomy smile, "I will not trust
you for that. You are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and
gathering flowers. What an idle and childish taste that is! Are not
these gems, which I have ordered to be dug for you, and which are richer
than any in my crown--are they not prettier than a violet?"

"Not half so pretty," said Proserpina, snatching the gems from Pluto's
hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall. "O my sweet
violets, shall I never see you again?"

And then she burst into tears. But young people's tears have very little
saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much as
those of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at, if, a few
moments afterwards, Proserpina was sporting through the hall almost as
merrily as she and the four sea nymphs had sported along the edge of the
surf wave. King Pluto gazed after her, and wished that he, too, was a
child. And little Proserpina, when she turned about, and beheld this
great king standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so
melancholy, and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity. She ran
back to him, and, for the first time in all her life, put her small,
soft hand in his.

"I love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face.

"Do you, indeed, my dear child?" cried Pluto, bending his dark face down
to kiss her; but Proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for, though his
features were noble, they were very dusky and grim. "Well, I have not
deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months,
and starving you besides. Are you not terribly hungry? Is there nothing
which I can get you to eat?"

In asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning
purpose; for, you will recollect, if Proserpina tasted a morsel of food
in his dominions, she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them.

"No indeed," said Proserpina. "Your head cook is always baking, and
stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish
or another, which he imagines may be to my liking. But he might just as
well save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is. I have
no appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread,
of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden."

When Pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the best
method of tempting Proserpina to eat. The cook's made dishes and
artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the good child's
opinion, as the simple fare to which Mother Ceres had accustomed her.
Wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent one
of his trusty attendants with a large basket, to get some of the finest
and juiciest pears, peaches, and plums which could anywhere be found in
the upper world. Unfortunately, however, this was during the time when
Ceres had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after
seeking all over the earth, King Pluto's servant found only a
single pomegranate, and that so dried up as not to be worth eating.
Nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this dry,
old withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a magnificent
golden salver, and carried it up to Proserpina. Now, it happened,
curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing the pomegranate
into the back door of the palace, our friend Quicksilver had gone up the
front steps, on his errand to get Proserpina away from King Pluto.

As soon as Proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she told
the servant he had better take it away again.

"I shall not touch it, I assure you," said she. "If I were ever so
hungry, I should never think of eating such a miserable, dry pomegranate
as that."

"It is the only one in the world," said the servant.

He set down the golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon it, and
left the room. When he was gone, Proserpina could not help coming close
to the table, and looking at this poor specimen of dried fruit with a
great deal of eagerness; for, to say the truth, on seeing something
that suited her taste, she felt all the six months' appetite taking
possession of her at once. To be sure, it was a very wretched-looking
pomegranate, and seemed to have no more juice in it than an oyster
shell. But there was no choice of such things in King Pluto's palace.
This was the first fruit she had seen there, and the last she was ever
likely to see; and unless she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier
than it already was, and be wholly unfit to eat.

"At least, I may smell it," thought Proserpina.

So she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and, somehow
or other, being in such close neighborhood to her mouth, the fruit found
its way into that little red cave. Dear me! what an everlasting pity!
Before Proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten
it, of their own accord. Just as this fatal deed was done, the door of
the apartment opened, and in came King Pluto, followed by Quicksilver,
who had been urging him to let his little prisoner go. At the first
noise of their entrance, Proserpina withdrew the pomegranate from her
mouth. But Quicksilver (whose eyes were very keen, and his wits the
sharpest that ever anybody had) perceived that the child was a little
confused; and seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had been
taking a sly nibble of something or other. As for honest Pluto, he never
guessed at the secret.

"My little Proserpina," said the king, sitting down, and affectionately
drawing her between his knees, "here is Quicksilver, who tells me that
a great many misfortunes have befallen innocent people on account of
my detaining you in my dominions. To confess the truth, I myself had
already reflected that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from
your good mother. But, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this
vast palace is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly
shine very bright), and that I am not of the most cheerful disposition,
and that therefore it was a natural thing enough to seek for the society
of some merrier creature than myself. I hoped you would take my crown
for a plaything, and me--ah, you laugh, naughty Proserpina--me, grim as
I am, for a playmate. It was a silly expectation."

"Not so extremely silly," whispered Proserpina. "You have really amused
me very much, sometimes."

"Thank you," said King Pluto, rather dryly. "But I can see plainly
enough, that you think my palace a dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted
keeper of it. And an iron heart I should surely have, if I could detain
you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six months since you
tasted food. I give you your liberty. Go with Quicksilver. Hasten home
to your dear mother."

Now, although you may not have supposed it, Proserpina found it
impossible to take leave of poor King Pluto without some regrets, and a
good deal of compunction for not telling him about the pomegranate. She
even shed a tear or two, thinking how lonely and cheerless the great
palace would seem to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial light,
after she herself--his one little ray of natural sunshine, whom he had
stolen, to be sure, but only because he valued her so much--after she
should have departed. I know not how many kind things she might have
said to the disconsolate king of the mines, had not Quicksilver hurried
her way.

"Come along quickly," whispered he in her ear, "or his majesty may
change his royal mind. And take care, above all things, that you say
nothing of what was brought you on the golden salver."

In a very short time, they had passed the great gateway (leaving
the three-headed Cerberus, barking, and yelping, and growling, with
threefold din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the earth.
It was delightful to behold, as Proserpina hastened along, how the path
grew verdant behind and on either side of her. Wherever she set her
blessed foot, there was at once a dewy flower. The violets gushed up
along the wayside. The grass and the grain began to sprout with tenfold
vigor and luxuriance, to make up for the dreary months that had been
wasted in barrenness. The starved cattle immediately set to work
grazing, after their long fast, and ate enormously, all day, and got up
at midnight to eat more.

But I can assure you it was a busy time of year with the farmers, when
they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush. Nor must I
forget to say, that all the birds in the whole world hopped about upon
the newly-blossoming trees, and sang together, in a prodigious ecstasy
of joy.

Mother Ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting
disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand. She
had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when, all at
once, it flickered and went out.

"What does this mean?" thought she. "It was an enchanted torch, and
should have kept burning till my child came back."

Lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure flashing
over the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have observed a
golden hue gleaming far and wide across the landscape, from the just
risen sun.

"Does the earth disobey me?" exclaimed Mother Ceres, indignantly.
"Does it presume to be green, when I have bidden it be barren, until my
daughter shall be restored to my arms?"

"Then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-known voice, "and take
your little daughter into them."

And Proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her mother's bosom.
Their mutual transport is not to be described. The grief of their
separation had caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and now
they shed a great many more, because their joy could not so well express
itself in any other way.

When their hearts had grown a little more quiet, Mother Ceres looked
anxiously at Proserpina.

"My child," said she, "did you taste any food while you were in King
Pluto's palace?"

"Dearest mother," exclaimed Proserpina, "I will tell you the whole
truth. Until this very morning, not a morsel of food had passed my lips.
But to-day, they brought me a pomegranate (a very dry one it was, and
all shriveled up, till there was little left of it but seeds and skin),
and having seen no fruit for so long a time, and being faint with
hunger, I was tempted just to bite it. The instant I tasted it, King
Pluto and Quicksilver came into the room. I had not swallowed a morsel;
but--dear mother, I hope it was no harm--but six of the pomegranate
seeds, I am afraid, remained in my mouth."

"Ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!" exclaimed Ceres. "For each
of those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of every year in
King Pluto's palace. You are but half restored to your mother. Only six
months with me, and six with that good-for-nothing King of Darkness!"

"Do not speak so harshly of poor King Pluto," said Prosperina, kissing
her mother. "He has some very good qualities; and I really think I can
bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend
the other six with you. He certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but
then, as he says, it was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in
that great gloomy place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change
in his spirits to have a little girl to run up stairs and down. There
is some comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest
mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year
round."




THE GOLDEN FLEECE.

When Jason, the son of the dethroned King of Iolchos, was a little
boy, he was sent away from his parents, and placed under the queerest
schoolmaster that ever you heard of. This learned person was one of the
people, or quadrupeds, called Centaurs. He lived in a cavern, and had
the body and legs of a white horse, with the head and shoulders of a
man. His name was Chiron; and, in spite of his odd appearance, he was a
very excellent teacher, and had several scholars, who afterwards did him
credit by making a great figure in the world. The famous Hercules was
one, and so was Achilles, and Philoctetes likewise, and Aesculapius, who
acquired immense repute as a doctor. The good Chiron taught his pupils
how to play upon the harp, and how to cure diseases, and how to use the
sword and shield, together with various other branches of education, in
which the lads of those days used to be instructed, instead of writing
and arithmetic.

I have sometimes suspected that Master Chiron was not really very
different from other people, but that, being a kind-hearted and merry
old fellow, he was in the habit of making believe that he was a horse,
and scrambling about the schoolroom on all fours, and letting the little
boys ride upon his back. And so, when his scholars had grown up, and
grown old, and were trotting their grandchildren on their knees, they
told them about the sports of their school days; and these young folks
took the idea that their grandfathers had been taught their letters by
a Centaur, half man and half horse. Little children, not quite
understanding what is said to them, often get such absurd notions into
their heads, you know.

Be that as it may, it has always been told for a fact (and always will
be told, as long as the world lasts), that Chiron, with the head of a
schoolmaster, had the body and legs of a horse. Just imagine the grave
old gentleman clattering and stamping into the schoolroom on his four
hoofs, perhaps treading on some little fellow's toes, flourishing his
switch tail instead of a rod, and, now and then, trotting out of doors
to eat a mouthful of grass! I wonder what the blacksmith charged him for
a set of iron shoes?

So Jason dwelt in the cave, with this four-footed Chiron, from the time
that he was an infant, only a few months old, until he had grown to
the full height of a man. He became a very good harper, I suppose, and
skilful in the use of weapons, and tolerably acquainted with herbs and
other doctor's stuff, and, above all, an admirable horseman; for, in
teaching young people to ride, the good Chiron must have been without
a rival among schoolmasters. At length, being now a tall and athletic
youth, Jason resolved to seek his fortune in the world, without asking
Chiron's advice, or telling him anything about the matter. This was very
unwise, to be sure; and I hope none of you, my little hearers, will ever
follow Jason's example.

But, you are to understand, he had heard how that he himself was a
prince royal, and how his father, King Jason, had been deprived of
the kingdom of Iolchos by a certain Pelias, who would also have killed
Jason, had he not been hidden in the Centaur's cave. And, being come
to the strength of a man, Jason determined to set all this business to
rights, and to punish the wicked Pelias for wronging his dear father,
and to cast him down from the throne, and seat himself there instead.

With this intention, he took a spear in each hand, and threw a leopard's
skin over his shoulders, to keep off the rain, and set forth on his
travels, with his long yellow ringlets waving in the wind. The part of
his dress on which he most prided himself was a pair of sandals, that
had been his father's. They were handsomely embroidered, and were tied
upon his feet with strings of gold. But his whole attire was such as
people did not very often see; and as he passed along, the women and
children ran to the doors and windows, wondering whither this beautiful
youth was journeying, with his leopard's skin and his golden-tied
sandals, and what heroic deeds he meant to perform, with a spear in his
right hand and another in his left.

I know not how far Jason had traveled, when he came to a turbulent
river, which rushed right across his pathway, with specks of white
foam among its black eddies, hurrying tumultuously onward, and roaring
angrily as it went. Though not a very broad river in the dry seasons of
the year, it was now swollen by heavy rains and by the melting of the
snow on the sides of Mount Olympus; and it thundered so loudly, and
looked so wild and dangerous, that Jason, bold as he was, thought it
prudent to pause upon the brink. The bed of the stream seemed to be
strewn with sharp and rugged rocks, some of which thrust themselves
above the water. By and by, an uprooted tree, with shattered branches,
came drifting along the current, and got entangled among the rocks. Now
and then, a drowned sheep, and once the carcass of a cow, floated past.

In short, the swollen river had already done a great deal of mischief.
It was evidently too deep for Jason to wade, and too boisterous for him
to swim; he could see no bridge; and as for a boat, had there been any,
the rocks would have broken it to pieces in an instant.

"See the poor lad," said a cracked voice close to his side. "He must
have had but a poor education, since he does not know how to cross
a little stream like this. Or is he afraid of wetting his fine
golden-stringed sandals? It is a pity his four-footed schoolmaster is
not here to carry him safely across on his back!"

Jason looked round greatly surprised, for he did not know that anybody
was near. But beside him stood an old woman, with a ragged mantle over
her head, leaning on a staff, the top of which was carved into the shape
of a cuckoo. She looked very aged, and wrinkled, and infirm; and yet her
eyes, which were as brown as those of an ox, were so extremely large
and beautiful, that, when they were fixed on Jason's eyes, he could
see nothing else but them. The old woman had a pomegranate in her hand,
although the fruit was then quite out of season.

"Whither are you going, Jason?" she now asked.

She seemed to know his name, you will observe; and, indeed, those great
brown eyes looked as if they had a knowledge of everything, whether past
or to come. While Jason was gazing at her, a peacock strutted forward,
and took his stand at the old woman's side.

"I am going to Iolchos," answered the young man, "to bid the wicked
King Pelias come down from my father's throne, and let me reign in his
stead."

"Ah, well, then," said the old woman, still with the same cracked voice,
"if that is all your business, you need not be in a very great hurry.
Just take me on your back, there's a good youth, and carry me across the
river. I and my peacock have something to do on the other side, as well
as yourself."

"Good mother," replied Jason, "your business can hardly be so important
as the pulling down a king from his throne. Besides, as you may see
for yourself, the river is very boisterous; and if I should chance to
stumble, it would sweep both of us away more easily than it has carried
off yonder uprooted tree. I would gladly help you if I could; but I
doubt whether I am strong enough to carry you across."

"Then," said she, very scornfully, "neither are you strong enough to
pull King Pelias off his throne. And, Jason, unless you will help an old
woman at her need, you ought not to be a king. What are kings made for,
save to succor the feeble and distressed? But do as you please. Either
take me on your back, or with my poor old limbs I shall try my best to
struggle across the stream."

Saying this, the old woman poked with her staff in the river, as if to
find the safest place in its rocky bed where she might make the first
step. But Jason, by this time, had grown ashamed of his reluctance to
help her. He felt that he could never forgive himself, if this poor
feeble creature should come to any harm in attempting to wrestle against
the headlong current. The good Chiron, whether half horse or no, had
taught him that the noblest use of his strength was to assist the weak;
and also that he must treat every young woman as if she were his sister,
and every old one like a mother. Remembering these maxims, the vigorous
and beautiful young man knelt down, and requested the good dame to mount
upon his back.

"The passage seems to me not very safe," he remarked. "But as your
business is so urgent, I will try to carry you across. If the river
sweeps you away, it shall take me too."

"That, no doubt, will be a great comfort to both of us," quoth the old
woman. "But never fear. We shall get safely across."

So she threw her arms around Jason's neck; and lifting her from the
ground, he stepped boldly into the raging and foaming current, and began
to stagger away from the shore. As for the peacock, it alighted on the
old dame's shoulder. Jason's two spears, one in each hand, kept him
from stumbling, and enabled him to feel his way among the hidden rocks;
although every instant, he expected that his companion and himself would
go down the stream, together with the driftwood of shattered trees, and
the carcasses of the sheep and cow. Down came the cold, snowy torrent
from the steep side of Olympus, raging and thundering as if it had a
real spite against Jason, or, at all events, were determined to snatch
off his living burden from his shoulders. When he was half way across,
the uprooted tree (which I have already told you about) broke loose
from among the rocks, and bore down upon him, with all its splintered
branches sticking out like the hundred arms of the giant Briareus. It
rushed past, however, without touching him. But the next moment his
foot was caught in a crevice between two rocks, and stuck there so fast,
that, in the effort to get free, he lost one of his golden-stringed
sandals.

At this accident Jason could not help uttering a cry of vexation.

"What is the matter, Jason?" asked the old woman.

"Matter enough," said the young man. "I have lost a sandal here among
the rocks. And what sort of a figure shall I cut, at the court of King
Pelias, with a golden-stringed sandal on one foot, and the other foot
bare!"

"Do not take it to heart," answered his companion cheerily. "You never
met with better fortune than in losing that sandal. It satisfies me that
you are the very person whom the Speaking Oak has been talking about."

There was no time, just then, to inquire what the Speaking Oak had said.
But the briskness of her tone encouraged the young man; and, besides, he
had never in his life felt so vigorous and mighty as since taking this
old woman on his back. Instead of being exhausted, he gathered strength
as he went on; and, struggling up against the torrent, he at last gained
the opposite shore, clambered up the bank, and set down the old dame and
her peacock safely on the grass. As soon as this was done, however, he
could not help looking rather despondently at his bare foot, with only a
remnant of the golden string of the sandal clinging round his ankle.

"You will get a handsomer pair of sandals by and by," said the old
woman, with a kindly look out of her beautiful brown eyes. "Only let
King Pelias get a glimpse of that bare foot, and you shall see him turn
as pale as ashes, I promise you. There is your path. Go along, my good
Jason, and my blessing go with you. And when you sit on your throne
remember the old woman whom you helped over the river."

With these words, she hobbled away, giving him a smile over her shoulder
as she departed.

Whether the light of her beautiful brown eyes threw a glory round
about her, or whatever the cause might be, Jason fancied that there was
something very noble and majestic in her figure, after all, and that,
though her gait seemed to be a rheumatic hobble, yet she moved with as
much grace and dignity as any queen on earth. Her peacock, which had now
fluttered down from her shoulder, strutted behind her in a prodigious
pomp, and spread out its magnificent tail on purpose for Jason to admire
it.

When the old dame and her peacock were out of sight, Jason set forward
on his journey. After traveling a pretty long distance, he came to a
town situated at the foot of a mountain, and not a great way from the
shore of the sea. On the outside of the town there was an immense crowd
of people, not only men and women, but children too, all in their
best clothes, and evidently enjoying a holiday. The crowd was thickest
towards the sea-shore; and in that direction, over the people's heads,
Jason saw a wreath of smoke curling upward to the blue sky. He inquired
of one of the multitude what town it was near by, and why so many
persons were here assembled together.

"This is the kingdom of Iolchos," answered the man, "and we are the
subjects of King Pelias. Our monarch has summoned us together, that we
may see him sacrifice a black bull to Neptune, who, they say, is his
majesty's father. Yonder is the king, where you see the smoke going up
from the altar."

While the man spoke he eyed Jason with great curiosity; for his garb
was quite unlike that of the Iolchians, and it looked very odd to see a
youth with a leopard's skin over his shoulders, and each hand grasping
a spear. Jason perceived, too, that the man stared particularly at
his feet, one of which, you remember, was bare, while the other was
decorated with his father's golden-stringed sandal.

"Look at him! only look at him!" said the man to his next neighbor. "Do
you see? He wears but one sandal!"

Upon this, first one person, and then another, began to stare at Jason,
and everybody seemed to be greatly struck with something in his aspect;
though they turned their eyes much oftener towards his feet than to any
other part of his figure. Besides, he could hear them whispering to one
another.

"One sandal! One sandal!" they kept saying. "The man with one sandal!
Here he is at last! Whence has he come? What does he mean to do? What
will the king say to the one-sandaled man?"

Poor Jason was greatly abashed, and made up his mind that the people
of Iolchos were exceedingly ill-bred, to take such public notice of an
accidental deficiency in his dress. Meanwhile, whether it were that they
hustled him forward, or that Jason, of his own accord, thrust a passage
through the crowd, it so happened that he soon found himself close to
the smoking altar, where King Pelias was sacrificing the black bull. The
murmur and hum of the multitude, in their surprise at the spectacle
of Jason with his one bare foot, grew so loud that it disturbed the
ceremonies; and the king, holding the great knife with which he was just
going to cut the bull's throat, turned angrily about, and fixed his
eyes on Jason. The people had now withdrawn from around him, so that
the youth stood in an open space, near the smoking altar, front to front
with the angry King Pelias.

"Who are you?" cried the king, with a terrible frown. "And how dare you
make this disturbance, while I am sacrificing a black bull to my father
Neptune?"

"It is no fault of mine," answered Jason. "Your majesty must blame the
rudeness of your subjects, who have raised all this tumult because one
of my feet happens to be bare."

When Jason said this, the king gave a quick startled glance down at his
feet.

"Ha!" muttered he, "here is the one-sandaled fellow, sure enough! What
can I do with him?"

And he clutched more closely the great knife in his hand, as if he were
half a mind to slay Jason, instead of the black bull. The people round
about caught up the king's words, indistinctly as they were uttered; and
first there was a murmur amongst them, and then a loud shout.

"The one-sandaled man has come! The prophecy must be fulfilled!"

For you are to know, that, many years before, King Pelias had been told
by the Speaking Oak of Dodona, that a man with one sandal should cast
him down from his throne. On this account, he had given strict orders
that nobody should ever come into his presence, unless both sandals were
securely tied upon his feet; and he kept an officer in his palace, whose
sole business it was to examine people's sandals, and to supply them
with a new pair, at the expense of the royal treasury, as soon as the
old ones began to wear out. In the whole course of the king's reign,
he had never been thrown into such a fright and agitation as by the
spectacle of poor Jason's bare foot. But, as he was naturally a bold and
hard-hearted man, he soon took courage, and began to consider in what
way he might rid himself of this terrible one-sandaled stranger.

"My good young man," said King Pelias, taking the softest tone
imaginable, in order to throw Jason off his guard, "you are excessively
welcome to my kingdom. Judging by your dress, you must have traveled a
long distance, for it is not the fashion to wear leopard skins in this
part of the world. Pray what may I call your name? and where did you
receive your education?"

"My name is Jason," answered the young stranger. "Ever since my infancy,
I have dwelt in the cave of Chiron the Centaur. He was my instructor,
and taught me music, and horsemanship, and how to cure wounds, and
likewise how to inflict wounds with my weapons!"

"I have heard of Chiron the schoolmaster," replied King Pelias, "and
how that there is an immense deal of learning and wisdom in his head,
although it happens to be set on a horse's body. It gives me great
delight to see one of his scholars at my court. But to test how much you
have profited under so excellent a teacher, will you allow me to ask you
a single question?"

"I do not pretend to be very wise," said Jason. "But ask me what you
please, and I will answer to the best of my ability."

Now King Pelias meant cunningly to entrap the young man, and to make him
say something that should be the cause of mischief and distraction to
himself. So, with a crafty and evil smile upon his face, he spoke as
follows:

"What would you do, brave Jason," asked he, "if there were a man in
the world, by whom, as you had reason to believe, you were doomed to
be ruined and slain--what would you do, I say, if that man stood before
you, and in your power?"

When Jason saw the malice and wickedness which King Pelias could not
prevent from gleaming out of his eyes, he probably guessed that the king
had discovered what he came for, and that he intended to turn his own
words against himself. Still he scorned to tell a falsehood. Like an
upright and honorable prince as he was, he determined to speak out the
real truth. Since the king had chosen to ask him the question, and since
Jason had promised him an answer, there was no right way save to tell
him precisely what would be the most prudent thing to do, if he had his
worst enemy in his power.

Therefore, after a moment's consideration, he spoke up, with a firm and
manly voice.

"I would send such a man," said he, "in quest of the Golden Fleece!"

This enterprise, you will understand, was, of all others, the most
difficult and dangerous in the world. In the first place it would be
necessary to make a long voyage through unknown seas. There was hardly
a hope, or a possibility, that any young man who should undertake this
voyage would either succeed in obtaining the Golden Fleece, or would
survive to return home, and tell of the perils he had run. The eyes of
King Pelias sparkled with joy, therefore, when he heard Jason's reply.

"Well said, wise man with the one sandal!" cried he. "Go, then, and at
the peril of your life, bring me back the Golden Fleece."

"I go," answered Jason, composedly. "If I fail, you need not fear that
I will ever come back to trouble you again. But if I return to Iolchos
with the prize, then, King Pelias, you must hasten down from your lofty
throne, and give me your crown and sceptre."

"That I will," said the king, with a sneer. "Meantime, I will keep them
very safely for you."

The first thing that Jason thought of doing, after he left the king's
presence, was to go to Dodona, and inquire of the Talking Oak what
course it was best to pursue. This wonderful tree stood in the center of
an ancient wood. Its stately trunk rose up a hundred feet into the air,
and threw a broad and dense shadow over more than an acre of ground.
Standing beneath it, Jason looked up among the knotted branches and
green leaves, and into the mysterious heart of the old tree, and spoke
aloud, as if he were addressing some person who was hidden in the depths
of the foliage.

"What shall I do," said he, "in order to win the Golden Fleece?"

At first there was a deep silence, not only within the shadow of the
Talking Oak, but all through the solitary wood. In a moment or two,
however, the leaves of the oak began to stir and rustle, as if a gentle
breeze were wandering amongst them, although the other trees of the wood
were perfectly still. The sound grew louder, and became like the roar of
a high wind. By and by, Jason imagined that he could distinguish words,
but very confusedly, because each separate leaf of the tree seemed to be
a tongue, and the whole myriad of tongues were babbling at once. But the
noise waxed broader and deeper, until it resembled a tornado sweeping
through the oak, and making one great utterance out of the thousand and
thousand of little murmurs which each leafy tongue had caused by its
rustling. And now, though it still had the tone of a mighty wind roaring
among the branches, it was also like a deep bass voice, speaking as
distinctly as a tree could be expected to speak, the following words:

"Go to Argus, the shipbuilder, and bid him build a galley with fifty
oars."

Then the voice melted again into the indistinct murmur of the rustling
leaves, and died gradually away. When it was quite gone, Jason felt
inclined to doubt whether he had actually heard the words, or whether
his fancy had not shaped them out of the ordinary sound made by a
breeze, while passing through the thick foliage of the tree.

But on inquiry among the people of Iolchos, he found that there was
really a man in the city, by the name of Argus, who was a very skilful
builder of vessels. This showed some intelligence in the oak; else how
should it have known that any such person existed? At Jason's request,
Argus readily consented to build him a galley so big that it should
require fifty strong men to row it; although no vessel of such a size
and burden had heretofore been seen in the world. So the head carpenter
and all his journeymen and apprentices began their work; and for a
good while afterwards, there they were, busily employed, hewing out the
timbers, and making a great clatter with their hammers; until the new
ship, which was called the Argo, seemed to be quite ready for sea. And,
as the Talking Oak had already given him such good advice, Jason thought
that it would not be amiss to ask for a little more. He visited it
again, therefore, and standing beside its huge, rough trunk, inquired
what he should do next.

This time, there was no such universal quivering of the leaves,
throughout the whole tree, as there had been before. But after a while,
Jason observed that the foliage of a great branch which stretched above
his head had begun to rustle, as if the wind were stirring that one
bough, while all the other boughs of the oak were at rest.

"Cut me off!" said the branch, as soon as it could speak distinctly;
"cut me off! cut me off! and carve me into a figure-head for your
galley."

Accordingly, Jason took the branch at its word, and lopped it off the
tree. A carver in the neighborhood engaged to make the figurehead.
He was a tolerably good workman, and had already carved several
figure-heads, in what he intended for feminine shapes, and looking
pretty much like those which we see nowadays stuck up under a vessel's
bowsprit, with great staring eyes, that never wink at the dash of the
spray. But (what was very strange) the carver found that his hand was
guided by some unseen power, and by a skill beyond his own, and that his
tools shaped out an image which he had never dreamed of. When the work
was finished, it turned out to be the figure of a beautiful woman, with
a helmet on her head, from beneath which the long ringlets fell down
upon her shoulders. On the left arm was a shield, and in its center
appeared a lifelike representation of the head of Medusa with the snaky
locks. The right arm was extended, as if pointing onward. The face of
this wonderful statue, though not angry or forbidding, was so grave and
majestic, that perhaps you might call it severe; and as for the mouth,
it seemed just ready to unclose its lips, and utter words of the deepest
wisdom.

Jason was delighted with the oaken image, and gave the carver no rest
until it was completed, and set up where a figure-head has always stood,
from that time to this, in the vessel's prow.

"And now," cried he, as he stood gazing at the calm, majestic face of
the statue, "I must go to the Talking Oak and inquire what next to do."

"There is no need of that, Jason," said a voice which, though it was
far lower, reminded him of the mighty tones of the great oak. "When you
desire good advice, you can seek it of me."

Jason had been looking straight into the face of the image when these
words were spoken. But he could hardly believe either his ears or his
eyes. The truth was, however, that the oaken lips had moved, and, to all
appearance, the voice had proceeded from the statue's mouth. Recovering
a little from his surprise, Jason bethought himself that the image had
been carved out of the wood of the Talking Oak, and that, therefore, it
was really no great wonder, but on the contrary, the most natural thing
in the world, that it should possess the faculty of speech. It would
have been very odd, indeed, if it had not. But certainly it was a great
piece of good fortune that he should be able to carry so wise a block of
wood along with him in his perilous voyage.

"Tell me, wondrous image," exclaimed Jason,--"since you inherit the
wisdom of the Speaking Oak of Dodona, whose daughter you are,--tell me,
where shall I find fifty bold youths, who will take each of them an oar
of my galley? They must have sturdy arms to row, and brave hearts to
encounter perils, or we shall never win the Golden Fleece."

"Go," replied the oaken image, "go, summon all the heroes of Greece."

And, in fact, considering what a great deed was to be done, could any
advice be wiser than this which Jason received from the figure-head of
his vessel? He lost no time in sending messengers to all the cities, and
making known to the whole people of Greece, that Prince Jason, the son
of King Jason, was going in quest of the Fleece of Gold, and that he
desired the help of forty-nine of the bravest and strongest young men
alive, to row his vessel and share his dangers. And Jason himself would
be the fiftieth.

At this news, the adventurous youths, all over the country, began to
bestir themselves. Some of them had already fought with giants, and
slain dragons; and the younger ones, who had not yet met with such
good fortune, thought it a shame to have lived so long without getting
astride of a flying serpent, or sticking their spears into a Chimaera,
or, at least, thrusting their right arms down a monstrous lion's throat.
There was a fair prospect that they would meet with plenty of such
adventures before finding the Golden Fleece. As soon as they could
furbish up their helmets and shields, therefore, and gird on their
trusty swords, they came thronging to Iolchos, and clambered on board
the new galley. Shaking hands with Jason, they assured him that they
did not care a pin for their lives, but would help row the vessel to
the remotest edge of the world, and as much farther as he might think it
best to go.

Many of these brave fellows had been educated by Chiron, the four-footed
pedagogue, and were therefore old schoolmates of Jason, and knew him
to be a lad of spirit. The mighty Hercules, whose shoulders afterwards
upheld the sky, was one of them. And there were Castor and Pollux, the
twin brothers, who were never accused of being chicken-hearted, although
they had been hatched out of an egg; and Theseus, who was so renowned
for killing the Minotaur, and Lynceus, with his wonderfully sharp eyes,
which could see through a millstone, or look right down into the depths
of the earth, and discover the treasures that were there; and Orpheus,
the very best of harpers, who sang and played upon his lyre so sweetly,
that the brute beasts stood upon their hind legs, and capered merrily
to the music. Yes, and at some of his more moving tunes, the rocks
bestirred their moss-grown bulk out of the ground, and a grove of forest
trees uprooted themselves, and, nodding their tops to one another,
performed a country dance.

One of the rowers was a beautiful young woman, named Atalanta, who had
been nursed among the mountains by a bear. So light of foot was this
fair damsel, that she could step from one foamy crest of a wave to
the foamy crest of another, without wetting more than the sole of her
sandal. She had grown up in a very wild way, and talked much about the
rights of women, and loved hunting and war far better than her needle.
But in my opinion, the most remarkable of this famous company were two
sons of the North Wind (airy youngsters, and of rather a blustering
disposition) who had wings on their shoulders, and, in case of a calm,
could puff out their cheeks, and blow almost as fresh a breeze as their
father. I ought not to forget the prophets and conjurors, of whom there
were several in the crew, and who could foretell what would happen
to-morrow or the next day, or a hundred years hence, but were generally
quite unconscious of what was passing at the moment.

Jason appointed Tiphys to be helmsman because he was a star-gazer, and
knew the points of the compass. Lynceus, on account of his sharp sight,
was stationed as a look-out in the prow, where he saw a whole day's sail
ahead, but was rather apt to overlook things that lay directly under his
nose. If the sea only happened to be deep enough, however, Lynceus could
tell you exactly what kind of rocks or sands were at the bottom of it;
and he often cried out to his companions, that they were sailing
over heaps of sunken treasure, which yet he was none the richer for
beholding. To confess the truth, few people believed him when he said
it.

Well! But when the Argonauts, as these fifty brave adventurers were
called, had prepared everything for the voyage, an unforeseen difficulty
threatened to end it before it was begun. The vessel, you must
understand, was so long, and broad, and ponderous, that the united force
of all the fifty was insufficient to shove her into the water. Hercules,
I suppose, had not grown to his full strength, else he might have set
her afloat as easily as a little boy launches his boat upon a puddle.
But here were these fifty heroes, pushing, and straining, and growing
red in the face, without making the Argo start an inch. At last,
quite wearied out, they sat themselves down on the shore exceedingly
disconsolate, and thinking that the vessel must be left to rot and fall
in pieces, and that they must either swim across the sea or lose the
Golden Fleece.

All at once, Jason bethought himself of the galley's miraculous
figure-head.

"O, daughter of the Talking Oak," cried he, "how shall we set to work to
get our vessel into the water?"

"Seat yourselves," answered the image (for it had known what had ought
to be done from the very first, and was only waiting for the question to
be put),--"seat yourselves, and handle your oars, and let Orpheus play
upon his harp."

Immediately the fifty heroes got on board, and seizing their oars, held
them perpendicularly in the air, while Orpheus (who liked such a task
far better than rowing) swept his fingers across the harp. At the first
ringing note of the music, they felt the vessel stir. Orpheus thrummed
away briskly, and the galley slid at once into the sea, dipping her prow
so deeply that the figure-head drank the wave with its marvelous lips,
and rising again as buoyant as a swan. The rowers plied their fifty
oars; the white foam boiled up before the prow; the water gurgled and
bubbled in their wake; while Orpheus continued to play so lively a
strain of music, that the vessel seemed to dance over the billows by way
of keeping time to it. Thus triumphantly did the Argo sail out of the
harbor, amidst the huzzas and good wishes of everybody except the wicked
old Pelias, who stood on a promontory, scowling at her, and wishing
that he could blow out of his lungs the tempest of wrath that was in his
heart, and so sink the galley with all on board. When they had sailed
above fifty miles over the sea, Lynceus happened to cast his sharp eyes
behind, and said that there was this bad-hearted king, still perched
upon the promontory, and scowling so gloomily that it looked like a
black thunder-cloud in that quarter of the horizon.

In order to make the time pass away more pleasantly during the voyage,
the heroes talked about the Golden Fleece. It originally belonged, it
appears, to a Boeotian ram, who had taken on his back two children, when
in danger of their lives, and fled with them over land and sea as far
as Colchis. One of the children, whose name was Helle, fell into the sea
and was drowned. But the other (a little boy, named Phrixus) was brought
safe ashore by the faithful ram, who, however, was so exhausted that
he immediately lay down and died. In memory of this good deed, and as
a token of his true heart, the fleece of the poor dead ram was
miraculously changed to gold, and became one of the most beautiful
objects ever seen on earth. It was hung upon a tree in a sacred grove,
where it had now been kept I know not how many years, and was the envy
of mighty kings, who had nothing so magnificent in any of their palaces.

If I were to tell you all the adventures of the Argonauts, it would take
me till nightfall, and perhaps a great deal longer. There was no lack of
wonderful events, as you may judge from what you have already heard.
At a certain island, they were hospitably received by King Cyzicus, its
sovereign, who made a feast for them, and treated them like brothers.
But the Argonauts saw that this good king looked downcast and very much
troubled, and they therefore inquired of him what was the matter. King
Cyzicus hereupon informed them that he and his subjects were greatly
abused and incommoded by the inhabitants of a neighboring mountain, who
made war upon them, and killed many people, and ravaged the country. And
while they were talking about it, Cyzicus pointed to the mountain, and
asked Jason and his companions what they saw there.

"I see some very tall objects," answered Jason; "but they are at such a
distance that I cannot distinctly make out what they are. To tell your
majesty the truth, they look so very strangely that I am inclined to
think them clouds, which have chanced to take something like human
shapes."

"I see them very plainly," remarked Lynceus, whose eyes, you know, were
as far-sighted as a telescope. "They are a band of enormous giants, all
of whom have six arms apiece, and a club, a sword, or some other weapon
in each of their hands."

"You have excellent eyes," said King Cyzicus. "Yes; they are six-armed
giants, as you say, and these are the enemies whom I and my subjects
have to contend with."

The next day, when the Argonauts were about setting sail, down came
these terrible giants, stepping a hundred yards at a stride, brandishing
their six arms apiece, and looking formidable, so far aloft in the air.
Each of these monsters was able to carry on a whole war by himself,
for with one arm he could fling immense stones, and wield a club with
another, and a sword with a third, while the fourth was poking a long
spear at the enemy, and the fifth and sixth were shooting him with a bow
and arrow. But, luckily, though the giants were so huge, and had so many
arms, they had each but one heart, and that no bigger nor braver
than the heart of an ordinary man. Besides, if they had been like the
hundred-armed Briareus, the brave Argonauts would have given them their
hands full of fight. Jason and his friends went boldly to meet them,
slew a great many, and made the rest take to their heels, so that if the
giants had had six legs apiece instead of six arms, it would have served
them better to run away with.

Another strange adventure happened when the voyagers came to Thrace,
where they found a poor blind king, named Phineus, deserted by his
subjects, and living in a very sorrowful way, all by himself. On Jason's
inquiring whether they could do him any service, the king answered
that he was terribly tormented by three great winged creatures, called
Harpies, which had the faces of women, and the wings, bodies, and claws
of vultures. These ugly wretches were in the habit of snatching away
his dinner, and allowed him no peace of his life. Upon hearing this, the
Argonauts spread a plentiful feast on the sea-shore, well knowing, from
what the blind king said of their greediness, that the Harpies would
snuff up the scent of the victuals, and quickly come to steal them away.
And so it turned out; for, hardly was the table set, before the three
hideous vulture women came flapping their wings, seized the food in
their talons, and flew off as fast as they could. But the two sons of
the North Wind drew their swords, spread their pinions, and set off
through the air in pursuit of the thieves, whom they at last overtook
among some islands, after a chase of hundreds of miles. The two winged
youths blustered terribly at the Harpies (for they had the rough temper
of their father), and so frightened them with their drawn swords, that
they solemnly promised never to trouble King Phineus again.

Then the Argonauts sailed onward and met with many other marvelous
incidents, any one of which would make a story by itself. At one time
they landed on an island, and were reposing on the grass, when
they suddenly found themselves assailed by what seemed a shower of
steel-headed arrows. Some of them stuck in the ground, while others hit
against their shields, and several penetrated their flesh. The fifty
heroes started up, and looked about them for the hidden enemy, but could
find none, nor see any spot, on the whole island, where even a single
archer could lie concealed. Still, however, the steel-headed arrows came
whizzing among them; and, at last, happening to look upward, they beheld
a large flock of birds, hovering and wheeling aloft, and shooting their
feathers down upon the Argonauts. These feathers were the steel-headed
arrows that had so tormented them. There was no possibility of making
any resistance; and the fifty heroic Argonauts might all have been
killed or wounded by a flock of troublesome birds, without ever setting
eyes on the Golden Fleece, if Jason had not thought of asking the advice
of the oaken image.

So he ran to the galley as fast as his legs would carry him.

"O, daughter of the Speaking Oak," cried he, all out of breath, "we need
your wisdom more than ever before! We are in great peril from a flock of
birds, who are shooting us with their steel-pointed feathers. What can
we do to drive them away?"

"Make a clatter on your shields," said the image.

On receiving this excellent counsel, Jason hurried back to his
companions (who were far more dismayed than when they fought with the
six-armed giants), and bade them strike with their swords upon their
brazen shields. Forthwith the fifty heroes set heartily to work, banging
with might and main, and raised such a terrible clatter, that the birds
made what haste they could to get away; and though they had shot half
the feathers out of their wings, they were soon seen skimming among the
clouds, a long distance off, and looking like a flock of wild geese.
Orpheus celebrated this victory by playing a triumphant anthem on his
harp, and sang so melodiously that Jason begged him to desist, lest, as
the steel-feathered birds had been driven away by an ugly sound, they
might be enticed back again by a sweet one.

While the Argonauts remained on this island, they saw a small vessel
approaching the shore, in which were two young men of princely demeanor,
and exceedingly handsome, as young princes generally were, in those
days. Now, who do you imagine these two voyagers turned out to be? Why,
if you will believe me, they were the sons of that very Phrixus, who,
in his childhood, had been carried to Colchis on the back of the
golden-fleeced ram. Since that time, Phrixus had married the king's
daughter; and the two young princes had been born and brought up at
Colchis, and had spent their play-days in the outskirts of the grove, in
the center of which the Golden Fleece was hanging upon a tree. They were
now on their way to Greece, in hopes of getting back a kingdom that had
been wrongfully taken from their father.

When the princes understood whither the Argonauts were going, they
offered to turn back, and guide them to Colchis. At the same time,
however, they spoke as if it were very doubtful whether Jason would
succeed in getting the Golden Fleece. According to their account, the
tree on which it hung was guarded by a terrible dragon, who never failed
to devour, at one mouthful, every person who might venture within his
reach.

"There are other difficulties in the way," continued the young princes.
"But is not this enough? Ah, brave Jason, turn back before it is too
late. It would grieve us to the heart, if you and your nine and forty
brave companions should be eaten up, at fifty mouthfuls, by this
execrable dragon."

"My young friends," quietly replied Jason, "I do not wonder that you
think the dragon very terrible. You have grown up from infancy in the
fear of this monster, and therefore still regard him with the awe that
children feel for the bugbears and hobgoblins which their nurses have
talked to them about. But, in my view of the matter, the dragon is
merely a pretty large serpent, who is not half so likely to snap me up
at one mouthful as I am to cut off his ugly head, and strip the skin
from his body. At all events, turn back who may, I will never see Greece
again, unless I carry with me the Golden Fleece."

"We will none of us turn back!" cried his nine and forty brave comrades.
"Let us get on board the galley this instant; and if the dragon is to
make a breakfast of us, much good may it do him."

And Orpheus (whose custom it was to set everything to music) began to
harp and sing most gloriously, and made every mother's son of them feel
as if nothing in this world were so delectable as to fight dragons, and
nothing so truly honorable as to be eaten up at one mouthful, in case of
the worst.

After this (being now under the guidance of the two princes, who were
well acquainted with the way), they quickly sailed to Colchis. When the
king of the country, whose name was Aetes, heard of their arrival,
he instantly summoned Jason to court. The king was a stern and cruel
looking potentate; and though he put on as polite and hospitable an
expression as he could, Jason did not like his face a whit better than
that of the wicked King Pelias, who dethroned his father. "You are
welcome, brave Jason," said King Aetes. "Pray, are you on a pleasure
voyage?--Or do you meditate the discovery of unknown islands?--or what
other cause has procured me the happiness of seeing you at my court?"

"Great sir," replied Jason, with an obeisance--for Chiron had taught him
how to behave with propriety, whether to kings or beggars--"I have
come hither with a purpose which I now beg your majesty's permission to
execute. King Pelias, who sits on my father's throne (to which he has
no more right than to the one on which your excellent majesty is now
seated), has engaged to come down from it, and to give me his crown and
sceptre, provided I bring him the Golden Fleece. This, as your majesty
is aware, is now hanging on a tree here at Colchis; and I humbly solicit
your gracious leave to take it away." In spite of himself, the king's
face twisted itself into an angry frown; for, above all things else in
the world, he prized the Golden Fleece, and was even suspected of having
done a very wicked act, in order to get it into his own possession.
It put him into the worst possible humor, therefore, to hear that the
gallant Prince Jason, and forty-nine of the bravest young warriors of
Greece, had come to Colchis with the sole purpose of taking away his
chief treasure.

"Do you know," asked King Aetes, eyeing Jason very sternly, "what are
the conditions which you must fulfill before getting possession of the
Golden Fleece?"

"I have heard," rejoined the youth, "that a dragon lies beneath the tree
on which the prize hangs, and that whoever approaches him runs the risk
of being devoured at a mouthful."

"True," said the king, with a smile that did not look particularly
good-natured. "Very true, young man. But there are other things as hard,
or perhaps a little harder, to be done before you can even have the
privilege of being devoured by the dragon. For example, you must first
tame my two brazen-footed and brazen-lunged bulls, which Vulcan, the
wonderful blacksmith, made for me. There is a furnace in each of
their stomachs; and they breathe such hot fire out of their mouths
and nostrils, that nobody has hitherto gone nigh them without being
instantly burned to a small, black cinder. What do you think of this, my
brave Jason?"

"I must encounter the peril," answered Jason, composedly, "since it
stands in the way of my purpose."

"After taming the fiery bulls," continued King Aetes, who was determined
to scare Jason if possible, "you must yoke them to a plow, and must plow
the sacred earth in the Grove of Mars, and sow some of the same dragon's
teeth from which Cadmus raised a crop of armed men. They are an unruly
set of reprobates, those sons of the dragon's teeth; and unless you
treat them suitably, they will fall upon you sword in hand. You and your
nine and forty Argonauts, my bold Jason, are hardly numerous or strong
enough to fight with such a host as will spring up."

"My master Chiron," replied Jason, "taught me, long ago, the story of
Cadmus. Perhaps I can manage the quarrelsome sons of the dragon's teeth
as well as Cadmus did."

"I wish the dragon had him," muttered King Aetes to himself, "and the
four-footed pedant, his schoolmaster, into the bargain. Why, what
a foolhardy, self-conceited coxcomb he is! We'll see what my
fire-breathing bulls will do for him. Well, Prince Jason," he continued,
aloud, and as complaisantly as he could, "make yourself comfortable for
to-day, and to-morrow morning, since you insist upon it, you shall try
your skill at the plow."

While the king talked with Jason, a beautiful young woman was standing
behind the throne. She fixed her eyes earnestly upon the youthful
stranger, and listened attentively to every word that was spoken; and
when Jason withdrew from the king's presence, this young woman followed
him out of the room.

"I am the king's daughter," she said to him, "and my name is Medea. I
know a great deal of which other young princesses are ignorant, and can
do many things which they would be afraid so much as to dream of. If you
will trust to me, I can instruct you how to tame the fiery bulls, and
sow the dragon's teeth, and get the Golden Fleece."

"Indeed, beautiful princess," answered Jason, "if you will do me this
service, I promise to be grateful to you my whole life long."

Gazing at Medea, he beheld a wonderful intelligence in her face. She was
one of those persons whose eyes are full of mystery; so that, while
looking into them, you seem to see a very great way, as into a deep
well, yet can never be certain whether you see into the farthest depths,
or whether there be not something else hidden at the bottom. If Jason
had been capable of fearing anything, he would have been afraid of
making this young princess his enemy; for, beautiful as she now looked,
she might, the very next instant, become as terrible as the dragon that
kept watch over the Golden Fleece.

"Princess," he exclaimed, "you seem indeed very wise and very powerful.
But how can you help me to do the things of which you speak? Are you an
enchantress?"

"Yes, Prince Jason," answered Medea, with a smile, "you have hit upon
the truth. I am an enchantress. Circe, my father's sister, taught me to
be one, and I could tell you, if I pleased, who was the old woman with
the peacock, the pomegranate, and the cuckoo staff, whom you carried
over the river; and, likewise, who it is that speaks through the lips of
the oaken image, that stands in the prow of your galley. I am acquainted
with some of your secrets, you perceive. It is well for you that I
am favorably inclined; for, otherwise, you would hardly escape being
snapped up by the dragon."

"I should not so much care for the dragon," replied Jason, "if I only
knew how to manage the brazen-footed and fiery-lunged bulls."

"If you are as brave as I think you, and as you have need to be," said
Medea, "your own bold heart will teach you that there is but one way
of dealing with a mad bull. What it is I leave you to find out in the
moment of peril. As for the fiery breath of these animals, I have a
charmed ointment here, which will prevent you from being burned up, and
cure you if you chance to be a little scorched."

So she put a golden box into his hand, and directed him how to apply the
perfumed unguent which it contained, and where to meet her at midnight.

"Only be brave," added she, "and before daybreak the brazen bulls shall
be tamed."

The young man assured her that his heart would not fail him. He then
rejoined his comrades, and told them what had passed between the
princess and himself, and warned them to be in readiness in case there
might be need of their help. At the appointed hour he met the beautiful
Medea on the marble steps of the king's palace. She gave him a basket,
in which were the dragon's teeth, just as they had been pulled out of
the monster's jaws by Cadmus, long ago. Medea then led Jason down the
palace steps, and through the silent streets of the city, and into the
royal pasture ground, where the two brazen-footed bulls were kept. It
was a starry night, with a bright gleam along the eastern edge of the
sky, where the moon was soon going to show herself. After entering the
pasture, the princess paused and looked around.

"There they are," said she, "reposing themselves and chewing their
fiery cuds in that farthest corner of the field. It will be excellent
sport, I assure you, when they catch a glimpse of your figure. My father
and all his court delight in nothing so much as to see a stranger trying
to yoke them, in order to come at the Golden Fleece. It makes a holiday
in Colchis whenever such a thing happens. For my part, I enjoy it
immensely. You cannot imagine in what a mere twinkling of an eye their
hot breath shrivels a young man into a black cinder."

"Are you sure, beautiful Medea," asked Jason, "quite sure, that the
unguent in the gold box will prove a remedy against those terrible
burns?"

"If you doubt, if you are in the least afraid," said the princess,
looking him in the face by the dim starlight, "you had better never have
been born than to go a step nigher to the bulls."

But Jason had set his heart steadfastly on getting the Golden Fleece;
and I positively doubt whether he would have gone back without it, even
had he been certain of finding himself turned into a red-hot cinder,
or a handful of white ashes, the instant he made a step farther.
He therefore let go Medea's hand, and walked boldly forward in the
direction whither she had pointed. At some distance before him he
perceived four streams of fiery vapor, regularly appearing and again
vanishing, after dimly lighting up the surrounding obscurity. These, you
will understand, were caused by the breath of the brazen bulls, which
was quietly stealing out of their four nostrils, as they lay chewing
their cuds.

At the first two or three steps which Jason made, the four fiery streams
appeared to gush out somewhat more plentifully; for the two brazen bulls
had heard his foot tramp, and were lifting up their hot noses to snuff
the air. He went a little farther, and by the way in which the red vapor
now spouted forth, he judged that the creatures had got upon their feet.
Now he could see glowing sparks, and vivid jets of flame. At the next
step, each of the bulls made the pasture echo with a terrible roar,
while the burning breath, which they thus belched forth, lit up the
whole field with a momentary flash. One other stride did bold Jason
make; and, suddenly as a streak of lightning, on came these fiery
animals, roaring like thunder, and sending out sheets of white flame,
which so kindled up the scene that the young man could discern every
object more distinctly than by daylight. Most distinctly of all he saw
the two horrible creatures galloping right down upon him, their brazen
hoofs rattling and ringing over the ground, and their tails sticking up
stiffly into the air, as has always been the fashion with angry bulls.
Their breath scorched the herbage before them. So intensely hot it was,
indeed, that it caught a dry tree under which Jason was now standing,
and set it all in a light blaze. But as for Jason himself (thanks to
Medea's enchanted ointment), the white flame curled around his body,
without injuring him a jot more than if he had been made of asbestos.

Greatly encouraged at finding himself not yet turned into a cinder, the
young man awaited the attack of the bulls. Just as the brazen brutes
fancied themselves sure of tossing him into the air, he caught one of
them by the horn, and the other by his screwed-up tail, and held them
in a gripe like that of an iron vice, one with his right hand, the other
with his left. Well, he must have been wonderfully strong in his arms,
to be sure. But the secret of the matter was, that the brazen bulls were
enchanted creatures, and that Jason had broken the spell of their fiery
fierceness by his bold way of handling them. And, ever since that time,
it has been the favorite method of brave men, when danger assails them,
to do what they call "taking the bull by the horns"; and to gripe him
by the tail is pretty much the same thing--that is, to throw aside fear,
and overcome the peril by despising it. It was now easy to yoke the
bulls, and to harness them to the plow, which had lain rusting on the
ground for a great many years gone by; so long was it before anybody
could be found capable of plowing that piece of land. Jason, I suppose,
had been taught how to draw a furrow by the good old Chiron, who,
perhaps, used to allow himself to be harnessed to the plow. At any rate,
our hero succeeded perfectly well in breaking up the greensward; and,
by the time that the moon was a quarter of her journey up the sky, the
plowed field lay before him, a large tract of black earth, ready to be
sown with the dragon's teeth. So Jason scattered them broadcast, and
harrowed them into the soil with a brush-harrow, and took his stand on
the edge of the field, anxious to see what would happen next.

"Must we wait long for harvest time?" he inquired of Medea, who was now
standing by his side.

"Whether sooner or later, it will be sure to come," answered the
princess. "A crop of armed men never fails to spring up, when the
dragon's teeth have been sown."

The moon was now high aloft in the heavens, and threw its bright beams
over the plowed field, where as yet there was nothing to be seen. Any
farmer, on viewing it, would have said that Jason must wait weeks before
the green blades would peep from among the clods, and whole months
before the yellow grain would be ripened for the sickle. But by and by,
all over the field, there was something that glistened in the moonbeams,
like sparkling drops of dew. These bright objects sprouted higher, and
proved to be the steel heads of spears. Then there was a dazzling gleam
from a vast number of polished brass helmets, beneath which, as they
grew farther out of the soil, appeared the dark and bearded visages of
warriors, struggling to free themselves from the imprisoning earth. The
first look that they gave at the upper world was a glare of wrath and
defiance. Next were seen their bright breastplates; in every right hand
there was a sword or a spear, and on each left arm a shield; and when
this strange crop of warriors had but half grown out of the earth, they
struggled--such was their impatience of restraint--and, as it were, tore
themselves up by the roots. Wherever a dragon's tooth had fallen, there
stood a man armed for battle. They made a clangor with their swords
against their shields, and eyed one another fiercely; for they had come
into this beautiful world, and into the peaceful moonlight, full of rage
and stormy passions, and ready to take the life of every human brother,
in recompense of the boon of their own existence.

There have been many other armies in the world that seemed to possess
the same fierce nature with the one which had now sprouted from
the dragon's teeth; but these, in the moonlit field, were the more
excusable, because they never had women for their mothers. And how it
would have rejoiced any great captain, who was bent on conquering the
world, like Alexander or Napoleon, to raise a crop of armed soldiers as
easily as Jason did! For a while, the warriors stood flourishing their
weapons, clashing their swords against their shields, and boiling over
with the red-hot thirst for battle. Then they began to shout--"Show us
the enemy! Lead us to the charge! Death or victory!" "Come on, brave
comrades! Conquer or die!" and a hundred other outcries, such as men
always bellow forth on a battle field, and which these dragon people
seemed to have at their tongues' ends. At last, the front rank caught
sight of Jason, who, beholding the flash of so many weapons in the
moonlight, had thought it best to draw his sword. In a moment all the
sons of the dragon's teeth appeared to take Jason for an enemy; and
crying with one voice, "Guard the Golden Fleece!" they ran at him
with uplifted swords and protruded spears. Jason knew that it would be
impossible to withstand this blood-thirsty battalion with his single
arm, but determined, since there was nothing better to be done, to die
as valiantly as if he himself had sprung from a dragon's tooth.

Medea, however, bade him snatch up a stone from the ground.

"Throw it among them quickly!" cried she. "It is the only way to save
yourself."

The armed men were now so nigh that Jason could discern the fire
flashing out of their enraged eyes, when he let fly the stone, and saw
it strike the helmet of a tall warrior, who was rushing upon him with
his blade aloft. The stone glanced from this man's helmet to the shield
of his nearest comrade, and thence flew right into the angry face of
another, hitting him smartly between the eyes. Each of the three who had
been struck by the stone took it for granted that his next neighbor had
given him a blow; and instead of running any farther towards Jason, they
began to fight among themselves. The confusion spread through the
host, so that it seemed scarcely a moment before they were all hacking,
hewing, and stabbing at one another, lopping off arms, heads, and
legs and doing such memorable deeds that Jason was filled with immense
admiration; although, at the same time, he could not help laughing to
behold these mighty men punishing each other for an offense which he
himself had committed. In an incredibly short space of time (almost
as short, indeed, as it had taken them to grow up), all but one of the
heroes of the dragon's teeth were stretched lifeless on the field. The
last survivor, the bravest and strongest of the whole, had just force
enough to wave his crimson sword over his head and give a shout of
exultation, crying, "Victory! Victory! Immortal fame!" when he himself
fell down, and lay quietly among his slain brethren.

And there was the end of the army that had sprouted from the dragon's
teeth. That fierce and feverish fight was the only enjoyment which they
had tasted on this beautiful earth.

"Let them sleep in the bed of honor," said the Princess Medea, with a
sly smile at Jason. "The world will always have simpletons enough, just
like them, fighting and dying for they know not what, and fancying that
posterity will take the trouble to put laurel wreaths on their rusty
and battered helmets. Could you help smiling, Prince Jason, to see the
self-conceit of that last fellow, just as he tumbled down?"

"It made me very sad," answered Jason, gravely. "And, to tell you the
truth, princess, the Golden Fleece does not appear so well worth the
winning, after what I have here beheld!"

"You will think differently in the morning," said Medea. "True, the
Golden Fleece may not be so valuable as you have thought it; but then
there is nothing better in the world; and one must needs have an object,
you know. Come! Your night's work has been well performed; and to-morrow
you can inform King Aetes that the first part of your allotted task is
fulfilled."

Agreeably to Medea's advice, Jason went betimes in the morning to the
palace of King Aetes. Entering the presence chamber, he stood at the
foot of the throne, and made a low obeisance.

"Your eyes look heavy, Prince Jason," observed the king; "you appear
to have spent a sleepless night. I hope you have been considering the
matter a little more wisely, and have concluded not to get yourself
scorched to a cinder, in attempting to tame my brazen-lunged bulls."

"That is already accomplished, may it please your majesty," replied
Jason. "The bulls have been tamed and yoked; the field has been plowed;
the dragon's teeth have been sown broadcast, and harrowed into the
soil; the crop of armed warriors have sprung up, and they have slain one
another, to the last man. And now I solicit your majesty's permission
to encounter the dragon, that I may take down the Golden Fleece from the
tree, and depart, with my nine and forty comrades."

King Aetes scowled, and looked very angry and excessively disturbed;
for he knew that, in accordance with his kingly promise, he ought now to
permit Jason to win the Fleece, if his courage and skill should enable
him to do so. But, since the young man had met with such good luck in
the matter of the brazen bulls and the dragon's teeth, the king
feared that he would be equally successful in slaying the dragon.
And therefore, though he would gladly have seen Jason snapped up at a
mouthful, he was resolved (and it was a very wrong thing of this wicked
potentate) not to run any further risk of losing his beloved Fleece.

"You never would have succeeded in this business, young man," said
he, "if my undutiful daughter Medea had not helped you with her
enchantments. Had you acted fairly, you would have been, at this
instant, a black cinder, or a handful of white ashes. I forbid you, on
pain of death, to make any more attempts to get the Golden Fleece. To
speak my mind plainly, you shall never set eyes on so much as one of its
glistening locks."

Jason left the king's presence in great sorrow and anger. He could think
of nothing better to be done than to summon together his forty-nine
brave Argonauts, march at once to the Grove of Mars, slay the dragon,
take possession of the Golden Fleece, get on board the Argo, and spread
all sail for Iolchos. The success of this scheme depended, it is true,
on the doubtful point whether all the fifty heroes might not be snapped
up, at so many mouthfuls, by the dragon. But, as Jason was hastening
down the palace steps, the Princess Medea called after him, and
beckoned him to return. Her black eyes shone upon him with such a keen
intelligence, that he felt as if there were a serpent peeping out of
them; and, although she had done him so much service only the night
before, he was by no means very certain that she would not do him an
equally great mischief before sunset. These enchantresses, you must
know, are never to be depended upon.

"What says King Aetes, my royal and upright father?" inquired Medea,
slightly smiling. "Will he give you the Golden Fleece, without any
further risk or trouble?"

"On the contrary," answered Jason, "he is very angry with me for taming
the brazen bulls and sowing the dragon's teeth. And he forbids me to
make any more attempts, and positively refuses to give up the Golden
Fleece, whether I slay the dragon or no."

"Yes, Jason," said the princess, "and I can tell you more. Unless you
set sail from Colchis before to-morrow's sunrise, the king means to
burn your fifty-oared galley, and put yourself and your forty-nine brave
comrades to the sword. But be of good courage. The Golden Fleece you
shall have, if it lies within the power of my enchantments to get it for
you. Wait for me here an hour before midnight."

At the appointed hour you might again have seen Prince Jason and the
Princess Medea, side by side, stealing through the streets of Colchis,
on their way to the sacred grove, in the center of which the Golden
Fleece was suspended to a tree. While they were crossing the pasture
ground, the brazen bulls came towards Jason, lowing, nodding their
heads, and thrusting forth their snouts, which, as other cattle do,
they loved to have rubbed and caressed by a friendly hand. Their
fierce nature was thoroughly tamed; and, with their fierceness, the two
furnaces in their stomachs had likewise been extinguished, insomuch that
they probably enjoyed far more comfort in grazing and chewing their cuds
than ever before. Indeed, it had heretofore been a great inconvenience
to these poor animals, that, whenever they wished to eat a mouthful of
grass, the fire out of their nostrils had shriveled it up, before they
could manage to crop it. How they contrived to keep themselves alive is
more than I can imagine. But now, instead of emitting jets of flame
and streams of sulphurous vapor, they breathed the very sweetest of cow
breath.

After kindly patting the bulls, Jason followed Medea's guidance into
the Grove of Mars, where the great oak trees, that had been growing for
centuries, threw so thick a shade that the moonbeams struggled vainly to
find their way through it. Only here and there a glimmer fell upon the
leaf-strewn earth, or now and then a breeze stirred the boughs aside,
and gave Jason a glimpse of the sky, lest, in that deep obscurity, he
might forget that there was one, overhead. At length, when they had
gone farther and farther into the heart of the duskiness, Medea squeezed
Jason's hand.

"Look yonder," she whispered. "Do you see it?"

Gleaming among the venerable oaks, there was a radiance, not like the
moonbeams, but rather resembling the golden glory of the setting sun.
It proceeded from an object, which appeared to be suspended at about a
man's height from the ground, a little farther within the wood.

"What is it?" asked Jason.

"Have you come so far to seek it," exclaimed Medea, "and do you not
recognize the meed of all your toils and perils, when it glitters before
your eyes? It is the Golden Fleece."

Jason went onward a few steps farther, and then stopped to gaze. O, how
beautiful it looked, shining with a marvelous light of its own, that
inestimable prize which so many heroes had longed to behold, but had
perished in the quest of it, either by the perils of their voyage, or by
the fiery breath of the brazen-lunged bulls.

"How gloriously it shines!" cried Jason, in a rapture. "It has surely
been dipped in the richest gold of sunset. Let me hasten onward, and
take it to my bosom."

"Stay," said Medea, holding him back. "Have you forgotten what guards
it?"

To say the truth, in the joy of beholding the object of his desires, the
terrible dragon had quite slipped out of Jason's memory. Soon, however,
something came to pass, that reminded him what perils were still to be
encountered. An antelope, that probably mistook the yellow radiance
for sunrise, came bounding fleetly through the grove. He was rushing
straight towards the Golden Fleece, when suddenly there was a frightful
hiss, and the immense head and half the scaly body of the dragon was
thrust forth (for he was twisted round the trunk of the tree on which
the Fleece hung), and seizing the poor antelope, swallowed him with one
snap of his jaws.

After this feat, the dragon seemed sensible that some other living
creature was within reach, on which he felt inclined to finish his meal.
In various directions he kept poking his ugly snout among the trees,
stretching out his neck a terrible long way, now here, now there, and
now close to the spot where Jason and the princess were hiding behind
an oak. Upon my word, as the head came waving and undulating through the
air, and reaching almost within arm's length of Prince Jason, it was a
very hideous and uncomfortable sight. The gape of his enormous jaws was
nearly as wide as the gateway of the king's palace.

"Well, Jason," whispered Medea (for she was ill natured, as all
enchantresses are, and wanted to make the bold youth tremble), "what do
you think now of your prospect of winning the Golden Fleece?"

Jason answered only by drawing his sword, and making a step forward.

"Stay, foolish youth," said Medea, grasping his arm. "Do not you see you
are lost, without me as your good angel? In this gold box I have a magic
potion, which will do the dragon's business far more effectually than
your sword."

The dragon had probably heard the voices; for swift as lightning, his
black head and forked tongue came hissing among the trees again,
darting full forty feet at a stretch. As it approached, Medea tossed
the contents of the gold box right down the monster's wide-open throat.
Immediately, with an outrageous hiss and a tremendous wriggle--flinging
his tail up to the tip-top of the tallest tree, and shattering all
its branches as it crashed heavily down again--the dragon fell at full
length upon the ground, and lay quite motionless.

"It is only a sleeping potion," said the enchantress to Prince Jason.
"One always finds a use for these mischievous creatures, sooner or
later; so I did not wish to kill him outright. Quick! Snatch the prize,
and let us begone. You have won the Golden Fleece."

Jason caught the fleece from the tree, and hurried through the grove,
the deep shadows of which were illuminated as he passed by the golden
glory of the precious object that he bore along. A little way before
him, he beheld the old woman whom he had helped over the stream, with
her peacock beside her. She clapped her hands for joy, and beckoning him
to make haste, disappeared among the duskiness of the trees. Espying the
two winged sons of the North Wind (who were disporting themselves in the
moonlight, a few hundred feet aloft), Jason bade them tell the rest of
the Argonauts to embark as speedily as possible. But Lynceus, with his
sharp eyes, had already caught a glimpse of him, bringing the Golden
Fleece, although several stone walls, a hill, and the black shadows of
the Grove of Mars, intervened between. By his advice, the heroes had
seated themselves on the benches of the galley, with their oars held
perpendicularly, ready to let fall into the water.

As Jason drew near, he heard the Talking Image calling to him with more
than ordinary eagerness, in its grave, sweet voice:

"Make haste, Prince Jason! For your life, make haste!"

With one bound, he leaped aboard. At sight of the glorious radiance of
the Golden Fleece, the nine and forty heroes gave a mighty shout, and
Orpheus, striking his harp, sang a song of triumph, to the cadence of
which the galley flew over the water, homeward bound, as if careering
along with wings!





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tanglewood Tales, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

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